twodaysorf

I realised mid way through Sunday that my black bitch is nearly 9 years old. I’ve had her for over 6 years, the longest time I’ve ever owned a bike that long.

The black bitch is my 7th bike and the best so far by far, despite owning a glorious Ducati 900ss a decade ago, but times moves on. Triumph have been making better and better Speed Triples since they gave birth to mine and the 2007 version is their best yet. Even when it’s stood still it actually looks terrifying, when you sit on the bitch it pulls your shoulders out and raises your arse up high maximising an aggressive posture which is all the more conducive to riding. I can only imagine what it must be like to ride…

Shortly mine is up for its 25,000 service. This isn’t cheap but if I want to retain the bikes value it’s imperative. I was thinking about this and I reasoned that if a nice man at Triumph made me an offer, a part exchange sort of offer, what would I do? I can’t really afford a new bike but I can re-mortgage the flat to release a bit of capital without compromising too much future development, I’ve no dependants, I’m wholly irresponsible, why not, I pondered. Unfortunately this has hit the OCD part of my barnet to the point I’m finding it hard to focus on anything else.

Yesterday after getting lost in deepest darkest sarf landan on the BB, I met James’ son, virtually 4 days old and barely a foot long. My niece was a little overdone, she was relatively large when she arrived, this little fellow is the size a new born should be, he’s all pink and smooth like rhubarb, his tiny face looks perpetually stunned, shock at being out of his dark warm home for the past 9 months.

James is a natural dad; already he’s flinging his son in and out of nappies, babygrows, into the arms of its mother and his friends. James’ missus gave birth by caesarean and is still moving fairly slowly. This wasn’t a lifestyle option, like my sister, this was medical necessity. She seems as awestruck as her son; she’s taken very well to breast-feeding but is finding the whole experience beautifully alarming. She has him laid on her chest and remarks regularly with a certain degree of surprise, ‘he’s so cute!’ Despite all the newness and unfamiliarity of the seemingly instant arrival of a third person into their family, it’s as if he’s always been there. Life, it really is fucking weird.

When I got back home it was dusk, I prepared dinner and Myfwt arrived at 8 exhausted from a long days work. She was all worried about her 6-month assessment due on Thursday, her boss had decided to take her out for lunch and in her mind she’d figured this would be a gentle way to introduce to her an impending dismissal, despite the fact she works hard, is bringing a lot of contracts into the firm and is popular and well liked by her colleagues. Women, their brains is all wired funny. Obviously I laid her fears to rest by plying her with food and drink, hey presto! It worked, until this morning that is when a rather sullen hungover Myfwt trudged off as paranoid as ever. Women, I mean what can you do? Can’t live with them, can’t inject them horse tranquilliser, crazy.

I decided to take another day off. I just feel like it, it’s raining outside and I’m still letting the past few days drip feed into my psyche. After this I’m going to have some more tea, eat a kipper with toast and then I’m going to do some more writing.

Later I may have a bloody great wank, really, I owe it to myself.

bark holiday

I really can’t believe I’m back in the fucking office already. The past few days have passed in the blinking of a bloody eye and I’m staring back into the chasm of another fistful of work.

The best day by far was Sunday. Being able to have one without the whole sardines on toast tea-time feeling of school the next the day was superlative, especially from the point of view of a clear hot sunny day sat in the middle of my black bitch with Myfwt hanging off the back.

From the outset the ride was going to be good, approaching the A3 from Raynes Park I caught up with a chap on the same bike as I. Triumph Speed Triple riders are always jolly pleased to receive other riders on the same or similar metal, we sat at the lights eyeing up the bolt-on goodies on each others bike after nodding at one another and being careful not to burn the other off after the lights went green.

Protocol is everything when it comes to a Sunday afternoon spin. It’s not necessarily the done thing to go screaming past a fellow biker as, a. it can make one look like a frustrated ego manic with delusions of Valentino Rossi besides, b. they may catch you up and humiliate you with some trick riding making you feel like an utter tit and subject to the mocking face of your pillion as you attempt to make excuses for being fucking shit after boasting about how you’re actually championship material if only you’d had the funding…

So there we three were, me, Myfwt and our new pal pootling down the A3 heading towards Guildford. I like to hang back when riding with someone else, I don’t like to feel the pressure of a person behind me (that I may be holding them up) and it gives me a chance to measure up their skills, or lack thereof. My new pal was riding much more slowly than I do, after 5 minutes of it I got bored and gave the bike a handful. I flew passed my ex-pal with a wave (protocol in my book) and hit a record-breaking 140mph, two up, nearly severing my head in the process. The air can be as calm and quiet as a millpond when strolling about the place but at those speeds, without anything more than a flyscreen to keep the wind off, nature and gravity conspire against you to rip the jacket from your shoulders via the collar and to push your helmeted chin into your neck. At 120 things levelled out and we flew through the Guildford by-pass before dismounting in a little place called Compton.

