gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

I cycled into work this morning. I’ve not done that since last autumn and it came as somewhat as a shock to my fragile system. As I type this I’m shaking, I feel nauseous and I think I’ve become gay.

When I left the flat this morning I ignored the fact that I had a black bitch with a fat engine happy to whisk me about space in effortless joy and opted for the velocipede, which requires undivided physical exertion. It’s a Monday, I don’t want this on a fucking Monday but as it was sunny and bright and I’d completely run out of excuses as to why I shouldn’t cycle I reluctantly bumped the bike down the stairs and wobbled off to work buoyed on by my desire to stave off the icy hand of premature death.

The council have been fucking about with the towpath; I was actually amazed I arrived here without seeing a limb sticking out of bin liner. The once pretty hedgerows and shrubs have been razed to the ground and replaced by stinking weeds and tarmac. I peddled on relentlessly knowing my goal would be a boiling hot office and the feeling that I might faint or be sick.

I was returning from a jolly lovely weekend. I met IC in a boozer in Shoreditch following the misery of the working week and, despite the rain, ambled cheerfully about the East End, initially to visit a gallery, and then to indulge in some delicious Vietnamese fare with lashings of wine.

After sleeping like the dead on Saturday we visited a splendid café for brunch followed by Dalston market, which is more vibrant than a multicoloured vibrator, and not without a hint of stale female secretions about it to boot, where I procured a small non-stick, frying for under 3 quid. The decision to go to Camden market is steeped in controversy, it was rammed full of young cunts but despite this I managed to score a black t-shirt shirt before we cramped back to the flat on the tube for a lightening wash and scrub up.

Tem minutes later we were back on the (over ground) tube with James headed slowly towards Shepherds Bush, we three had a date. With Rock.

Gee was already waiting for us outside The Stinging Nettle pub when we arrived after a long shite journey and we happily slurped beers and Barcardi’s in the warm evening sunshine until it was time for our appointment. With Rock.

The Shepherds Bush Empire was already heaving when we eventually entered. It was actually quite simple getting booze and making it to the bogs but the throngs hindered our progress to a decent spot in which to view the band. The Fields of The Nephilim were playing 2 sold out concerts in 2 consecutive evenings, cheerlessly riding high on the wave of nostalgia-rock they’d split the gigs into ‘old’ and ‘new’ which was a tad misleading. Despite not really being loud enough they did an okay set, it was let down by the opening half and gradually improved as they went on highlighting magnificently twice.

We arrived home with fast food and snacks and spent the remainder of the evening playing music whilst James flew his son’s mini helicopter about my flat; at 2-ish we were all done and crept to bed sated.

James left before lunch on Sunday. IC and I ate kippers for breakfast/lunch and, following the Moto GP, readied ourselves for a sunny motorcycle ride. For a good hour she and I tore up the Surrey countryside arriving sweating on Box Hill for a cup of tea and fag. We zipped home via my parents for more tea and fags and after dumping the bike and kit nipped over the road for a jar.

We ate grilled marinated king prawns and salad for our tea, it was ridiculously good for something that was healthy and relatively simple to prepare and rounded the evening off watching Vertigo which was a bit like the gig in metaphorical terms.

Still not sure if I’m going to be sick.

I still want one of these…