Archive for August, 2007

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sweet feet

August 31, 2007

Christ, I really do have a hangover. Actually, I think I’m still drunk. I went out with my bro last night; we hadn’t hooked up in a while so the ‘couple of pints’ turned into 3 pints and a large scotch. The evening ended with a killer idea as what to do for dad’s 70th birthday next March, if it comes good you’ll be informed. Probably.

This wasn’t the entire reason for the hangover. I got home at a reasonable 8.30 had a hot bath and made sardines on toast following a sort of pre-menstrual craving for them as I was coming back on the tube. For some absurd reason, following the bath, I was feeling, well, great. Sort of thirty-something death restlessness. Looking back on it I put this squarely at the ironic feet of yesterdays new shoe purchase. To someone who is blessed with OCD new shoes are akin to Hugh Hefner and rabbits.

I bought them yesterday afternoon. Being a chap who lives in Converse, the baseball high tops, classic black fellows with white rubber trim -I even wear the full white ones to functions when required to don a fucking whistle- new footwear is a strange animal in my zoo. I bought them specifically for next weeks fucking weekend shafting work function but they are sleazy enough to cope with the following weekends shenanigans in Leeds, all will become clear in due course dear reader. They’re light tan coloured Chelsea boot with a zip up the side, not my usual fare, I wear black, largely, but these Phalange and Metatarsal houses are simply beautiful, all singing and dancing fucking leather.

So lovely are they and so delighted was I with my purchase that I decided to celebrate with a whisky and ginger, then another, then, oddly, with some Sake. Then a bit more. I’d forgotten how much I liked the stuff, so I reminded myself again before hitting the hay at 3am, following miniscule re-arrangements of my furniture and fucking coasters (bizarrely), quite pissed but as happy as freed sex slave.

It’s the weekend so shortly you’ll be subject to the filth and oddities people type into google before they arrive on this site prior to rapidly leaving. Firstly, a very important mention to Hilly Crystal, founder of CBGB, who died yesterday. I went to CBGB last year the day before it shut, in addition to briefly meeting Hilly I found out from a journalist why he closed the club in NYC, it had fuck all to do with rent.

Have good weekends, Jonty to win. You heard me.

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2007-08-29
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2007-08-28
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2007-08-27
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2007-08-26
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2007-08-25
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…God it gets worse.

RIP Hilly

Posted in CBGB, Metatarsal, Phalange, chelsea boots, got the life, hilly crystal, hugh hefner, korn | Leave a Comment »

quickie

August 30, 2007

I’m not going to dwell on the fact that I was meant to be going to San Francisco this evening to ride across the states, I refuse to. Do you hear?

I’ve been torturing myself watching The Long Way Round with Myfwt (review in WWM, link to the…oh you know) and last night they hit Alaska, they’re both getting all excited because they’re soon to be in fucking New fucking bastard York. I refuse to dwell on this.

Following the damn good thrashing I gave my black bitch on Sunday, she loved it, I’m now paying the piper, me, then. This morning there was hardly enough juice in the battery to turn the motor over so when I arrived at work I removed it from it’s housing and brought it into the office. I have a battery charger I keep knocking about for such emergencies; I’m thoughtful like that. Anyway, in the process of removing said battery I noticed the oil level has disappeared, there is no water in the radiator reservoir, the chain is so dry that if one were to add boiling water to it, leave to stand for 5 minutes, stir in some soy sauce, it would be ready to eat.

Right, short Piqued today. I did mention this might happen, I have to sneakily do some work on the book in addition to the stuff required of me in the bloody office.

Saw this lot at Kingston Poly in 1989; the bands parents were there. Perhaps more significantly, waiting for them to appear on stage, it was also the first time I heard Nirvana, I thought they were terrible for exactly 10 seconds, before suddenly getting swallowed up. Oddly about 20 minutes later I ’got’ Joy Division

Posted in charlie boorman, ewan mcgregor, joy division, kingston poly, long way round, ride | Leave a Comment »

wurk orifice

August 29, 2007

The first day back in the office following a bank holiday is akin to the train journey to a forced Russian Labour Camp. Most of the time work is like standing on the platform waiting for the train. Obviously actually being at work isn’t as bad as the Gulag, that would be ridiculous. Unless it’s the first day in after Christmas. The only reason Piqued began was because I needed to take my mind off the comforting thought of a hot bath with a bottle of scotch and 50 paracetamol.

Yesterday was awful, I floundered and farted about, I was tired, bored and choc full o’ disillusion. As I festered in my chair weakly making calls to clients and reading every single online newspaper article a dozen times, each hour that was willed on to 5pm was another towards my fucking grave. This isn’t right I concluded, this is very wrong, I decided. Fucking Protestant work ethic. I don’t even believe in god for Pete’s sake.

Thank Pete, then, for the pub and pals. My entire focus of the day revolved around a seat round a table with a round of booze. When I arrived at just after 6.30 at the small but perfectly formed hostelry behind Leicester Square, Den and Harry were already ensconced. I slid into the conversation and we were off, I could feel my internal organs unwind as we chatted away. A part of the conversation was about work, not so much in terms of what we do but how it operates with regard to the affect on our lives. Both my companions don’t have a fixed timetable of work as I do; subsequently their salaries aren’t fixed either, but from my seat it seems that despite the latter -which isn’t a major issue if one is organised- not having a fixed consistent work structure isn’t just better for the individual’s lifestyle, the time to work ratio is significantly improved too. The amount of hours I, my colleagues, the work force of the UK waste because of having to be in situation between certain hours is relatively impossible to quantify. But everyone whose ever worked in a fucking office will know that one works in fits and starts, worse still, one spends a good deal of time in the office doing absolutely nothing related to the job they’re employed to do. Is it any wonder we’ve no industry anymore?

Den wandered off to catch his train leaving Harry and I to our own alcohol devices when all of a sudden the bar was filled with 20 something’s all being 20 something. Some of them looked familiar, then to my horror I realised I was surrounded by most of the cast and crew of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please, that wasn’t metaphorical by the way, it was actually them.

Those of you that have been reading Watch With Mothers (link to the right of these wordz) will know that this TV show has become somewhat of an issue. Nothing happened by the way, I didn’t flip out and start pissing on them or anything, I just thought it was worth a mention…

So back off. Okay.

Well that’s the highlight of my day over, better do some work, after a cigarette, another coffee and a dump. Then lunch.

Posted in gulag, in the end, linkin park, protestant work ethic, two pints of lager and a packet of crisps please | Leave a Comment »

bark holiday

August 28, 2007

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.

Posted in George Frederick Watt, Pepperami, Triumph Speed Triple, box hill, crash test dummies, scrapheap challenge, valentino rossi | Leave a Comment »

close shave

August 24, 2007

The cold that I was convinced I’d contracted yesterday has mysteriously vanished; the only possible explanation is that I literally shat it out of my system. All the nonsense about dysentery being responsible for millions of deaths in third world countries, its literally shit, right. It’s their immune systems responding in the logical way for fucks sake. The World Health Organisation, Medicine San Frontieres, Red Cross, the whole lot are stupid cunts who know nothing. I’ll tell you something else, most of the ‘at risk’ third world kids, the ‘starving’ ‘ill’ ones? All have fat stomachs; too many crisps and sweets. It’s a fucking con, I’m just sorry Geldof and Mr. Bono got dragged into this mess.