There is a gallery here, it has a large collection of paintings by George Frederick Watt, a pretty ropey Victorian artist who seemed to have got worse with age, despite quite a good reputation during his lifetime. Myfwt and I made some disparaging comments in the guest book prior to getting straight outta Compton (a weh a weh a waaa) and taking some gorgeous winding b roads into West Sussex that snaked through woods, rolling hills and chocolate box villages. We caught up with another Speed Triple; this was a machine almost identical to mine, black and scary, the sound of our modified exhaust systems converged at points making the most incredible noise, the roaring oscillated into a penetrating hum that shuddered through my spine, it was enough to roll the eyes in my sockets which I exchanged, sensibly, for a broad grin. He was also riding too slow for my tastes so after a while we lost him far behind, though weirdly found ourselves behind him again an hour after stopping for petrol and Pepperami.

All the while signals of approval were being transmitted to me by Myfwt on the back of the bike. Having a pillion can be a hindrance; they can disrupt the balance and airflow of the bike thus causing serious problems to the rider, not to mention being headbutted from the rear under heavy breaking or even falling off the back on hard acceleration. Myfwt, however, has experience; essentially I can forget she’s there and ride as I wish safe in the knowledge that if I do err she won’t shift her weight in panic causing us to all end up in a heap.

We shot through Ockley, then Horsham before locating the A24 from Dorking and passing Box-Hill. Squadrons of bikes passed in the other direction, all of us nodding at each other as if our neck muscles had been exchanged for chewing gum. It was fucking lovely. By now I, rather, we were in the zone. This is where things can get silly; ones concept of speed has been shot to pieces and the adrenalin derived euphoria demands feeding, combine this with an increasing familiarity of the bikes ability and by now ones over stretched confidence, it’s wise to be aware that tiredness and over enthusiasm can lead to serious mistakes. Fuck that I thought, undertaking a bloke in full racing clobber on an R1 on a roundabout, he didn’t like that one bit. We shot back down the A3 towards Tooting and arrived home in one piece and, more importantly in the world of unreality, with my licence.

Apart from the Sunday the bank holiday was spent with Myfwt in pubs, restaurants, on sofas and watching Scrapheap Challenge back to back on More4 in bed. Just sad it’s all over really. Still not heard anything from Jack regarding the trip across the States, I daren’t look ahead to it in case it doesn’t happen so for now it’s a question of taking each day as it comes.

The end of this song was going round my head on Sunday’s ride; I’m going to give it to you.

gravy

The cycle into work was vaguely pleasant, bright warm sunshine, twittering birds, deep green trees and shrubs, clear blue skies…little pedal effort was required and despite the inevitable cough-up mid way I was surprised how well I’d faired.

Sat here in work now the molecule of cheer has dissolved into the usual humdrum stress. The only pressure in here is the pressure one puts on oneself, or rather the pressure of not having the work coming in at all and the subsequent fiscal negativity.

Last night I met up with Frank for a few Bombardiers. We were both quite knackered; Frank was suffering from fizzy gutmud and was forced to empty his back mid pint, he returned to our table with a tangible air of relief. After discussing the Blair Witch Project with regard to Saturday night I wandered home under the grey sky and on arrival bathed prior to preparing roast chicken breast, potatoes, sausage and steamed broccoli. Using old-fashioned Bisto I made a fucking wonderful gravy that was so delicious I ate the entire meal with a heavy dick.

Oddly the meal injected some energy into my aching limbs and my old pal OCD arrived on my shoulder and suggested I cleaned the bathroom, indeed, I should tackle the bath itself with its inherent ring of greasy slurry at the water line, this was going to be tough. No problem, due to the fucking roast and mania the job was declared a success after nearly 10 frantic minutes. It’s now the cleanest object in the world; you could perform open-heart surgery in it without so much a passing thought to all that sterilisation bollocks.

