Category Archives: scrapheap challenge

lazy face

The ride in this morning on the black bitch was incredible, I faced a steel grey sky with a perfect rainbow illuminating the future with brilliant white light bursting from behind. It was like being in an overexposed negative or the squinting eye shielding the Mediterranean sun, in the midst of this the rain and cold were relentless. Monday morning surrealism, I’d rather these things happened at the weekend when I can enjoy it.

My weekend was quite unremarkable in one respect. I didn’t really do anything, but in another it was possibly the most relaxing two days I‘ve had in an age. I always knew Friday was going to be spent in with Myfwt joining me later. What I wasn’t expecting as I was covering my black bitch up after arriving home was Cunt to apologise for his appalling behaviour last week, and sincerely inform me that he’ll keep the noise down before offering me a grubby little hand, which I reluctantly took, of course. I’m sure he’ll forget about his pledge shortly but in the meantime, I have peace and quiet and a crime reference number in my pocket should I have any more wankery.

On Saturday morning Myfwt went off to see her sister whilst I stayed in bed until lunchtime, I made breakfast then accidentally watched all of Diamonds are Forever, which I enjoyed immensely, much to my surprise. The shopping trip on Saturday was a lot more hardcore than usual, I had lots of stupid little bloody things to include among the regular items, but before all that I had to go to Homebase to get some grout for the bathroom sink. Rock and Roll, yeah.

In the evening I hooked up with Frank for a couple of ales in the local, which had a few very drunk Scottish people in it drowning their sorrows at volume. When I got home I made these rather clever little ham pepperoni cheese things with a spring onion sauce which Myfwt helped me eat when she got back.

Sunday was the best day of the lot, a true day of rest, 3 Scrapheap Challenges, 4 Grand Designs –which reminded me to grout the bathroom sink, it took 10 minutes and was beautiful job. I raced out to grab the Sunday papers at 2-ish and spent the entire afternoon lolling around on my tight buns watching TV and reading both broadsheet and tabloid without any shame whatsoever. It was fucking gorgeous, especially when it started to rain and I got one of those. ‘oooh, it’s nice in here and horrid out there’ ones you only get in the winter. I met Frank for a couple of ales in the early evening; it rained hard on my walk to and from the boozer. I cared not a jot as I was correctly attired in waterproofs, which made the walk into the flat even more satisfying.

With my eye on TopGear I made a chicken and mushroom pie with leak and potato, which was fucking stunning. By now I was so laid back I greeted Myfwt when she arrived back home with a ‘Yo’. We had a nightcap and shuffled off to bed. I slept like a log in complete peace, the first Sunday night in months.

I come into work this morning and a co-worker says to me, ‘are you growing a beard?’ I’ve had a full beard now for 3 weeks; it looks fucking superb I hasten to add… I replied, ‘no, I’m not growing a beard’. She looked confused, ‘what’s all the hair on your face, then?’

‘A beard’ I said.


I don’t like mungz

It was about 5 minutes following a lengthy discussion with a Glaswegian about extreme violence in Glasgow, much of which involved the gentleman I was talking to, when I informed him that he smelled.

For a split second I was looking into the icy jaws of a crippling hiding from Begby, unfortunately me for me the ‘nice’ that followed ‘smelled’ had been punctuated by a single unexpected cough. After composing himself and before telling me that it was Gucci he also told me how I was a thumb and a forefinger away from eating hospital food for 6 months.

Frank and I had taken the train into town and we were outside in the cold October night drinking and smoking with friends. Den, Harry, Liam were indoors as I chatted to Peter, the Glaswegian I met last week following a coincidental meeting in the pub, and his pal Gucci Sam, who, in spite of my near death at his hands, was a smashing chap.

Friday night whizzed past as is the case, why does an hour seem like 2 at work and 30 minutes during the weekend? I was home by 12.30 and taking advantage of the extra hour in bed on the Saturday night, rocked out until 4am. At some point in the small hours I made a crucial discovery. When drinking neat gin, put loads of ice into a tall glass and as the ice melts the drink automatically keeps filling! I have to say though, the magic only works when one is obliterated.

Saturday was pretty much dismissed, I wrote some stuff and did the usual shop, which was a fucking mess. I nearly abandoned the trolley twice due to a horrific hangover inspired panic attack; I went through the motions of the attack and following its final death throes right at the checkout in front of a visibly suspicious cashier, paid and legged it out.

