Category Archives: subhumans

kris mass

So this is Christmas. This is my last day in the office for 2007, but not the last day of Piqued for the year you’ll be delighted to know, but things will wind down now. No more daily posts until the 7th January 2008 (a week before Piqued’s first birthday) and no more daily music to sustain you. Sorry.

Briefly looking back over the year, it’s been eventful in family terms, a new niece, my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my granddad’s 100th birthday, I’ve had some killer days, mainly involving motorcycles and Myfwt, some marvellous nights out with friends but in other ways it’s been a fucking awful year, no holiday, no more luck with the writing and I still live over a fucking steaming great cunt who even last night was doing his level best to involve me in his miserable pathetic life by playing his guitar at unreasonable volumes. Obviously if I’d come home from work one evening, stepping over a half burnt corpse with all shit coming out of its eyes, 2007 would’ve been the best year ever.

But there has been one consistent element to 2007, something that began through a desire to be able to overtly release a steam of consciousness, pour out my guts in public if you will, and in doing so sate the need to write, whether it be good or bad isn’t the issue here. Piqued fulfils certain necessities and I’m appreciative of my core and every growing readership, whomsoever you may be, for, well, reading it. Most of the stuff you read on this site is real, hyperbole permitting of course, but I’m keen to preserve my wider anonymity (and that of my friends) so I may write without impunity…having said that, if you look at early articles they’re quite different to their current incarnation, this is purely because all of my friends read this these days …but I still don’t know most of you personally and I’m keen to keep it that way, with all due respect of course.

So what’s next? In the short term Hawkwind tomorrow evening, Myfwt has to go to hospital for some minor surgery on Friday which will require me to look after her up until Christmas (something I’m delighted to do by the way, the only thing I’m concerned about is Cunt disturbing her convalescence, should that occur I’ll go public on the fucking news) then of course it’s Christmas with all if it’s boozy trimmings.

Speaking of booze, I didn’t touch a drop last night. I think Piqued has helped me realise that whilst not alcoholic I have propensity for drinking too much, it’s one of those things that can creep up on a chap. By publicly setting goals in the cold light of day (i.e., I’m not going to drink once a week and I’m cutting back when I do) helps me to fulfil my objectives, after all, insincerity is such a despicable trait in a person. What is fucking annoying is that today, despite being a good boy last night, I’ve a dose of the shits, you just can’t fucking win can you.

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very very drunk

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.

Good Morning


weakendz

I’ve just had a very harrowing cycle ride into work. A car jumped a red light on a pedestrian crossing and very nearly hit me and two fellow rat racers, if it wasn’t down to our collective awareness of ‘Mmm, he’s not slowing down is he’ and taking evasive action one or all of us wouldn’t be whacking off to porn when we got in this evening. It was left to me to remind the motorist that he was a fucking cunt. The cycle that followed was bloody hard going too; I had a very heavy weekend, far heavier than usual and taking into account the new cleaner Piqued, as of late, I paid for my sins with interest.

Friday afternoon was extraordinarily busy in the office; this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because the upshot of such activity equals cold hard cash. With this joie de vivre in place Frank and I caught the tube to Clapham in the evening to meet Harry in the boozer by Clapham Common. This pretty much set the tone for the weekend to come, conversation, giggling and, of course, drinking. We were lucky to grab a table on our arrival as the place was heaving by 9pm. The clientele are not really my type, they consist of largely well to do 20 to 30 wotnots, you get quite a few suits and lots of public schoolboy swaggering. The girls are pretty but conceited; most dress like utter prats but the place is well mannered enough for them sit about with being harangued against their will.

Frank and I took a late tube home, both of us plastered. I alighted at my stop. It was raining but the air was fresh, I felt good as I wandered up my street to my door. Big mistake feeling good when you know you don’t have to get up the following day and you decide to investigate the Subhumans album that arrived in the post that morning. Wine happened. When I went to bed it was daylight.

I was woken at 1pm by Myfwt coming in, she was in a similar condition to me. I got up showered, shat and shaved and ate some peanut butter on toast with tea. Myfwt lay down on the couch like the Lady of Shallot and we decided we were good only for TV, or a movie. I had Lucky Number Sleven in a pile of DVD’s, I’d not seen it because it looked shite, I don’t even know how I acquired it. Fuck my old boots it was actually really quite good. By 5.30 Myfwt had fawned off and I was feeling well enough to undertake the Sainsbury run. A mistake.

