Last night I had a PC breakthrough. I managed to make Youtube work again and using a combination of phone and PC have successfully injected some Slayer into my phone. You may well scoff at the ludicrous ease of successfully undertaking such a task yourselves but it really isn’t as simple as that. Honest…
…I mean who would’ve thought that ones internet security would prevent Flash from fucking working in Youtube (fucking hours over weeks I’ve been trying to cure this problem, re-installing Flash, un-installing Flash, allowing Java script, enabling Active X, disallowing cookies, burgers, churches, steeples…) when as a last resort I just turned security off and screamed ‘COME WHAT MAY!’ as I stood naked in the half light of my lounge, my arms drawn out from my body, hands and face upturned in a gesture of agonised fervour, I was fucking resigned, I was prepared to die, dear reader, die…
I’m feeling better today, not quite back on threes and fours and I’m certainly tired still but I don’t have that malaise about me. Myfwt is currently copping the whole thing in the neck, though she’s managed to avoid the throwing up part, and I’m hearing of others who’ve contracted this shit. It’s a horrid way of spending 24 hours really, worse than being down in a sewer, or even on the end of a skewer.
Last night was as dull as death, I avoided all forms of botanic and cordial intoxication and chose instead to cure the aforementioned PC woes, read quietly and watch TV. There was fuck all on (though SH has just reminded me I missed The Apprentice which is irksome) the highlight being an old Saxondale, first series, when it was funny. Even Grand Designs was shite.
Still, it’s a lovely day, the weekend is round the corner and I’m no longer barking out gastric effulgent from my fundament or countenance. I just feel weak and tired and like I may pass away at any given moment.
I think my freckle needs realigning. Something along the lines of what I can achieve by adjusting the rotor pitch on my mini-helicopter. My default seating position when I’ve the donkey’s tongue is right on the money, I’m dead central. I’m Simon Hughes of the Lib Dems slap bang on the fence, yet when I’ve achieved evacuation I notice that I’ve transformed from Simon into that complete shit (pun intended) Nick Griffin resulting in one side of the chod bin compromised by having bits of cack all up it.
Just like last week I had a viewing on Saturday, this time I was notified and ensured I wasn’t in when the agent came to call, and just like last week the only lasting memory my potential purchasers had after viewing the flat would’ve been last nights tea pebble dashed over white porcelain. It was only when I got in following a trip to B&Q to get a new showerhead and a picture frame that the ‘don’t forget to clean the fucking bog before you leave’ mantra I’d been chanting most of the afternoon was recalled. Blast.
Work on Thursday was as awful as expected and I left feeling mildly ravaged. Luckily a few pints in the pub with Frank straightened me out followed by a fantastic film with Sean Penn (bloody underrated if you ask me, finest actor in Hollywood? Maybe) Called ‘The Assassination of Richard Nixon’ which I recommend without hesitation, and I awoke on Good Friday a little under the weather. I had to get out the flat as soon as I awoke to meet up with my mortgage broker to sign some paperwork which means I’m now foolishly mortgaged up to the hilt. He wasn’t very impressed when, after really badgering me to sign up for critical illness cover (for which he’d have received commission) I finally informed him that ‘I didn’t fucking want it’ and went he all stroppy for a couple of minutes like a scolded child while I sat there mentally punching the air, and his face for good measure.
Shortly after Myfwt picked me up and we went to Putney to look for some suitable accessory and what have you for her birthday next week. I’ve learned that unless advised I’m bloody useless at buying gifts for the opposite sex, besides, I rather enjoy shopping with her believe it or not. After a travelling most of West London I was dropped off home in time for a pint with Frank, the weather was turning for the worst, Myfwt and I had already experienced hale and now temperatures plummeted like we lived up t’North or somewhere where men walk about in subzero temperatures with shaved heads and no shirts to speak of.