I was back home in time for the X-Factor, a show that has polarised itself between a toe curling shit fest and extreme vomit inducing sycophancy. It’s like watching someone being resuscitated by the roadside, you don’t want to watch but by the same token you can’t tear your eyes off it. Myfwt joined me later and we ate soup and watched Trainspotting. Bit of a nostalgia trip for us, it’s not dated either and it helped round off a rather pleasant lazy Saturday.

Sunday morning was spent in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge, one of the must-do stations of the weekend before Myfwt departed for lunch with her family and I did some more writing. Annoyingly I’d totally fucked up on Saturdays shopping trip and made the unpleasant decision to go back to fucking Sainsbury and fill in the gaps of yesterdays spree compromised by panicking. It was a relatively simple operation and I did the whole thing in under 30 minutes.

I met my brother in what was the usual Sunday hostilely in Clapham Common at a quarter to 5. It was rather a shock getting off the tube and walking out into darkness, I brushed off the rain and comforted myself with the thought of a pint. My bro was already there and we settled down and caught up. As the pints flowed the conversation took on an emotional bent, I realised that I was much more pissed than I ought, by pint 4 I was utterly fucked, actually, so was my bro. I should imagine the weekends refreshments had caught up with me, it didn’t stop me knocking back a final whisky but the upshot was a half blind zig zagging piss pot who can’t recall getting home. I do remember briefly meeting my bro’s missus on the street and trying hard not to slur and fall over. It was only 9pm.

Despite my condition I managed to eat something before I went to bed. Sitting here at my fucking desk writing this now I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t feel sick or have a headache but I do feel a bit vague. It’s Monday christing morning, the worst part of the week, at least with a hangover it may pass with indifference.


pitch cack

The weekend seems to have sealed itself; I’m committed from one end of it to the other, arsehole to beak to paraphrase Jake The Poacher.

In one respect this is a good thing, I can look forward to the different facets of the weekend as they offer themselves to me in due course, but on the other I’ll have to fight for those weekend moments of enjoying doing nothing apart from lying in bed and lolling on the couch watching Saturday Kitchen or Scrapheap Challenge.

But the most awkward aspect of the weekend is juggling a mates birthday lunch and the final leg of the 2007 F1 season. I’m very much looking forward to the lunch I hasten to add, there are a lot of friends going at it will be plenty of fun, but I have to be home by 5 when the racing starts.

This may or may not be a problem, I can’t think of anyone else at the table who gives a shit if Lewis Hamilton clinches the championship or not (making him the youngest F1 champ ever and the first to start his season as a rookie and end with the title, a staggering achievement, if he does it) or that the last time the world championship went to the wire where one of three drivers could clinch it was 1976, 31 fucking years ago for crying out loud.

Trouble is a I do care, I’m worried that as the clock ticks towards my tube deadline (4pm to be safe, 4.15 as a push) I’m going to start displaying signs of acute nervousness, a slight tick, hysterical laughter, flinging poo like a chimp, that sort of thing. Lunch is booked for 1.30, is 2.5 hours enough? We’ll see.

Last night was very peculiar. I had a couple with Frank, we sampled two delicious guest ales, and I got back to the flat for supper, stir fry rice with onion, mushrooms and bacon in a marvellously seasoned sock that really stocked my knocks off…The weird thing was the deathly silence, none of the downstairs lights were on either so naturally I assumed Cunt was out, but he wasn’t.

Yes, he was sat there alone in the dark.

I see this as a positive thing. A person who voluntarily spends a lot of time in the pitch-blackness when they could be bathing in front of the warm glow of the TV or reading under an Ikea halogen spotlight is either deeply religious (Cunt has the morals of a Nazi) or is manically depressed, possibly (hopefully?) suicidal.

When I was a little, my best mate and I were regularly listeners of a BBC LP of ‘horror’ noises. It was quite excellent and included such gems as the sound of a person being beheaded, wolves howling in Mooreland, creaky doors and cackles but possibly the highlight was a good minute of people wailing and moaning punctuated by the occasional agonising scream.

I need to have this in my possession. I’m required to play it on loop for hours on end at volume. Anything I can do to help push the prick over the edge. Indeed, I see it as my social responsibility to go to ebay right after finishing this and make it mine.

Please enjoy the Friday list of those oddballs that find Piqued whilst searching for ‘other’ then soothe yourselves by the daily youtube link. It’s a beauty, despite cutting off at the end, annoyingly.

Piqued may or may not feature on Monday as I may be having a day off, either way, nice weekends all.

