death cab for piquey

Some fucking raspberry parked his chariot so close to my bike that this morning I was unable to get it vertical enough in order to kick up the side stand. Yes, I’ll admit that my rear tyre was a centimetre into his disabled bay (there was no where else to park on Friday) so the twisted old fuck had exacted revenge but parking as close to my bike without physically touching it resulting in him having almost 4 feet of clear ‘dithables’ space behind his car, space no one able to wipe their own arse can use.

Furious and genuinely unable to get out I lifted my bike upright and watched my footrest disappear into his fibreglass spoiler, I had to lean over the side of my bike to engage first gear with my hand (I couldn’t use my foot as it was supporting my weight) before leaning the bike back to it’s original position (and thus revealing my footrest with a pop) and staggering off.

The bloody-minded old bastard, I’ve seen this so called spanner by the way, he’s a bit of a limp but nothing to warrant being able to park in half the fucking road for free and then laying on a ‘this’ll teach him’ bit of parking so I can’t actually get to work. Well, I’ve taught him something. And I can fucking dance too.

Apart from this, and an incident with a cab driver on Saturday night which didn’t go down well with my companions, its’ been a gorgeous weekend.

Beginning with a few beers on Friday with Frank, in which we imbibed in the garden as dusk went from night jesting about wearing my neighbour’s chest cavity as a hat, I had an early night due to my having to set off early for the bike show on Saturday morning. Along the way I picked up Louche (Not a Gay, link right) and we drove down to Kempton Park where we met Den, the old man and oddly my mum (who was essentially charged with the collecting of teas for dad and his hairy hoary old mates hanging out on the VMCC bike stand).

We wandered about checking out the vintage offings. For me looking at old bikes provides a ludicrous amount of delight (my old Triumph was on display) that in all probability most wouldn’t understand. A happy few hours passed chatting and pointing until we three jumped back in the van after lunch and headed back to Tooting. After a couple of beers by the river in the sunshine we all took the tube to town, my pals alighted along the way and I arrived alone at Camden to meet IC who was already waiting for yours truly by the entrance. More wandering ensued concluding in The Devonshire, the seminal London goth boozer and we had a pair of drinks and watched our fellow alternates schmooze and pose for one another.

By the time we arrived back at Hackney the first attendees for the Eurovision party had arrived -IC’s housemate is Swedish so every year her and some friends celebrate this auspicious occasion by getting all pissed- and the festivities began. I spent most of the party in the kitchen with IC, Swineshead and his missus talking at passing guests. Despite the throngs of people (must have been a representative from every country in Europe too) the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly and the hummus was sensational (how do you like that, huh).

Chaz from up of the North arrived with a couple more friends and instantly made himself popular despite the smallness of the hour. The last guest departed just before 5 and we passed out as the moment the latched clicked behind them.

By mid afternoon the following day we were back in Camden. I was in a most excellent mood after watching Lewis win at Monaco in one of the best F1 races I’ve seen in years. Light shopping preceded a tube journey back to London where we readied ourselves for the evening. We met my bro and his missus at Wimbledon station and took the train to Woking where my sister scooped us up and drove us back to her gaff where my bro in law was wrestling with vegetables and salmon.

The evening was hilarious, I nearly threw up laughing at one point, the food was sen…delicious and the booze flowed like tap water but tasted decidedly better. I insisted my bro-in-law play along to Take That with his Les Paul passed through his Laney via a distortion pedal at volume and the result was surprisingly effective. Oddly the evening seemed to pass in a flash and before I’d chance to draw breath we were in a cab racing, literally, to the station to catch the train home. I decided that the cab driver was taking the fucking piss so I tapping him firmly on the shoulder and demanding he slowed down prior to overtaking a car in a 30mph zone on a blind left hand bend… unfortunately I was a little vehement in my request and this didn’t go down awfully well among the other passengers. The second cab journey from Clapham Junction was a lot more congenial and by 1am IC and I were home and safe.

Monday started at midday with smoked salmon and poached eggs then off again into town, this time to meet Den, Harry and an assortment of friends at the South Bank. By now the weekends delights had started to catch up and I beginning to tire. No matter, we had a few pints in the BFI bar and before we ruined the following day arrived home by 7 and spent the evening picking at sushi and watching movies.

I’m seeing Ministry tonight in Kentish Town and Dead Kenneyds in Camden tomorrow… there is no sign of this perpetual enjoyment stopping after that either. Rock on? Yes, alright I will.