Category Archives: shawarma

much laterz

There really isn’t a positive way of seeing a weekend late on a Sunday evening, it’s cruelty personified. A weekend from this perspective isn’t so much as what has been gained, it’s more of a question of what has been taken away.

 

The weekend is snatched in stages from the moment one leaves work on a Friday afternoon. You go out with your heart full of the anticipation of the two-day break but mid way through Friday evening you’re already thinking about Saturday’s objectives. On Saturday when I’ve finished the afternoon shopping, usually after having squandered the morning, the relief that I’ve attained my objective also signals the death knell for the weekend itself. So one focuses on the Saturday night that invariably involves more memory-sapping activity, and the Sunday to come, which has, of course, been rendered virtually useless by Saturdays hedonism. Before you know it your staring into the chasm of another bastard week at work.

 

The very fact I actually had a good weekend means fuck all on a Monday morning.

 

It began by meeting up with Swineshead at a pub in Clapham Common, despite my recent moans about the onset of autumn it was a beautiful evening so we sipped beers in the fading light in the concrete garden discussing writing, rock and real estate. At around 8-ish we went our separate ways, SH back to his home in the East End whilst I walked down Clapham High Street to meet Myfwt and some of her colleagues in a bar under the railway arches by Clapham North Tube.

 

I lived in Clapham for a good 5 years and am still very fond of the place, it has a unique vibe that feels more New York than London, there are so many restaurants and bars that compliment each other rather than openly vie for business, one can eat and drink the world in less than a quarter of a mile, Clapham has a splendid symbiotic relationship with itself. Walking down the street to the bar I felt suddenly very at home and wished I were still living in the area. Of course Clapham has peaked somewhat since I lived there, its streets are cleaner, safer and a lot more fashionable, a fact reflected in the prices of the scarcely available property.

 

Myfwt was on good form having drunk about the same as I, and her colleagues were very engaging. After a few more beers we wondered back up the street to a lively Mexican restaurant; I drunkenly opted for beer chilli, which was served in a humongous top hat shaped tortilla. It was a hot dish, I was even aware of the price I’d pay on Saturday as I tucked in. We went off to another pub by Clapham Common where it seemed to be okay to smoke out of the open window on the top floor. It wasn’t okay; I was threatened with having to pay a fine by a huge square faced bar ‘maid’, I protested, everyone else was smoking out the window, I said before realising that I was the last smoker standing and was forced to back down.

 

Myfwt and I got home at 1-ish and I stoically had another beer before realising that I’d drunk at least ten pints and was thoroughly pissed, I went to bed at 2 or so. We both woke with hangovers; mine not as harsh as Myfwt as she’s been drinking wine as well as beer and we lay in bed watching re-runs of Tales of the Unexpected. It was a perfect way to suffer a hangover, a round of bacon and watercress sandwiches, 4 cups of tea and a big slow boiling hot trog saw me as right as rain.

 

I made a deal with Myfwt that if I drove her to her workplace in my van to pick up her car she’d help me with the shopping. Due to Roald Dahl’s tales we were running very late and the Saturday traffic on the streets made progress terribly slow. This wasn’t good; I’d made plans to meet an old mate at my place for 5 and by 4.45, after an hour and a half drive before discovering that we’d missed the deadline to get Myfwt car out the pound, (cue moderated scream) I still hadn’t done the fucking shopping. I texted my mate to inform him I was running late.

 

Without much of a choice the shopping obligation was undertaken at some pace. Myfwt was still hungover which slowed things somewhat. She has this habit of wandering off in the other direction to investigate something that has caught her eye, just at the very moment I’m in full OCD mode gathering together essentials and beating a path for the till she’s to be found half a superstore away eyeing up the label of a tin of Olives stuffed with Anchovy. Despite all this I was back at the flat by 6, Myfwt wasn’t up for another session so sensibly decided to go back to hers, though I’d have rather she’d have stayed.

 

I met Ted at mine at 6, Ted is an art therapist, we’ve known each other for over 20 years, he now lives in East Anglia so it had been a while, he and I wandered off to the local meeting Rob on the street on the way. Rob runs a comic shop of some note in the South East (I’ve known him for yonks too) and he and Ted go back further than Ted and I so we made a dynamic triple. We were supposed to have been joined by Frank, James and Jamie but due to illness, a dissertation and x they were unable to make it. We three caught up over some ales in a crowded beer garden, the pub had just played host to the rugby so the place was full of pissed up hooray aw-ha-ha cunts.

