Category Archives: sex pistols

workagain

On Friday night I met up with James, impending fatherhood is less than 2 weeks away so it wasn’t entirely unexpected that by 3.30 in the morning I was lying gurgling on the lounge carpet and James was slumped semi-conscious in a chair. Looking back now it seems a long way from this fucking desk, chair and PC at work.

When we got in from the pub James went off to hang a piss and needing to do the same I followed him straight in. At this point I will confess that I hardly ever stand up to whiz, especially if I’ve had a few or am armed with a chubby, so I sat down, only to find that seat was warm. It got me thinking, how many men stand taking a tinkle in their own homes? I think for the sake of the nation there should be government-funded research into the whole phenomena of men weeing whilst seated. I reckon the results would be staggering causing a radical re-think in the whole urinal nonsense forced upon men in pubs and bars, the current upshot of which means that total strangers can view my tool, an unacceptable situation in the 21st century.

The hangover on Saturday was fucking dreadful, after the pints and some cans James suggested we each had a G&T, I knew it was a mistake when I was pouring them, and when James remarked how strong they were, my cocky laugh was still echoing round my body 12 hours later but as a headache of crippling worth. I managed to eat breakfast but was forced back to bed due to my malaise and I didn’t surface until 5 in the afternoon having wasted the whole bloody day.

My intention was to meet some friends in Soho at 8 to celebrate an engagement but I was forced to sheepishly text my apologies. Fortunately Myfwt arrived to save me and we ate and watched x-factor as the first chink of sobriety signalled some form of recovery. I stayed up late due to the excessive sleep I’d had earlier and watched Hell in the Pacific, a wonderful film let down only by the dreadful ending. It rather annoyed me actually.

Yesterday Myfwt left at 11am to help her cousin move house and I arose and watched a fantastic Japanese Grand Prix, full of incident and culminating in victory for the young Lewis Hamilton whose championship lead has been satisfactorily extended.

After lunch I jumped on my black bitch and shot off to the motorcycle accessory shop. For the last few years I’ve been wrestling with a pair of leather trousers that are so tight I seriously risk losing a testicle putting them on, they were never a good purchase so I made the decision to replace them with something that offers me the possibility of having children one day. Finding the right size of trousers was a lot harder than it sounds. Size 30 could be anything from 34 to 40 and the size 32 I tried on must have been about 24 on the waist but were song long I couldn’t see my feet. I reckon they were designed for that Jack Skellington from a Nightmare Before Christmas. After a lot of sweating and puffing I settled on a decent pair that I wore right out the shop. The difference it made to the quality of ride is a joy and, subsequently, I nearly killed myself 5 minutes later, please don’t dismiss that last comment out of turn, it was really close, I hit an object on the A3 as I was accelerating through 120 and the bike snapped into a tank flap. Still not sure how I recovered the black bitch.

From here I went over to visit my folks who were also looking after my niece whilst her parents caught up on some rest. In the space of a week she’s now figured out how to cough, she’s smiling a lot more and responding very well to my attentive prodding -which I may have over done as she shit on my knee when I poked her tummy, burped in my face when I picked her up and rounded it all off my throwing up all over my fucking t-shirt when I was winding her after feeding. What a little Sex Pistol.

I had roast pork and potatoes et al for dinner and remained clear of the booze. The Sunday evening horror came in hard. I’ve had the last few Mondays off but knowing I had to be in today and I was expected to cycle, my back needs it, I was feeling about as cheery as recaptured POW. I didn’t do anything after eating except watch TV, a documentary on Stephen Fry sort of made it worse, then read in bed until sleep was unavoidable.

I fucking hate Monday.

This is the only solution, the quite horrific, wonderful Wendy O Williams with her popular beat combo. Turn it up.

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grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah