mr frosty

Cunt has a friend. He’s been there now since Sunday, needless to say, he must be as much of a fucking cunt as Cunt or he wouldn’t be in his company. This is extraordinarily bad news because now Cunt Co., are installed in the room directly below my lounge (as opposed to the one over my kitchen) making me privy to their Attenborough male bonding rituals which includes grunting faux chuckles, faux aggression, faux faux and playing music that goes boom boom boom, you know, the stuff that is one below a fucking lobotomy.

Possibly more annoying is that the volume levels aren’t enough to cause me to stamp on the ceiling/ go and complain/ make a fucking phone call to a very nasty mate, mainly because they’re inconsistent and when they do breach what I consider an acceptable sound level they’re not unacceptable for long enough. It’s psychological warfare, essentially.

Needless to say, at around 11.30-ish just as we went to bed it was sort of quiet but by fucking 2am the guitars were out, but only for 2 minutes. Just enough to wake me up and leave me fuming in the darkness for an hour until sleep finally clasped me to its soporific bosom and took me away from myself.

I’m fairly knackered today, but not too bad. We didn’t drink much last night, the best thing is that Myfwt wasn’t particularly fussed about the sound from downstairs and she slept through the noise in the wee hours, so this morning she was all bright and breezy which is always enough to put me in good cheer. Incidentally, it’s a beautiful day today, cold with a sharp edge to the air but the most sensational golden light pervades, the plants and trees are frosted with glitter, concrete and metal serves to frame the bluest of cloudless skies and make the geometry of the city one of desirable delicious contemplation, as opposed to the typical existentialist angst of the mundane. It’s fucking gorgeous out.

Work is busy at the moment, not in a good way either. There is a sense of desperation in the air as we struggle to meet deadlines and figures for the month, which has been cut short by a fabulously positioned Christmas in a fortnight from today; indeed, in a week today I’ll be enjoying my last day at work for 2007. This will have ramifications for Piqued.co.uk but I’ll let you know more nearer the time.

For now have some of this.

*pop* ouch

Hurrah, to compensate for my cacky back (now clicking in a succession of three) my fucking right knee has gone up the spout. I’m currently traversing round the office in black and white, like I’m walking wounded, bravely staggering around the grounds of a military hospital in the late 40’s, puffing on a Capstan, where is the pretty nurse with starched apron smoothing my brill creamed hair? She be dead now of course.

Yesterday lunchtime I began the task of gathering together the various ingredients for the folks 40th Wedding Anniversary. It was awful; I had to go into Woolworths where I was subject to Holly Valence and Gerry Halliwell breathing surround sound poison into my face as I gloomily trudged through glittering isles selling shit made in China. A big fat women was going to task on the pick n’ mix, every time she bent down to shovel a pile of candy into her brightly coloured paper sack she’d go bright red and the sun would go out. I located some fucking balloons and 50 little rubber finger monsters, I’d been made deranged by Victoria Beckham’s single, so I purchased the rubber monsters with the help of an utterly vacant human being at the counter and left the bobbing porker to fill her 3rd bag.

I wandered about Wimbledon forlornly trying to find somewhere that sold little fucking silver stars and ribbon and tissue paper and other tiny bits of anniversary related ephemera. As the tennis was on the place was packed full of cunts looking all confused and weird with another heap of tools perpetually trying to press leaflets, phone cards and free newspapers into my hand. It was a nightmare of truly harrowing proportions; I was in full swearing mode and prepared to fling whatever piece of shit had been imposed on me back into the face of the vendor, it happened 4 times. By the time I returned to the office, late, the only item that had increased my lot was a small spool of silver ribbon, but my blood pressure was sky high and I was sweating like a navvy. The afternoon was written off.

After work I dropped off my black bitch, she was looking mighty fine, and went directly to the tube to arrive at Clapham in time to visit a posh gift shop before meeting my bro. The initial disappointment of the contents of the shop had its head kicked off when I found it sold fucking silver stars and a host of other twinkle-twee anniversary stuff. Ace. I met my bro in the usual and we discussed the forthcoming weekend –you’ll be privy to this on Monday if you tune in- and the recent mud fest in Shepton Mallet. We’d not spoken since and it seems that he was about impressed with the festival as I, it also seems that in terms of getting out of the fucking thing to go home we were extraordinary lucky, not that I give a tinker’s cuss from where I sit now in the warm and dry…Office. Oh.

This evening Myfwt is over to finish off the anniversary shopping for tomorrow evening, I just hope we have enough time for a few glasses of wine before being forced to undertake a relatively early night, this is due to the massive flurry of activity culminating in a 50 guest knees up in deepest darkest Surrey.

Finally, it’s worth mentioning that my bro gave me some video footage shot 3 years ago of me throwing up into a sink as Jamie, who is on top form, is reminding me of my job as an auxillary Nurse. If I can edit it properly I’m considering posting it on YouTube for your entertainment. I saw it last night for the first time and it had me in stitches.

Have nice weekends; don’t forget how lucky you are to have quality spines…

Modern classic