It’s very frustrating having some news and being unable to divulge said news so one doesn’t compromise oneself, well I have news that I’ll only be able to broadcast after the event has taken place. It’s neither good nor bad, just terrifying. I’m terrified and will be until the aspect of my news has been undertaken.
Unlike me, I suggest you don’t dwell on this, but when I refer to something wicked approaching you’ll know that it’s of major concern in my day-to-day comings and goings.
My entire weekend has been dominated by it, there have been moments of joy (usually when pissed) dismay (when pissed and sober) and split second moments of acceptance that evaporate like petrol. It’s fucking dreadful, but also cool. Maybe. I don’t know and this is why I’m terrified.
I discussed this matter with Frank on Friday over a pair of hastily swallowed ales before returning home to unravel what we’d discussed. Needless to say I had a few more ales (‘sensibly’ spurning the wine) and wound up on Youtube until the wee hours looking at some material that I didn’t know existed, the fruits of this research will be the music cause celebre this week. I woke on Saturday feeling wonky but well and did some writing. My desk was covered in post-it notes from the previous evening as I tried to face up to a responsibility, the one that is terrifying me, and I thank the person for their invention as there was useful shit amongst the drunken babblings.
After a fat smokie kipper I took myself off on my black bitch to visit my parents, sister and niece whose now decided I’m all right. For the last few weeks I’ve been Satan incarnate in flesh, the very second my shadow had fallen over her face she’s shrieked like a two-toothed banshee with such force I thought her little head might pop off like a purple champagne cork. Now I can’t put a foot wrong, even when I actually did treading on her hand, she squawked, I said sorry, she laughed.
After cleaning my bike, which was a complete waste of time as it fucking rained on my journey home, I said a hasty farewell and shot off home in order to meet Gerry in the pub for a pint, he’d just finished his shift and as he passed by chez piqued it seemed only stupid to not take him up on his kind offer of refreshment.
I got back home and cleaned the flat, did some more work and ate a lamb and mint sandwich. James had called to see if I fancied meeting him later in the evening, aware that I’d not seen him for a while and our combined liking for beer I thought it wise to eat before I went out rather than grab something after. It was a sensible course of action on my part as I assumed we’d push the boat out.
What I’d not taken into consideration was his lack of recent drinking practice, James has a six month old son and hasn’t stretched his legs in a while…
We were already a bit pissed when we got back from the pub after 4 pints, it was approaching midnight and James decided he’d have a can or two then catch the 1.05 bus back to his house. Unfortunately it wasn’t beer we drunk but a bottle of Cava I’d stored in the fridge for emergencies, this went down a treat and as there happened to be one more we took that on board too.
We chatted about stuff all the while steadily smoking dope. By 2am James was muttering something about ‘getting a cab later’. Perhaps when he fell in the bath shortly after whilst negotiating his zipper, there was an enormous crash and I walked in to find him giggling on his back with his head between his legs, I should’ve thought twice about a final Claret nightcap. All’s well in hindsight isn’t it.
Thirty minutes or so later James went extremely quiet and turned sheet-white. It was clear he was passing out; a rush of adrenaline spurned me into action, quickly I prepared the sofa bed and attempted to get his wife’s phone number to tell her James would be crashing at mine. I walked him to the lounge from the kitchen where we’d been ensconced since our return from the pub and he fell onto the sofa bed with a thump and began moaning. I went to the airing cupboard to get some bedclothes and just as I’d decided that, perhaps, I should get a bucket just in case he threw up there was a single loud and decidedly wet cough from the living room.
I ran in. I was too late. James was still sprawled in the bed but had been joined by a vast lake of vomit with all bits of sick in it. I grabbed his head and lifted his gaping mouth over the bucket where he let rip. The volume of his evacuations was astonishing, a combination of rumbling groans, high-pitched yelps and thunderous expletives. I’m very confident that the next-door neighbours would’ve assumed we were bumming.
James was violently and noisily ill for a good 20 minutes before finally collapsing on the living room floor still grasping onto the bucket like one would a buoy in treacherous seas, he was completely unconscious. I arranged him into the recovery position before I too gave in to the vast quantities of booze and dope we’d imbibed and flaked out on the floor a few feet from him, though I woke up in my bed, fully clothed and very hungover.
A about 6 am James appeared in the bedroom and said something before quietly leaving. I eventually got up at midday; there was lunch to prepare after all.
My brother joined me at 1.30, by this time I’d made an entire Sunday lunch, roast chicken, potatoes and veg though I can barely remember undertaking any preparation or cooking. Despite this it was fucking lovely and following a poo after the Moto GP I was pretty much back to normal. My bro hung about until 4 and left me alone in the flat complete my duty of recovery. I watched a bit of TV, wrote what you’re reading now and made chicken soup with remains of lunch.