Just had a quick chat with the boss abut a potential new job and an interesting conversation cropped up. He arrived today in his TVR and to make pleasantries I recalled the largely boring story of Sundays Subaru episode. He seemed initially amused and then his features began to look a little anxious, a bit cross, even.

All of a sudden I was informed that some of my biker ‘colleagues’ could be utter arseholes. I took the criticism with a certain degree of offence but allowed him to continue. It transpires that on the same Sunday I was blasting over the Surrey downs, he was too, in his TVR (though) and a biker pulled in front of him, slowed down and started weaving as he gave my boss the finger. My boss was moaning about his behaviour and asking me what he thought he was playing at.

For the sake of my job I diplomatically expressed my disbelief at the attitude of my brethren, though I knew precisely what had happened. It’s common practice when a motorist has at some point tried to kill you, whether it be unwittingly or with malice, the classic ‘weave and gesture’ response is undertaken as a matter of course, prior to suddenly riding off in an explosion of testosterone fuelled machismo. Should you ever be on the receiving end ‘weave and gesture’ just simply accept that you’ve nearly been responsible for an unnecessary death and take it on the chin. Graciously bow at the biker, for he merely expressing his displeasure at your appalling driving. Indeed, learn from him for he is wiser and betterer than ye.

Christ I’m bored.

(This is one of the first songs I can remember, I even recall my dad telling me to listen to the backing without having any clue of what he was banging on about)

reassembly

On Friday evening, following a pint and a half at the nearest pub to my office (a vile stinking boozer with the character of a stroke victim) in order to wish a colleague farewell, I made my way slowly to Angel to meet up with Swineshead. We made our way to a venue/pub to see 3 bands as part of Lark in the Park. We were joined shortly by his brother and uncle and finally by my old sparring partner, Jim. He and I go way back and like my other old friend, James, have no ability to know when it’s time to stop. Many a time he and I have been a liability to our friends, he in particular… happy days of shoving Jim into shopping trollies and running him over cobbles as he vomits heavily on his Dio t-shirt calling us all ‘cunts’ in between gasps. I swear the exact same scenario happened on a least 3 separate occasion, witnessed by the same t-shirt.

The second band on weren’t much to write home about despite being competent but apart from the excellent drumming from the support band, the headline act were the most impressive. Obviously I’ve no idea what they were called, I was with Jim and Swineshead, himself known to be quite good at blowing the froth of a few (7 at the last count) so my memory is a little pressed. Jim and I managed to get to the tube just as the last train was due to set from the platform. The carriage was surprisingly empty apart from three lads, one was lying on the carriage floor retching into a Sainsbury’s shopping back. Jim, smiled, looked at the lad on the floor and said to me, ‘I used to be like that…’ I remembered our trip to Hyde Park last summer where he’d got so pissed I had to stay with him and witness his fair features transform to one of Notre Dames gargoyles for an hour as sick came out. ‘Used’ to be like that?

We quizzed the sick lads mates, nice chaps, clearly taking responsibility for their pal whose eyes were rolling in his sockets like cue balls. We offered some advice, Jim in particular. ‘You know’, he mused, ‘he can hear everything we’re saying yet he’s unable to communicate with us’. Jim smiled, like he was fondly recalling a moment of agonising inebriation as if it were his first go on a pair of tits. The lads got off at Waterloo, Jim and I helped get the vomiter up on his feet and offered advice to his amused mates. Just as the train pulled off the sick lad opened his mouth a puked a substantial stream of raw beer all over himself.

When we got back to Tooting we opted for a Shawarma, essentially a slightly posher kebab, after being harangued by some racist Irish prick we rushed back to flat to eat. The flat was boozeless save some vodka in the freezer so Jim and I had sensibly purchased a couple of bottles of Coconut and Pineapple juice. To our joy and following day’s regret, it made a superb mixer and we cheerfully pushed on until 4-ish.

After a spot of breakfast Jim left. I had a shit lot to do after I’d strangled some veins, wash up, hoover, dust, prior to timing my trip to Sainsbury’s with the insufferable FA Cup Final as I figured there would be less people shopping. It paid off and after spending a fucking fortune I’d re-stocked on all the supplies that’d been dwindling due to the previous weekends’ engagements.