 

After a few and some hilarious geek related comic shop anecdotes that have been blurred into the ether, we shuffled off to the Shawarma shop where Rob and Ted were introduced to the delights of Lebanese cuisine. We made it home and stuffed our maws with a couple more cans before trying to get to sleep; this wasn’t as easy as it sounds due to a minor encounter with mirror medicine a few hours earlier.

 

I had barely 5 hours sleep. Ted and Rob left in the morning I busied myself with a shit load of washing and the dyeing of a green hoodie which needs to be black, it was a long messy process but the result excellent. I ate breakfast with the Moto GP, then switched over to the British Superbikes which was a lot more fun than the former. Rossi basically gave the championship away to Casey Stoner by coming back into the pits following a change from wets to slicks to moan about the front tyre, which was obviously not up to race temperature yet. Nonetheless Casey deserved his championship.

 

I taped the final race as it was time for me to mount my black bitch and head off out to see my niece. The ride is just the right amount of time to feel the benefits of a fucking good spin; I ignored the blustering wind and headed out to the country. The little one has a bit of a sniffle and can’t quite work out how to cough yet, she’s also on the brink of laughing but due to the same reason she can’t cough, she can’t laugh. She has, however, discovered that she fucking loves having a bath. As soon as she’s in the water she’s pink blur of foam. I shot back home to watch the end of the racing and settled in for the evening, I wrote the first half of this, ate roast chicken and abstained. My weekend closed almost as it had begun by watching a load of Tales of the Unexpected before hitting the hay.

 

My catch up nights sleep was compromised by waking up at fucking 5am, I fell asleep eventually but when I woke up at 8 I could hear the rain and wind lashing against the window. Fuck it, I’m having day off I decided. This is why Piqued is late and why I’m going to spend the rest of the day playing Tomb Raider in my Yukata.

 

I wished I’d have known I was going to spend the day in here, could’ve saved you all the moaning at the beginning. Oh well.

Enjoy, actually this is fucking ace…

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world super regret

After getting home on Friday evening following another intense yet barely productive afternoon in the fucking office, I decided to ‘check my emails’. Burn wasn’t due over for at least an hour and the cycle home in the sunshine had rather thrilled me. Mid way through a particularly fascinating post featuring a very bored housewife and some Marigolds the mobile went off, it was my boss.

The cunting client who’d been harassing me on Thursday had taken it on her self to forward on all of our complicated correspondence to his mailbox. The poor sod had literally just returned from holiday and was instantly transported to the hideous world of business. He wasn’t best pleased and proceeded to ask me 20 question in one single unending stream of moaning, subsequently my Friday feeling was quashed in favour of feeling fraught as I parried the thrust and blows of what amounted into an interrogation. Protected by a cloak of utter innocence I responded calmly, spoke soothingly, as one would a child who’d dropped his ice cream in their sand pit, and he finally hung up, confused but sated. I received a few apologetic texts and the evening returned to a sense of normality.

I’d not seen Burn in over a year. He and I grew up together as kids, after initial concerns about his politics we aligned and before you know it we were up to our necks in Tequila, hash and magic mushrooms. We followed the same bands and philosophy but Burn being Burn, he took the latter to its conclusion. Whilst I used to dream about doing the whole ‘hippie’ thing, Burn went and did it. He’s just about to build his own eco-friendly property in Wales for his family, an electrician by trade he can pretty much turn his hand to anything practical, his dropping out of college when he was 17 was, in hindsight, a bloody good move.

It’s not surprising then that for fucking years he’s been lending his support, on a voluntary basis of course, to festivals, particularly, Glastonbury. Due to all the running around in the beginning of year and his assumption I’d put all that sort of thing behind me, neither thought to trouble the other. After a good five minutes of head slapping in the local beer garden we’d got so far as to discovering that we were sat a few feet away from each other in the cabaret tent watching Phil Kay.

It was a glorious evening; Burn and I had some time to catch up before being joined by Frank and then James. We sat outside drinking under a warm golden sunset before going back in inside to finish the evening off in the cool of the pub. At one point Burn lit up at the table, I pointed out that he was smoking and he looked at me as if I’d said ‘you’ve got a face’ before realising it was now unlawful and darting outside before the landlord noticed.

