I had a very interesting journey home last night. It may be more interesting to read about than the actual experience as it was rather nerve racking.
Allow me if you will. Brutta and I approached the Vauxhall roundabout after traipsing past reams of stationary 4-wheel vehicles. I popped up the inside of a bunch of suckers as the lights changed and cut back across the front of the flow of traffic in order to get into the right-hand lane further ahead. I’ll be the first to admit this was a daring move, though executed to perfection of course, but not everyone was as enthusiastic as I. Of course, I took liberty to the sound of a horn of one of the so-owned motorists I’d just deleted from my commute.
Naturally, I gave the source of the horn the middle finger. I didn’t turn round, merely popped it up in between changing gears and roared off. Like most large roundabouts each corner is punctuated by traffic lights. The ones in front of me had just turned to red so imagine my surprise on deceleration-to-stop to feel a gentle pressure on the back of my calf. I looked down; it was a large bumper on closer examination. I turned round and a very, very angry skinned-head was sticking out of a black Range Rover, with all blacked out windows and suchwhat, and shouting at me. It’s worth mentioning that I vaguely recognised the head, possibly as someone connected to the football fraternity, but as I’m not au fait with this sport I couldn’t tell you which one it was. It’s also just as likely I’d seen the cunt on the news.
Anyway, the man was demanding I alighted from Brutta to engage in a violent confrontation after suggesting I wasn’t the ‘fucking tough guy’ the rude gesture implied, but as he didn’t actually leave his vehicle I reckoned he wasn’t entirely convinced that I wasn’t actually a ‘fucking tough guy.’ Despite this working in my favour getting my head kicked was still looking odds-on at this stage if I’m perfectly honest. The man in question was ever so cross.
I looked at other means at my disposal with which to diffuse the situation… then I noticed that sitting next to him was a small boy. The small boy looked petrified and as it wasn’t me doing the shouting I concluded it was the actions of his, I assumed, father that was instigating his abject horror. With this in mind it was time to make my move.
I lifted my visor and said, very clearly, loudly, even, ‘that’s not the sort of language to use in front of your son.’ (I’d seriously considered suggesting I’d flipped the bird only because I wanted to finger his child, but thought this might not go down well.) The shouting man looked momentarily confused and continued his tirade, well for a split second at least. ‘You Fu…!…Mug, you’re a mug, mate.’ He said, less enthusiastically, he glanced nervously at his son as the lights changed and I was gone. Fast.
In hindsight I think we all learnt a lesson that evening. The man in the Range Rover to not use bad language in front of a minor, not to mention frightening him half to death with his aggressive behaviour and for me to make sure I have a clear exit to fuck off out of it after making an obscene gesture.
I had a bloody load of night time mares last night. One featured an enormous house that I couldn’t escape from, a la The Prisoner, with a fucking Tiger in it who was still a bit peckish following the savage slaughter of Gok Wan and the other had Frank on the top of a 16-story-high ladder trying to get a tube of toothpaste out of a vice mounted on a wobbly shelf that I was also sat on. Where on earth these wee-hour horrors had come from I’ve no idea but I was awoken in a bloody fit. Admittedly I had watched From Hell that evening but as neither Tigers, wobbly shelves or toothpaste feature I doubt that was the source of my fears.
I can only put it down to concerns over my ex-flat that feature all of the above ingredients save the tiger and the oversized ladder. It’s back on the market again as my second buyer, the smelly bitch, has disappeared. Depressingly I received a text from my agent early evening yesterday informing me that he’d ‘a couple of viewings’ lined up this week. So, after a year of having the place on the market, I’m quite literally back to square one. Great stuff, bloody great lovely fucking shitting stuff.
The temperature has returned to 1. My newish gloves seem to have lost their urge (as they wear the vital materials compress and they allow heat to escape) so by the time I was 30 minutes into my journey after work (which I left a little early because snow was happening) I was practically screaming in agony from the horrific pain emanating from my fingertops. I had visions of their being blackened with frostbite and remaining stuck in the end of my gloves when I took them off. I pulled over by The Salvation Army offices at Elephant and Castle to check. The very act of taking my gloves off had the strange effect of bringing them back to some sort of life; this sudden infusion of blood was almost as dreadful as their state of frozen fish fingerdom. Something needed to be done, and fast. I needed inner-gloves to support the outer pair, but I’d already passed Metropolis at Vauxhall so was forced into the humourless dealer in Shoreditch.
They’re miserable bunch of cunts in there. Nine times out of ten motorbike dealers are a cheery bunch with the necessary ‘all stand together, us against them’ sort of thing going down. Not in this place. The staff look at you as if they want to smash your face in, so I made my own way round the store under the steely gaze of some bellend until I’d located a pair of winter inners. They were purchased virtually wordlessly and I left feeling like I’d just contracted a hit on a schoolgirl. Outside another staff member was changing a bulb on a customers Honda Scooter (these sorts of machines and ‘riders’ shouldn’t be permitted to mix with the likes of REAL bikers and bikes, I mean who goes to a fucking mechanic to get a bulb changed?) They were no more that two feet away from Brutta. Both the ‘rider’ and, I presume ‘mechanic,’ watched me with contemptuous gaze as I mounted my steed. I waited until they’d gone back to their business and hit the starter. Brutta erupted with such a sudden roar the rider cleared the pavement and the ‘mechanic,’ who’d been squatting behind the scooter, leapt to his feet as if bolted with a cattle prod. Pricks!
Oh, the new inner gloves work a treat, and they were under £15.
I had a nice evening with IC, she came down to the Twatcave for a spot of Fisherman’s Pie and we split a bottle of wine in front of the aforementioned film, which is touch and go if I’m honest but ultimately worth it. I guess.
I met up with Gerry on a cold Thursday evening at a boozer just off Bond Street. It’d been exactly 5 years to the day that we’d seen Rammstein at Brixton, this time we were headed for Wembley. We popped a couple away and got on the tube to arrive in time for the end of the Combichrist set, who were a lot better than expected.
Just after Gerry received a text from a friend who was already jammed up the front, she invited us to pop down and say hello. This was easier said than done. Die-hard Rammstein fans (most of them in their early 20’s) had already staked a claim for space and weren’t best pleased at Gerry and I barging to the front. The initial ‘excuse me’s’ soon became ‘get out of my fucking way’s’ and the little bastards locked up to prevent our passage resulting in Gerry and I aggressively barging our way through to audible protests from fans, one or two comments were a little less than savoury forcing sarcastic responses, such as ‘how old are you rockstar?’ and ‘what’s wrong, lost the sandwiches mummy made you?’ It was a harrowfying 10 minutes but we made it back in time to grab another beer and conveniently locate ourselves in time for the start of the show.
They were jolly good, good sound with some genuinely awe-inspiring pyro, though the set list didn’t really get going until mid-way through Gerry and I had a killer time. This was helped by our moving to the back near the rear bar to allow us to freely purchase beer without queuing or missing any of the set. Marvellous. We had a thoroughly drunken tube journey to our respective stops and I winged it back in beer-time.
I was up by lunchtime Friday feeling a little rough round the edges and thanking my common sense for taking a day off. The weather was extraordinarily clement, spring-like no less and at 1pm I took the overground, to underground to DLR for the Excel centre, which is located in Docklands. It’s a very weird location, almost futuristic yet strangely calming, almost as if one is featuring in a 1970’s artists impression of a low rise sci-fi city yet to be realised.
