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Yesterday lunchtime I had to go to bloody Sainsbury to get some stuff for the week. It was a military (and OCD) planned in and out. On leaving the main food hall I discovered that some bright spark, in order to solicit pity and spare change from the punters, had parked a large variety of wheelchair-ridden disableds at both the top and the bottom of the escalators. The ones that were conscious were grimly clutching on to charity boxes whilst others merely stared indifferently through the shoppers passing by. What the fuck was this? A watered down version of The Elephant Man? It’s not like any of them were going to be able to keep the money they’d been made to couch, with all due respect, half of them wouldn’t have known what money was if you paid them. No, some cunt had decided that the best way forwards for his little outfit was plop the supposed recipients of his business in humiliating view of the public as they ably went about their business. What next, grown men punching pigtailed 6 year old girls in the face for ‘Childline’?

All of the disableds, in addition to having to suffer the indignation of being parked in the most conspicuous public spot outside of Trafalgar Square for hours on end, they were wearing day-glo orange vests with ‘disabled… such and such’ all over it! Whose idea was this? It doesn’t do anyone any good this sort of thing, it’s neither fair on the public or the disableds, especially the latter, I’m sure the last thing they want to hear when they wake up on Sunday morning is.
‘I’m going to park you at Sainsbury all day’
‘Don’t like it’
‘Fuck you, Chorlton’

I got back in home in time for the Grand Prix which was fucking shit, wrote this crap and shortly I’m meeting Frank for a final pint. Myfwt’s is due over later but I’m sure you’re all as keen as I to hear about my parent’s 40th wedding anniversary…

Friday didn’t come to plan as expected; Myfwt’s and I were due to finish off all the table decoration buying for the 50 guests. Not the greatest way to spend a Friday night so when she pulled out due to this bastard bug that’s been claiming everyone (not me, yet) I wasn’t too disappointed. A night of overeating, wine’s, spliffs, BB and a balls out rock session ensued. I was conscious enough of the work required the following day to not push the boat out too far; I was in bed by 1am.

Myfwt’s, still feeling under the weather was due over at 9am but again circumstances seemed to work in my favour. She decided to finish off the shopping alone citing her not feeling well enough to put up with my cynical mutterings that I find part and parcel of the whole shopping experience. I remained in bed, burped the worm, took a 26 minute shit which was frankly a little slice of heaven and in she breezed with, 2 coffees and panini and the bags containing the last of the required items. Ace.

We made a few final preparations and at 3.30 my sister and bro in law picked us up to take us to the venue. For the first time in weeks it was a beautiful day, warm without being uncomfortable and the sky an Yves Klein blue standing behind childish white puffs of cloud. The pub, located in what passes for the Surrey countryside, has recently made a name for itself in good traditional food. It’s no gastro pub, an abortion of taste and civility; it’s simply a fairly upmarket pub with a banqueting area attached at the rear.

We arrived early, the guests from a lunchtime bash, all French, were still milling about the designated area, allowing us to grab a pint or too whilst the staff prepared themselves for our party of guests. After my brother and his missus joined us we got to work, Myfwt’s gently took charge and within an hour and half 10 tables were laid out, each containing enough seating for the 50 expected. Right lovely they looked too, red tablecloths, red balloons, silver sprinkle star things and, on a whim, Myfwt’s had grabbed some ivy off a tree and nested the tea lights. We had time for another pint before my parents arrived, early as expected. Mum was shitting herself that something would go wrong. I was in charge of initial planning so she had every right for concern.

Suddenly there was an explosion of faces from my distant past, old people telling me how I was ‘this high’when they last saw me, long ago friends of mum and dad enquiring why I wasn’t married and questioning tattoos. Most faces I remembered with fondness, some I didn’t know at all but mum and dad seemed happy. I chatted to one of the vicars that had known my parents a few years back. This chap is no ordinary reverend, he’s like a cross between Noel Coward and John Hurt, smokes and drinks heavily, rides large motorcycles (currently has a Honda TransAlp, for those that give a shit) despite being 60, hates children and is somehow married. I’m sure he’s as much belief in an afterlife as I, top bloke in spite of his job.

After all the niceties had settled down the party set down to eat. There was a bloody huge pig slowly turning outside, wholly intact save it’s legs, which was served with fresh vegetables and roast potatoes. It was fucking delicious. I was keeping my drinking in check as following the meal I was up to make a speech.

The speech had been in planning for quite a few days. My brother and sister we instantly worried when I got the gig. I’d done a dreadful and pretty pissed up number at my dad’s 60th and they weren’t going to forget it in a hurry. My first draft was rejected outright, I was told to remove my reference to dad following through at dinner one evening 25 years ago, the incident when I called mum and cunt and dad told me not to speak to his wife like that whilst holding me up off the floor by my throat and cut the anecdote that required me to favourably compare Satanists over Conservatives due to the vast numbers of so-called Christians present. In the end I was left with a mildly amusing but heartfelt dedication to my parents 40-year marriage, which really has been quite splendid.

Speech went down very well, and I could see the relief on my mum’s face when it was finished, the toast was accompanied by all the guests lighting indoor sparklers and a rousing ‘for they are jolly good fellows’ saw my job done. Dad’s speech was so funny my mate James utterly lost it to the point his wife started kicking him under the table. As if all this jollity and merriment wasn’t enough, the field directly opposite the venue put on a massive display of fireworks. This was totally coincidental but I convinced the folks I’d planned it before getting busted by my bro. Either way, my parents were as happy as larry with the whole evening, I have to say myself, it was a jolly good show.

Myfwt’s and I got a lift with James and his wife and we were back at midnight, happy, pissed and tired. I managed to chuck down a bit more wine and smoke one of the guest’s absurdly tasty home grown before retiring to bed.

But it’s not all chuckles and giggles at chez Piqued. Yesterday afternoon before my sister came to pick us up Cunt barged into our p and q fully fucking amped up (have I mentioned that, get this, he actually mics up his own voice and guitar when PRACTICING ‘songs’) He’s a fucking mental; it was so loud that dust was cascading down from behind my radiators. Remind yourselves that he’s ‘learning’ a ‘song’, now imagine someone with the IQ of a held back child who has just come out of a fucking 5 year coma trying to learn ‘Playing with Fire’ by The Stones, with no hint or sense of what constitutes tune, tone and timing, going over the same fuck ups without any chance of improvement but getting the chorus enough to qualify his repeating it for 47 FUCKING MINUTES! all at teeth chattering volume. If this isn’t enough, and believe me it fucking well is, Cunt has a massive filterless ego deluding him out of all proportion to his ability insuring the matter is a million time worse than my feeble attempt to describe this situation will allow. But to say that he even says ‘thank you’ to his imaginary fans, through the mic, loudly, after he’s finished playing should be of some help…

Myfwt was putting make up on in the bathroom, after 2 minutes of this retard intrusion my face was purple with a red vein popping out the side of my neck. Myfwt’s saw me on the brink of an aneurysm and asked me what was wrong; I cracked a sarcastic smile and pointed to the source of this quite disgusting abomination of beauty.

‘Don’t worry about it’ she said.