After a few more than we should we all wondered off to the Shawarma shop and procured some delicious chicken wraps, Frank took his off home and we three returned back to the flat to continue our reunion. After Burn retired James and I stayed up into the small hours drinking whisky in the full knowledge that we’d pay for our sins on Saturday.

By the time he and I had got up Burn had already gone to see his family, he was wise not to have stayed up after 1am, James and I were fucked. I made some bacon and eggs and we sat about in the lounge watching Friday’s Big Brother groaning from dehydration but our obscene comments directed at some of the female housemates kept the worst of it under some sort of control.

After James left at lunchtime I watched the F1 qualifying, very controversial it was too, great stuff, before heading off do to the bastard weekly shop at fucking Sainsbury. Mercifully I was spared a panic attack and I was in and out in 30 minutes. The rest of Saturday afternoon was occupied by The Guardian, Lara fucking bitch twatting bloody Croft (I unstuck myself and got stuck again almost instantly) before setting off once again to imbibe in the sunshine with Frank.

After 3 sensible pints of Bombardier I got back and made some sauce for a superb home made cheese and ham pizza and hung about the place with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio. I tried to watch a movie but decided to listen to an old Venom album instead. Sensibly I was in bed by midnight so I could have some sort of a Sunday.

I got up at 9-ish, I couldn’t stay in bed, it was already warm and too bright to relax. Myfwt was due over later on so I got some writing done, had fresh kipper with toast and tea and settled down for the Grand Prix.

My intention following the racing was to go for a good scratch on the black bitch. Yesterday it was the World Superbike championships at Brands Hatch, my local circuit and a firm favourite. Dad had called me up on Saturday afternoon to remind me it was on and see if we should maybe go as we have in previous years. I’m not really sure why I declined, possibly a combination of sheer laziness (I would’ve had to get up early and once there walk miles in the baking heat through huge crowds) and OCD, my unbreakable Sunday was planned, I was going to write, have kippers and watch the Grand Prix for fucks sake…

I felt like a right cunt after the GP, actually I was furious with myself and couldn’t even face a ride aware that every decent Sunday afternoon biker would be at the track, where my spirit was. Bollocks to all of it, I thought as I shut the blinds, switched on the PS2 and met up with Lara. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back, the dirty bitch.

I was saved early evening by Myfwt, I must have looked like Gollum when she walked into the near darkness of my lounge. We had a splendid Sunday tea of pates and cheeses, hams, cucumber, coleslaw, potato salad and sun-drenched tomatoes, sliced and salted, with an assortment of breads and crackers. Despite a day of overt slobbery I was happy to continue in the same vein, punctuated with a few G & T’s and some grass the evening slid off towards the fresh crisply sheeted bed in a most conducive manner.

The boss is still very upset about this business with the cunting client, a colleague and I have colluded to suppress his angst and offer some sort of a solution to the matter. Another bloody Monday, let’s just see if this week I can make something of being in this place.

Bloody arseholes. (Not the following)


the head of motors

I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.

I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.

Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.

My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.

On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.

It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.

At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.

Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.

It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.

Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.

We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.

Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.

Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.

I’ve lost my dark glasses too.

This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here


reassembly

On Friday evening, following a pint and a half at the nearest pub to my office (a vile stinking boozer with the character of a stroke victim) in order to wish a colleague farewell, I made my way slowly to Angel to meet up with Swineshead. We made our way to a venue/pub to see 3 bands as part of Lark in the Park. We were joined shortly by his brother and uncle and finally by my old sparring partner, Jim. He and I go way back and like my other old friend, James, have no ability to know when it’s time to stop. Many a time he and I have been a liability to our friends, he in particular… happy days of shoving Jim into shopping trollies and running him over cobbles as he vomits heavily on his Dio t-shirt calling us all ‘cunts’ in between gasps. I swear the exact same scenario happened on a least 3 separate occasion, witnessed by the same t-shirt.

The second band on weren’t much to write home about despite being competent but apart from the excellent drumming from the support band, the headline act were the most impressive. Obviously I’ve no idea what they were called, I was with Jim and Swineshead, himself known to be quite good at blowing the froth of a few (7 at the last count) so my memory is a little pressed. Jim and I managed to get to the tube just as the last train was due to set from the platform. The carriage was surprisingly empty apart from three lads, one was lying on the carriage floor retching into a Sainsbury’s shopping back. Jim, smiled, looked at the lad on the floor and said to me, ‘I used to be like that…’ I remembered our trip to Hyde Park last summer where he’d got so pissed I had to stay with him and witness his fair features transform to one of Notre Dames gargoyles for an hour as sick came out. ‘Used’ to be like that?