It’s been an age since I went to a big bike show in London (the international bike show re-located from Earls’ Court to the NEC in the 80’s) so it was particularly nice having something virtually on my doorstep. I met Dave at The Triumph stand and we set off round the venue jumping on as much two-wheeled metal as our little legs would allow, all the while commenting on various bike-related aspects of design, engineering and ride. We paused for a beer by the stage that featured an Asda version of Jeremy Clarkson barking about some such. He had the charisma of a sacked porn actor and set the dim tone for the humiliating display of the regressive letching which followed.
Thirty tears ago nearly all bike mags featured young ladies (some not so young, actually) flopped over the latest exotica with all tits out. We’ve moved on from this, now motorcyclists aren’t all perceived, as they once were, as headbangers with low IQ’s, a casual approach to hygiene and medieval attitudes to the fairer sex. Worryingly the organisers of the event took it on themselves to have ‘babes’ on the stage which were painfully and lasciviously interviewed by the sub-Jeremy gitprong dribbling all over the mic. No one came out of this well; the ‘babes’ were the sort of ladies one finds assisting part-time in downmarket clothing retailers and the audience weren’t too keen on being subject to this pre-Greer meatfest and being treated, essentially, as fucking morons. This was the only disappointing element of what turned out to be a long and entertaining afternoon. I was home by 6 with my ass still glowing from all the beautiful machines I mentally blew all my lottery winnings on.
I didn’t want to go anywhere on Friday evening. IC was away and I was already due a sizable Saturday so it was Piqued Sensational Spudz on the menu, a bottle of wine and after Mastermind (which featured a chap being questioned on British bikes (I got over half right)) I did The Godfather on the box. I had completely forgotten what a triumph Coppala’s masterpiece is. A beautiful Friday was consigned to history at 1-ish
Saturday, my bro came over for lunch; I had prepared an enormous quantity of Spaghetti Bolognaise that we consumed in front of Iron Man. What a marvellous film that was too, it had completely slipped under my radar. Following this my bro did the awkward bit at the beginning of Resident Evil 5 leaving me late pm to wrestle with it, early evening Pat and Red joined me and we soon had some wine on the go with the game, this wasn’t a particularly sensible course of action.
Pat wasn’t feeling up for coming out by Red and I were. We met up with Nicky at Hackney Central and took the bus to Kings Cross at around 9.30. The Venue we were destined for was, for want of a better word, a ‘goth club.’ Oscar was in charge of making tunes happen downstairs and when we arrived, apart from a disinterested barlord and a couple of Misfit lookylikes, we were his audience. Mercifully the venue filled up fast. It was a good-sized room with low ceilings and lots of skull-based graffiti and as we’d secured a perfect spot at the bar we happily imbibed as the dark crowd milled about us. A couple more friends arrived at 11. By the time Oscar resumed duties on the decks at 12 the place was comfortably packed and I was horrendously pissed. Testament to this was the fact I danced without the safety net of IC, fuck knows what I must’ve looked like.
At 2-ish Oliver ordered us all a 6 seater cab that arrived just before I contracted frost-bite. In the cab the severity of my inebriation made itself known in the form of a full-on whitey that almost resulted in me hurling my evenings indulgences all over the transport and its occupants. I’d not drunk an enormous amount but the earlier wine had upset the equilibrium, somehow I managed to survive the trip back largely by gulping fresh air from the passenger window. I’ve no doubt if I were in the middle of the machine I’d be writing letters of apology instead of this.
We stopped by Oliver’s for a final snifter and then Red and I took ourselves off home at 4am via a fast-ish food eatery. Things are a bit hazy from here, but I recall we got back and I was unable to eat my food. I shoved it in the fridge and went to sleep immediately.
It was 2am before I finally got up, Red was long gone and I was starving. I rescued the kofti and some salad from the previous evenings take out and shoved the lot into fresh bread; the resulting meal was surprisingly delicious. I undertook a spot of shopping and returned home with some provisions and bloody hangover, which had kicked off in earnest.
What remained of the afternoon was sat slumped in front of Come Dine With Me, Top Gear and Godfather 2, I’m not sure if I prefer the sequel to the original. At 7 I rammed my face with roast chicken, mashed potato, Brussels sprouts and made-from-scratch Onion Gravy which blew my socks off, and everything else. I spent an hour from 9 mainly visiting the loo. Jesus.
I was feeling much better by 11, so I took myself off by bus to meet IC off the Stanstead Express at Liverpool Street. It was a shame the weekend had to end on such a high note, but that’s life isn’t it. Right mum?
I’m off to see Rammstein tonight with Gerry. This is excellent news in the first instance, but even better than that, I’ve the day off tomorrow for the dual purpose of a. going to the bike show, and b. sleeping off the hangover I hope to arrange from this evenings entertainment.
For the second day in a row I’ve been forced onto public transport. Now that I’ve sussed the route a little better it’s not too bad, just slightly irksome what with all the chopping and changing from bus to tube to train et al. This morning I found myself on a brand news bus and I can’t say I’m very impressed. It’s great for additional legroom but the fucking seat has a Rizla width of cushion on it. After 5 mins my arse bones felt as it they were being jackhammered by a navvy, this in turn forced my spine to concertina like an accordion and by the time I alighted I was a foot shorter and could barely walk.
Yesterday evening I arrived at The Ship on Wardour Street at bang on 5.45. Red was there already and we were joined by Harry, Mark and Frank. As well as scoring a table (the place was, as usual, packed) the music was bloody lovely. After a few I toddled off to Oxford Street to get the central line back to Hackney, instead of going back to the Twatcave I popped by Sue’s gaff where IC and some pals were having a little catch up. I duly got stuck in after a massive great piss and after an hour or so, IC and I went home for a final glass of wine.
Right, on account of the lack of post tomorrow, Gerry’s chart is early, as is my desire to wish your weekends well, even though somewhat premature, unless you have the day off like me, are unemployed, retired or dead.
Hello.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Miike Snow Sylvia NE 1
29 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 18 11
28 Good Shoes Under Control NE 1
27 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 20 14
26 Eels A Line In The Dirt NE 1
25 Plan B Stay Too Long 16 5
24 Renegades Renegades NE 1
23 You Me At Six Underdog 26 3
22 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 15 13
21 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 17 4
20 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 12 10
19 The Big Pink Velvet NE 1
18 Phoenix 1901 19 5
17 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? NE 1
16 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 24 2
15 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 9 9
14 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 21 2
13 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound NE 1
12 Placebo Bright Lights 7 6
11 Hot Chip One Life Stand 13 6
10 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 8 7
9 I Blame Coco Caesar 11 4
8 Muse Resistance 14 3
7 Editors You Don’t Know Love 4 7
6 Flyleaf Again 10 4
5 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 5 5
4 Pearl Jam Got Some 3 10
3 The xx VCR 6 3
2 Alice In Chains Your Decision 1 6
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 2 3
I woke this morning to the heart-warming news that the nations pin-up, Jordan (real name Kati prys) has got married in Las Vegus to her kuckbixing boyfriend Alex Rede. And I couldn’t be hapeeer for bowth of thems. I no fo reel that they reely do larve eech otherz, reely reely truly abso looly.