Frank and I drank a few in our local toasting the passing of Jebus, the place was half dead but from our pint of view, ideal, as we could get to the bar without any obstruction or hindrance from competing punters. By the time I got home I was little tipsy, I watched a very disappointing French film (called 36, it misses the mark and has an air of misogyny about it that only the French can pass off as ‘romance’) whose subtitles I wound up watching by squinting through one inebriated eye before going to bed late.
Subsequently Saturday was somewhat painful, this malaise caused me to spend most of the day sat in front of my PC trying in vain to download fucking Flash Player (which has mysteriously vanished from my PC) in order to view some Strutter on Youtube, over and above this I was also trying to make some Slayer happen on my fucking MP3/mobile thing via said PC.
Fucking technology, it’s all well and dandy when it works but when things don’t happen as they should it’s enough to result in innocent shoppers in Bluewater being randomly picked off by lone-gunmen after they’ve failed to post a Youtube soliloquy as to why they wouldn’t trot through Bluewater picking off innocent shoppers listening to South of Heaven by Slayer on their LG Viewty which, supposedly has an MP3 feature…
If this wasn’t bad enough, following the B&Q shopping trip (which was a waste of time incidentally, the showerhead is shit and the frame too small) I picked up Saturdays Guardian which features a fucking interview with that cunt Jordan. For fucks sake, what the FUCK is going on here? This harridan, this prostitute for post Orwellian society, this role-model of laziness and self-harm has maintained a presence thanks to gutter journalism and the not entirely commendable ability to remain in the public eye by exploiting herself, her disabled child and the arseholes that chose to suffer her tonesless ill-informed drone in order to drop their stinking extensions into her over active fundament. We’re supposed to think she’s some sort of business woman as she’s accrued zillions of squids by not letting a single day of our lives pass without some sort ‘news’ grabbing drivel about her tits being reduced/enlarged, her husband being great/a twat, her children being disables/not disabled, her joys/fears, her knickers/her lack-of, her, books, her perfume, her business, her bloody FUCKING FACE 24 FUCKING SEVEN AND NOW, MY BROADSHEET FEATURES HER LIPLESS FIZZOG IN ALL HER PROLETARIAT GLORY BY DAVID FUCKING BAILEY IF YOU PLEASE…GAH, IF I COULD DOWN LOAD FUCKING FLASH I WOULDN’T BE TYPING LIKE THIS, FOR THE LOVE OF THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD SOMEONE HELP ME.
So, Saturday. Rubbish frankly… (though saved somewhat by a stunning roast in the evening in which I succeeded how to make drop-dead fresh gravy AND ensure the potatoes were crisper than Robinson Crusoe’s sock, actually, after that I watched Das Boot, a wonderful, Lord it was good and went to bed feeling, well, okay)
Sunday conversely was wonderful. I’d taped the Grand Prix which I watched after 9am, very disappointing, dull and not the result I’d hoped for, whilst eating Hot Cross buns at speed. I left to pick up my bro and his missus, freshly back from Kerala and all tanned up, and we travelled to my folks whilst I was regaled with hilarious diarrhoea-based tales located on boats made of coconut or something. The afternoon was wasted beautifully on lunch and niece-watching and much laughter did emanate from family Piqued, then farting. My niece can now crawl and stand which is splendid for her… though I somewhat took the joyous edge of the equation as this new found movement has resulted in archaic forms of entertainment being made redundant, for example, the ‘swinging robot’ (a quite violent combination of airborn staccato movements requiring sound and not insubstantial arm control) which used to illicit squeals of delight now causes unbound fear.
I met Myfwt at the flat later on and she essentially said ‘hello, I’m tired’ and fell asleep as I watched read, this resulted in her being awake far sooner that I on Bank Holiday Monday and I was forced to suffer second hand TV noises whilst I groaned in my pit. After breakfast we took ourselves off to rectify the shopping situation caused by Good Friday’s wilful consumerism which resulted in more money being spent much to my chagrin. Can’t complain though, it was all rather jolly and we ate sushi wrap in the car and everything.