Yesterday at work was a bit of a pisser. We have a member of staff here, he’s an anachronism, a rotund old duffer with a comb over and cut glass accent, camper than Quinten Crisp doing ballet on Doily, he’s an ex-headmaster of a public school for musically talented boys until a stroke forced an early retirement. He’s only just 60 but is as fragile as a 90-year-old man standing in the eye of a storm; everyone is very fond of him, so when he didn’t turn up for work earlier this week a few eyebrows were raised. It was very out of character of him to not ring, I mean this is a chap who calls to tell us when he’s going be 5 minutes late. When he didn’t show up the day after that, despite numerous calls to his address and ringing round hospitals (he has recently been having tests and is on some heavy medications for a multitude of problems) I called the police.

The officer at the end of the phone took the matter seriously, after being asked pedantic questions about my colleague that just stopped short at the diameter of his right bollock I was informed by plod that they’d check out his property and get right back to me. A sense of gloom descended over the office, everyone convinced he was lying dead in his flat in Soho with his beloved cat, emaciated and shivering, licking a cold staring eyeball.

By 4pm I’d not heard anything so I called the police again. Bafflingly there was no record of my previous call; infuriatingly I was passed from one Police Station to the other in order to speak to someone that could help. Finally an officer took the matter seriously and assured me he’d dispatch a car to my colleagues address. Following the 30-minute call I went outside for a cigarette when my mobile rang. It was the police again telling me they were going to send a car, now. I told them that another police officer had arranged for that and politely suggested they fucking well communicate with each other and that my confidence in their ability to do one simple thing was being compromised to breaking point. It was just then the officer put me on hold. I was then informed of the matter thus, ‘Mr. Piqued, yes, a car was despatched to the address of your colleague 45 minutes after you called, he’s fine’.

Bank holiday weekend so there may or may not be a piqued on Monday. Whatever.

Right, weekly round up of the perverts and weirdos that happen onto this site without personal recommendations. Oh, would the person/people who regularly enquire about the size of Big Brother’s Ziggy cock fucking die, I was saying Ziggy IS a cock, anyway, it’s minute. Happy now?

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2007-08-22
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2007-08-21
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2007-08-20
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2007-08-19
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2007-08-18
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silvia saint pictures 1
womens big arseholes 1
boils behind the ears 1
“hairy tea cup” surrealism 1
jimmy cleft reggae 1
hairy bikers theme tune 1
motogp theme song 1
surealism (rene magritte)-painted bottle 1
ziggy’s cock pict 1
WALLPAPER BUKKAKE 1
fugazi bread 1
Julian Rhind-Tutt 2007 1
Lara Croft Was Fat And Grown 1

…last entry makes sense *gulp*

Saxondale was on last night, the theme tune is by a 70’s outfit called Focus, this is bloody ace, it’s not dubbed I can assure you, it’s 100% live. Acid anyone?

Posted in Medicine San Frontieres, bob geldof, bono, focus, hocus pocus, quinten crisp, red cross, saxondale, world health organisation | Leave a Comment »

poison the well

August 23, 2007

Perhaps one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a bloody good shit whilst reading Viz. I’ve tried it with motorcycle magazines, books, newspapers… No. It has to be Viz and it has to be one of those turds that fall out of one following a gentle contraction, similar to the inertia of pushing a small child down a hill on a sledge, and allowing gravity to take control.

This delight was the antithesis of what occurred this morning. I have a hangover, entirely my fault, met Frank last night for a few and fell into a bottle of wine which inspired an OCD episode that perpetuated more wine, which beget OCD, at the time it’s a wonderful vicious circle. I usually wake up to find all my furniture has been slightly adjusted for ergonomic / aesthetic purposes, that I’ve made radical decisions, minutiae to the untrained eye but to me essential progressive developments in the living space. Obviously the following day the previous nights concerns aren’t as valid as they were at the time, but I always appreciate what my drunk OCD self has done with the place, it’s rather like realising one is fucking unhinged.

Anyway, back to the shit. I woke up late after failing to hear the radio click on at the designated time, deaf in my right ear again, and hurriedly rushed to get dressed, get the tooth poo out of my mouth and gulp down life affirming water. I vetoed the decision to fucking cycle or drive, I wanted to ride, and it was just as I about to fasten the strap on my crash helmet when I felt a twinge in my botty and the dead weight of a few pounds of masticated pasta, sausage, onion, broccoli in a parsley and garlic sauce with two pints of Fosters a bottle of Beaujolais and a handful each of cheese balls and onion rings drop into the back of my plumbing.

Like some lunatic stripper I discarded a mountain of clothing in 20 seconds, drop gloves, helmet off, rucksack down, bike jacket flung, roll down heavy duty trousers over boots, this is particularly hassley, though vital unless one wants to shit with one knees together, sexy little panties off and before back skin had touched chod bin I was farting through a rip curl of effluvia. I’d not eaten any peppers yet this jet of misery was boiling fucking hot, ouch, actually. It was only when I was sat there following the decision to not read Viz as the circumstances were incorrect that I noticed my nose was running and that, over and above the hangover, I felt fucking ill.

So that’s it. I’m with another cold, not content with living in my face it’s also made home in my arsehole, I’m on my 4th bloody plops today, the last 3 have had to be undertaken at work. It’s one thing to have what can politely be described as a ‘tummy upset’ at home where hound of the baskerville growls and barks just occur for ones amusement, and another to be sat feet away from colleagues separated only by a flimsy door and sounding like Iraq.

I’ve tried laying tissue paper over the water to dull the sound but I’m just firing right through it, the distraction cough isn’t of any use, apart from increasing the pressure of the shit-jet, I actually fired over the trench an hour ago, it’s impossible to follow the complex patterns of sound. Instead I’m using the ignition method, one is switching ones engine off and on using a well-honed muscle, when running the engine is backfiring somewhat.

One of the best bassists in the business, I’m off to empty my back.

Posted in cheese balls, firehose, mike watt, napoleon cockaparte loves cooking, ocd, onion rings, viz | 2 Comments »

yukka fukka

August 22, 2007

I’m not in the best of fucking moods.

I was forced to drive in this morning, as I was yesterday but for two entirely different reasons. The flat tyre on the bicycle required reparation; this was successfully undertaken at lunch. That morning I could’ve taken public transport into work and cycled back home but it was all wind and wee wee so I opted for the van from the outset and picked the bike up and brought it home.

Today, it’s all fucking wind and rain (it’s christing August) but I was genuinely intending to cycle, well I was last night until the plant pot exploded. If you read yesterdays babble you’ll have come across my cod-scientific explanation for the peculiar rodent-like sounds emitting from ‘behind’ my TV. I blamed the mirror glass cracking from heat. Last night during Tribe, I even explained the phenomenon to Myfwt, a glass expert incidentally, and despite looking bemused she didn’t throw up much objection, unlike Bruce Parry who was throwing his heels out of his chin at the time. In hindsight she probably wasn’t listening.

Anyway, later on Myfwt went off to powder her bean and I undertook the usual pre-bed ritual, clean up glasses, empty ashtrays, water plant…a simple task, all I have to do is fill a glass bulb attached to long tube with water and insert the tube into the soil, the plant then helps itself. The ready made hole in the soil has been in the same place for nearly two years but for some reason last night I couldn’t get the angle right so I shoved extra hard (this isn’t some sort of coded euphemism for anything by the way) and with an audible bang the plant pot separated in four different directions. A split second before it went, I heard the ‘rodent’ noise.

I’ve not re-potted my houseplant, a fucking enormous yukka, for 3 years. Despite its growing well in that time I just figured that the pot would simply limited its size, I wasn’t expecting the pressure of the pedantic roots to actually crack and break half an inch of fired pottery.