To be perfectly honest, you’ve got to take your hat off to the bitch, she’s got tits of steel, frankly (and probably literally.) I’ve never known such utter shamelessness in the face of the gawping public via the baying media. And such wanton manipulation of that dim sucker who has agreed to get publicly turned over in a few weeks/months/years etc., Or am I being naïve, I hope I am and he’s going to get something out of this. From where I sit he’s just entered a world of misery. What an awful cunt she is.
Via Charlie Brooker’s Newswipe I was privy to an excerpt of some magazine show on Five hosted by Ian Wright, Melinda Massager and I think some teeth off The Apprentice. Just a tiny snippet made me howl with rage. A bloke was talking about the homeless and said ‘give them company, a sandwich maybe, but never any money,’
Why the fuck not?! They need money to get bombed. Surely if you’re living on the streets sans family and a roof the only possible thing you’ve got to look forward to is a tin or a needle. Homelessness isn’t a lifestyle choice; it’s a fucking awful, awful thing to happen to a person. When I drop some change into the hand of some poor unfortunate sod begging outside in the pissing howling rain I’m praying more than anything they find a solution to their despicable predicament, but for now, that’s a contribution to their more immediate concern of getting out of the dreadful weather and getting nicely wasted, on me.
I had a splendid evening with IC, we’re currently doing The Office back to back. The word genius is stretched too far these days but it applies to that show and everyone it in, especially Gervais. One of the reasons it works on the level it does is because it allows one to empathise/despise the characters via your own experiences in the office environment, if you’re unfortunate enough to have been in that situation, or, like me, in it right fucking now. I would be much happier if I was watching the show outside of my weekday horrors, particularly as yesterday was especially vile (I’ll spare you the details, it might inspire me to nip over to the protagonists desk and rip their liver out via the eye socket.)
Right, another days rant over. I’ve attached a treat for you, this is heart-warming stuff.
I was home reasonably early yesterday, about 15 minutes before the working day would’ve finished in the office. I’d spent the afternoon in a very casual meeting with a very pleasant client I’ve known for years, so I left the office at 2 after getting a load done in the morning. In some ways it went to show that this whole 9 to 5 business is a fucking sham. I reckon I could get the whole weeks work done in a couple of days, which makes me feel bloody miserable if I’m honest. It’s not like I’m going to get this wasted time back is it? Whatever happened to the 4 days week that’s what I want to know. It’s been banded about for years; it’d save both time and energy and give us all a break from the ridiculousness of unnecessary travel and time wastage. One would’ve thought with all this technology we’d have done the 4 days week and would now be looking at 3 maximum with half the workforce working from home. Something isn’t right here… the only people that stand to lose out if the UK workforce shorten their hours or do away with the office entirely are the transport companies. This would be good for the environment though, but, oh. Hang on. Oil. Surely it’s not about oil is it?
I spent yesterday evening away from the clutches of booze, instead Swineshead and I went on yet another killing spree in GT Auto. The game is a masterpiece. As it stands ‘games’ don’t receive the same accolade as other forms of visual entertainment, movies, theatre, art even. I put this down to snobbery. Some of the detail in GT Auto is frankly astonishing. For example, on Sunday following the slaughter of dozens of homeless people on the beach, I sat and watched workmen repair a road for 5 minutes. They actually made fucking progress, that was until I killed every last one of them, stole their lorry and drove it through a playground.
The amount of work involved in the games realisation is staggering, it’s not just the mind blowing graphics and physical feel of piloting the game -the sheer vastness combined with an attention to minutiae- it’s the script, the plot, the sheer bloody audacity of it. And on top of everything, it manages to have its tongue firmly planted in its cheek yet still maintain it’s grim reality with a wicked sense of humour to boot. That’s quite a tough brief to balance; yet it carries it off perfectly. I’d go as far to say that it’s genius.
The underground walk between The Northern Line and The Jubilee Line is, during rush hour at least, weird. Fritz Lang’s classic movie Metropolis is much in evidence, of course, but it’s when you’re in the throng that a peculiar aspect of being makes itself known. It’s not so much the trudging in the same direction en-mass; it’s the sound of shoes, nothing but shoes. So many people, no one speaking, or having any communication whatsoever, not even eye contact. You’re absorbed into a hueless blob of purpose in order to conform to the dictate of capitalism, save the sound of thousands of pieces of shoe leather making contact with granolithic concrete, there is nothing remotely human about the environment one finds oneself in. At first I found it rather amusing, no one talking, no cries of either despair or exultation, then I saw myself in the crowds flocking in the direction of this office and I concluded that far from being whimsical this situation was fucking awful.
The weekend went in a flash. It began in my flat with Swineshead and Ned enjoying a spot of murder on the PS3. As with these things the evening began to get more and more frazzled, giggling broke out, we were having a right royal time. Then our respective partners arrived from a meal out and we found ourselves back in reality, well some of us, Ned played on regardless much to my amusement. In fact Ned stayed well after everyone apart from IC had toddled off home.
After a very late breakfast on Saturday I cleaned my gaff and IC and I took the bus to London Bridge. From there we walked through Borough Market down the embankment passing marvellous bits of history with the Thames lapping at the shore to our collective left. The views and the sheer innocent joy of just walking in our city in all that space made up for the intense cold. We nipped into the Tate Modern to visit Miroslaw Balka’s ‘How It Is’ in The Turbine Hall. The huge sculpture is reminiscent of a cattle truck; one enters from the rear and is gradually absorbed into a disorientating blackness. I’m fairly sure the innate comparisons with the logistics of the holocaust are no accident, or maybe that’s just me? Either way I couldn’t help thinking about those dreadful railways and their beautiful, terminal cargo.
Cocktails were in order. We walked over Hungerford Bridge as the moon peeped from behind the cloud in the East; we took a while to gaze at our favourite satellite as it rose over the undulating waters of the Thames casting golden lights on its surface, then headed down through Charing Cross, Covent Garden and into Soho. Trying to find a place to imbibe comfortably on a Saturday night was no mean feat, but it was still quite early, 6-ish, and we eventually found a place that had a happy hour and free seating by the bar. The music was reprehensible but other factors made the venue more than bearable, the drinks and seating ostensibly. I began with a whisky sour and followed it with a gin Martini; IC had a pair of rum sours and a row with the cocktail waiter over its price. I watched her performance with pride, that’s my girl you see.
At 8-ish we walked to Carnaby Street and took a place in a bar hired by friends for the purposes of celebrating The Roberts’ birthday. I procured a bottle of wine for IC and I and in a flash the place was packed. A fella formally known as Robotic Chap arrived with Rose and a small entourage and much shouting over music happened. I was quite lubricated by the time we left, which wasn’t too late and neither IC or I had eaten yet. At home I roasted some tomato and onion, which was served with enormous fish cakes. And Champagne, the latter had been liberated from work, I wouldn’t pay for that stuff, Prosecco is much better and vastly cheaper… still, neither of us were complaining.