I had an idle Sunday evening and went to bed early feeling shattered. And still terrified.
Before I indulge you in the youtube stuff I mentioned just now have a look at this. If you’ve never ridden a bike it sort of feels like this, even the end has a ring of truth to it. One of my favourite bikes of all time, make sure you’ve your speakers on full to hear that engine…
April 14th, 2008 at 9:06 am
A lamb ‘and mint’ sandwich!
April 14th, 2008 at 9:13 am
Yes, mint sauce with creme fraiche and chilli, on Ciabatta (with spring onion and cucumber)… I was avoiding detail SH, look what you made me do LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO
April 14th, 2008 at 9:27 am
You’ve made him open himself to Napoleon’s battering like the pliable labia of a Taiwanese ch**d pr0stitute.
April 14th, 2008 at 9:29 am
That should get your page some interesting traffic.
April 14th, 2008 at 9:31 am
Yes, thanks for that John
April 14th, 2008 at 9:34 am
oh, come now, ‘ch**d’? that could be chard.
April 14th, 2008 at 9:39 am
That’s the stupidest sandwich I’ve ever heard of. In fact, I’ll go one further. It’s not a sandwich.
April 14th, 2008 at 9:40 am
Yeah, it’s the sort of thing a Taiwanese salad whore would eat.
April 14th, 2008 at 9:44 am
Basically you’ve tried to ‘fuse’ a traditional English roast meal with some kind of oriental salad – then stuck it in Italian bread.
I hope it gave you the shits.
April 14th, 2008 at 10:53 am
I’ve not tried to ‘fuse’ anything you cybertool, I made a fucking sandwich which I spent a good 2 hours planning in advance and it worked extremely well.
What’s ‘oriental’ about fucking cucumber by the way?
Mint works with lamb as does chili, the creme fraiche combines all the flavours and the ciabatta was selected as it’s the right consitency to withstand the physical presence of the filling.
Don’t knock it until you try it, remember when I buggered you? How you complained until I was bag deep in your nipsy then you fucking loved it.
April 14th, 2008 at 12:52 pm
2 hours over a sandwich! Well I never.
What a waste of life. Mind you, I suppose it keeps you busy.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:06 pm
I can multitask, I was wanking in the interim
April 14th, 2008 at 1:14 pm
Hence: Creme fraiche…
You are disgusting.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:20 pm
I’ve not been about until recently (I drank three bottles of wine last night, and have just made the horrific discovery that I’ve won a Nintendo DS on eBay, fuck, fuck, fuck), but I find myself in the peculiar position of (sort of) agreeing with Piqued. A good lamb ‘n’ mint sandwich is just what the doctor ordered. I’m not entirely sure about this creme stuff, or the chilli, or that fancy-ass bread, but lamb ‘n’ mint in a crusty baguette is fucking lovely. Nobody seems to eat cold lamb sandwiches anymore, and I don’t know why.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:23 pm
Ah – I forgot, it’s the Piqued / NC love in fortnight.
I think it sounds ridiculous.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:27 pm
It’s nothing to do with love. Piqued’s an arsehole … he just happens to be right about a sandwich.
HE’S NOT RIGHT ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:31 pm
Mint in a sandwich is wrong.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:33 pm
It’s a bit weird, but it does go. I’ve also had kebabs with mint sauce on ‘em – which is a very low-grade lamb ‘n’ mint sandwich, if you think about it.
April 14th, 2008 at 1:36 pm
NC, I should imagine people don’t eat them much as it’s quite hard to cook the lamb so it remains tender when cold. Because of its high fat content lamb continues to cook after it’s out the oven/off the grill, this needs to be taken into account when preparing
My advice is to cook the lamb and stop when the middle is pinker than you’d have it hot and leave it to rest in foil for an hour before slicing and smearing all over your genitals crying for your mother like a wounded dog in a snare
April 14th, 2008 at 1:40 pm
I know how to cook lamb, you fat cretin. When it comes to cookin’ honest British food (as opposed to the foreign rubbish you cook), I’m betterer at cookin’ it than wot you are. You couldn’t cook a proper roast if your bloody life depended on it. YOU FAT, BALDING, OLD BASTARD.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:08 pm
Lamb and mint sandwiches are excellent, but I’d stay away from putting anything creamy or yoghurty in there, tends to fuck things up royally. Also chilli seems like a bit of an unnecessary addition. maybe toast the ciabatta, melt some minty/herby butter onto it, add, lamb and perhaps a little salad. Quicker, simpler, probably better. I see the page has a bit of a retro look going.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:08 pm
Oh, it’s fixed now. It was all broked.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:10 pm
Arsehole.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:14 pm
I needed a comma after ‘add’ because I was panting from ‘multitasking’, naturally.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:27 pm
What about Lamb and yoghurt in a kebab then, John, eh? What the fuck about that um?