The upshot of all this crap was that I had to drive in this very morning in order to get a new fucking plant pot before my yukka decides to wander off on it’s own and take a bath. On my way to work I stopped off at Homebase, grabbed a white ceramic plant pot thing and some more potting soil and went on to work.

Feeling the glow off success following the completion of a necessary task I parked on the contentious gravel space in the front of the office, aware of my colleagues coming and goings, I made sure there was plenty of room for them to manoeuvre their vehicles (taking into account most motorist drive like cunts) and applied my handbrake. Suddenly my boss appeared waving his arms, ‘you can’t park there, you can’t park there’ he freaked. ‘No problem, I’ll move…’ I said, dead casual like.

It was a pointless operation, I was perfectly situated, moving to the other side of the lot wouldn’t make the blind bit of difference, no bother though. I switched on the engine and started to make up the angles for the manoeuvre. My boss remained on the lot, I could feel him glaring at me. Just as I was at the optimum angle to plant the van in the newly designated zone, I was informed by my boss that I wouldn’t be able to make it and to return to my original position. Of course I could’ve fucking made it, unless you’ve driven a white Transit you’ll be unaware of their incredible turning circle, they’re like black cabs. I objected briefly, by now returning to my original position was genuinely difficult… for fucks sake.

Ten fucking minutes it took getting it back to where it had been some 15 minutes earlier. Fantastic way to begin a miserable fucking Wednesday.

Let this run for a bit, let it run…

Posted in alex newport, bruce parry, christing, homebase, max cavalera, nailbomb, soulfly, yukka plant | 48 Comments »

blast it

August 21, 2007

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from Jack. It wasn’t god news at all.

Basically, his brother is having a bit of a time of it in Sweden; detail isn’t necessary but the long and the short of its simple, bike trip in crisis.

This came as somewhat of a blow, since deciding I was going to do this thing, as explained in last weeks Piqued, my head has been full of it (that’s ‘it’ dear reader) and whilst the trip’s not cancelled, it’s not fixed either. Jack and I discussed alternative dates, most likely 20th to 30th of September but until I’ve actually ordered the flights, there will be no more conjecture on this topic either in my head or on the page.

Before he goes to Sweden Jack is flying into London this week, we can discuss it in more detail then. I’ll probably post the news. If I feel like it.

Following the disappointing news, yesterday was a bit of a dirge, on leaving the office I discovered my bicycle had a flat tyre, great, luckily I got a lift most of the way home with a mate and before returning to my flat pitted at the cycle shop to get a new inner tube.

I met Frank in the pub for a couple, I offloaded my motorcycle emptiness into his lap and returned home before 8.30 to shower and eat. Feeling rather keen to focus my attentions on anything un-bike related I decided to watch films, starting with a rented copy of The Night Whisperer which had some highlights but was essentially cack. I followed this up with Wrong Turn, a wrong move in itself as it was set in one of the fucking states I was looking forward to visiting, ‘you still will’ I told myself. Terrible film but with some nice touches. By now it was getting late, after midnight, but I wasn’t done. Anyway I was recovering from some trauma earlier in the evening

Earlier in the evening I’d heard a noise in the lounge, a mousy noise. The noise seemed to be coming from behind the TV but there was no evidence of disturbance or mice related activity. An hour after the first incident of sound, it happened again, this time louder and more definite. Now I was starting to get the fear, regular readers will know I’m no fan of rodents and had defaulted to being on tenterhooks. At about 11.30 the sound came again, this time it was fucking loud, to loud for a mouse, a rat even.

Logic prevailed but it was very obscure. I have a spot light behind the TV suspended over a mirror, it’s a simple light effect device, looks rather good when you consider the TV is mounted on glass bricks… Anyway, the heat from the light has gradually taken its toll on the mirror glass; the sound was small parts of it cracking and shattering. Phew.

So relieved was I that before watching The Ordeal, a fucking brilliant Belgium film, I had a wee scotch. In the kitchen noticed that Cunt had left the light on in the garden again. This infuriated me, he regularly leaves fucking lights on when he’s not in, TV’s too (not radios he’s way too fucking stupid for them) and it’s not as if the parasite contributes to the world in any capacity, in fact he’s the antithesis of it, he does nothing but take and shits misery into the void.

We don’t need Richard Dawkins to tell us god doesn’t exist, simply present Cunt to The Royal Society. Such a creature would have never been allowed to live (nor beget life) if there was an intelligent being responsible for the universe.

Posted in calvaire, manic street preachers, motorcycle emptiness, night whisperer, the ordeal, west virginia, wrong turn | Leave a Comment »

sleazy rider

August 20, 2007

I really should’ve thought it through, I mean I heard Cunt go out about 10 mins before us but thought no more of it outside of ‘I hope he dies this time’.

It was a lovely Friday evening; Myfwt and I decided to hit the local, her friend was supposed to have been joining us but blew us out at the 11th hour, much to the dismay of Myfwt who felt it a little, well, off.

As soon as we walked into the bar I heard a familiar stifled-grunting, like a pig successfully locating offal, ‘Do you know of a *insert our respective names here* as I think they ordered a cab…’ He turned to us with an obsequious grin and approached us with his cunting pint. Myfwt immediately began texting ‘someone’ and outside of a vague snarl utterly ignored him, even when he commented on her height, which he always does. The cunt.

I was treated to his latest psychosis, apparently he’s ‘fucking made it’ on the strength that he’s going to e-mail picures of his ‘paintings’ (I wish you could see these things, one doesn’t know whether to fall over laughing or pluck off ones cock, laughing) to Saatchi’s website. That’s it. ‘You may know I’m a musician but I’m an artist too…’ he said to me. Myfwt had had enough, ‘I’m going outside’, she said chillingly, which was perfectly timing as I was just about to cross the line from simply just imagining his gormless visage with bits of my pint glass stuck in it, ‘I’ll join you’ I said.

On Saturday evening we went over to meet Jamie and Alison for dinner. Alison is pregnant so was unable to drink, Jamie, Myfwt and I made up for it, champagne followed by Rose, then Claret, then Whiskey, Whisky and Grappa. The food was excellent, the company splendid and requires no detail than that, though it’s worth mentioning the cheesecake hitting the floor wrong side up due to out hosts inherent, perpetual compromise in the ways of gravity and objects therein.

The rest of the weekend passed in a most delightful way, we visited my niece on Sunday, she’s doing great but my sister isn’t, she may require a blood transfusion on account of losing so much blood and the subsequent iron deficiency. Last week she called my brother in law into the bathroom which in his works resembled Jeffrey Dahmer’s shed, claret all over the place, my sister fresh caesarean wound had split open and was pumping liquid out. The little person that was lying asleep in my arms is certainly making mum and dad earn their dues for creating such beauty.

Over the weekend I spoke to Jack, we’ve altered our plans slightly. Now both machines are to be shipped to San Francisco, I’ll fly directly there in under 2 weeks. Jack and I will then ride down the Californian coast via LA before heading up through Nevada to Utah, after spending a few days on the salt flats we’ll ride east to Colorado and the Grand Canyon and get on the Skywalk. We’ll then continue east and ride straight into New York, essentially, home.

I need to buy some new leather motorcycle trousers; there is no getting away from it. My current pair are just too tight. I reckon half a day in those and my balls would end up either side of my neck.

Posted in dennis hopper, east rider, peter fonda, skywalk grand canyon, the byrds, wasn't born to follow | 4 Comments »

hindironhorse

August 17, 2007

Since making the decision to do the trip with Jack, my mind has been trying to second-guess what will or might happen. It’s addictive trying to picture hotels, motels, restaurants, diners, not to mention the roads from a birds eye bikes eye view. One of the roads is 1000 miles long it passes through Nebraska, Wyoming before it hits Utah. I can see the bloody thing already.