I’ve realised that my panic attacks are largely (not exclusively) derived from alcohol leaving my system. In essence at about the time I begin to feel better, I’m due a panic. I had one in Sainsbury, a really big nasty hairy freak out that I fought so very hard, on two occasions I had to seek refuge in the toilet, splashing my face and wrists with water hoping that my progressively filling trolley wouldn’t be commandeered by some officious git before it passed. When the third wave came in I had nearly finished purchasing but still, I so very nearly left.

I made it back to the van feeling better and drove back to the flat. After unpacking the shopping I walked up the road to meet Frank in the local as the last vestiges of fear exited my system. It would have been alright if just Frank and I been left to our own devices, but mid through the second pint Jamie called to announce he would be joining us to. This was of course great news, despite remotely watching my Sunday, after being produced with a flourish, to shatter into a tiny million billion fragments.

Jamie, like myself, is a very thirsty gentleman. This alone means that he and I have a very enthusiastic time of it in bars, add the fact that Jamie is soon to be a dad, that I was already 2 pints down before he arrived and his very persuasive, insistent generosity ensured that I don’t actually remember getting home, though I do remember calling a big skinhead a potty mouth and enthusiastically hugging Jamie in the street. Sensibly Frank had left us to it a long while before.

I was supposed to attend a barbeque yesterday, needless to day that didn’t happen. I got up at 4 in the afternoon feeling ravaged but having slept through most of the hangover I just had to deal with the fucking panic attack which began, uniquely, in the fucking bath and prepare dinner, which cured me of all my ills.

Myfwt came over at 6.30 and we ate roast chicken with all the required extras, it was lovely. She had a few G&T’s (actually, she did a commendable job) and I enjoyed a few glasses of wine, I was rather restrained, largely because I didn’t fancy a hung over panic attack at work.

Still, due to the weekend’s exuberance, the cycle here was a fucking slog. I nearly vetoed the bike in favour of the black bitch but it’s a beautiful day so I forced myself onto the former. Towards the end of the journey I was just getting into my stride, nature buzzed and scurried about me a black and white cat lying in the towpath catching the sun…with all of it’s internal organs fucking hanging out. Jesus.

RIP Ingmar Bergman, you were hardly a barrel of laughs but fuck me, if one gave you a bit of an effort, one was richly rewarded

Oh, RIP Mike Reid, the original cockney wanker

Anyone else? I don’t think these chaps are too far off…


traum-o-matic

Things are returning to some sort of normality, I cycled into work today, the deadline situation has begun to resolve itself and I’m back on 3’s and 4’s.

My weekend, however, was traumatic. It’s not the requirement, is it, to spend the most part of a weekend in total fucking fear, the concept of a weekend lends itself to leisure, good eating and drinking, sleeping in, late movies, pubs, you get the picture.

It begun well enough, even the work drinks weren’t too much of a struggle. I made it back to a local boozer with Dan where we were joined by his missus and baby daughter. It was a balmy evening, the traffic buzzed past us as we chatted and drank and with plenty of fight still left in me I returned back to my flat to investigate the further opportunities afforded to me by the bottle opener. At some point after 10pm the music went on and I was fully ensconced in my element, wonderful.

I put in a few good hours until overcome by sheer fatigue and the awareness that stopping would be good to make way for some sort of Saturday. It was as I was entering the kitchen to wash up my glass that it happened. I saw a fucking rodent. Its small but fat enough little system scurried across the kitchen floor, and I wouldn’t say the little cunt was racing either, and disappeared under the fridge.

I am rodentophobic, I have been since I was a kid. It stems from a very specific and traumatic episode one Saturday afternoon at my parents. I was in my bedroom reading when dad appeared looking anxious, ‘we got a problem, son’ he said seriously. I was informed that there was a nest of mice in the garage, probably under the large metal filing cabinet by the door, and he and I were to investigate. At the time I should’ve perhaps taken more notice of dad’s quite obvious concern, despite his attempts to make light of the matter. ‘Roll you trousers in your socks, they can get up your leg,’ I was given a brief example via my granddad that involved Somme rats, ‘as if they hadn’t enough to contend with’, dad said.

