Category Archives: russell brand

annie versary

It was Piqued’s anniversary yesterday; we had a lovely night together. Piqued is well dirty, hung like a mule so he is.

The downside to such an event is my being harangued by various service providers and wotnot to upgrade my domain and shit. I’ve no idea what they’re harping on about; so far I’ve spent about £15 on ‘stuff’ yet I’m still being warned that unless I renew something or other then Piqued will disappear in the cyber ether. I’d rather this didn’t happen, in addition to my stats improving incrementally these dreadful little pages keep my mind focussed away from the mundane reality of employment and stand as a reminder as to what I should truly be doing. That’s right, not working.

The weekend was vastly improved by the increasing confidence that Cunt is indeed away, most likely abroad seeing the emaciated mother of his hairy ‘quiet’ son/daughter. During his absence I’ve noticed that he’s been receiving prospectuses from some of London’s top art colleges. Without requiring me to expand on this, I know rather a lot about this sort of thing, there is more chance of him getting into Central St. Martins than me starring in Two Girls and One Piqued. What it does perfectly display is his mendacious state of being, a two-legged fib unable to grasp the tousled shreds of reality, a living breathing fucking lie incapable of containing his misery so it spews out of his cunting head in a geyser of attention seeking supplication. Anyway, he’s away, so I’m rather chuffed.

Friday began after work in hospital; Myfwt was seeing a doc about her surgery so I went to meet her. All is well in that department incidentally -I was mildly concerned she was developing an infection. Following that she popped off to babysit her nephew and I went off down the pub for swift half with Frank and his missus before returning home in time for a scheduled appointment with Jamie’s Fowl Dinners which was shocking but following a week with Hugh, tolerable. I noticed at Sainsbury on Saturday that virtually all (if not all) the cheap chickens were lined up on the shelves like a battalion of nude Chelsea Pensioners. All of the Organic birds, bar one whose packaging was damaged, were gone. Actually, it was a wonder I noticed anything at Sainsbury on Saturday on account of the post TV rock out on Friday which took me to 5am. I was merely road testing my new headphones and got lost in the melee.

Saturday night was quiet in so far as Myfwt and I stayed in to watch movies and eat. This wonderfully calm quiet evening was aided and abetted by wines and after a while we had an intense conversation that remained civil and upbeat despite the perpetual risk of one or both of us slipping off the precipice into drunken negative conflagration. Sunday was spent very hungover in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge and Death on the Nile, which was a delight, as was the peace and quiet, which I ironically relished with loud acknowledgment. Later in the afternoon Myfwt and I drove (I insisted on the Tube but the former wasn’t feeling able to cope with it, she’s going through a similar phase to the latter who due to panic attacks was unable to take one for years) to Selfridges to get her some jeans in the sale. The trip was a success and walking back down Oxford Street I noticed some observations made by Russell Brand in his Booky Wook (blokes on BMX bikes, people in doorways, strange looking types in Phone Boxes…). After arriving home I finished the weekend more or less as I had started it, in the pub with Frank supping a pair of fine ales. I arrived home and made some supper, Myfwt and I fancied fish fingers, chips and baked beans, childish back to school Sunday feeling fodder. I don’t know if Captain Birds Eye has added a special ingredient to his fish fingers but last night I had the craziest dreams culminating in me meeting a 6.5 foot nonagenarian Ted Baker who actually began yelling at me because I was wearing Doctor Martens. I wouldn’t have minded but he was completely naked.

Oh, happy birthday Piqued, you lovely old sod.

(wait til he’s finished yakking, if you don’t get goosebumps when the distorted guitar kicks off you need help)


One of the worst things about living over a creature that should’ve been aborted with hammers is that even when he is being quiet one is subconsciously waiting for him to make a fucking noise. It’s very stressful and perfectly indicates the intolerable conditions to which I have been accustomed. Last night for example, I think he went out, so I’m waiting for him to return with the dregs of humanity (as previously cited, he’s no friends so in order for some sort of human companionship he settles for the lonely looking jobless blokes you see hanging around bus stops looking at schoolgirls bottoms) and be all loud and cunty. But he didn’t return, I sincerely hope he’s been hospitalised on account of a natural response by a semi professional boxer with learning difficulties to his quite awful manner, and won’t pull through.

Despite the Sword of Cunts hanging over my head, I had a lovely evening. I cooked some top whack dinger, pasta filled with porcini mushrooms and Ricotta procured by Myfwt from some deli or other, and a home made sauce, indeed, a new Piqued sauce that I am going to tell you how to make. Now. Cut a large red pepper in half, deseed and shove on a baking tray with some peeled and halved shallots, roast them in the oven while you add some tomato puree, garlic, half a red chilli pepper, glug of wine, a couple of tablespoons of Crème fraîche and seasoning (plus your selection of herbs, I used rosemary, thyme and parsley) which you then blend with the diced roasted veg. It’ll knock you socks off. I can’t wait to try it with fucking lamb but I’m pretty sure it’ll go with anything.

We ate in front of the TV like they probably do in Eastenders or something to see the last of Hugh FW Chicken Run (review up on WWM tomoz, link right) before switching over to watch the beloved Russell Brand on E4+1 doing Big Brother.

The only downside to last night was that the surgery Myfwt undertook recently has developed a slight infection due to a sliver of nylon internal stitching having migrated to the outside world. It’s by no means serious and she’s not in agony, but it’s of mild concern which means that as I type this she’s had to go to the Hospital drop-in centre to have it checked out. Hopefully the sight of seeing a smashed-up Cunt with a priest over him will take her mind off the situation.