We quizzed the sick lads mates, nice chaps, clearly taking responsibility for their pal whose eyes were rolling in his sockets like cue balls. We offered some advice, Jim in particular. ‘You know’, he mused, ‘he can hear everything we’re saying yet he’s unable to communicate with us’. Jim smiled, like he was fondly recalling a moment of agonising inebriation as if it were his first go on a pair of tits. The lads got off at Waterloo, Jim and I helped get the vomiter up on his feet and offered advice to his amused mates. Just as the train pulled off the sick lad opened his mouth a puked a substantial stream of raw beer all over himself.

When we got back to Tooting we opted for a Shawarma, essentially a slightly posher kebab, after being harangued by some racist Irish prick we rushed back to flat to eat. The flat was boozeless save some vodka in the freezer so Jim and I had sensibly purchased a couple of bottles of Coconut and Pineapple juice. To our joy and following day’s regret, it made a superb mixer and we cheerfully pushed on until 4-ish.

After a spot of breakfast Jim left. I had a shit lot to do after I’d strangled some veins, wash up, hoover, dust, prior to timing my trip to Sainsbury’s with the insufferable FA Cup Final as I figured there would be less people shopping. It paid off and after spending a fucking fortune I’d re-stocked on all the supplies that’d been dwindling due to the previous weekends’ engagements.

Later in the evening I met Frank in the local. The pub was full of weird people that had hung around following the football, more oddballs arrived. There was a strange atmosphere Frank and I concluded. It didn’t stop us putting four pints of Bombardier away though, and I walked back home feeling dozy as the sinking sun ignited a warm orange over half of the crisp blue sky. I took a bath, ate my favourite dish and watched a ‘rockumentary’ on BBC2 that focussed on the late 60’s and Jimi Hendrix, it was an above average effort at deconstructing the birth of ‘rock’ but as it featured lots of footage of Hendrix screwing his guitar I couldn’t have given a tinkers cuss about the editorial. Later I watched The Blair Witch Project, I’ve seen it a few times so being familiar with it, felt it would be safe to watch. Alone. ‘Of course’, I said out loud, ‘I mean it’s only a bloody film’, I don’t even believe in god let alone ghosts… By the end I was having a panic attack, possibly due to some sublime Skunk I’d allowed myself to become utterly absorbed in it to the point that I considered helping to look for fucking Josh. Despite it being late I was required to watch Southern Comfort just to help my brain settle. No idea what time I went to bed to bear witness to a nightmare of such horrific proportions it’s a miracle my heart didn’t explode, but at least I woke up with a hangover.

I stayed in bed ‘til noon, the motorcycle GP was on and I had a date with a cup of tea, toast, kippers and Valentino Rossi who’s more fun to watch ride than Silvia Saint (lads). Smashing race indeed, I was inspired to have a word with my black bitch and we hit the road, perfect riding conditions, warm without the stuffiness and bright but without glare. After checking my tyre pressures, essential to a slick ride, I shot down some A roads in Surrey, the bitch was responding as if made from my own flesh and we laughed at wankers in cars and speed limits. I nipped by to see my folks to give the bike a quick wash. She was all dirty from the rain earlier in week. I touched her clean. On the way back to the flat I had a race with a very souped up Subaru, it gave me a run for my money (to my surprise) but I was just about to make the podium.

By 7 I was home, shaking with adrenalin and feeling wholly purged. I wrote, bathed and ate a burger in fresh cheese and onion bread before settling down for the evening. I say settled down, I spent the vast majority of Sunday having an episode of OCD that required me to readjust aspects of the flat, nothing major, just minor adjustments but to the trained OCDer, essential minutiae. I did manage to watch High Anxiety in relative peace though; I’d forgotten how superb that film is.

In order to inject some sort of good into my battered body I cycled in today. Apart from a mid trip cough-up which I felt a positive thing it wasn’t too bad. I’m going to try and keep it up so I don’t look like a melted candle at Glastonbury. Busy week this week, I’ve decided I’m taking Friday off for reasons that will become apparent.

Aren’t I a little tease.