Category Archives: valentino rossi

much laterz

There really isn’t a positive way of seeing a weekend late on a Sunday evening, it’s cruelty personified. A weekend from this perspective isn’t so much as what has been gained, it’s more of a question of what has been taken away.

 

The weekend is snatched in stages from the moment one leaves work on a Friday afternoon. You go out with your heart full of the anticipation of the two-day break but mid way through Friday evening you’re already thinking about Saturday’s objectives. On Saturday when I’ve finished the afternoon shopping, usually after having squandered the morning, the relief that I’ve attained my objective also signals the death knell for the weekend itself. So one focuses on the Saturday night that invariably involves more memory-sapping activity, and the Sunday to come, which has, of course, been rendered virtually useless by Saturdays hedonism. Before you know it your staring into the chasm of another bastard week at work.

 

The very fact I actually had a good weekend means fuck all on a Monday morning.

 

It began by meeting up with Swineshead at a pub in Clapham Common, despite my recent moans about the onset of autumn it was a beautiful evening so we sipped beers in the fading light in the concrete garden discussing writing, rock and real estate. At around 8-ish we went our separate ways, SH back to his home in the East End whilst I walked down Clapham High Street to meet Myfwt and some of her colleagues in a bar under the railway arches by Clapham North Tube.

 

I lived in Clapham for a good 5 years and am still very fond of the place, it has a unique vibe that feels more New York than London, there are so many restaurants and bars that compliment each other rather than openly vie for business, one can eat and drink the world in less than a quarter of a mile, Clapham has a splendid symbiotic relationship with itself. Walking down the street to the bar I felt suddenly very at home and wished I were still living in the area. Of course Clapham has peaked somewhat since I lived there, its streets are cleaner, safer and a lot more fashionable, a fact reflected in the prices of the scarcely available property.

 

Myfwt was on good form having drunk about the same as I, and her colleagues were very engaging. After a few more beers we wondered back up the street to a lively Mexican restaurant; I drunkenly opted for beer chilli, which was served in a humongous top hat shaped tortilla. It was a hot dish, I was even aware of the price I’d pay on Saturday as I tucked in. We went off to another pub by Clapham Common where it seemed to be okay to smoke out of the open window on the top floor. It wasn’t okay; I was threatened with having to pay a fine by a huge square faced bar ‘maid’, I protested, everyone else was smoking out the window, I said before realising that I was the last smoker standing and was forced to back down.

 

Myfwt and I got home at 1-ish and I stoically had another beer before realising that I’d drunk at least ten pints and was thoroughly pissed, I went to bed at 2 or so. We both woke with hangovers; mine not as harsh as Myfwt as she’s been drinking wine as well as beer and we lay in bed watching re-runs of Tales of the Unexpected. It was a perfect way to suffer a hangover, a round of bacon and watercress sandwiches, 4 cups of tea and a big slow boiling hot trog saw me as right as rain.

 

I made a deal with Myfwt that if I drove her to her workplace in my van to pick up her car she’d help me with the shopping. Due to Roald Dahl’s tales we were running very late and the Saturday traffic on the streets made progress terribly slow. This wasn’t good; I’d made plans to meet an old mate at my place for 5 and by 4.45, after an hour and a half drive before discovering that we’d missed the deadline to get Myfwt car out the pound, (cue moderated scream) I still hadn’t done the fucking shopping. I texted my mate to inform him I was running late.

 

Without much of a choice the shopping obligation was undertaken at some pace. Myfwt was still hungover which slowed things somewhat. She has this habit of wandering off in the other direction to investigate something that has caught her eye, just at the very moment I’m in full OCD mode gathering together essentials and beating a path for the till she’s to be found half a superstore away eyeing up the label of a tin of Olives stuffed with Anchovy. Despite all this I was back at the flat by 6, Myfwt wasn’t up for another session so sensibly decided to go back to hers, though I’d have rather she’d have stayed.

 

I met Ted at mine at 6, Ted is an art therapist, we’ve known each other for over 20 years, he now lives in East Anglia so it had been a while, he and I wandered off to the local meeting Rob on the street on the way. Rob runs a comic shop of some note in the South East (I’ve known him for yonks too) and he and Ted go back further than Ted and I so we made a dynamic triple. We were supposed to have been joined by Frank, James and Jamie but due to illness, a dissertation and x they were unable to make it. We three caught up over some ales in a crowded beer garden, the pub had just played host to the rugby so the place was full of pissed up hooray aw-ha-ha cunts.