For the most part I’m looking forward to it but a part of me wants to get into bed and roll over. I’m what you might call a hindsight traveller, I’ve thoroughly loved all the places I’ve visited and in every instance had a fantastic time, but it’s usually in retrospect. Of course there are moments when you’re right there saying to yourself, ‘this is fucking wonderful’ but shortly afterwards I’m usually working out the proximity of time to getting back to my flat, Myfwt, mates, family, PC.

The time between now and my leaving will become slightly otherworldly, as if the confidence gained from doing such a journey has made a deposit in my psyche. Last night I met up with Frank and his brother in The Fox off the Tottenham Court Road, the tube journey was, instead of being the usual panic on a hair trigger, a chance to finish off Michael Simpkins excellent book on Cricket, and I don’t even like cricket.

Walking to the pub from the tube I felt alive, sharp and thoroughly distracted by thoughts of the trip to come, as the booze slid down second guessing became a thrill, this was certainly fuelled by Frank who has already visited some of the places we’re headed for.

We didn’t overstay our time in The Fox, it’s still one of the best pubs in town but it’s a shadow of it’s former self. I said a fond farewell to my companions at Tooting and got back home in time for toasties and pre-quiz TV. By now my mind had virtually completed the trip and Jack and I were in a pool in LA drinking things in V shaped glasses with umbrellas poking out.

I have a shit lot to do before I leave in just under a fortnight. In addition when I get back mid September it’s going to take a time to write up my notes. Point here is that Piqued might be a bit patchy for the next week or two before going dark totally for a fortnight. Normal service will be resumed by the end of September.

I’ll leave you with the usual disturbing list of wankers that come to this site by foul means or fair, usually the former.

Search Terms for 7 days ending 2007-08-17
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2007-08-15
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(I saw this on TOTP with mum and dad, both laughed at the Eskimo Nell reference, they were subsequently interrogated. Nice weekends all)

Posted in eskimo nell, fatty batter, girlschool, michael simpkins, nebraska, utah, wyoming | 6 Comments »

holy shitz

August 16, 2007

On Tuesday lunchtime, in the pissing rain, I jumped on the black bitch and rode over to Clapham to see Myfwt for lunch, it was chucking it down but nonetheless, the ride was good.

Yesterday I had a meeting in Bloomsbury, at midday I jumped on the black bitch in the sunshine to meet a client for a lunch, it was a sunny and dry, the ride was excellent.

On my return to the office I get a mail from my mate in New York inviting me to meet him in Manhattan at the end of the month, jump on a silver bitch to see the world land speed record in Utah, the ride will be 4000 miles there and back…

Immediately my head began to boil, I’m a crap traveller at the best of times and as I get older the thought of putting myself in any situation where the outcome could result in something negative occurring, despite the benefits, are simply unattractive.

Take into the consideration the expense of the trip, the hassle of having to physically undertake such a huge distance; the whole element of the ‘unknown’ screamed a loud ‘no’ into my stomach.

But I thought through it, this was the opportunity of a lifetime, even if it could contribute towards its cessation. To see America on a motorcycle, indeed, virtually the same machine as my black bitch, already organised by my mate in the states who himself isn’t the sort of chap to deliberately put himself in harms way, I’d be a cunt to refuse his offer.

In addition I’d have a chance to see some of the fastest moving motorcycles on the planet in a place synonymous with speed, the Bonneville salt flats, the inspiration behind the same of my favourite bike of all time… like I said, I’d be a cunt to refuse.

I need to start making plans.

Posted in bonneville, chris spedding, motorbikin, salt flats utah | Leave a Comment »

lardarse

August 15, 2007

Yesterday after work I shot home, dumped the bike gear, grabbed a coat and brolly and got on board the tube with a view to seeing my bro. It was about 5.45. Already on the tube were a couple, both were extremely fat and both were wielding enormous bags of fast food. One of them produced a hamburger that resembled a run over pigeon, he waggled the object in his partners face so the pulverised filling slapped back and forth in the spongy bun and, judging only by his intonation as his speech was affected by his weight, he asked her a question. She examined the contents of his food, and squeaked back a positive answer. The man paused for a second, looked back at his food, shrugged and bit his burger in half with a grunt.

The smell of their food hit me, it was nauseating, like cooking oil that had coagulated through over use. I considered moving but felt that I wasn’t going to give in to anti social behaviour. I take dim view of fast foods in the first place, especially when it’s perfectly fucking obvious that it’s the last thing you need to be filling your face with, then to consume it in an enclosed space such as a tube is tantamount to pissing on the seats and smearing shit on the windows.

The burger man was on his second when the women, dressed in a t-shirt and jogging pants (surely the ultimate irony) began loudly sucking on a yellow rectangular thing. Such was her enthusiasm for this object she managed to get half of it down her throat without really noticing that the breathing/air thing that keeps us alive was being compromised. I watched her as her eyes rolled in her head for a split second before she choked the food out of her face and began to loudly hack, not bothering to cover her mouth I hasten to add, though she was firmly focussed on the yellow -now drooping- rectangular thing. Her partner didn’t flinch; he was on his yellow rectangular thing too though it would seem he could only eat his whilst sucking through a straw that entered an enormous bucket sized vessel.

This staggering display of gluttony and anti-social behaviour was still taking place when I alighted some 15 minutes later, and judging by the bags around looked as if there was no signs of stopping. How fucking ill mannered and selfish.

Short Piqued today, I’m busy. Please now turn over to watch with mothers (link to the right) where I’ve reviewed that Bernard Matthews prick.

Posted in bernard matthews, screaming trees | 9 Comments »

morsel of the universe

August 14, 2007

I spent yesterday evening in the pub in the company of two teachers and a deputy head. It was very interesting picking up on the day-to-day delights of working with kids, but what was more of an issue was the whole machine of the education system. The old cliché of public money being spent on phoney overseas wars and teachers in ever expanding classrooms in failing schools being paid beans permeated my thoughts like a left over member of Kinnock’s Labour Party. I drank 3 and half pints, did a quick scotch and walked home.

By the time I got back it was past 10, not being arsed to cook I toasted some pitta bread which I scissored into shards and used them to dip into a fresh pot of Taramasalata and smoked salmon. It was delicious, moorish, then slightly nauseating. I ate it all.

On BBC4 there was a programme about Time. For BBC4 it could’ve been considered a little patronising, but for a chap who’d had a few pints and suffers from numerical dyslexia it was fucking mind blowing. Apparently the earth is something like 4000 million years old. Obviously this is a lot but such a large number doesn’t really mean much, my tiny little mind can’t comprehend it. To help us (me) to comprehend the presenter did the following.

In his apartment in New York at one end of a 7-foot long table he put a little photo of himself down, 10 cms behind that he put a photo of him as a baby, each cm represented 5 years. At the other end of the long table he put down a little shield to represent the time the Romans invaded Britain. He then walked out of his apartment, got into his car and drove to San Francisco, some 2500 miles away. And that demonstrates how old the earth is…to understand such an enormous figure caused my tongue to come out of my face. Following this revelation I saw a programme on the Atom, not having had the slightest interest in science, such things involve too many numbers, I was really pushing it in terms of taking on new information. I was squiffy, it was gone midnight. I rolled a joint. At about 12.45, I got it; I actually understood what the fuck an atom was, how it worked, what it meant, dammit all. I stood up enlightened as if to get the information into my system. I felt liberated but then, yes, a part of the universe in which I occupied, one vibrating hum of randomly moving matter, everything around me, my flesh, these walls, my whisky, (my winkie) Christ, Moby was right, we are all made of stars!

