Category Archives: Tesco

disgruntled

When I went to bed last night I could hear Cunt snoring. I said to Myfwt, a Cunt like that has no right to sleep so soundly, on account of the fact he’s a fucking cunt –then the thought that I was speaking of him in such invidiousness tones whilst I could hear the little dog-dollop snoring below began to do my head in. Surely that must be the limit, actually hearing the sound of the person you despise more than David Cameron soundly sleeping.

Still, at least he was asleep and more importantly quiet, despite his somnolent honkings. For the past few evening we’ve been treated to the second-hand sounds of him ‘entertaining’ some poor cow, this includes plying her with Piat D’Or and Black Tower (I see the evidence of this in the communal Recycle Bin) playing dance music over which he shouts in a way best described as ‘special’ and of course, whooping like some witless post-pubescent hick whose just discovered how to make his perpetually ossified cock go all floppy.

I’m in one of those dreadful moods this morning; I’m not hungover despite a few ales with Frank and his missus last night, and two glasses of wine when I got in, it’s a lovely day today and my black bitch and I are one again, no one has died, everyone is well actually… I’m just feeling, well disgruntled. This morning I nearly bit my toothbrush in half on hearing that the government are planning to legislates against cut-price booze in Supermarkets…

Oh where to start with his one. Firstly, cut-price booze is freely available in just about every corner shop in the UK, and I can assure you underage kids/winoes don’t go shopping in Waitrose to spend 40p on their 2 litre bottles of White Tinkle. 8 Ace in Viz is funny because it’s true, for example… So we have an agenda, I smell tax revenue of course and it won’t be the jobless wankers that sit about all day in vicious rows necking plastic bottles of liquid cirrhosis that will feel the pinch. No, it will be the middle class middle-income types that foot the bill for this, as bloody per.

But that wasn’t that part of the news that caused me to pinch one of my own pills in horror; it was hearing a Tesco spunkspitter altruistically announcing it was ‘willing to work with the government’.

Well how fucking kind, how benevolent of you Tesco, yes, you’ll ‘reluctantly’ hike up your booze prices to help the British Medical Councils government driven incentive to help themselves to more tax whilst you add to your disgusting portfolio of property acquisition and profits, as, even as I type this, that cunt Dame Shirley Porter, (described by Nicholas Lezard as “…the most corrupt British political figure in living memory, with the possible exception of Robert Maxwell”) the heir to Tesco’s fortunes languishes in opulence after committing the heinous crime of corrupting the democratic system of voting in her home for votes scandal and getting away with it scott free.

Having said that, I’d still have Porter and Cameron over for sex tea rather than live above a creature I wouldn’t trust to sit on a loo the right way round.


joie de vision

I’d forgotten to mention that I was acutely aware during Thursday’s gig that this would be the last time I could (legally) smoke in a venue. I’ve tickets for motorhead before the fucking ban but as it’s in the Royal Festival Hall smoking isn’t permitted anyway. Indeed, I’m now very aware that I’m on borrowed time as far as smoking in pubs is concerned; it feels like the end of an era approaching. Balls. I hate change.

Another thing, the swervedriver video I posted in Fridays blog, the red motorcycle (it’s a Ducati 900ss) I used to have one of those. It’s a miracle it made it to the end of the video, mine was more unreliable than radiotherapy.

So, what’s been going down this weekend, yeah, well, not much frankly. On Friday afternoon Myfwt came round for a cup of tea and a chat, it was lovely to see her despite her not feeling on top of the game. After a couple of hours she left to do some work, I did some housework which included fucking hovering, a task I despise out of all proportion. I’d decided that due to the previous evening hedonism that I wanted to share a night with the self, I nipped out to get some tobacco and settled in for the evening. At least my carpet no longer looks like Brighton Beach.

I was an unremarkable night but very much needed. I read, started a short poem and watched TV with a few G&T’s, spliffs and roast chicken wallowing in gravy and cooked to perfection roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. Jools Holland was the highlight of the evening, it has to be said that if you have any passion for contemporary music, there will always be something to tinkle ones fancy, in this instance Wilco, LCD Soundsystems and surprisingly, Joan Armatrading.

I was woken late Saturday morning with a phone call from Myfwt, she was going away for the weekend so I went back to my pit and slept until early afternoon. After a bath and late lunch I spent the afternoon looking at grot on the PC before watching Apollo 13. Early evening I met Frank up the road for a drink. Our usual venue was stuffed full of no neck cropped haired wankers all yelling at a large flatscreen TV, we decided to leave them to it, it’s wonder their knuckles weren’t wearing shoes.

We convened in this bland wine bar cum eatery and were forced to drink fizzy bastard Carling in lieu of man’s ale. At least the place was quiet. Frank and I discussed Joy Division and this http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=2457332 which beggar’s total disbelief. I wandered home after a few pints following a short visit to fucking Tesco, the bane of my consumer life for a bottle of wine and crabsticks that I think I’m addicted to. BBC2 came to my rescue in the form of The Seven Ages of Rock featuring Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, David Bowie, Genesis and most inappropriately, Roxy Fucking music, or Poxy Music as my dad calls them. What the fuck were they doing there? Utter shit, who did they influence in the 70’s apart from The Yorkshire Ripper, probably. In order to cleanse myself of Brian Fairy and the girls, I bathed in session of progressive rock and metal, which saw me well into the small hours. I went to bed a little squiffy don’t you know.