Later in the evening I met Frank in the local. The pub was full of weird people that had hung around following the football, more oddballs arrived. There was a strange atmosphere Frank and I concluded. It didn’t stop us putting four pints of Bombardier away though, and I walked back home feeling dozy as the sinking sun ignited a warm orange over half of the crisp blue sky. I took a bath, ate my favourite dish and watched a ‘rockumentary’ on BBC2 that focussed on the late 60’s and Jimi Hendrix, it was an above average effort at deconstructing the birth of ‘rock’ but as it featured lots of footage of Hendrix screwing his guitar I couldn’t have given a tinkers cuss about the editorial. Later I watched The Blair Witch Project, I’ve seen it a few times so being familiar with it, felt it would be safe to watch. Alone. ‘Of course’, I said out loud, ‘I mean it’s only a bloody film’, I don’t even believe in god let alone ghosts… By the end I was having a panic attack, possibly due to some sublime Skunk I’d allowed myself to become utterly absorbed in it to the point that I considered helping to look for fucking Josh. Despite it being late I was required to watch Southern Comfort just to help my brain settle. No idea what time I went to bed to bear witness to a nightmare of such horrific proportions it’s a miracle my heart didn’t explode, but at least I woke up with a hangover.

I stayed in bed ‘til noon, the motorcycle GP was on and I had a date with a cup of tea, toast, kippers and Valentino Rossi who’s more fun to watch ride than Silvia Saint (lads). Smashing race indeed, I was inspired to have a word with my black bitch and we hit the road, perfect riding conditions, warm without the stuffiness and bright but without glare. After checking my tyre pressures, essential to a slick ride, I shot down some A roads in Surrey, the bitch was responding as if made from my own flesh and we laughed at wankers in cars and speed limits. I nipped by to see my folks to give the bike a quick wash. She was all dirty from the rain earlier in week. I touched her clean. On the way back to the flat I had a race with a very souped up Subaru, it gave me a run for my money (to my surprise) but I was just about to make the podium.

By 7 I was home, shaking with adrenalin and feeling wholly purged. I wrote, bathed and ate a burger in fresh cheese and onion bread before settling down for the evening. I say settled down, I spent the vast majority of Sunday having an episode of OCD that required me to readjust aspects of the flat, nothing major, just minor adjustments but to the trained OCDer, essential minutiae. I did manage to watch High Anxiety in relative peace though; I’d forgotten how superb that film is.

In order to inject some sort of good into my battered body I cycled in today. Apart from a mid trip cough-up which I felt a positive thing it wasn’t too bad. I’m going to try and keep it up so I don’t look like a melted candle at Glastonbury. Busy week this week, I’ve decided I’m taking Friday off for reasons that will become apparent.

Aren’t I a little tease.

dogs

Virtually every morning, as I’m unwrapping my black bitch for the journey to work, this short middle aged woman purposefully strides past me, she has short grey hair and big glasses that make her look like an officious prat. There is nothing remarkable about this woman in any shape or form save the fact she’s always accompanied by the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.

It’s a blonde coloured Alsatian and it quite literally comes up to her rib cage, its the size of a small pit pony and has something of a docile, supernatural air about it. For every step the dog takes, she takes 2 so as they pass, one gets the impression that she’s perpetually trying to run past it. This in itself isn’t peculiar, yes, it’s a fucking massive dog being operated by a small peevish woman but what irks, the rub of this situation as it were, is the women is always carrying a bright orange plastic bag full of the dogs turds.

The dog doesn’t seem too fussed about this, fair enough, it’s not him waving them about (though I don’t think I’d be overly delighted if I was being followed by a person clutching a substantial quantity of my cack) but she doesn’t seem to bothered either. She’s walking down the street with a bag full of fucking dog shit, what’s the matter with her…

This morning she didn’t have her bag. I was in the process of stuffing my m/c cover into the van and the odd couple appeared in my peripheral vision, I instantly knew something was amiss; the balloon of orange with the heavy, heavy base was noticeably absent. The pair approached and just as they became level with me and the bike she and the fucking dog suddenly halted approximately half a foot from my feet and without any warning (can’t they fit these things with claxons?) it dropped it’s rear half down on to the pavement, lifted it’s fucking tale and uncoiled a good stone of dog eggs right at my feet.