 

After a few and some hilarious geek related comic shop anecdotes that have been blurred into the ether, we shuffled off to the Shawarma shop where Rob and Ted were introduced to the delights of Lebanese cuisine. We made it home and stuffed our maws with a couple more cans before trying to get to sleep; this wasn’t as easy as it sounds due to a minor encounter with mirror medicine a few hours earlier.

 

I had barely 5 hours sleep. Ted and Rob left in the morning I busied myself with a shit load of washing and the dyeing of a green hoodie which needs to be black, it was a long messy process but the result excellent. I ate breakfast with the Moto GP, then switched over to the British Superbikes which was a lot more fun than the former. Rossi basically gave the championship away to Casey Stoner by coming back into the pits following a change from wets to slicks to moan about the front tyre, which was obviously not up to race temperature yet. Nonetheless Casey deserved his championship.

 

I taped the final race as it was time for me to mount my black bitch and head off out to see my niece. The ride is just the right amount of time to feel the benefits of a fucking good spin; I ignored the blustering wind and headed out to the country. The little one has a bit of a sniffle and can’t quite work out how to cough yet, she’s also on the brink of laughing but due to the same reason she can’t cough, she can’t laugh. She has, however, discovered that she fucking loves having a bath. As soon as she’s in the water she’s pink blur of foam. I shot back home to watch the end of the racing and settled in for the evening, I wrote the first half of this, ate roast chicken and abstained. My weekend closed almost as it had begun by watching a load of Tales of the Unexpected before hitting the hay.

 

My catch up nights sleep was compromised by waking up at fucking 5am, I fell asleep eventually but when I woke up at 8 I could hear the rain and wind lashing against the window. Fuck it, I’m having day off I decided. This is why Piqued is late and why I’m going to spend the rest of the day playing Tomb Raider in my Yukata.

 

I wished I’d have known I was going to spend the day in here, could’ve saved you all the moaning at the beginning. Oh well.

Enjoy, actually this is fucking ace…


awturn

It’s that the time of year again, I find myself atop the seasonal slagheap, bejewelled and dappled it may be with russet browns and burnt orange hues perfectly framed by a smoky blue sky… Pap! ‘tis no more than a beauty born of deceit and lies. Soon the relentless hand of time will shove me gently from the summit, down, down towards the wilful jaws of winter, sliding hopelessly through v-shaped geese heading for warmer climbs, backward clocks, skeletal trees until finally tumbling through the gnashing teeth of misery where we flounder in the darkness and cold for what seems like eternity, our only friend is endless, ceaseless despair…

My bike ride yesterday afternoon had that awful feeling of cessation about it. As the motorcycle season begins preparation for hibernation, my ride, following a very disappointing Moto GP (the last few races have been, actually) was notable for two reasons. Firstly the leaves are beginning to turn, I was passing through the same stretch of road as last week, in that short space of time things had deteriorated, the green of the trees and fields has been compromised with a telling twinge of brown ‘other’. The second dead give away was the air, not so much the temperature, it was fairly mild but the freshness of it belied something that had hardened, within it there was an element of strength, wicked advantage even. Soon the air will be perfumed with a note of wood smoke before collapsing into a default odour of sheer bleakness. Shit.

The ride was still a triumph despite being buffeted extensively on some of the faster open roads –my neck is growing scaffolding- and made all the better for a visit to my month old niece. She’s beginning to focus now and for the first time actually looked directly at me. She looked confused, bemused and perplexed but within it all there was something in the way of recognition, I stared at her little blue haematite eyes as they grasped at all these new images before her, then her little face became frozen in a visage of shock and turned colour of plum, she burped loudly in my face. She is one of us. Not you, us.

The weekend was largely pleasant. Following the hangover on Friday, and the fact I’d not had an alcohol free for a fortnight, I decided that I’d abstain that very night. Frankly, I was feeling quite jaded from the boozy past few weeks, I was exhausted enough to be able to watch the BB finale and go off to sleep pretty much unchallenged by the screams from the bottles in the kitchen. At 7pm James called me asking if I fancied a pint, how could I refuse? We met at 9pm in my local and sat under the pergola in the garden, it was truly the last day of summer. We supped ale and chatted away, I’m glad I made it out despite not committing to my intended plan, we’ve been friends practically from birth (despite the fact he dropped a kettle on my head when we were three) so there is no pressure for either party to perform, it’s the purest form of relaxation, really.

I went to bed before 1 am and awoke at 10.30. Myfwt was supposed to have called me the previous evening following a night out on the tiles with work colleagues; I made a cup of tea and gave her a ring. She answered, clearly still pissed from the night out but also suffering the early stages of what would be a behemoth hangover. She softly requested I came to get her following each sentence with a nervous laugh, this wasn’t a good sign.