I was up in time for the Grand Prix on Sunday. Monaco, one of my favourites despite the circuit making overtaking almost impossible. It was an impressive race, if a little samey, due to the two victorious Mclaren’s and the continuation of the remarkable fledgling career of Lewis Hamilton, 19 years old with makings of a world champion, so long as the team orders on Sunday weren’t the thin end of the wedge as far as he and Alonso are concerned. I can tell I’m boring you, I don’t care really. Okay I do.

I met my bro at 5 for a pint at the Sunday usual as he had some dinner appointment with his missus and friends at 7, we drank wine, some quaffable Spanish fare because he’d just had lunch with our folks and had a few glasses on board and didn’t want to mix his poisons. The subject of Poxy Music being on that BBC2 Rockumentary came up, my bro informed me that dad wasn’t impressed either which comes of no surprise. My dad isn’t an aficionado on all things ‘rock’ by the way but he’s fairly well versed in 60’s ‘pop’. I remember when I was about 7 telling him that I thought The Monkees were much better than The Beatles, dad was under the Maxi (he was always under some Leyland design fault in the 70’s) but he downed tools, popped his head out from under the door sill and yelled ‘don’t be so fucking stupid’ so loudly my mum heard him in the back garden. I still think I’m right by the way, fab four my arse, Jerk, Prat, Git and Ringpeice.

It’s worth noting that since Friday evening it’s pretty much been raining constantly. The upshot is that I’ve been forced indoors for virtually the whole weekend and bank holiday, save a few trips to the pub to see Frank and my bro. The flat is now entirely spotless; I’ve even had time to purge my clothing rail. Actually, I’m bored fucking shitless, I especially wanted to take the black bitch out for a ride. On the upside my head has been farting out ideas, I wrote a poem and after an hour of drunken deliberations over a succession of evenings concluded that all art was the subjective manifestation of projected thinking. As I type this it’s Monday afternoon, I’m meeting Frank for a pint in a couple of hours then home to eat and watch a film.

I’ll leave it to Ian and the boys to provide today’s entertainment. (I think Ian may be on drugs, maybe if he’d read that story in the link he’d still be with us today)


porter

I am fucking furious with Tesco. After being alerted to the fact that the engine problems on my bike were due to iffey fuel, I subsequently discover that only fucking Tesco and Morrison’s are responsible for contaminating the southeast with Ethanol rich fuel. And I usually get my fuel from Tesco’s, there is one of those little Metro places near my house so it’s not a choice based on anything apart from convenience.

What is particularly annoying is that until recently I vetoed Tesco because of that cunt Dame Shirley Porter; the heiress to the Tesco fortunes. She was involved in the homes for vote’s scandal that made an utter mockery of ‘democracy’. The vicious slattern didn’t even lose her title and got away with her crimes virtually scott fucking free when really she should’ve been disembowelled under Marble Arch. And now, because of my weakening of standards/tolerance in my old age, the fucking cacky fingered crone has been granted access to my bike and poisoned it. I hold her solely responsible. And I bet she started AIDS off as well.

I’m with gentle hangover this morning. Last night I took the Northern Line up to Leicester Square where I met Swineshead in a congenial hostelry for the purpose of imbibing fine ales my good man etc (I would like to point out that if anyone undertook such verbal bollocks to my face I’d fork them in the tongue). His mate, nice chap despite being a bit tall, joined us and together we drunk, actually when I think about it, we were all drinking rather quickly… A lot of pints later and in spite of Swineshead looking up at me with big bloodshot eyes begging me to stay for another, I jumped the joint and got the bastard tube back which was, to my utter fucking horror, rammed with humans.

The tube freaks me out for a number of reasons. Ignoring that I get actually freaked out on them on a regular basis due to my little peccadillo for screaming claustrophobia, there is something strange about walking down the street, entering a designated zone to then walk down under the street to find there is a little railway inside the earth. Standing inside an empty moving tube when you can see in both directions is an awesome experience (when I say ‘awesome’ I’m mean it in it’s correct, pre skate incarnation) to think that one is thundering through sold rock underneath the bustling city that boils above, passing under millions of lives, is well fucking gnarly. The location of your spot on the tube remains constant, the view predictable, but when one alights at ones destination and exits the station, one is in an entirely different environment. Of course this is all blindingly obvious but, really, it’s a wonder we take for granted. Essentially what you’ve just read is the mental conversation that carried me back to my stop, and stopped me from crying and flailing due to the vast columns of passengers.

When I got out of the tube it was raining, I lit a cigarette and walked back to the flat relishing the contrast to being far underground and dimly aware of the activity therein. I was too pissed to bother eating and, oddly, not in the mood to drink anymore so unusually I went straight to bed.

Just before I went to sleep I concluded that it had been a good evening, I prayed for Dame Shirley Porters death to be long, painful and filmed for my future delectation and fell into a deep sleep where I dreamt of motorcycles breaking down and orange badgers knitting cheese.