The weekend ended quietly with Risotto and Cava, on a final note I don’t remember seeing snow at Easter before, what the bloody hell is going on with the weather? Global warming my botty.
Fucking Masterchef, since it’s been on I’ve been more obsessed with food and cooking than ever. I’d never really got into it before, despite one of my friends being on it last year (I think she got in the quarter finals too, perhaps she’ll read this and post a comment?) I’d always found the two presenters, a chirpy cockney barrow boy type and a doe eyed misery guts from down under (I think), a bit too much for my palate. Even the shape of the formers head annoyed me.
This time round I’m addicted, the presenters command a genuine respect from the contestants, which adds an element of menace to proceedings. Indeed, the pressure of this alone can force some talented cooks to utterly balls up dishes they’ve been making for years –one poor lady ended up making a veritable biscuit instead of a soufflé. It was her speciality dish.
The effect all this has had on me is to experiment. Last night for instance I ended up making a watercress sauce. Even saying ‘watercress sauce’ deserves a punch in the mouth, but no, there I was sautéing onions, wilting the watercress before blending the two together with seasoning, lemon and crème fraîche and plopping over fishcakes if you please, it was a sensation.
Yesterday was fairly uneventful save a close call with death on my way into work, a few pints with Frank in the evening and of course, supper. Myfwt went to bed quite early leaving me to watch Chris Langham getting a good grilling from Dr. Pam. It was tough going, I’m not sure if he’s sorry for what he did, or just sorry for himself. What was clear from the off was that he’d spent a great deal of time thinking about what he was going to say when certain, inevitable questions were asked. The tears were genuine enough, and I’m fairly sure he’s not a threat to children, but there was something about his evangelising ‘I know who I am through all this’ which struck me as a bit, well, US talk show -if not entirely insincere, to me it characterises the mind of a desperate, tortured man.
Following this I soothed myself by watching the snooker, this was my undoing. Along with Masterchef my interest has gone for virtually nothing to mild addiction. I’m bloody hooked. It’s cathartic and intensely gripping in one motion, it’s the tampering of universal physics by humans which exalts the players into gods warring with one another. Unfortunately last nights coverage went onto 2.10 am, I didn’t know this when I began watching it sometime after 11pm and, being unable to resist its charms I watched the whole fucking programme sipping wine and gently smoking the odd joint. Of course, today I’m feeling a tad ragged, but able to deal with my day.
Please do check my latest post on Watch With Mothers (link right, it’s the ‘Emily I by Scrabbel’ one). It seems that a person can’t be tongue in cheek anymore without a bunch of brainless arseholes taking psychotic offence; naturally, I’ve responded my usual calm and measured manner. Feel free to join it, it’s free, and hey, it’s fun.
After visiting James and his new son, a lovely little fellow who has grown an extraordinary amount since I last saw him, Friday night took a turn for the dark side.
Myfwt came back from her office party at about 1.30 am quite pissed, I mean really pissed. This in itself wasn’t an issue; she’s usually a jolly little soul after a few, but after a slurred giggly chat it was clearly time she hit the sack, about the same time as Cunt and some mates (this is a first, there were two of them down there, two!) decided to ‘sing’ with guitars. Imagine if you will 3 cunts singing The Drugs Don’t Work to an out of tune toneless guitar, with Cunt trying to out ‘sing’ all of them. It’s Friday night, they’re not playing through amps so I’m not overly fussed under the circumstances, but the snag is the room in which they were making this cacophony is right over the bathroom -which has not carpet, the same bathroom that Myfwt need to visit to throw her guts up.
In the space of an hour Myfwt went to the bathroom 16 times, accompanied by yours truly to ensure her safety as by now her motor skills had gone to shit. On each occasion we’d return to bed, she’d lie down and minutes later she’s be up and out the bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom to allow the fucking hideousness downstairs to run alongside the dulcet tones of Myfwt removing gins, sambuca, beer and whisky from her face. Put my desire to sleep into the equation and you can see how I felt as if looped in some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.