Sunday already, we had breakfast at IC’s and did a spot of shopping before retiring to our respective flats. I had to clean the fucking kitchen floor with a mop and shit, a task I loathe with abundance. I had a go on the PS3 to fix me and read the paper for a bit. IC came down and we played Scrabble for a while… bearing in mind English isn’t her first language, and the fact she not played it before, she did surprisingly well. We ate nut roast in front of a particularly amusing Come Dine With Me and polished off the evening with A Prophet, which isn’t as good as one would believe from the hype but a blast nonetheless.
The reason I was forced onto Johnson’s Shame, and the very reason I have to repeat this horrific exercise later, is because I’ve a meeting this afternoon. It’s not all bad though; I should get home earlier as result and I get out of this place for the afternoon.
Look, lot’s of Brutta-clones (though not as good, obviously)
Thank god the weekend is upon me, it’s been a bloody stressful week in the office, but despite a lot of grief and losing money left right and fucking centre, I did finally (yesterday at 3.12) finish off this cunting project.
I can now relax and put all my energy into shitting myself about the sale of my flat. Yes, I still have a gaff in Tooting, a place I’ve not seen since the start of September 09, yet am still paying for. Of course I can’t afford this and my rent, any wonga left over from the deposit from my ex-buyers pathetic attempts at procuring said flat is long gone. And I’m fed up to the back teeth from assurances of estate agent and solicitor that I’ll be exchanging ‘within the week.’
In spite of all this I had a thoroughly pleasant evening. After a spot of cleansing I settled down for a mammoth session of a little known Australian series called ‘Underbelly.’ Astonishingly it’s based on real events, it’s highly addictive viewing and worth getting by any means necessary, including offering yourself for cash-money.
A weekend is spread before me like a Turkish rug o’ many colours. Tonight, men come to my place to play on the PS3, and I should imagine, partake in accessories. Tomorrow IC and I fancy a London museum, which precedes a party near Carnaby Street in the evening. Sunday we have a bunch of films to observe with our puffy eyes, I’m hoping to spend most, if not all, of this day on my sofa. Very well, but let’s not jump the gun here, allow me to savour what’s to come with out thinking about fucking Sunday, please.
My ride into work today was irksome but punctuated with charming snapshots of life. The fluorescent lollipop man being thanked by kids as they crossed the road, a woman in a van picking her nose by Liverpool street, office workers in the city trying not to spill hot coffee as they rush to their desks, the thousands of black grey commuters crossing a Tuner-lit London Bridge like an invading army, sour-faced mothers, dead-faced drivers, a biker nodding at me, a baby in a pushchair gawping at Brutta in amused astonishment, accelerate, brake, a wave, traffic-lights-amber, gridlock with no exit, cyclists weaving, roadkill, buses indicating, a finger, full beam, fuck off! beeeeeeeeep!
Lovely.
Chart, choon, have fun mofo’s.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 AFI Medicate 27 11
29 Fightstar A City On Fire 24 10
28 Muse Undisclosed Desires 26 13
27 The Courteeners Cross my heart and hope to fly 21 5
26 You Me At Six Underdog 29 2
25 Ian Brown Just Like You 20 10
24 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll NE 1
23 Goldhawks Running Away 18 7
22 Ash Space Shot 19 4
21 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler NE 1
20 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 17 13
19 Phoenix 1901 25 4
18 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 14 10
17 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 22 3
16 Plan B Stay Too Long 15 4
15 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 11 12
14 Muse Resistance 23 2
13 Hot Chip One Life Stand 13 5
12 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 8 9
11 I Blame Coco Caesar 12 3
10 Flyleaf Again 16 3
9 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 6 8
8 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 7 6
7 Placebo Bright Lights 5 5
6 The xx VCR 9 2
5 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 4 4
4 Editors You Don’t Know Love 2 6
3 Pearl Jam Got Some 3 9
2 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 10 2
1 Alice In Chains Your Decision 1 5
Barak Obama has spoken in his first State of the Union address. Good. It’s good because since he came into power we’ve hardly see hide nor hair of the fellow. Unlike his predecessor, Monkey Brains, Obama seems to have decided the best way to govern his nation is to sit in the Oval Office with his door shut to the outside world. He’s a bit of a disappointment really, Guantanamo Bay is still open for business despite assurances it would be shut now (he didn’t mention this at all yesterday) his attempts at Healthcare and banking reforms were a fucking joke to be perfectly honest and the war is still raging in the Middle East with no end in sight.
Instead he focussed his speech on ‘employment.’ That’s nice, and of course employment is essential for the health of a nation and society at large and what have you, but in the grand global plan of things, the plan that is overseen by the USA with regard to war, death, famine, environment, death, torture, war, death etc., the question of Coleslaw Penchowlsky losing his job as bog cleaner at his local Walmart isn’t the first thing that springs to mind in terms of ‘priorities.’ In short, if you need any evidence that the USA is run exclusively by bankers, lawyers and the CIA, I think you have it right there. Obama’s intentions, I feel, are genuine. Unfortunately he’s no power to achieve his aims, you see folks? The pres ain’t running the show.
Anyway, what do I care, I’ve got a leather shirt. That’s right, ‘a leather shirt,’ off IC. She gave it to me last night before we went out for dinner, out the blue it was. It’s one of those things you get that are as good as new shoes when you’re 7, you know, when you go to bed wearing them because you just don’t want to take them off. When you do remove them you examine them in detail, smell the leather, poke the rubbery sole and the squish that soft bit that supports your instep. No, at 7, nothing is as important as your new shoes… I think you get the picture. Anyway, this leather shirt, it’s fucking marvellous, I don’t think I’ll ever take it off, ever.
We went to the local boozer for dinner, I suppose you could call it a gastro pub but that would do it a disservice, these days ‘gastro pub’ is choc-full of wanky connotations, it’s a more of a proper pub with a restaurant serving well above average pub grub. I opted, unusually, for the aged-beef burger with bacon and fucking cheese. It’s not my normal fare, I think the hum of fresh leather turned me, but it was beautiful.
I’m in a contemptible mood, in addition to a fractured ride into work (cold, arseholes at every junction, pop-up roadworks etc) I walk into the office with my fingertips leaking nitrogen and am instantly thrown into the crushing jaws of a fucking cock-up that wasn’t my fault but somehow became my responsibility. A bit like getting bollock cancer, or hitting a woman when all drunked-up on homemade cider.
I finally caught up with my bro in the boozer near Monument last night. We’ve been there before; it’s a nice little place with good (albeit a tad costly) beer but, on the downside, stuffed full of city-tits. They are an awful collective of red-faced guffawing cunts, the types of people that look at you as if they’d just stepped in something, a bunch of shameless bankers, every last man jack-off of them. Nonetheless we happily popped a few in, though going outside for a fag was a pain. Every time we left our spot some fat-arsed corporate was sat in our seats on return, despite the placing of our bags over the required stools. For the last pint we just gave up and shivered outside, it was bloody freezing. I don’t think we’ll be returning anytime soon.
Swineshead came over yesterday evening to indulge in a spot of spaghetti bolognaise and killing. We went fucking postal, we knacked cops, gangsters, drug dealers, innocent members of the public and zombies. Throughout I cheerfully imbibed and we both got intensified. By the time Swineshead left, I could see gravity.