Strange offing from me today, this chap has a lovely voice (especially in the chorus) maybe due to lots of larynx soothing jitler, and I know a certain mate in Huddersfield will be rather chuffed.

fink ployd

I spent yesterday afternoon shadowing some fellow from Dynorod, the boss had fucked off for the afternoon leaving me to make sure that he didn’t do anything common, like drinking tea from a mug with a spoon in it, or eating an uncut sandwich with both hands… it’s rather a wonderful English trait, the innate suspicion the middle classes have for the working classes, really, they’ll steal your silver as soon as knees up muvver brahn. Having said that it cuts both ways, being a bit of both and all that, Squire.

It’s absurdly cold today but again, quite stunning. I do like cold winter mornings when it’s fucking sunny and frosty and shit… You see, I moaned about autumn but maintained that when I was actually in winter I didn’t mind, I’ve just proved it right there. The light is Golden and I’ve not seen so much frost in a year, the whole world seems coated in icing sugar or cocaine depending on your predilections (or speed if you’re working class).

The only pisser about today, apart from the office aspect to it, is that I’m wearing a fucking suit, a black suit with a white shirt, and deliberately obtuse black tie. I look like Mr. Pink off to a funeral, sort of cool but not quite. The reason for this fancy dressery is a drinks do at the BBC this evening to wave some poor fellow off, it sticks a bloody great nail in my evening and I’m anticipating being arseholed by 8, I’m on the fence as to how I feel about that.

Last night was pleasant. Myfwt came over in time to talk on the phone to her sister all the way through Russell Brand on BBC4 doing a sort of documentary about Kerouac’s On the Road, from what I could glean, in between the sisterly guffawing and banter, was that it wasn’t bad at all. Actually, Myfwt isn’t a happy bunny at the mo, some woman at work has taken a dislike to her because she’s essentially walked into a company and turned it round single handedly. Her bosses are ecstatic, her colleagues impressed, save this one jealous co-worker. She’s such a nice person Myfwt, she doesn’t deserve people being horrid to her… I’ve half a mind to go round to her office and kick the horrid lady in the cunt.

After Russell there was a very satisfactory documentary on Pink Floyd. I’ve been a fan from the off, at the same time my auntie gave me Dark Side of the Moon when I was 10 I bought Relics (assuming it would be in the same vain as Dsotm) from Woolies for 99p with my pocket money. Dsotm is relatively easy listening for a youngster over the more experimental early stuff, but I grew to love it dearly and my little brain ‘got’ psychedelia. I’ve no doubt it created a foundation for my adolescence; through it I knew who I was very early on. Even now I still take drugs.

So, in celebration of Pink Floyd, today and tomorrow a tune from both ends of their chronology. I heard this song last night and forgot how fucking good it is, brought a lump to my throat. Self indulgent, even cheesy, fuck it. Listen.

pigeon n’ chips

I’ve had a fucking meeting all morning that required the services of my black bitch.

She and I rode hard from Tooting into the West End, the journey was punctuated with peril and danger culminating in grid-lock round Waterloo from which even we couldn’t escape. Evasive action in the form of riding on pavements and firing up a one-way street in the negative direction saw me make my appointment with seconds to spare. Yes, I won.

The ride back was quite lovely, like a scene from Grand Theft Auto. Needless to say I came first. See? Even riding around in the city is serendipity, and that rhymed.

Last night Myfwt came over, she was suffering from that thing what happens to chicks under 50, yeah. I fixed her with a chicken and mushroom pie which even by my standards was exceptional, and some Bordeaux in front of the TV. That Russell Brand chap, he’s awfully good we thought before going to bed in utter peace.

I thought Cunt was out as it was so quiet but at about 11pm I heard a soft cough from downstairs, indeed, he’d been in all night as quiet as an ickle brain damaged mouse. I really hope that the bollocking on Tuesday has made its mark. Though I suspect it’s not. Well, he does it again and it won’t just be me banging on his greasy door, I’ve made contact with the council. May I wish him all the ills of humanity.

Right, a first for Piqued, a mate of mine sent me an email which I’ve decided to stuff into these hallowed pages as it amused me so, make yourselves a nice cup of tea, build a joint and lay back and relax with this…

“There was a pigeon which was looking odd yesterday, and I was all for killing it as there’s a pigeon lurgy going round. But oh no, the missus didn’t want it. So this morning it was sat sadly on the bird table, with one eye closed/missing and it’s beak crossed over, with drool down it’s front. Enough, says I, and got ma gun. (This was bought after an unfortunate incident with my mate A kicking a mixy rabbit into a freezing ditch last year in an attempt to get it across our bridge, before it went and died under the shed or something. Faced with either ignoring it or dashing it’s head in with a lump hammer I resolved to get an air rifle. Next day I leave the shop with a cheap Chinese rifle and a rather splendid Pith helmet). Anyway, I plan to tell the missus it was the dignified way to do it. The Mother-In-Law doesn’t know what’s happening until she sees me with the rifle. It has telescopic sights I got as part payment for something. Anyway, I’m feeling a little bit cool as she gasps and scuttles indoors. Then I go up to this pigeon, who is so clearly ill it lets me put the barrel to it’s face, and I blow the back of it’s head off. It sits there for a second, and then the fucker launches itself at me! There’s flapping, blood and brains spraying and a lot of feathers, along with a mewling, whimpering noise. I pistol whip it a bit, then shoot its head again, which bursts. Finally (and I really hope nobody saw this) I have it pinned to the ground, shooting it through the heart in a superstitious belief now that it’s ‘the only way to stop it’. Slowly the whimpering noise stops, and I realise it was me. I then have to carry this dripping carcass to a misty field, where I bury it, still warm, along with the dead mixy rabbit which next door asked me to remove yesterday. Country living eh?”

Enjoy that? I did