Category Archives: space ritual

psycho tubey

I’d been watching this cunt for a while sat opposite us on the tube, his strawberry chupa chup pin-head lolled in his collar, a single slash of a mouth cut diagonally across his face which occasionally opened when he flinched, and when to speak. Earlier on in the journey when the carriage had been packed he imposed himself on a Christian looking couple. He seemed harmless, desperately lonely and he wasn’t ashamed top convey this, he enquired how long the couple had been dating with a sad smile, an even sadder smile sliced over his beetroot face when he discovered they were engaged, he moved closer to the girl and nudged her with his thin elbows, ‘he’s a handsome fellow,’ he said to her with more than a hint of lascivious bound in pathos… Still not sure on which side to cast my net in terms of an opinion he passed a comment as they alighted from the tube that wasn’t right, ‘have safe sex,’ he called out weakly behind them. This wasn’t right, I decided.

I’d met Myfwt and Lou in a trendyfied version of my old local in Clapham North, when I’d been a regular some 10 years previously it’d been a contentious watering hole that reluctantly sat old soaks by shifty looking chancers, now in full media flight, it was calmly populated by young white people framed by a glittering mass of multicoloured liqueurs as they sucked back over priced foreign beers and nibbled on chilli dusted calamari and roasted tomato salsas, a long way from the warm ales and greasy packs of crispless chips of the past.

We had a few and headed up to Camden on the tube and arrived at the Worlds End, a vast town-like pub populated by rockers, punks and pretension, we had one more and met up with Andrea before arriving at the Roundhouse. I’d never been to this place before but it’s the stuff of legends, this is where Hawkwind recorded the finest live album of all time, Space Ritual.

It’s a great space, formerly housing a giant turntable for steam locomotives in the 19th century it’d gone from dereliction to concert hall and after a further period of disrepair was once again a magnificent venue. We secured beers and found a great spot to the right of the stage and within a few feet from the front. The Jesus and Mary Chain, laconic as usual (but, sadly, lacking the backcombed piles of hair that occupied half their sullen faces) arrived and began, the sound wasn’t right up there to begin, nor were the heady swathes of feedback of their heyday, but it was instantly engaging, beautiful, even. Starting with some classics off Psycho Candy they moved through Automatic before returning to full balls out form with Just Like a Honey, by now Jim Reid was a bit pissed and enjoying the effects of a not entirely subtle intake of sniff, this had a most delicious effect up the sound. Finally the volume was beginning to punch hard, enclosed in dry ice the band let their amps loose, ecstasy at last, I enjoyed the final 20 minutes as much as just about anything I’ve seen live since.

The tube had emptied by Balham, Lou and Myfwt were engaged in a serious conversation about their work and the strange character opposite was leaning in to study them. He knew I was on to him so he avoided making eye contact with me but by now was leaning so far over and staring at Lou with such intensity I had to subtly convey to Myfwt and Lou that something wasn’t right, she got it, Lou didn’t.

At his stop Myfwt and I said goodbye to Lou and he got off, suddenly the bloke opposite leapt to his feet and followed Lou out of the carriage. Jangling behind him his dumb expression of sorrow and disassociation suddenly shifted to one of psychotic rage and he whacked Lou in the back ‘why are you so fucking serious? WHY ARE YOU SO FU…! ’ He said.

Myfwt and I jumped off the tube before the doors shut, I headed straight for the fuck, he turned on his heels to face me and the expression on the looney’s face switched again, this time he looked as if he’d just lost fifty quid, he gasped in exasperation and hastily beat a retreat to the escalator where he vanished into the night. Just goes to show you that you trusting your instincts is always a good place to start when forming an opinion.

There may not be a piqued until Monday as I may be having the day off to do other work with a mate. If by some happy chance I’m not in tomorrow, have fun for heaven’s sakes.

I’ll leave you with this, of course.

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lost in museik

I was as busy as furious bee yesterday, for some reason everything needed doing at once, and in between all of this I spent a good deal of time having an online conversation (with a bloke called Earache whom I’ve linked to on the right) about the Guardian’s top 1000 albums. Entertaining it may’ve been but it was a right load of old bollocks with some dreadful emissions, no Dead Kennedys, Marilyn Manson, Mudhoney, Butthole Surfers… (but Girls Aloud and Rachael Stevens were in???) I really could go on but there will be enough listing on today’s Piqued, it’s Friday after all.

However, there were a few surprises (Space Ritual by Hawkwind, for example, which was let down by the balls written about it) and one in particular which I’ve posted as today’s guest youtube link. Listen to as loud as possible after taking drugs; it will utterly blow your head orf.

Just discovered a long blonde alien hair in my beard, pulling a long blonde (any colour actually, I’m no racist) alien hair out of ones beard feels almost as enjoyable as a ruddy great poo, but I digress. Last night I met up with my bro at Clapham Common tube following a small altercation with London Transport when my Oyster card split and there was no fucker to let me through the barrier. My bro was privy to my yelling at a gesticulating man behind a screen, who I couldn’t see because I wasn’t wearing my bins, desperately, apparently, trying to corral me to another barrier.