I woke up this morning with a hangover and I’ve forgotten most of the atom shit, balls. I can tell you though that Taramasalata makes you do the most incredible farts.

It’s horrid day to day; the summer seems to have fucked off under a rock. Christ, autumn is coming. When I began Piqued in January I was at least facing forward towards spring. Now should you wish to stay, you will have to endure me sliding gradually towards the dark and misery of another bleak and miserable British winter. I fucking hate it.

I should’ve mentioned this yesterday that Tony Wilson turned up his toes over the weekend. Great loss, bit of a berk sometimes but ultimately a top chap.

Posted in joy division, love will tear us apart, moby, neil kinnock, taramasalata, tony wilson | 2 Comments »

avuncular mutterings

August 13, 2007

Cunt, downstairs, has no friends. Please don’t let me be accused over emphasising this, he’s friendless. One or two people have been over since he entered the place like a smell a few years back, literally, one or two, but they’ve never returned. When there have been twats downstairs stupid enough to visit you can here this perpetual fawning goof-laugh before he subjects them to his out of tune/time anti-virtuosity performance on his fucking daddy-bought instrument. Such is his isolation, he’s always ‘in’, that he’s slipped into a make believe world. Whenever I’ve the misfortune to have contact with his fucking face, he’s always clad in designer dark glasses and a baseball hat, fully togged up in Hollyoaks Teen TV ad gear. Just pause to think about that, what can be going through his tiny little mind? No one can see him, only he, and if I’m unlucky, I. He’s truly deranged.

Something good must come from having to put up with such a cunt. It seems that something has. Today I finished all the initial planning to begin the new book; he’s inspired me to write another novel. If vengeance can’t be mine in reality, I don’t see why I can’t sabotage his fantasy world by creating one designed to off his. I mention this only because the extra workload may affect this blog on occasion.

After the usual horror of Sainsbury on Saturday, I returned back to the flat, unpacked my groceries and got dressed in my motorcycle gear. Usually I just wear a jacket, jeans and boots but if I’m going out of London on fast roads it’s time to don the leathers and earplugs. My sister, brother in law and niece live in Surrey and I was going to pay them a visit, for the first time in the case of my niece. Earlier that day, 9.08 to be precise, I was in the process of emptying my back when the doorbell went. With no time to lose I jettisoned the bum cigar, grabbed my Yukata (look it up if you don’t know) and belted downstairs to catch the bloke from City Link before he got back in his van and fucked off. On Friday afternoon I’d bought my niece, Institute, a babygro. It cost me more to have the bloody thing delivered next day than the item itself. So what if I looked like a bleary-eyed fairy stinking of cack at the front door of my flat? This was for my niece and I’d just undertaken the first of many vaguely embarrassing Uncle-related tasks. It felt good.

Suited and booted I got on my black bitch, I stopped at the closest garage to check my tyre pressures, then another further down the road to buy some flowers and fags. When I got back on the bike it wouldn’t fucking start. I instantly flew into a combination of rage and panic, I did what any self-respecting biker would do in such a situation, called dad. As luck would have it he was only 10 minutes away after having picked up my bro and his missus from Clapham. I got a jump-start and continued on my way leaving my family miles behind in an instant.

It was a gorgeous day, perfect for being on a bike; the air was still so no wind to impede progress. Once out on the A3 I gave it some stick. The bike responded in a goose pimple-inducing roar and before I’d checked I was doing in access of 140. To those that don’t ride it’s virtually impossible to describe what it feels like to be moved through the world in such a manner, to feel all that power underneath you, to have total control of your destiny, assuming some cunt in four wheels doesn’t do something silly, and it feels wonderful. When the going is good you can feel the woes of existence blow off you as you slice through the atmosphere, indeed, you actually acknowledge the process of relaxation, it makes you physically smile, sometimes laugh, shout, scream. As you pass other bikers on machines with similar spec it is the done thing for one to nod at the other. This isn’t done because of some sense of brotherly duty, it’s done simply out of a sense of understanding. Putting it frankly, one is congratulating the other on knowing how it good it feels.

I arrived at my sister’s house grinning from ear to ear. She opened the door slowly and I could see through the house behind her into the garden where my brother in law, Mark, was holding his daughter, my niece. Virtually pushing my sister aside I made a beeline for her. Mark wordlessly offered her up and, still in my gear, I held her for the first time. I’d like it made clear here and now that I am very well versed in aesthetics, if the kid had one of those faces that only a mother can love I’d say so. Similarly, if the kid was actually beautiful, big blue eyes, turned up little nose, full cut lips and the epitome of symmetry, I’ll so say too. Since she was born I’ve been somewhat confused as to how I was to react to the first new family member in 30 years. I felt something but it wasn’t defined or fixed, sort of like trying to remember a dream. It all became clear now.

My folks arrived with my bro and his missus and we all took turns to have a go on Institute. Everyone was frankly elated, Mark has already become a fully fledged expert on babies, he’s sensible with his daughter, not too precious but obviously over the moon, my sister who is still recovering from the caesarean doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the fact she nearly carked it giving birth. Mark told me that she lost well over a litre of blood and her blood pressure was dangerously low to the point there was genuine concern as to her welfare. Laughing caused my sister difficulty which was unfortunate as we were all on top form. Institute lay in the midst of off colour quips and comments, I believe I was the first person to say ‘fuck’ in front of here, I’m terribly proud of myself.

When it was time to leave, and after my dead arm had some life back in it from holding her for so long, I jumped back on black bitch for the blast home. Institute came out with granny to see me off. I hope the sound of my bike will go deep inside her psyche so that it unlocks something within her when she hears a large bike engine running, as it does me.

My deliriously happy journey back was complimented by a few pints in the local with Frank; I probably bored the poor fellow to death gushing about our new family member. When I got home I ate my favourite meal, sausages and broccoli smothered in a cheese and onion roux, which was made better by the day that had preceded it. I drank wine and got thoroughly stoned; I couldn’t wipe the grin of my face, even when I went to bed.

On Sunday I got up before 10, I wanted to do some writing before Myfwt showed up early afternoon. I had the usual kipper which for some reason wasn’t dissecting to my satisfaction, I’ve eaten so many I’ve got filleting the bastards down to a fine art, but not today. Still my spirits remained high; I’d every intention of getting on my black bitch and wringing her neck, just as Myfwt showed up it rained. Fuck.

The afternoon was nonetheless a triumph; simply it was sat lolling about in front of DVD’s with cups of tea and as the day passed to the evening, roast chicken and wine. The Sunday blues were held off… I’m an uncle don’t you know.

Can’t beleive I found this, saw this lot at The Astoria in the early 90’s, still one of the best gig experiances I’ve ever had, Jamie will remember this

Posted in astoria, avuncular, city link, from centre to wave, guilded enternity, loop, yukata | Leave a Comment »

uncle piqued

August 10, 2007

Right, first off, could the little fucker who keeps searching my blog for ‘daddy son fuck’ either seek some professional help, hand yourself into the authorities or my suggestion, off yourself. You are a very sick man (more probable that the protagonist is male, I don’t wish to be accused of sexism, woman are just a filthy but they’re least likely to be searching for that classification of pornography) and I wish you a speedy demise.