The day at work was fraught; I’m on sodding deadline for one of my fucking projects, which results in my being stalked by the gov’nor. For me it’s unnecessary pressure but it has an uncanny effect on my colleagues, it’s as if I delegate the grief to them and I just sit at the desk bouncing farts off the tit that sits behind me waiting for the clock to hit 5 so I can jump on Brutta and fuck off home.
Once I’d arrived back at the Twatcave I kicked off my Sidi’s and leathers and went directly out to the shops to gain ingredients for the evening meal and a copy of Resident Evil 5. I popped by to see the still not-too-well IC with some Almond Slices and rushed down to the flat to prepare the food and leave to stew on the stove as I showered and made good of my habitat.
This morning I had to take public transport into work as I’m seeing my bro for a few beers this evening. It wasn’t the like horror experienced a few weeks ago when we were under the frozen fist, but it was pretty dire nonetheless. Like anything else there is a knack to getting it right, first priority is the route itself, which I think I’ve finally sussed. Then comes the best time to catch the right bus with regard to saying in bed for as long as possible, after this, preferred places to wait on the platform for the tube, ideal places to sit on the train, of course, there is vast amount of luck involved in proceedings too. This morning I was sufficiently ahead of the game to grab a coffee but I lost out due to train delays on the final leg. See? That’s how it goes.
Oh forgot to mention on Monday that, as of last Sunday, Piqued turned three years old. This means that we’re now walking, talking, riding tricycles and eating loads of fucking cake.
The man was stood up now, demanding to know where his food was. ‘If we don’t get our food in the next 10 minutes,’ he said to the diminutive Vietnamese waiter, ‘we’re leaving without paying.’ ‘How fucking rude,’ I said to IC and Petra, we were freshly arrived and were feeling a little smug because we’d been permitted to drink our own wine despite the eatery having a license. The fact we were in a restaurant was something too, all the other places on the Kingsland Road were packed solid, this one wasn’t. Of course I accepted the food might not be quite as good as the popular ones, but having a bit of space, a bit of P & Q away from the Shoreditch types on a Saturday night was an acceptable compromise. I stilled any alarm bells that might be ringing. The waiter came over to take our order, we opened our wine and the rude man went back to his seat. Ten minutes later he was gone.
My weekend started in IC’s flat with Mary, Petra and Mark. The latter wasn’t really feeling up for the club in which Mary was featuring in her capacity as a budding DJ. We had a few wines to get us in the mood and, after meeting Oscar at the busstop, took ourselves off to the bar in Dalston.
It was empty when we arrived which suited me fine but by the time Mary took to the decks the place was full. As I’ve previously mentioned, the electro thing isn’t really my bag but some of it is more than listenable to. The booze helped to sharpen the senses and a pleasant evening unfurled, I undertook a spot of dancing with IC and spent a good while nattering to Euan at the rather pricey bar. As is common with these things time passed quickly with my wallet flapping open and shut like a fishwife’s mouth. I’m not sure what time we departed but the bus was packed solid, bed happened shortly after, I think it was 4.
The hangover was curbed by a fry up at the marvellous café round the corner at around lunchtime, before returning home to play Grand Theft I bought a few bits and pieces from the Co-Op and gave Brutta a minor wipe over. At 4-ish IC and Pru came down to watch Harry Brown. One of the best movies I’ve seen, highly, highly recommended. Mid way through we needed some Cava to help us cope with the incredible tension. The Cava thing went on until 8 or so when we reluctantly decided to go to Clerkenwell to see off one of our crew for some farewell drinks. It was en route we spontaneously decided to get some food.
After about 20 mins 2 of the 3 starters arrived along with my main course, a rather over cooked but nonetheless tasty shredded duck with pancakes and a few strips of cucumber. I waited for the final starter and my companions’ main dishes but nothing happened. I was encouraged to eat my food which was pretty much cold by now. Still, it was okay; I smothered the ingredients with chilli sauce and wrapped it in the pancakes. An hour later still no food had arrived and I was a bit pissed.
Suddenly a sweating man appeared from the kitchen with a small plate of what looked like deep-fried breaded prawns and chilli dip. I explained to the chap we’d not ordered this, we’d ordered grilled prawn on udon noodles, which this clearly wasn’t. To my and our collective surprises he then insisted it was. I assured him that on account of the lack of noodles and the fact the prawns (if that is what they were) were certainly not grilled, it most definitely wasn’t what we ordered, and could he go away now as he was making me feel a little irritated.
But he didn’t go; instead he stood there and told me a barefaced porky. Apparently, he said, in Japan ‘udon noodles’ really means the way deep fried prawns are positioned on a plate, thus. He pointed again at the dish and thrust it under my nose. I think the reason I didn’t grab the plate from his hands and fling it against the wall was because I felt a bit sorry for him. Nonetheless, I won’t have someone taking me for a tit so I simply asked for the bill and then told him I’d been to Japan and I knew exactly what udon Noodles looked like, and what he was bearing wasn’t udon noddles, or grilled prawn for that matter. I jabbed a finger against the side of the plate to make my point and he smiled and went off.
The bill arrived (completely wrong) the necessary amendments were made and we remained seated to finish off the last of the wine. As we were leaving the poor bastard in the kitchen ran up the stairs with one of the missing starters, about two hours late, and offered it to us.
I politely refused, ‘we’ve paid and we’re leaving now,’ I said. He looked at me with a weak tired smile, and held fast. ‘We’re going now mate,’ I said quietly, ‘you have it.’
‘Thank you,’ said the man. And with that we left.
Sunday was spent indoors watching films and Come Dine with Me. Actually, that’s not strictly true, IC and I went to Brick Lane just after lunch to meet up with some friends. I think I must’ve been a bit tipsy from the evening before because I don’t remember much about it at all. Anyway, we were back by 4. IC wasn’t feeling very well so it was a good excuse to just nest. After dinner we watched The Office with the horror of Monday appearing in our guts, well, my guts at least, IC wasn’t going anywhere.
This band have just announced they’re splitting after 40 years. Here’s one of their classics, you’d have to have a heart of stone, really…
It’s so bloody lovely being back on Brutta. I’m back in the swing of things, I was a tad rusty after the snow but I’m back in the zone, as it were. Brutta too is getting looser every day, the once brand spanking new engine is starting to free and she’s displaying increased aptitude in the form of handling and balls out power. In addition my confidence as her pilot is gaining weight, we’re starting to gel, bond, and I’m beginning to push her a little harder, baby steps in these harsh times of poor weather, but progressing nonetheless. By spring I’ll be ready, I’ll be good to fucking go.
Obviously, this aspect of pushing a little harder doesn’t come without its teething problems, despite all this hubris I am a safe rider, the phrase ‘pride comes before a fall’ has to be taken into account when one rides aggressively. But of course, ‘being safe’ isn’t always my decision, nor is someone else’s perception of what constitutes ‘safe.’
It would seem my bugbear are the larger vehicles that occupy the road, largely because I can swoop about them in a way The Black Bitch could never. This morning, following a lovely little encounter with IC who was cycling to her office, I ducked inside a bus on London Bridge with space to spare, albeit not much, but it was a calculated manoeuvre and perfectly safe. The bus driver didn’t agree and was very displeased so he blew orf his horn; of course I gave him the finger as I felt he was being a little pedantic but on account of red lights ahead I found myself stationary with the bus behind me and its driver screaming at me from out his little window.