April 14th, 2008 at 2:28 pm
MC, I’m neither fat, bald or fat
April 14th, 2008 at 2:33 pm
I don’t like lamb and yoghurt in a kebab, it’s a perversion of all things kebab. Give me garlic sauce and chilli sauce any day. The last kebab I had with yoghurt was totally wrecked by said yoghurt. DAMN YOU YOGHURT. I see Napoleon has diversified into rap.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:41 pm
Yoghurt? In a kebab? What madness is that? Yoghurt’s a kids’ dessert. FOR KIDS. Next you’ll be telling us you eat kebabs with Cheesestrings and Dairylea Dunkers. Grow up, you fat, bald, middle-aged, ugly, alcoholic, two years away from kidney cancer, paedo CUNT.
April 14th, 2008 at 2:58 pm
Greek kebabs have yoghurt in them; really, I wouldn’t expect you to know that, in addition to being favoured by passing drunkards the kebab is, if prepared traditionally, a healthy and highly prized dish
As said, I wouldn’t expect you know that on account of your downmarket tastes in food, Kievboy
Blue Nun makes you very aggressive doesn’t it
April 14th, 2008 at 3:06 pm
Dionysus, the king of kebab shops in all Englande-towne, on oxford street and tottenham court road, does NOT serve its kebabs with yoghurt, not even in the restaurant bit. And they’re greek, and they started in the ’60s. I rest my case.
April 14th, 2008 at 3:16 pm
That’s a shit case, it’s a shit kebab shop too
Shit
April 14th, 2008 at 3:37 pm
Kebabs are Turkish anyway. Proper kebabs, as opposed to barbecued lamb covered in yoghurt.
Up here the kebab shops are all Indian and Pakistani run. They serve the kebabs in naan bread, which is a nice addition.
April 14th, 2008 at 3:44 pm
Had a naan kebab in Manchester. They put minty yoghurt on it though, which made it rubbish.
Dionysus is a bloody good kebab shop. You clearly don’t know one when it’s staring you in the face.
April 14th, 2008 at 3:50 pm
The besterest kebab I’ve had was a lamb shish from a place called Sizzlers in Lincoln (and I’ve eaten kebabs all over this land, I have). Fucking lovely, AND cooked up by Turks, as opposed to the Greeks at your bloody Dionysus place. Greeks make shabby kebabs compared to Turks (the inventors of the kebab).
April 14th, 2008 at 3:52 pm
Ah, but Dionysus has the biggest kebabs in the UK.
April 14th, 2008 at 3:55 pm
I don’t even like kebabs.
*leaves*
April 14th, 2008 at 3:55 pm
Says who? Those shifty Greek bastards at Dionysus? Pah! I wouldn’t trust what a Greek tells you, Wagonwheel – they bugger young boys. AND THAT’S A FACT.
April 14th, 2008 at 3:57 pm
I love kebabs. Love ‘em.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:03 pm
The International™ Independent™ Kebab™ Monitoring Association. You got a problem with that? Just mail your complaint to
I™I™K™MA,
Dionysus,
1-3 Tottenham Court Road
London
April 14th, 2008 at 4:04 pm
Paedo.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:06 pm
Fogey
April 14th, 2008 at 4:13 pm
I might be a fogey, but at least I’m not a dirty paedo like wot you is, Wagonwheel. And you’re probably a Nazi racist.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:17 pm
Fogey is an acronym as I’m sure you’re aware. ‘Fat Old Git Eroticising Younglings’.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:19 pm
No it isn’t, you Nazi racist. Anyway, don’t think that youth of yours’ll last forever. It’ll be the blink of an eye before you’re fat, old, balding, and a paedo like what Piqued is. IT GOES BY IN A FLASH.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:23 pm
It isn’t really, no.
*strokes hairline*
mmm mmmmmmmm, that sure ain’t recedin’.
*wins*
April 14th, 2008 at 4:28 pm
Just you wait, you gangly Scotch git. That hairline’ll be receding soon enough. And your cock stops working. THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO WHEN YOU’RE PIQUED’S AGE.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:29 pm
Scotch? Oh dear, memory not what it used to be?
April 14th, 2008 at 4:33 pm
You’re Scotch as far as I’m concerned, you tight-fisted Scotch swine.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:39 pm
Can’t I be South African instead? Then I’d be moneygrabbing AND racist.
April 14th, 2008 at 4:50 pm
No. Scotch git.
April 14th, 2008 at 5:04 pm
Sleazy Turk
January 21st, 2011 at 3:10 pm
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