Category Archives: sebastian horsley

saucy

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.

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gud un night owt

Last night I went to the launch of a book in a pub Highgate.

Highgate is a long way on the Northern Line from Tooting; it takes ages to get there and I’m no fan of the tube in terms of being sat in it for a fucking hour with people pushing and shoving, and touching. I was saved partially by a jolly good book, which I may recommend; I will see how I feel later.

I arrived feeling ill due having breathed a million Londoners farts and walked to the venue via the off licence to get some tabs for my lungs, for medicinal purposes. When I arrived the place was sparsely populated but I instantly recognised a face, well, a part of one as George has a massive white beard and long hair. I was sorry to be informed that his charming wife has cancer and is undergoing Chemo, this rather knocked me for six and we spent a further half hour talking rather seriously, which isn’t usually our want, despite a short Bob Dylan moment.

Den and his wife Rose arrived and we managed to get a seat in front of the stage. As the venue began to fill I drifted around chatting to mates and faces I’d not seen in a while. Sue was there looking radiant and sporting a rather large bump, so was Tim, Jack and Graham…Annoyingly I didn’t recognise Sebastian Hoarsely, partially hidden under a huge stovepipe hat as I had a question for him regarding an earlier conversation with Clair at The Urban Woo (link right) and to quiz his taste in music following something he’d said in his blog. I’ll sort a link out tomorrow.

Some of the acts on were superb but by now I my mind was working on a hand to mouth basis like so many others present. After chatting to Pete in the beer garden, splendid chap, Postman by the day, Peter Cook expert by night, Den suggested that we nipped orf to The Groucho for a burger and some more drinks, so we stepped onto an oddly empty Northern Line, straight out of an American Werewolf in London (incidentally the actor playing the victim worked with me a few years back, nice chap) and arrived flushed with a degree of sobriety. We three were joined by Sam and his colleague and ordered food and wine. The place was rather packed but by this time but I couldn’t have cared less if it was reclining in a deck chair by the North sea, I wasn’t mortal by any means but for a weekday I’d pushed myself. Den and I engaged ourselves in a deep and meaningful, being rather less pissed than I can only hope I didn’t come across as an utter berk/prick.

Many drinks later I was coerced into a cab by my pals and whisked off home, the cabbie was a most congenial fellow and we gassed until I arrived home, quite pissed, at about 3 am

A jolly good night.

I have un hangover.