Speaking of demise, as I was just there, look, Cunt is back on top form, it wasn’t quite as loud or as long as usual, Christ he really is a fucking wanker, only child, spoilt, but I still can’t fathom why you’d wish to humiliate yourself like that. Really, imagine if you were to be handed a clarinet (if you play one select an instrument you can’t) would your first thought be, ‘I know, I’ll hook it up to all this equipment daddy got me, everyone fucking knows I don’t work and I’m weird, crank it up and let everyone enjoy as I fuck up over and over.’ I doubt it. I genuinely believe that he so disillusioned and removed from reality he imagines that in a nearby house a fat record producer is chewing on a cigar punching numbers into a phone before declaring, ‘get me that kid at any cost, he’s got talent’. Maybe it’s him looking for ‘daddy son fuck’ on the intra-ernet. I bet it is, the fucking weirdo cunt.

Yesterday was rather strange. The news that I had a niece made me very introspective; I wasn’t sure how to react. I spoke to my sister last night; she’s still in hospital but much better following being sliced from the nave to the chaps. In the background I heard Institute, my niece, make a small squawking sound, it rather freaked me, in a nice way of course. I will be meeting her tomorrow, my initial intention was to pop along this afternoon but due to the absence of my MD and colleague I’m responsible for this place today, anyway, be nice to go with my bro.

Last night I decided to stay off the pop, it was a difficult decision on the strength I had something to celebrate but by the same token I’d not had a booze free day for a fortnight and a heavy one yesterday, I thought that Institute might like to actually meet her Uncle when her brain has attained Descartian sensibility. I tried to do some writing but my head was full of internal noise so I flopped in front of the box with tea and cigarettes.

I went to bed before 11, I was partially watching K19-The Widowmaker which is unbelievably ropey when one considers budget/actors etc., still the submarine aspect was effective enough to cause me to get panicky, a combination of claustrophobic sympathy and detoxification I shouldn’t wonder, off it went, I listened to the radio for a bit before drifting off.

I can tell when I’ve had a big night out when, despite not drinking the following day, I wake up the day after that with hangover symptoms, as I did this morning. I only just about got the stamina to cycle but glad I did, it’s lovely day and I’m feeling alright.

I’m looking forward to seeing Institute tomorrow. Hey, I hope that you all have something cool to look forward to this weekend, I love you… Sorry that just slipped out.

Yo, sometimes we say things we don’t mean, yeah, like some of these guys. (Not made any up, really. Silvia Saint pooing?!)

Search Terms for 7 days ending 2007-08-10
Today
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Stella Beer Health Warning 1
how to treat boil near ear 1
silviasaint pooing 1
Yesterday
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emily parr wallpaper 2
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Antonioni 2007 “@yahoo.co.uk” 1
henry rollins manic street preachers 1
boils behind the hand 1
james toseland 1
nora batty 1
yotube black reider moto 1
“marilyn manson” “strap on” 1
casey thompson’s tits 1
bukkake street 1
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2007-08-08
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u tube videos mudfest 1
Belinda Irons big brother 1
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2007-08-07
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suicidal tendencies wallpaper 2
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about hersham 1
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2007-08-06
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big brother suicidal tendencies 2
ziggy zodiac big brother 1
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myfwt 1
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“phil kay” 1
youtube ducati monaco 1
dark’s cunt 1
the girl drawn from for tomb raider lege 1
ollie bridewell tribute pages 1
hooray henry drunk men at weddings 1
the crypt nightclub deptford 1
new stella artois posters 1
davina mcall 1
joanna lumley 1
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Lemmy 1
boil in ear 1
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boil behind ear? 1
lara croft fucking hard 1
dark cunts 1
2007-08-05
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“fields of the nephilim” + astoria +revi 3
Iller 1
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casey Thompson -band chef pictures 1
John McCririck 1
health wank 1
manics hell is other people tee 1
circular bar 1
motorhead royal festival 1
YouTube Phil Drabble 1
large phallus 1
womens arseholes 1
something in my ear 1
brolly dolly 1
MICTURATE 1
casey Thompson -band chef tits 1
dijon + nigga 1
Manning street preachers 1
2007-08-04
Search Views
davina mcall 2
boil behind ear 2
Emily Parr wallpaper 2
/reborn legends/big bad wolf 1
silvia saint fan tomb raider 1
www granddady fucking, 1
joie de ve 1
hot fuzz glasses 1
/reborn legends/big bad wolf. 1
cockney wanker 1
casey thompson tits 1
sex in the dustbin jerry springer 1
brixton shootings august 2007 1
boils behind ear 1

Posted in 74/75, descartian, intra-ernet, k19-The Widowmaker, nave to the chaps, the connels | 2 Comments »

the man from uncle

August 9, 2007

Following work 12 of our company traipsed off to the pub to await our lifts to The Royal Albert Hall, on arrival we hit the bar to wait for the box to open. To my utter joy the box was stocked up high with wines, sandwiches and canapés of exceptional quality, pretzels, crackers and other tasty comestibles. By the time John Dankworth and his mates had shuffled onstage I was already pissed. I got straight into the music, it was well groovey, that was until Dankworth’s wife, Cleo Lane, nearly 90 or something sauntered onto the stage and fucked the whole thing.

The selection of the Prom this year was down to me. The whole thing is complimentary, due to the nature of my work, and I decided that if I am going be given a freebie then I may as well do my best to enjoy the actual rerason to be at The BBC Proms, i.e., to enjoy music, outside of all the free booze and grub. I chose jazz because it’s closer to the sort of music I like, probably. Anyway, my initial delight at my decision was turned over, stripped and forcibly raped by Cleo’s sparkly dressed appearance.

I still remember this berk on Pebble Mill at 1 making a fucking tool out of herself, and whilst she kept the doo dee doo dee doo wa wa dodles to a minimum her ‘singing’ and compromised tunes to back her ‘songs’ were shit. When she finally went off to change her catheter the music improved considerable and I could relax into it again, despite still warily eyeing the wings for signs of glitter signifying her return.

I was very well lubricated when I left; luckily I got a life back with two colleagues and had them both in for coffee. I happily scoffed gin and we ended up nattering until the wee hours before they left at 4. I’d decided way before that I was going to take the morning off.

Dad and I had arranged to meet for lunch but he called at 9am to cancel and to inform me my sister was off to the gynaecologists. I went back to sleep only to be woken again at 10.20 to be informed I am now uncle Piqued.

My niece, Institute, was delivered by caesarean section which means when she’s all grown up she’ll leave a room via the window and cars through the hatchback.

I can’t see her yet though as my sister is all wired up following having her belly cut wide open. I don’t think this was her preferred method of delivery but needs must. Still my brother in law has a chance for a double celebration, he gets a daughter and his wife’s mimsy won’t resemble a livestock related pile up on the M25.

Oh, I’m over the moon by the way. Welcome to planet earth kid

Posted in bbc proms, cleo lane, izabella, john dankworth, pebble mill at one, royal albert hall | Leave a Comment »

knarly poo

August 8, 2007

On the bus this morning my eye was directed towards a little scene taking place on the pavement, or rather, in the middle of a crowded London street. A woman had taken it on herself to drop her young sons trousers, produce a potty from her bag and plonk him right down on it, right there and then. She then had the fucking audacity to kneel beside him and quite obviously egg him on. I’ve no idea what the kid was about to pass but his little red face suggested it wasn’t just a straightforward piss. People passing by delivered a variety of expressions from the bemused to the amused, disparagement to utter disgust. I was in the latter camp. What the fuck has this country come to when some women thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to firstly display her toddlers peas to the whole world prior to not only allowing him to defecate in a public place but to actively will on its passage? They must have been Dutch.