I turned to face him. He was utterly livid, completely unnecessary under the circumstances so I gestured to him that he could see there had been plenty of room, or at least, I could. I did this in code, to wit, point at driver, point at ones eyes with index and middle finger, point at back of bike, point at front of bus, emphasis space between two vehicles with a forward/back motion… I then made another rude gesture (the wanking one) before turning my back on him. This enraged him further, by now his head was sticking right out of the little window and he was demanding I go to him, offer myself up for, I presume, a slap. A small congregation of cyclists who’d witnessed my beautifully judged dive were sat smiling at the driver making an undignified spectacle of himself with his tongue flapping out of his drooling mouth like Whale cock and eyeballs boiling on lolly sticks, and screaming.
Just before the lights changed I turned and gave him a final wave, he was incandescent with rage. It was awfully satisfying, me and Brutta destroying a chaps day with skillz. I hope he’s pissed over the weekend too. The rude man.
Speaking of weekend, I made a tentative start on it yesterday evening. After a cold though victorious ride home I decided to investigate this broken-TV-aerial business in a little more detail. My landlord’s handy fellow had called me from my roof Wednesday afternoon asking if my TV was working as he couldn’t see anything wrong. I curtly informed him I was at work and before I hung up he asked me if I’d tested the connection on my portable. I lied and said ‘yes’ as I was adamant it was the aerial on the roof. Last night I tested the cable coming directly into the flat and the fucking portable worked perfectly, I then discovered that one of the subsequent aerial cables to the main TV was broken. This cable was taken out of the equation and, hey presto, TV working. I sheepishly called my landlord’s mate and apologised, he took it very well, bless him. What a nice man.
By means of celebration, Swineshead, Paul and Ned popped over and we spent the evening getting wasted and taking turns on Grand Theft Auto which became increasingly more hilarious as the evening wore on and various substances took their toll on us. I was so involved in all this broken TV and games lark last night I inadvertently forgot to eat anything. I’m currently sat in my office with a rumbling stomach wondering what the polish on my desk tastes like.
Right, you know the drill, it’s Friday. Have fun for fucks sake, it’s the weekend. Enjoy the tune especially.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Temper Trap Fader 22 8
29 You Me At Six Underdog NE 1
28 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 26 13
27 AFI Medicate 21 10
26 Muse Undisclosed Desires 19 12
25 Phoenix 1901 25 3
24 Fightstar A City On Fire 16 9
23 Muse Resistance NE 1
22 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 29 2
21 The Courteeners Cross my heart and hope to fly 14 4
20 Ian Brown Just Like You 13 9
19 Ash Space Shot 17 3
18 Goldhawks Running Away 11 6
17 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 12 12
16 Flyleaf Again 24 2
15 Plan B Stay Too Long 20 3
14 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 10 9
13 Hot Chip One Life Stand 15 4
12 I Blame Coco Caesar 18 2
11 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 9 11
10 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh NE 1
9 The xx VCR NE 1
8 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 5 8
7 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 10 4
6 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 3 7
5 Placebo Bright Lights 6 4
4 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 8 3
3 Pearl Jam Got Some 1 8
2 Editors You Don’t Know Love 4 5
1 Alice In Chains Your Decision 2 4
Last night I took the tube from work to Petra’s gaff in West London. On arrival I was served wine and we chatted as she prepared an enormous pile of Italian food. IC arrived, then Mark and finally Mary and we four happily gorged ourselves on octopus, spiced prawns, scallops, squid, tomato, bread and lashings of wine. We topped the whole lot off with Limoncello and before you know it, I was stuffed and pissed. What a splendid way to spend an evening I decided on the cab home, what a bloody stupid thing to do I surmised when I woke this morning.
I have a hangover. I’m getting increasingly less used to these as I’ve been abstaining of late, I’ve also come to realise that I’m more aware of the consequences of getting pissed with regard to the morning after. But only when I’m not drinking. Monday and Tuesday for example, as I indulged in my sobriety, I was actively looking forward to a following morning of freshness despite being bored out my skull. Last night I couldn’t have cared less if I’d woken to find England under the rule of screaming French horses.
A short one today, in addition to my malaise I’m up to my cods in work. There’s nothing doing here at the moment so I’m required to actively generate business, which is awfully tiresome. To make up for my lackadaisical frame of mind here’s some stuff that will probably amuse. Now fuck off.
I was forced onto public transport this morning. There were weather reports of snow and I didn’t fancy the slide in, nor the ton of rock salt eating at Brutta’s engine. Of course it’s only fucking raining and so mild I could’ve walked into work wearing my shorts. Actually I could’ve been naked in which case my penis and testicles would’ve been visible. Bloody Met Office. Apparently the BBC are so pissed at them they’re talking about ending their 90 year relationship because they’re hopeless at doing the single thing they’re employed to do, to wit, forecasting the weather. You’ll be pleased to hear that despite making a cow’s arse of forecastingtheweather senior managers at the MO have recently netted over a million quid in bonuses. Isn’t this like a Urologist misdiagnosing a patients condition before pissing on them and getting a golden handshake on the basis that he merely works with piss?
So, on the bus this morning in what felt like the middle of the night, it was as black as your hat outside and London was merely sat at the end of the bed scratching its nuts. The only fortuitous aspect of being up at such an obscene hour is that you can get a window seat on the bus but as the passing views are shrouded in darkness ones gaze is forced onto ones fellow passengers, or commuters if you will.
The male contingent are inclined to board the bus and simply watch the world go by (if they can) the odd few will read, usually a book as there isn’t much room to negotiate the opening and closing of a paper. The females will do pretty much the same but with one important additional activity, they will freely apply make-up to their faces without so much as a by your leave.
I find this frankly bizarre. Surely the point of applying of make-up is to make the best of your appearance, to cover what you feel are the weaker points of your features and highlight the stronger. If this is so, why on earth would you show complete strangers, the very people who are supposedly benefiting from your slap, that you somehow feel that without cosmetics you’re not at your best? Touching up your cosmetic mask is, to some degree understandable, but a large proportion walk onto the bus resembling strawberry milkshake and fuck off like Nefertiti.
Moreover isn’t the process of applying make-up a private thing? To display a state of absorption so overtly in public, as well as making yourself looking like a vain tart, is more of a case of exposure, not masking. It’s a paradox, surely? Or is it that they don’t give a fuck what certain people think, specifically those who they don’t consider remotely important, i.e., me, in order to ‘impress’ the ones they do. I suspect it’s the latter which means that by applying your make-up in public you’re being fucking rude. So, to the blond arsehole gurning into her compact with manicured little fingers scraping pig fat all over her fizzog, and to the perfume-reeking businesses woman poking at her eyeballs with a stick of black blubber, fuck you!
Do enjoy this, it’s quite beautiful and unintentionally hilarious.
I’ve been working like a dog at work, well, comparatively. For the first time in a decade I’m required to seek out new business as opposed to dealing with it as and when it rolls in. I’ve never known it to be so quiet if I’m honest, it’s a little worrying. Maybe I should just jack all this in and re-train as a funeral director, no shortage of work there and I reckon it’d be a right laugh. Death! Ho ho huuuurghhhh.