We arrived at the pub in good cheer, if a little frustrated on my part and imbibed Guinness whilst discussing the wonders of wanking. Shortly we were joined by my bros mate, Andy, where the conversation took a turn for more fruitiness, that’s right, prior to my having to leave hurriedly at 8 in order to get back and get supper on. I’d planned (line caught) smoked cod on steamed leek and broccoli with a mustard and spring onion sauce and was running out of time before Myfwt came back.

Of course the meal was a success, and we cheerfully shoved Cava down our faces whilst watching River Cottage Gone Fishing on 4+1 after we’d eaten. The evening passed rapidly over a conversation and a few tabs, and a G&T before bed.

There will be no Piqued on Monday as I’m off to Birmingham with dad to visit the International Motorcycle Show, in the evening I’m, and I can’t believe I’m typing this, off to the fucking Ballet. It’s a work related thing that I can’t refuse, the only consolation to this awfulness is that Myfwt is coming and she’s rather excited about it, being a girl and all that.

So, Tuesday then, dear reader. In the meantime, have a jolly good weekends (except the people that find themselves reading these hallowed words after asking to see something unspeakable. You don’t deserve to read this; you deserve to be shorn of your genitals).

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another bloody week ahead

Maybe its the time of year, or perhaps the close weather, either way, it seems that fate, not content with giving me one neighbour who is just above plankton on the food chain, has decided that the bloke opposite must behave in a manner more suited to that of a pile.

Getting off my black bitch on Friday afternoon he appeared. It’s the second time that, with less than a days notice, he’s asked that I drive my Transit to his ‘girlfriends’ house in South London to pick up some behemoth electrical goods, in this instance a fucking fridge. It’s not so much being asked to do such a thing, it’s the way it’s done, right in my face, this bloke has no concept of what constitutes personal space, in barely discernable Sarf Landon accent, complete with gold capped teeth, earrings and a ‘cheeky’ grin. And a fucking mullet.

When I made my excuses (this ‘picking up a fridge’ thing in a strangers house stinks, frankly. Besides my back is like an accordion) to avoid the slightest chance of my involvement he moaned as if I taken away his sweets. The bloke doesn’t know me from Adam, unless you consider talking endless bollocks to a person constitutes a knowledge of them. What I did glean apart from how he’d met Alice Cooper in the 70’s, that he’s an out of work brickie and his shorts are so close to his sack I was prepared to scream should his walnuts see daylight, is that he, his mates and his girlfriend are all severely alcoholic. This is why I was being asked to drive.

I’m not fucking up my weekend in order to bestow on charity on a person because he (and his mates) can’t put the bottle down for long enough to learn to drive, he’s almost 60 for fucks sake. After nearly 30 minutes of baffling anecdotes and useless information on how to build a conservatory he confessed, out of the blue, that he didn’t want to get too pissed tonight with his girlfriend. Boringly I said something about getting it up after a skinful, I thought I’d a least make an effort to be a bit of a jack the lad, but he looked at me with sad watery eyes, ‘not that’, he said ‘we row’.

Maybe he should do the next MFI advert… Confused? Go to Watch With Mothers, link right of this page.

I had a jolly nice Friday in a pub by Clapham Common, Harry was already there when I showed up, and we were joined by Frank and his missus. We gassed for a while before Frank and co went off to grab some food leaving Harry and I to carry on a deep and meaningful before being joined by my bro, hot from work. After some more chatting I got the last tube back and once ensconced, had a glass or two of wine listening to Space Ritual by Hawkwind. The best live album ever recorded.

The Saturday hangover was quite nasty, when I finally did get out of my pit it was lunchtime and I’d decided that it was best I left it later before making the predictable trudge to fucking Sainsbury, I had a bath, caused sperms and set off at 4-ish. I was back at 5, enough time to unpack and open the door to Myfwt suitably prepared. We ate smoked salmon on toast with smoked cheese, accompanied by a sparkling Rose that had been supplied by Mywt brother in law for helping out with her little nephews afternoon birthday party. The evening passed pleasantly, albeit too quickly but the thought of a proper lie-in made it all acceptable.

Sunday morning we watched Scrapheap Challenge in bed with tea, Myfwt nipped off for the afternoon and I watched a very disappointing Moto GP. Valentino Rossi, arguably the greatest GP road racer since the late, great Barry Sheene, fell off as he was making a comback to lead. I wasn’t really fussed after that so (nice 2nd for Capirossi though) so I made some more notes on the book and following a torrential but brief storm, got on my black bitch and shot over to my folks.

Sunday was their anniversary proper; I was joined by my very-soon-to-be-a-mum sister, brother in law, my bro and his missus for the usual round of tasteless jokes and guffawing. It was, of course, quite lovely, despite mums cake which I can still feel in my intestines.

I flew back on the bike, by now the roads were bone dry and the air temperature perfect, and returned home to prepare Sunday ‘lunch’ in time for Myfwt arrival at 7.
We had a few G & T’s and ate in front of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, we’ve seen it one time too many so we talked through most of it and shortly after hit the sack.

So, it’s Monday and here I am back in the bloody office, I’m feeling quite tired due the fucking muggy July climate which effected my sleep, it’s pretty grim in the office too and for the hundredth fucking time, I’m on deadline.

It’s a Melvin’s Monday morning.