gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

The matter that’s causing me some concern, the sleepless nights fellow, the terror of which I’ve mentioned recently? That? Well it now has teeth and a face in the form of a time and place, in just under a few weeks the ordeal will be over, post-ordeal seems an impossible place from here.

In addition to being fucking irritating being all cryptic and what have you, this may have an effect of Piqued, if posts are a little short for the near future you’ll know why.

But life goes on yeah, after getting home I rammed my face hole with the second half of the fisherman’s pie I made the previous evening. As with most pie related things, they’re often tweaked by their cooking and having been left to cool and chill (I mean ‘chill’ as in fridge ‘chill’ I don’t mean fucking ‘chill’ as in ‘pill’ and I resent having to include this caveat into today’s post because this country is chock full o’ cunts) and last nights sensational offing was no exception.

Tube to Clapham, bus to Battersea. I caught the fucker just in time and passed the vast expanse of Clapham Common, viewed from the top deck, as dusk gathered. Little groups of people were engaging in torpid exercise or were gathered in some sort of post activity de-brief, it was a lovely evening and my enquiring mind recalled the last abstruse dark lines of Blakes ‘Echoing Green’ “And sport no more seen, on the darkening green” with a fucking stiffie.

I alighted at Battersea and walked the high Street to the pub and met up with my cousins, one a photographer of some note and the other a doctor… well, of some note too, we were joined by the doctor’s charming wife and my bro and we caught up. My Dr. Cousin had injured his arm and was self prescribing some tranquillisers and drinking, my photographer cousin was blasted on Guinness, it’s jolly nice to know that this whole ‘getting out of your head thing’ isn’t just my peccadillo when it comes to the family, I have support. Oh, do remember, most doctors DO smoke.

My bro and I took the bus back after loudly relieving ourselves in a public street like a pair of a fan of the footballs and we went our separate ways. I was home by midnight with just enough left to endure a taped Apprentice which made me do at least one good laugh despite my intrusive imaginings of how I’d like to despatch the West Country Matt Lucas Look-alike, at this moment in time I hate him more than all the atrocities ever committed by man on his fellow man/woman/child in the history of human existence –fuck my Congo moan earlier this week, give me him bound and gagged and an lazy Sunday afternoon…

I never really got on with this lot in terms of ‘Metal’ but this bastard song has been going round my head, here, catch…