Even quiet the sound of the fucking 3 Amigos downstairs was permeating into the bedroom; this wasn’t helping so I made up the sofa bed in the lounge. I’m not entirely sure why but this hit the spot in terms of breaking the puke-cycle of Myfwt and we slept soundly until the following morning where we swapped back to our usual sleeping device to finish off our rest.
I made Myfwt some breakfast which alerted her system into one of recovery, I supplied her with tea and sympathy before leaving her in bed and taking the bus to Wimbledon train station. It was a cold wet morning but I was comforted by The Guardian and a fresh coffee on the station platform waiting for my bro and his missus, who were running late.
When they eventually arrived we jumped on the train for the 25 minute journey to Oxshott where we met up with my sister, whose birthday was the reason for our meeting in a restaurant fro lunch, my bro-in-law, niece, mum and dad. The afternoon passed in a most congenial manner, the wine flowed and traditional English fare sated our appetites amid much sniggering and conversation. My niece was being a little stroppy initially but she soon fell into the congenial mood of the family. It was a splendid afternoon and all too soon we were back on the train heading homewards. I’d had a few wines and was required to decide if I should stop or carry on… the latter decision was put upon me by Frank who requested my company for a couple of ales at the local.
I got back home at 8 or so, again, do I stop or continue? Spurning food, I was still digesting lunch, I opened a bottle of wine a fell into my headphones, beginning with the Suno ))) album which blew my head off and moving through Nirvana, Yes, PJ Harvey, Subhumans, Slayer, Machine Head, Bob Dylan, Korn… smoking and drinking all the while and wrapped in the most glorious cloud of sound and drugs.
At about 3 I was done, well and truly. I awoke at 1pm on Sunday feeling dreadful. The afternoon was written off but as luck would have it Back to the Future 2 was on to nurse me through my malaise. At 6 Myfwt arrived with some shopping and she made us supper after taking pity on my condition and going some way to repaying me for my care on Friday night. We both spurned drinks, preferring tea to accompany an evening sat quietly in front of the TV.
Christmas is fast approaching, this is my last full week at work until next year, a delightful prospect but one also fraught with having to finish off the seasonal gift-getting and wotnot. On the other hand it’s still Monday, it’s cold and wet and despite not having drunk last night, I feel crap.
The last half an hour prior to the appointment I could almost hear the mourning bells of St. Sepulchres church. Clutching my imaginary gallows speech I took myself along from the east to the west along Holborn, St Giles, and the Tyburn Road, perhaps having one final pint prior to stepping up on to the gallows, and having my hair washed by 16 stone tart called Sharron in the windows of Tony’s the unisex hairdresser round the corner from my office.
We’d already gone through the preliminary ‘what do you want’ bit when they pointlessly sit you in a chair and, standing behind you so you can see them in the mirror, froth your hair up a bit looking like they really give a fucking shit. Sharron performed this part very badly, I thought. When I told her what I wanted she responded, terrifyingly, with a ‘why would you do that, then.’ I should’ve thrust a pair of scissors into her head and legged it, but I didn’t. I stayed.
Wordlessly Sharron began to work on my barnet, her pendulous breasts smacking against my shoulder and her WKD and chip sodden gunt rubbing against my arm. Every time she moved her giant gold earrings, at least 3 in each fleshy lughole, would clatter together like marbles being dropped on terracotta. I watched vast swatches of my hair flying off as she got down and dirty with my cows lick, I could feel the cold steel of the scissors way too high up the back of my neck. I thought I may be sick.
After a tortuous 45 mins an apparition of my former self made itself known to me. ‘You’ve finished?’ I said staring at Moe Midgely. ’22 quid’ said Sharron.