In many respects yesterday was a non-entity, my journey home was a delightful experience, on arrival Brutta was covered up and I walked inside the Twatcave and bolted the door with every intention of it remaining so until the following morning. Once in nothing significant occurred, I fiddled with the settings on the PS3 and the TV and prepared dinner that included, alongside with Piqued’s Sensational Spudz, ‘greens’.
I’ve not had ‘greens’ since I was at school, I remember them as a pile of wettish green cabbage-like stuff and despite their being boiled half to death I used to secretly like them. I say ‘secretly,’ they were universally despised among my peers so being the lilly livered little git I was, I pretended I hated it too, along with (ironically) liver and spam fritters, the latter were so good I gave up all pretence of my hating them and discovered I was actually respected for my independent thinking, or maybe it was that I was prepared to exchange the loathsome jam roly poly for the fritters. Everyone liked jam roly poly, I thought it was fucking horrific to the point of being sick in the very bowl I’d just eaten them out of one dismal infant school lunchtime.
The greens were steamed for 10 mins and plopped into a frying pan that contained small strips of bacon and tossed all about with small knob of butter. They were heavily seasoned and eaten with the Spudz in a crazed flurry of mastication in front of Wallander which I’d made happen on the TV via the PS3. Fuck they were good.
Inspired by nostalgic eating I found an old recipe for Spam Fritters on the Internet. It’s my duty to give them a shot in order to consolidate my childhood memory of them as a fully realised adult. They’re not what one thinks of as ‘healthy’ and I should imagine they’d have been deep-fried in lard back in the day making them positively lethal, but it has to be done.
My recipe research also answered some more fundamental questions about Spam such as what is it? Well, according to Wikipedia, Spam is the acronym of ‘Shoulder of Pork and Ham’ and was invented in 1937 by the Hormel Food Corporation in Minnesota. This is why during the Second World War the British acronym for Spam was ‘Specially Processed American Meats’ (though this may have been a facetious backronym.) Indeed, Spam Fritters are a throwback to this era when fish was in short supply and the traditionally uninspired British folk wanted something to eat with their chips and mushy peas.
For fucks sake don’t take this the wrong way. This morning I heard the UK government donated 20 million queen heads to the Haitians. How very nice of them to use taxpayer money (well I assume it is?) to help out the humanitarian crisis in Haiti. But I’m a little angry about this. You see, when I’m out and about in the city I’m acutely aware of homeless folk, hundreds of them. When I take the bus into work I see them scattered all about, sleeping in doorways, crashed in parks, begging at tube stations, huddled by churches. In at least two of the homeless ‘hot spots’ in the Eastend a wheelchair stands by the bundle of rags sleeping in the bitter cold. I should imagine these folks would benefit from 20 million quid, as would hospitals, schools, social services… as a tax payer I would very much like 20 million quid to be spent on them, and in the meantime I’m more than happy to donate voluntarily to help out the poor sods overseas suffering from the consequences of an appalling act of nature as opposed to preventable failures in our society.
Despite this early gripe, don’t let it in any way give the impression I had an unpleasant weekend and, despite being in this bloody office, not in the most excellent cheer. My weekend started at Den’s gaff in Hackney with his missus, IC and Chas. We sat about drinking and guffawing and eating fucking crisps until it was time for home and bed, where I managed to sleep for more then 5 hours. I utterly love Fridays, I don’t even mind the day at work and the ride home is always infused with extra joy.
Saturday in Hackney, when I step onto my little bit of Mare Street I always get a peculiar thrill. This probably has a lot to do with the fading memories of that dreadful area in South London where I used to live (and STILL own a fucking flat) which was populated by Cunt and similar types with a few, very few, exceptions. In the old place there was nowhere to go, the ‘high street’ was nearly always empty and the only pub in the area was mournfully dull. There was no energy, buzz, it was dead from the waist down and retarded on the top.
I did my usual routine, got paper, had breakfast, went out. This time it was the turn of Tesco for a spot of food shopping, I bought loads of vegetables as I’m still recovering from the meat festival that took place last month. Once done we popped over to Mary’s salon for some right nice haircuts. My hair is the shortest it’s been since I was born, fat Christ it works. IC and I went back to the flat and weighed up our evening options. In the end we decided to stay in, I made the decision to give stuffed courgettes a shot based on a side dish served by IC’s Aunt at Christmas. We opened some wine and never looked back.
I served the stuffed courgettes (Zucchini Ripieni to give them their correct name) with roasted potatoes and a tomato sauce I made by mixing a can of chopped tomato, wine and seasoning and reducing in the oven. The courgettes were quite fiddly (especially as the breadcrumbs were fresh and they alone took time to prepare) but the result was bloody worth it. We even sat down to eat like civilised people before watching the second half of Mesrine that took us until 2am.
We were up at 10, had breakfast and popped off to the flower market on Columbia Road. For once the weather was nice, it was cold, yes, but sunny. I bought a bucket of plants for a fiver and four pansies for 2 quid, which I slapped in the garden when we got home. Looks right pretty so it does.
Later in the afternoon we watched The Shining on my balls out home cinema wotsit that seriously benefited from being watched in such a complimentary manner. Following this IC and I popped by to see some pals and we aimed our feet for the The Ship with the intention of eating a late dinner. But this wasn’t to be the case, the kitchen was shut and sat in the middle of the pub being waited on were most of our pals. We’d spurned an invitation earlier in the day and I have to say, despite the merry crowd, I think we made the right decision purely for the sake of the hangovers each and everyone must feel today.
After releasing ourselves from their company (it was tempting to stay but sense prevailed) IC and I had a pile of Vietnamese food up the road. Roast pork and rice for me, IC had these huge Mussels in a black bean sauce. Fantastic and cheaper, quite literally, than chips.
So that was it. Another marvellous weekend conquered and fixed.
I’ve no idea how this bitch thinks she has a claim on the money I legitimately received after she, her bank and her solicitors made an utter pigs ear of the purchase of that fucking house in Tooting last November, but apparently she can. Whatever happens this will cost me money, just for my solicitor to respond to a letter costs bloody money and as he’s now working as ‘my solicitor’ rather than the legitimate facilitator in the sale of a property with fixed rates etc., I’m already staring in the chasm of £?.
I’m still waiting for my new purchaser to pull her finger out too, the whole fucking thing is a nightmare, the connection to Cunt is as intact as it was the day I moved out which displeases me immensely and I’m skint again after paying off debts and generally treating the money to come as a given, which it’s not, of course.
In more disappointing revelations the rock salt on the roads hasn’t done Brutta any favours, her engine casing looks as if she’s a dose of the pox. Salt is a corrosive and it has a particular taste for fresh aluminium and steel, the latter has a propensity to rust after the salt has made an inroad so my fucking once pristine exhaust pipe, where it arrives off the manifold, looks like a shitty dick. But this news is only afforded to me because for the second time this year I rode into work, which is wonderful and signifies a new upbeat tone for the rest of today’s post, sort of.
The ride into work was magnificent, save the part where I was nearly killed under the wheels of a fucking lorry making a surprise right hand turn as I was overtaking some traffic in the City. It was down to pure skill on my part that I managed to stop without skidding, and it was a little more than fortunate I’d both brakes covered or you wouldn’t be reading this.