It would be a pretty poor show, I feel, if we all carried on in this manner. The natural conclusion to such a break down of societies values would be to make it acceptable for adults to carry on in the same casual manner. Imagine some skateboarder doing an ollie only to remove his rucksack, produce a Tony Hawk signature Vans potty and ‘cack it off’ there and then.

I’m in a dreadful mood, last night I suggested to Myfwt that my hair needed a trim, before I was in a position to say when and where I’d been dragged into the bathroom and set upon by a drunken girl and some scissors. Full of Pinot Grigio I didn’t put up much of a fight, besides if she pulled it off I could save myself a few quid and anyway her confidence had disarmed me. This was an error, after a few snips her deadly serious Paul Mitchell expression cracked into a huge laughing face. I’m sitting here typing this with a flight of stairs carved into the side of my head. An appointment to a professional has been made.

But that’s not the real reason I’m in a bad mood, it’s because, you’ll note, I arrived here this morning by bus. Tonight there is another fucking works do, this time our annual outing takes us to the BBC fucking Proms at The Royal Albert Hall. God, if it’s not bad enough having to spend the most part of a day with my colleagues but to have to spend additional time with them outside a workplace engaging in an activity so fucking dull I’d have more stimulation picking bits of sweet corn out of my own shit with a blunt pencil.

We’re all still waiting for my sister to drop, I demand to know whether I’m going to be an uncle to a niece or a nephew but she’s selfishly late, nearly a bloody week now. I’ve not been an uncle before, the anticipation of my new role is frankly interrupting my routine and I’m too impatient to relax in my day-to-day life.

By means of distracting and to at least do something to prepare myself for the role I’ve already made a small purchase. A bag of Werthers, I think I’m going to be a fucking brilliant uncle, I really do.

Posted in aisha, bbc proms, death in vegas, iggy pop, paul mitchell, royal albert hall, the man from uncle, tony hawk, werthers | 5 Comments »

scally walli

August 7, 2007

It’s worth pointing out to regular readers that since my ‘pyscho’ episode last week in the face of Cunt, I’ve not heard a peep out of him. It’s possible I’ve instilled some concern into his system, that I’ve been at least seen as having the capacity for aggressive irrationality, if we consider that it’s now only a fortnight before his hairy baby and anorexic g/f are due to show, he may have decided the best policy is to not piss me off.

Obviously as far as I’m concerned the damage was done a long, long time ago. I can only be appeased by his demise, nay, death.

After seeing Frank for two pints in the local following another not-worth-dwelling-on day in the office I arrived home and took a bath. Supper had been planned to the minutiae, a combination of fresh salad, potato salad, some of the coleslaw from yesterday and some fresh cheese rolls/buns (look they sound vile when in fact they’re fucking amazing, particularly when split and toasted, so FUKS OFS)

On Saturday I decided to cast my usual sausage purchasing net a little wider and happened upon some Irish celebrity chef’s effort, he’d been around a few years ago and I remembered his wife was quite attractive. Actually, he used to snipe at her during live shows… These were the sausages for me. I checked some basic details, yes, these were from Oirland alright, green pack, Celtic graphics, lots of guff about the Irish countryside etc., ‘press here’ and get back home to Derry…

Just before the bath, I examined the pack again, Pork and Scallion sausages they were, Then I noticed that ‘Scallion’ had written underneath it in capital letters ‘SCALLION IS IRISH FOR SPRING ONION’. The whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin, what cunt doesn’t know that? Moreover, what cunt would buy a pack like this where the consumer needs an explanation of a word on the front of a pack, in capitals, what kind of a tool… the whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin.

After the bath and the sausages and co., (they were delicious incidentally) I’d decided during the day to watch two films. The first, Secret Window, was crap, the second ‘The Last King of Scotland’ wasn’t. I may do a review of the latter on WWM (link right) so I won’t make a big deal of it here. I lazily drunk throughout the evening, I had a can of beer and a couple of G & T’s, in comparison to my recent habit, nothing really.

The latter film was on for fucking hours so by the time it finished it was after 1am and I was feeling ravaged. When I arose this morn I was a little hungover, a wash and brush-up corrected me sufficiently to undertake the journey by velocipede. It’s another beautiful day and the journey in was actually quite, well, okayish. In parts it was definitely all right. This was until I came off the towpath and joined the road that circumnavigates the industrial estate near my office.

Behind me was a maroon Minibus, I needed to turn right so with plenty of room I indicated and moved into the middle of the road. To my fucking horror instead of undertaking me the fucking driver overtook me on the wrong side of the road and gave me a load of mouth. I yelled back ‘I know your boss you cunt’, due to the hangover this came out as a cross between Lemmy and Mark Lanegan having franatic relations with Chewbacca, at commendable volume. The amount of times I’ve yelled abuse and it’s sounded like a blade of grass being blown by a 4 year old girl, but not today.

To make matter worse for the driver I really do know his boss, I called him up before I wrote this to drop him in the cack when I was still feeling vexed. Let’s hope it’s his sole means for supporting his bastard family and he gets fired eh?

Happy lovely day.

Posted in chewbacca, last king of scotland, mark lanegan, rankin, secret window, spiritualized | 4 Comments »

world super regret

August 6, 2007

After getting home on Friday evening following another intense yet barely productive afternoon in the fucking office, I decided to ‘check my emails’. Burn wasn’t due over for at least an hour and the cycle home in the sunshine had rather thrilled me. Mid way through a particularly fascinating post featuring a very bored housewife and some Marigolds the mobile went off, it was my boss.

The cunting client who’d been harassing me on Thursday had taken it on her self to forward on all of our complicated correspondence to his mailbox. The poor sod had literally just returned from holiday and was instantly transported to the hideous world of business. He wasn’t best pleased and proceeded to ask me 20 question in one single unending stream of moaning, subsequently my Friday feeling was quashed in favour of feeling fraught as I parried the thrust and blows of what amounted into an interrogation. Protected by a cloak of utter innocence I responded calmly, spoke soothingly, as one would a child who’d dropped his ice cream in their sand pit, and he finally hung up, confused but sated. I received a few apologetic texts and the evening returned to a sense of normality.

I’d not seen Burn in over a year. He and I grew up together as kids, after initial concerns about his politics we aligned and before you know it we were up to our necks in Tequila, hash and magic mushrooms. We followed the same bands and philosophy but Burn being Burn, he took the latter to its conclusion. Whilst I used to dream about doing the whole ‘hippie’ thing, Burn went and did it. He’s just about to build his own eco-friendly property in Wales for his family, an electrician by trade he can pretty much turn his hand to anything practical, his dropping out of college when he was 17 was, in hindsight, a bloody good move.

It’s not surprising then that for fucking years he’s been lending his support, on a voluntary basis of course, to festivals, particularly, Glastonbury. Due to all the running around in the beginning of year and his assumption I’d put all that sort of thing behind me, neither thought to trouble the other. After a good five minutes of head slapping in the local beer garden we’d got so far as to discovering that we were sat a few feet away from each other in the cabaret tent watching Phil Kay.

It was a glorious evening; Burn and I had some time to catch up before being joined by Frank and then James. We sat outside drinking under a warm golden sunset before going back in inside to finish the evening off in the cool of the pub. At one point Burn lit up at the table, I pointed out that he was smoking and he looked at me as if I’d said ‘you’ve got a face’ before realising it was now unlawful and darting outside before the landlord noticed.