So, there you have it. I made the decision to do this thing to myself, what possessed me yesterday to undertake this act of personality defiance, I’m a person who likes to listen to the metal of the lords, the punk of kings, yet here I am telling the word that I love Chico and buggery. In the past, on these very pages, I’ve spoken of Sigmund Freud standing up in a railway carriage and not recognising himself in an adjacent mirror for a split second, he calls this ‘lost’ moment the uncanny, it’s the model for surrealism. Its not pleasant walking about ones home getting the fucking fear of Lucifer everytime one happens to glance into a mirror. Waking up this morning and seeing myself for the first time, expecting to see my usual self was like a scream of such enormous volume it was the personification of total silence. I nearly passed out from the stress of being subject to such a violent episode of displacement.
In short, I look like an utter, utter cunt.
I need this, you need this so you don’t take the same path as I.
I’m not sure if doing a blog every weekday is the best way forwards, on some days writing the blog is a fucking pain, especially when I’ve fuck all to write about because in reality I spent the night masturbating and rolling over the floor of my flat in the clutch of Slayer. On other times there are things that have simply occurred that I don’t want seen by ‘the public’, despite the anonymity of Piqued I reckon 50% of you reading this know me, or think you do. (I really didn’t mean to kill her, her head, it just came off.)
So, I’m seriously considering, on my return, to make Piqued three times weekly and a little more focussed. Whilst my readership is gradually increasing I’m getting concerned that I’m alienating some readers by the sheer quantity (over quality) of all this shit what comes out of my barnet. Or should I just fuck ‘em all and carry on? (really, look, she wouldn’t shut the FUCK up)
My bro and I had been trying to source some fucking quality rubber boots for Glastonbury. I shit you not, all of the major camping suppliers in London and the South East were out of stock, this was due the dreadful weather forecasts in the festival region and the reality that townies (the vast majority of the Glastonbury contingent) such as I don’t do fucking wellies, until now. Hence, no wellies.
After some head scratching a moronic colleague suggested some godforsaken shop in the Wimbledon area, an area I fucking hate I hasten to add, and after a phone call discovered that they had some in stock, indeed my size and my brothers. It took ages to get to this place but I got a result, well sort of. I’ve not worn fucking wellies since I was 6, I tried them on, I looked like a right cunt. To make matters worse they’re greenish, a twattish sort of a green. I plodded back up the road with my wankers footwear held fast in my arms feeling like a tool-o-la, it was hot and the sweat on my frowning must have exacerbated my ludicrous appearance. As I was carrying my brothers Sasquatch sized boots too, I’ll be forced to give him a dead arm next time I see him. It’s only fair.
My discomfort of having to traverse round southeast London resembling a rural rubber fetishist was offset at my joy at getting my new bins. Both are perfect but special mention must be made to my new shades, they make me look like a bent DC1, I fucking love them.
Last night Myfwt came over for some supper, we drunk Champagne (I’d won a load of it at work) and ate spaghetti bolognaise, I made the best fucking sauce to date and we ate it until our little faces were all covered in bits of food like a lovely couple of berks. We had a great night, bit of an iffy moment briefly following my telling of a very unpleasant joke, but she pulled through like a good ‘un and we merrily rolled off to bed before 12 where I was delighted to find out she was on the blob.
Here at the bloody office I’m right on deadline for this project, the boss is creeping about the office like Snake Plissken and I have to get some actual work done. Tonight I’m cycling back and meeting my bro in the usual boozer in Clapham to make final plans for tomorrow’s excursion and to give him that dead arm. (Hopefully the cops won’t find out about her til I’m long gone, it was an accident, surely they’ll know. Forensics?)
In the unlikely event I can get on to a PC between now and Wednesday I’ll post, if not, look forward to a big review next week. Or don’t.
Seeing these chaps on Saturday, or is it Sunday. Either way I’ll be fucked. BYE
futile screamings from a git 