Having to suddenly brake is one of those things all road users are required to do from time to time. You see something that requires immediate action, such as the side of a lorry, and you brain shrieks ‘brake,’ after that it’s a question of time as to whether one will, or won’t, make good of the situation. In this space between braking and the subsequent conclusion of your actions, time warps, it slows whilst your mind zips along in nano seconds for solutions to the matter in hand.
It’s one thing to brake hard in a car to avoid a collision; on a bike there are additional factors to contend with. For a start one has two brakes that need spontaneous correction and adjustment to ensure the bike stops at its optimum distance without sliding or bunging you over the front. In addition to this aspect of maximum braking one must also inspect the surface of the road for anything that could increase the likelihood of a skid. It’s an inexact science this, I was braking hard on a part of the road which isn’t used to constant traffic flow, so it was a little muddy and be-shitted with gravel, so I was prepared, should the front end lose traction, to slam on the rear brake and slide the bike round as a last resort. The initial horror of ‘I’m not going to make this’ to ‘YOU FUCKING FAT CUNT!’ takes a half second to an hour.
Of course I stopped (millimetres to spare, no shit) before unleashing a torrent of abuse at volume, pedestrians and cars stopped to see the source of this commotion but due to my being helmeted, and in the midst of tall buildings, all eyes were on the lorry driving floundering in his cab parked widthways across the road poorly trying to defend himself as he was hit with a stream of revolting conjecture. I had lost the plot, dear reader, so whilst constantly referring to him as unclean female genitals I also reminded him he enjoyed his food a little too much, acted in a despicable manner with own mother, then demanded he perform an aggressive act of fellatio on my person and consume my excrement, before rounding it off with a sincere, ‘I hope you die soon.’ I was livid; it’s a wonder my helmet didn’t pop off.
I had a lovely even with IC that featured Piqued’s Sensational Spudz, what the missus loved, and a movie, Mesrine, which I highly recommend. I also abstained which means I’ve been off the source 3 times this week. I think that’s a record. I fully intend to make up for it this weekend, it’s already packed full of goodies.
Right, Gary’s chart, tune and a request you all have marvellous weekends.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hadouken Turn The Lights Out 27 4
29 Massive Attack Paradise Circus NE 1
28 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 20 12
27 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies 17 10
26 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 29 12
25 Phoenix 1901 28 2
24 Flyleaf Again NE 1
23 Lostprophets Where We Belong 16 6
22 The Temper Trap Fader 13 7
21 AFI Medicate 21 9
20 Plan B Stay Too Long 26 2
19 Muse Undisclosed Desires 14 11
18 I Blame Coco Caesar NE 1
17 Ash Space Shot 23 2
16 Fightstar A City On Fire 9 8
15 Hot Chip One Life Stand 19 3
14 The Courteeners Cross my heart and hope to fly 18 3
13 Ian Brown Just Like You 8 8
12 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 7 11
11 Goldhawks Running Away 12 5
10 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 15 8
9 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 6 10
8 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 22 2
7 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 10 4
6 Placebo Bright Lights 11 3
5 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 4 7
4 Editors You Don’t Know Love 5 4
3 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 2 6
2 Alice In Chains Your Decision 3 3
1 Pearl Jam Got Some 1 7
The snow cleared up almost as fast as it arrived, which was a bit of a pisser because I was enjoying the tantalising prospect of spending a few impromptu days off. Still, I’d made the decision that my Doc Martens were no longer up for the continuing shitty weather so after leaving the office and trudging through the rapidly happening slush I found myself in Covent Garden in the Doc Marten store browsing more contemporary versions of my trusty black 10 holes.
My now ex-Docs were one of the last pairs made in the UK. When I bought them they were being featured next to boxes containing the first of the batches made in Thailand, this was back in the days when they weren’t remotely in vogue so they were only £60. They’ve served me incredibly well but over the last few months the sole has split and I got sick of super-gluing them together. During Italy water started to get in so it was only a matter of time they’d need replacing and I figured sale-season was the best time, though so far nothing I want has been included in any fucking sale on account of my excellent taste.
After much bumbling on account of the shop staff, with a bit of my own chucked in for good measure, 30 mins after entering I walked off with a pair of 8 hole jobs with a toe cap. They’re as tall as my old pair but are satisfactorily the same, but slightly different, as the classic pair I’ve gently packed away in my flat. My newly purchased footwear and I met up with my bro in Seven Dials and we marched off to The Ship on Wardour St. to meet Harry, Frank and the two Robs to break my 2-day drinking amnesty. Lovely evening I must say, in addition to the company and ale the music was bloody marvellous, even The Dead Kennedys got a spin. By the time I hit the tube at 11 I was a bit squify, on account of the recent spell of dryness and the fact I’d forgotten to eat (and wasn’t prepared to do so at such a late hour) it was as if I was 8 pints down or so. The tube journey came and went in a flash with my i-pod inserted into my ear canal in order to save my fellow passengers from an onslaught of horrific black metal.
Oh, some good news, my ex-buyer, the one whose deposit I won after her bank fucked the deal up is trying to sue me to claim it back. So there’s some news right there. Jesus Christ.
The insomnia is getting a bit better, just under 5 hours last night but on account of the general lack of sleep I’m suffering from weird adverse effects.
It’s well know that The Surrealists would use sleep deprivation as a way of causing them to ‘see’ from an alternative angle of conscious. Some of the advantages gained by this method for making are having unadvantageous benefits for fucking existing. So far symptoms include: seeing things that aren’t there, issues speaking without sounding like I’m on medication, almost falling asleep in public then leaping awake wondering where the cunting heck I am and, for some reason, perpetually eating. My general aspect is polarised between being wired or semi-alive, both allow me to remotely view myself. Great.
This morning I left IC’s at 6 for my flat after lying awake for a bit. Six doesn’t usually exist for me in this direction so it was very odd being up and about and drinking tea at a time when I’m usually dreaming of cock. I checked some emails, took a shower and left for the office at a ludicrous 7, which was rather fortuitous as it’d begun to snow. This flurry was completely unexpected because in London we’re not allowed to know what the weather is doing because as soon as you mention ‘London’ to anyone not in it they moan about how the UK is so Londoncentric blah blah balls, so London gets lumped into ‘The South East,’ which is pretty poor going when you consider the population of the Capital City is 7.2 million, over 6 million more than Birmingham the second largest city in the UK, and anyway it’s better than anywhere else anyway so help me god. The Queen lives here for fucks sake, so do both Punt and Dennis, you do the math.
Anyway, it’s been snowing like a cunt so instead of sitting at home sipping tea and enjoying watching Lara Croft fall to her death for the hundredth time I’m sat in a lonely office trying not to sleep at my desk. It’s also more slippery underfoot than Derek Acorah’s bum crack in El Azizia, so I need to take time on my way to meeting the chaps for a beer to purchase some more bloody boots as my Docs resemble slick tyres, on acid, or something.
Speaking of soothing beer, wine, spirits et al, I did another night free from the booze, two nights so help me god. Two.
The tune was recommended by JonR who posts on this drivel from time to time. I got him into Hawkwind after bowling a googly about Neil from the Young Ones, he was so keen to prove himself right that he did some research to discover that Hawkwind invented the Four Elements and starred in and directed Duck Soup.