After a few more than we should we all wondered off to the Shawarma shop and procured some delicious chicken wraps, Frank took his off home and we three returned back to the flat to continue our reunion. After Burn retired James and I stayed up into the small hours drinking whisky in the full knowledge that we’d pay for our sins on Saturday.

By the time he and I had got up Burn had already gone to see his family, he was wise not to have stayed up after 1am, James and I were fucked. I made some bacon and eggs and we sat about in the lounge watching Friday’s Big Brother groaning from dehydration but our obscene comments directed at some of the female housemates kept the worst of it under some sort of control.

After James left at lunchtime I watched the F1 qualifying, very controversial it was too, great stuff, before heading off do to the bastard weekly shop at fucking Sainsbury. Mercifully I was spared a panic attack and I was in and out in 30 minutes. The rest of Saturday afternoon was occupied by The Guardian, Lara fucking bitch twatting bloody Croft (I unstuck myself and got stuck again almost instantly) before setting off once again to imbibe in the sunshine with Frank.

After 3 sensible pints of Bombardier I got back and made some sauce for a superb home made cheese and ham pizza and hung about the place with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio. I tried to watch a movie but decided to listen to an old Venom album instead. Sensibly I was in bed by midnight so I could have some sort of a Sunday.

I got up at 9-ish, I couldn’t stay in bed, it was already warm and too bright to relax. Myfwt was due over later on so I got some writing done, had fresh kipper with toast and tea and settled down for the Grand Prix.

My intention following the racing was to go for a good scratch on the black bitch. Yesterday it was the World Superbike championships at Brands Hatch, my local circuit and a firm favourite. Dad had called me up on Saturday afternoon to remind me it was on and see if we should maybe go as we have in previous years. I’m not really sure why I declined, possibly a combination of sheer laziness (I would’ve had to get up early and once there walk miles in the baking heat through huge crowds) and OCD, my unbreakable Sunday was planned, I was going to write, have kippers and watch the Grand Prix for fucks sake…

I felt like a right cunt after the GP, actually I was furious with myself and couldn’t even face a ride aware that every decent Sunday afternoon biker would be at the track, where my spirit was. Bollocks to all of it, I thought as I shut the blinds, switched on the PS2 and met up with Lara. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back, the dirty bitch.

I was saved early evening by Myfwt, I must have looked like Gollum when she walked into the near darkness of my lounge. We had a splendid Sunday tea of pates and cheeses, hams, cucumber, coleslaw, potato salad and sun-drenched tomatoes, sliced and salted, with an assortment of breads and crackers. Despite a day of overt slobbery I was happy to continue in the same vein, punctuated with a few G & T’s and some grass the evening slid off towards the fresh crisply sheeted bed in a most conducive manner.

The boss is still very upset about this business with the cunting client, a colleague and I have colluded to suppress his angst and offer some sort of a solution to the matter. Another bloody Monday, let’s just see if this week I can make something of being in this place.

Bloody arseholes. (Not the following)

Posted in aqualung, james toseland, jethro tull, shawarma, world super bikes | 3 Comments »

bizzy boozy

August 3, 2007

I’m up to my walnuts in paperwork.

Yesterday was absurdly busy, in addition to getting some business in the bag I was regularly having to bounce back emails to this fucking client whose pig headedness had basically sparked a chain of events that firstly lost us money and then credibility with another client. To add grist to the mill the cunt then had the audacity to blame us when the latter client refused to pay her. I had to behave in a responsible professional manner when in reality the best course of action would be to go round to this wankers office and slam her tits in a filing cabinet.

There was salvation however, for the first time in an age I was due to meet my bro in the boozer in Clapham. My cycle back home was actually quite pleasant, finally we’re experiencing some sort of a summer and I arrived at the pub just before 6. We caught up on matters of the day and sunk a few cold ones before being joined by Frank. Our timing was superb, the pub is very popular in the summer and what with that and the smoking ban we were fortunate to get both a seat and a drenching of the awe inspiring light as the day slunk over the rooftops.

I arrived home quite merry, had a bath, and ate supper (pork and leek sausages with sprouting broccoli under a cheese, mustard and parsley sauce. It was air punchingly good) with a glass of wine, then another. But no more.

This weekend a really old mate is coming down from t’North East, I’ve not seen him in fucking ages, and James will be joining us too. I don’t expect much change from a Saturday to be honest.

Right, I’ve work to do, that cunt has just e-mailed me again as well.

I’ll leave you with the latest baffling list of search engine phrases that get people to Piqued.

(promise, I’ve not made any of these up)

Search Terms for 7 days ending 2007-08-03
Today
None
Yesterday
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Ollie Bridewell 2
getting our shit together 2
wwm ps2 1
ocd hangover 1
www. legend of the hitten tippl 1
DARK MEN PICTURES 1
40 plus womens arseholes 1
WITCH TVR 1
Drink Aware 1
rod poole swervedriver death 1
shabnab youtube 1
casey thompson chef tits 1
nabocov 1
andre valentino umbrella 1
2007-08-01
Search Views
alan d – tottenham court road 1
shabnab 1
DEPTFORD THE CRYPT 1
yves tanguay 1
ollie bridewell 1
Valentino Rossi and his girlfriend 1
blood in bowels 1
theme music to BBC’s Moto GP 1
wifes gloryhole indiscretions 1
vibrating tongue bars leicester 1
idi armein 1
2007-07-31
Search Views
what was the bbc glastonbury theme tune 3
did bukowski encounter hunter s thompson 2
deuchars july 2007 -”susan deuchars” 2
tottenham court road+tescos 1
naughty wanking scoolboys 1
marilyn manson booed off stage 2007 1
brolly dollies 1
John McCririck died 1
pub quizzes for farmers 1
hairy aunt 1
old speckled hen 1
expensive breitling 1
surealism 1
red witch tottenham court road 1
YouTube:PS2 wale games 1
daddy son 1
2007-07-30
Search Views
working as a brolly dolly/ 2
“ollie bridewell” tribute itv 2
“big brother” “suicidal tendencies” 1
black boil behind ear 1
Pictures of guys The blue oyster bar 1
who dose ziggy in big brother fancy 1
big brother 8 dick suicidal tendencies 1
youtube kids with there face dark 1
dick big brother 8 suicidal tendencies 1
leonora carrington death 1
seven ages of rock stranglers 1
debbie magee dog 1
moto gp “theme tune” 1
what doses ziggy tattoo mean in spanish 1
idi armein 1
pictures of davina mcall 1
shabnab undressed 1
davina mcall 1
the blair witch project sham 1
shirley bassey breast implants 1
+”her face” “dark glasses” +”broken nose 1
You Tube Shirley Bassey glastonbury 1
youtube ear boil 1
slipped heep 1
2007-07-29
Search Views
nora batty 5
dark brown phlegm 1
feeling dozy midday 1
big brother 8 wank 1
pork sausages worms come out 1
ronnie barker 1
youtube pictures of matchstick men 1
fields of the nephilim astoria 1
emily parr wallpaper 1
bbc moto gp theme tune 1
Ziggy SMALL COCK BIG BROTHER 1
2007-07-28
Search Views
7 ages of rock wallpaper 2
what is surealism 1
You’re barred 1
someone who looks like lara croft stripp 1
autosarcophagy 1
brill creem 1
boils blood pus 1
gothic blondy bukkake 1
brolly dolly 1
can you smoke a cigar anywhere in toront 1
dirty rotten liquid farts

…dirt rotten fart liquids, who’d have thought.

Have nice weekends, just say no to drugs yeah.

An utter classic, deal with it

Posted in clapham common, don't stop beleiving, journey | 6 Comments »

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