From a vantage point that I’d describe as conservative, dad suggested I leant on the side of the metal filing cabinet so it’d lift up for him to peep underneath. And here is where a casual indifference towards rodents morphed into a fully realised fear. As the cabinet began to rise a fucking huge mouse shot out followed, in various directions, by dozens of much smaller babies. Dad yelled ‘Jesus!’ and I ran to the opposite side of the garage, but due to circumstance and the sheer volume of vermin, I ran over 6 or 7 tiny bodies, each one being dispatched by a crackling pop.

The sight of a mouse in the kitchen was anything but welcome. In fact I couldn’t believe I’d seen it, so I refused to believe I had. I went into the lounge and after 5 minutes convinced myself I was being paranoid and went to bed. It took a while to get to sleep, despite being drunk I was very aware of my surroundings, the last thing I remember is letting out a sizable scream when the wind rattled the pull on the blind.

I woke up on Saturday. My mind instantly defaulted to the rodent that I’d not seen. Even though I’d not seen a rodent I had to check behind the fridge, and that was something I was unable to do alone. Simple as that.

I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and peeped down the side of the fridge. To my utter fucking horror looking up at me was a fucking mouse. I physically leapt off the floor, roared, and shot into the lounge. I sat physically shaking trying to unscramble my mind to form a positive solution to this situation. First thing, phone.

I called Frank first who didn’t answer, then Jamie who did but wasn’t in a suitable proximity to help, though I was offered plenty of sympathetic advice, and finally my bro who also didn’t answer. I called Myfwt too but only to offload my emotions.

Frank called back; mercifully he has no fear of these cunty little creatures but wasn’t available until later in the day. As I wasn’t able to use the kitchen, relax in the lounge, do anything actually, I had to get out of the house. I made my way to B & Q and decided to invest some money in anti-vermin stuff. I already own one of those sonic devices designed to chuck out a frequency not conducive to the tiny ears of a rat/mouse, indeed, I watched the mouse give it a cursory glance on Friday night as it casually made it’s way home.

I was in the process of browsing the devices when I heard a voice behind me, quavering slightly, asking an assistant for rodent traps. ‘They’re here’ I said. A man of my age looked at me, I could see it in his eye, he’d been spooked. ‘Got a mouse?’ he said attempting a smile. My agreeable reply came back with exasperated expletives. It would seem that all the water we’ve had recently has forced the little cunts out of their burrows, I took comfort that there was a reason for a mouse to be marching around my kitchen. It’s not as if there is anything for him to eat in there, the floor is always spotless, precisely for that reason.

After buying a new sonic and magnetic anti-anything with a small hairy face device and two traps, one humane and one that will crush its little fucking head like a Malteser, I made my way to Sainsbury. In addition to the weekly shop, I needed to buy a sandwich as I’d not yet eaten. I got back to the flat, reluctantly, and waited for Frank in the living room gingerly playing Tomb Raider.

Frank arrived and took matters in hand; he pulled back the fridge and located the most likely source of the little fuckers entrance. After it was deemed safe I plugged all possible holes with wire wool and bleached the entire zone before replacing the fridge and laying down a trap, just in case.

I tentatively allowed the pressure to lift from my mind and Frank and I went to the pub so I could ply him with gratitude booze. I fucking owe him one. By the time I got back home I was feeling more confident, I settled back into normality, made some pizza and got thoroughly pissed to celebrate.

Sunday was packed full of motorsport delights, Formula One to start which descended into farce followed by British Superbikes. I had to tape the latter as Myfwt was in Woking a needed a lift back to mine. She’d been out on the lash with her friend Pauline and was suffering. I rather enjoyed the drive there and back, I wanted to ride, of course, but Myfwt wasn’t in a suitable position to sit pillion on the back of my black bitch.

We got home at 6-ish, unfortunately for me in time for Titanic which I’d avoided previously. Utter bollocks, though disturbing enough in parts to hold my attention, sort of. We ate a roast dinner and I knocked back a few G & T’s. At 10pm it was the Moto GP, a disappointing race, but the taped British Superbikes was a fucking beauty. Sadly such daring do doesn’t come without cost. On Friday during practice at Mallory Park a young rider by the name of Ollie Bridewell made an error and bought the farm. He was given a minutes silence at the start of the race and his position on the grid, 17th, remained in his name as is the tradition when these things happen. His colleagues spoke of him with fondness and genuine kindness before putting on their helmets and gloves, getting on their machines and going hell for leather.

RIP Ollie Bridewell 1985-2007

Follow up to Fridays link, Subhumans…