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bark holiday

I really can’t believe I’m back in the fucking office already. The past few days have passed in the blinking of a bloody eye and I’m staring back into the chasm of another fistful of work.

The best day by far was Sunday. Being able to have one without the whole sardines on toast tea-time feeling of school the next the day was superlative, especially from the point of view of a clear hot sunny day sat in the middle of my black bitch with Myfwt hanging off the back.

From the outset the ride was going to be good, approaching the A3 from Raynes Park I caught up with a chap on the same bike as I. Triumph Speed Triple riders are always jolly pleased to receive other riders on the same or similar metal, we sat at the lights eyeing up the bolt-on goodies on each others bike after nodding at one another and being careful not to burn the other off after the lights went green.

Protocol is everything when it comes to a Sunday afternoon spin. It’s not necessarily the done thing to go screaming past a fellow biker as, a. it can make one look like a frustrated ego manic with delusions of Valentino Rossi besides, b. they may catch you up and humiliate you with some trick riding making you feel like an utter tit and subject to the mocking face of your pillion as you attempt to make excuses for being fucking shit after boasting about how you’re actually championship material if only you’d had the funding…

So there we three were, me, Myfwt and our new pal pootling down the A3 heading towards Guildford. I like to hang back when riding with someone else, I don’t like to feel the pressure of a person behind me (that I may be holding them up) and it gives me a chance to measure up their skills, or lack thereof. My new pal was riding much more slowly than I do, after 5 minutes of it I got bored and gave the bike a handful. I flew passed my ex-pal with a wave (protocol in my book) and hit a record-breaking 140mph, two up, nearly severing my head in the process. The air can be as calm and quiet as a millpond when strolling about the place but at those speeds, without anything more than a flyscreen to keep the wind off, nature and gravity conspire against you to rip the jacket from your shoulders via the collar and to push your helmeted chin into your neck. At 120 things levelled out and we flew through the Guildford by-pass before dismounting in a little place called Compton.

There is a gallery here, it has a large collection of paintings by George Frederick Watt, a pretty ropey Victorian artist who seemed to have got worse with age, despite quite a good reputation during his lifetime. Myfwt and I made some disparaging comments in the guest book prior to getting straight outta Compton (a weh a weh a waaa) and taking some gorgeous winding b roads into West Sussex that snaked through woods, rolling hills and chocolate box villages. We caught up with another Speed Triple; this was a machine almost identical to mine, black and scary, the sound of our modified exhaust systems converged at points making the most incredible noise, the roaring oscillated into a penetrating hum that shuddered through my spine, it was enough to roll the eyes in my sockets which I exchanged, sensibly, for a broad grin. He was also riding too slow for my tastes so after a while we lost him far behind, though weirdly found ourselves behind him again an hour after stopping for petrol and Pepperami.

All the while signals of approval were being transmitted to me by Myfwt on the back of the bike. Having a pillion can be a hindrance; they can disrupt the balance and airflow of the bike thus causing serious problems to the rider, not to mention being headbutted from the rear under heavy breaking or even falling off the back on hard acceleration. Myfwt, however, has experience; essentially I can forget she’s there and ride as I wish safe in the knowledge that if I do err she won’t shift her weight in panic causing us to all end up in a heap.

We shot through Ockley, then Horsham before locating the A24 from Dorking and passing Box-Hill. Squadrons of bikes passed in the other direction, all of us nodding at each other as if our neck muscles had been exchanged for chewing gum. It was fucking lovely. By now I, rather, we were in the zone. This is where things can get silly; ones concept of speed has been shot to pieces and the adrenalin derived euphoria demands feeding, combine this with an increasing familiarity of the bikes ability and by now ones over stretched confidence, it’s wise to be aware that tiredness and over enthusiasm can lead to serious mistakes. Fuck that I thought, undertaking a bloke in full racing clobber on an R1 on a roundabout, he didn’t like that one bit. We shot back down the A3 towards Tooting and arrived home in one piece and, more importantly in the world of unreality, with my licence.

Apart from the Sunday the bank holiday was spent with Myfwt in pubs, restaurants, on sofas and watching Scrapheap Challenge back to back on More4 in bed. Just sad it’s all over really. Still not heard anything from Jack regarding the trip across the States, I daren’t look ahead to it in case it doesn’t happen so for now it’s a question of taking each day as it comes.

The end of this song was going round my head on Sunday’s ride; I’m going to give it to you.