In a flash the women had produced the orange bag like Debbie Magee, bent down and picked up the whole collection in one foul-swoop. Standing, watching in eye popping horror, she gave me the once over and looked at me as if I’d fucking done it. Without so much as a ‘pardon’ or ‘sorry’ the bastard was led off by her considerably lighter dog leaving me on the brink of being sick into my crash helmet. What a cunt.

Speaking of Cunt. Nirvana last night, sorry what I am I saying, Cunt trying to play Smells Like Teen Spirit. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to tackle this song, even the thought of him thinking about Mr. Cobain is offensive enough let alone the deliberate action of slowly raping, torturing and disembowelling a classic with toneless Neanderthalism, his arm with angular irregularity punching his knuckles into the strings as his fat tongue hangs out of his mouth sucking up air to subsequently return it in the form of a gormless guttural protracted fucking honk, this wasn’t part of Darwin’s agenda, surely…

As I was walking to the pub yesterday I passed his cadaverous girlfriend in the street. Her face is no more than a collection of long teeth and weary, listless eyes; she was pushing the emotionless automaton that passed for a baby in a buggy. The baby looked at me without a flicker of anything resembling life and she asked me if the child was disturbing me. I kept my mouth closed, it’s not the child that disturbs me (it does but not in the way she meant) I wanted to say, but I suppose I didn’t have to, she already knows. She lives with it.

You need to turn this up and the sound isn’t great, thought they are, and he was

meatingz

I fucking hate banks, I spent over half an hour in one yesterday lunchtime trying to transfer money into my brother’s account. They wouldn’t do it over the phone and I was told that in order to complete the transaction I had to bring along my passport, a utility bill, driving licence, birth certificate, medical records, last bowel movement, plaster cast of my dads cock…It took fucking half an hour and I had to pay £24 for the pleasure of shifting MY fucking hard earned from one place to another. Wankers.

Following this rather unpleasant experience, I had to attend a meeting in the afternoon with a fucking huge music organisation, as I work for another fucking huge music organisation these things happen from time to time. I was meeting primarily to supply confidential information to the client, information that they really, really wanted, which isn’t too bad a job I suppose…

The only downside is that at some point certain costs need to negotiated and it’s from here I turn from the witty congenial fellow you all know and love, into a (perceived) hard nosed bullshitting high-roller who’d film himself pooing into Ronnie Barkers dead mouth if he thought it would earn him an extra couple of quid. Truth is I hate negotiating, if I like the client I’ll make the best offer I can even if I’m losing money in the process. Of course I’m still viewed as if I shot Jill Dando and fiddled with her mimsy before running off. You can’t win. I hate my job.

By means of cleansing myself from the false encounter of meeting a client, a plastic relationship if ever there was one, I took myself off to an exhibition. I was aware that the Hunter S Thompson collection of photographs at The Michael Hoppen gallery was due to close in a couple of weeks and had promised myself to go. Unfortunately the opening hours meant I’d have to take a day off, but by arranging my meeting mid afternoon and telling my colleagues I wouldn’t be back, I knew I could easily make it to the meeting, the gallery and be home at the usual time.

Despite having to motorcycle there in the pissing rain and not being entirely sure of the exact exit off the King’s Road, I eventually arrived at the venue after screaming for directions from the crevice in my visor. Though few, the photographs were sensational, if you don’t know who Dr. Thompson is, or rather, was, you’re obviously a cunt, but you’re forgiven for not knowing that he was a superb photographer…I felt sated on leaving and despite having to bike back in a really heavy pissing rain –and the lack of engine braking mentioned a few blogs back- I arrived home in excellent spirits.

I changed out of my sopping motorcycle gear (though I was as dry as a bone) and prepared myself to meet my mate from up the road in the pub. A jolly time we had too, despite his reminding me of a short story I was supposed to have completed, I toddled off home feeling refreshed and still enjoying the afterglow of the days various gains even if some were resolved by attrition.

Later in the evening, pondering on the Thompson exhibition with a bottle of wine and a spliff in my drawing room if you fucking please, I turned my mind toward the short story proposed by my mate. And fuck my old boots, within a minute the whole cunting thing spewed forth and it was done.

It now requires it to be physically written of course but, dear reader, is that not the fun part?

(the answer is ‘yes’ by the way)

Tonight, drinking with Swineshead, linked to the right of this page. I hope he doesn’t do what he did last time as it was disgraceful.