When I arrived at her house she appeared looking as beautiful as ever but as if recently electrocuted. She rigidly got into my vehicle grasping a bottle of water and gulping back last night’s entertainment. We arrived back at the flat and I put her to bed following a tentative sandwich. In the afternoon I met up with my mate Gerry, we had a couple of points and caught up. Bang went my second intention to abstain. Went I got back Myfwt had just made it to the couch, she wasn’t at all well but was gradually coming to life. We watched films as I imbibed steadily and I accidentally pulled off a 3am one, Myfwt having gone to bed sensibly some four hours earlier.

Subsequently last night I managed to stay off the pop. I knew it was the right course of action and today I feel all the better for it, so much so I decided to cycle in. I’ve noticed as I finish off Monday’s blog that the sun had just come out. That’s autumn for you, a googly-bowling bastard bounder.

This is out of sync…


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.


ages of cock

This week the 7 ages of rock not only managed to make more of a pigs ear than that of the punk program, it also managed to get facts wrong, actually incorrect. I’m fucking livid…

Whilst Black Sabbath did invent heavy metal we didn’t need to know the rest of Ozzy’s career as it’s not pertinent to the genre. To even discuss Motley Crue is an insult, especially when ‘glam’ was invented by the Finnish ban Hanoi Rocks in the early 80’s, despite being told by Julian Rhind-Tutt (what sort of a fucking name is that) the Crue influenced Hanoi! Fucking unbelievable! I’ll tell you this, a little bit of info they didn’t mention, Vince Neil, the fat Crue frontman, killed Hanoi’s drummer Razzle in a drink driving incident… That’s the only way Crue influenced anyone.

The Judas Priest stuff was barely relevant outside of the duel lead guitar stuff and maybe the idiocies that surrounded the prosecution for subliminal lyrics that resulted in the death of what Bill Hicks called the last garage attendants in the world. Metallica were featured but they didn’t kick the genre off by any means, Venom, even Motorhead, were way before Metallica ever got a record deal. To not mention at least one is ignorant, to not mention fucking either has prompted me to write a letter to the BBC.

I’m not going to write a list of who should’ve been mentioned but it’s worth noting that no attention was paid at all to nu-metal. Kick started when rap and thrash collided it prompted a seismic shift in how ‘metal’ was perceived and encouraged an entirely fresh fan base. Nor did it mention any of the crucial sub-genres, death metal, grindcore, battlemetal… the programme was a fucking disgrace, an insult to fan and musician alike.

The Moto GP yesterday was the reverse, some of the best racing I’ve ever, ever seen. You didn’t see it, you missed out. Stunning.

The weekend was very busy, a few beers with a mate form work in a walled beer garden in Tooting on Friday followed by a few cans and food in front of the box, namely Big Brother, a review in Watch With Mothers (link right of the page awaits you). Saturday I food shopped and started playing Tomb Raider in the afternoon, and here marks the beginning of the end of my summer. It’s fantastic, addictive and will serve me well this week when I have an alcohol free. I decided to spend Saturday in with Lara, made a pile of food, spoke to Myfwt, smoked skunk, more beer cans (I’m still saying off the wine and generally drinking less) and watched a ridiculous film, The Butterfly Effect, which I enjoyed way more than I should.

Yesterday morning I got up, burped the worm, ate a kipper before getting into my van to drive in to Soho. It was a blisteringly hot day, humid to boot and the last place I wanted to be was in the cabin of a vehicle stick firstly in Tooting, then Vauxhall, then the West End prior to getting fucking pissed about by roadwork’s and one-way street signs as I attempted to crack Greek Street. I was driving around, or rather, being sucked through London in a giant grid-lock, every option in my repertoire of navigation was halted by circumstance until I took the decision to illegally drive up Oxford Street and dive down Dean to finally meet my brother. I’d been screaming at him down the phone as I’d become increasingly incensed by having to spend my Sunday driving around tiny streets in a fucking van (I wanted to be on Box Hill with my black bitch) nonetheless he was pleased I’d finally arrived.

Me, him and his missus loaded a bunch of furniture into the guts of my van and I drove them back to Clapham, we unloaded the bloody van and I fucked off to my folks. The MOT on the white sod is due Friday, my dad is going to sort it for me which is fucking ace of him. It’d better pass; I need the bloody thing for Glastonbury in 10 days.

I took the train and bus back to Clapham where I finally met my bro in our usual Sunday boozer. He was a little flat initially but perked up eventually, we had 3 pints and a chaser and went our merry way. It was a glorious evening, the proper summer stuff and I was feeling quite pissed. The cutting back on drinking is making getting pissed more overt. This can only be a good thing?


grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah


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.