I’ve a fucking cold, it came on in an hour, one minute I’m supping ales with Harry in my local the next I’m aware that from the neck up my head has been replaced by a huge moist testicle with all nail files in it.

Where the hell did this come from? I’ve not been in contact with the ill. Having had a cold recently I thought I’d be immune for at least 6 months. Of course this means I’m sneezing with a slipped disc, these two things aren’t compatible, a bit like having poo in ones mouth.

Short one today, having a ridiculous morning at work. I’d love to go into detail but am unable for an assortment of work-related reasons.

Arseholes.

Seven minutes of joy right here…

My trusty walking stick received more compliments than my (soon-to-be and not too bad now, actually) moustache. The ‘oooh, is it adjustable?’ and ‘blimey! It collapses!’ comments along with how it suited me and wotnot… well I may as well shave off my bloody face furniture and walk about without my trouser and a little bell attached to the end of my member. I may as well do that. Yes.

I had a splendid weekend, Friday night IC her flatmate and I went to a club in Shoreditch. Despite being with cane I was able to shake my botty a little to some surprisingly enjoyable tunes. I had a spot of luck with a whisky and ginger where the rather incompetent barmaid reversed the measures, a lovely fight broke out at one point, a rude lady banged on the cubicle door when I was trying to have a pee but a jolly good night was had by all, despite another punch up on the way to the bus and another on it between two huge lesbians. I wasn’t involved in any though I suspect the sheer magnificence of the tash was causing East London some anxiety.

On Saturday IC nipped off with some pals and Swineshead and his missus escorted me to a Vietnamese restaurant for lunch. Both were witness to me enjoying a sensational beef noodle soup and we happily toddled off in the warm sunshine to London Fields with coffee to sit and chat about movies and shit. My four-legged taxi dropped me back at IC’s then she and I went and sat in a park to enjoy the unexpectedly clement autumn afternoon.

Evening struck, off out again for a friend’s dinner at another Vietnamese eatery. There were 12 of us, I knew two thirds of them and the rest became familiar as the evening wore on. The food was marvellous though rather cold by the time it came to eat due to starters and main courses arriving at random and my refusal to tuck in until IC was served. We ate and drunk well, the woefully small bill was an added bonus and, sated, we went back to Tomasina’s gaff to soothe off Saturday night with a nightcap.

Sunday began very slowly, I had antipasti for breakfast and we took off into what was another perfect fucking day. Our plan, to go into central London and take in exhibition before returning to Tooting was taken out and shot when, serendipity! We bumped into Swineshead and his missus taking coffee near Columbia Road. We hung about discussing our good fortune before moving through the flower market, passing the chance to undertake the intended trip to Oxford Street and choose to eat pannini in Hoxton instead. We then walked back to London Fields to soak up what was left of the day (all this walking was proving itself to be very beneficial to my spine, I’m still with cane and things aren’t 100% by any means but I can see a light in the distance) and talk on a bench as the good people of Hackney buzzed cheerfully about us.

On account of the saving made the previous evening IC kindly offered to buy me dinner, after a quick scrub up back at the flat we set off for the last time that weekend. We had dinner by candlelight in a little pizza place that I’ve harped on about before, IC’s order was a tad disappointing but mine was as delicious as ever. A most excellent way of rounding off what was a notable weekend. For me at least, if you made it this far you’re probably more bored than David Cameron’s fucking tie.

I’m sure I’ve posted this before, one of the tunes from Friday. I bloody love it. I nearly bolted when it came on.

Short one day. This is more for your sakes than mine as you’ll merely be subject to my going on about how it took me over twenty fucking minutes to put my boots on this morning.

I got into work late for a combination of the above and my decision to take painkillers before I got out of my pit. Fortunately sleeping isn’t too much of a problem though I have to be in the right position –on my side with a cushion between my knees- it’s just when I wake moving is awkward to say the least. The worst is the subsequent sitting-up part, I can feel my back compress and shift over to the left and lock tight. This is gasping-agony time, you simply can’t move and any attempt to do so results in an unholy pain that induces a whiteout and at worse a full-on faint. I think I’ve already mentioned that an oncoming sneeze is more frightening than waking up to find you’re being wanked off by the ghost of William Bramble.

I’m looking forward to the weekend immensely but mildly concerned how my spine will behave, especially with regard to travelling around. I’ve already travelled on the tube with a screwed back but have yet to try the bus. I should be okay but I’m not sure whether I’m best stood up screaming or sat down with my head craned forward shouting expletives every time the pus goes over a pebble.

I’ve taken my cue from UrbanWoo (link right) and put up a clip of ‘A bit of Fry and Laurie’. Please do have nice weekends, and be grateful your spine isn’t made of pumice and held together with bogies.

My mum may have noticed that there wasn’t a P yesterday. Basically, after my post on Tuesday, I took the first available appointment with a local Doctor and following the briefest of consultations was ordered to take an x-ray at my earliest convenience, hence my lack of post.

I’ve worked out that to date having my spine manipulated in various fashions, including two sessions of acupuncture (which briefly worked I hasten to add), has cost me in excess of a grand. Why on earth I didn’t take the NHS route from the off is more baffling to me than the so-called ‘war on terror’. I learnt quickly that I could have free physio should the x-ray results prove what already know, that my back is made of chalk. I’ll have conclusive evidence in a few weeks, apparently.

So there I was at 9am shuffling through the corridors of St. Georges in Tooting dodging wheelchairs, trolleys and drug addicts to reach the x-ray department. I waited for 5 mins by reception before being ushered into the changing area where I was installed in one of those awful gowns that lets your bum hang out the back. The radiologist, who looked like he was 15, positioned me on the viewing table and did his business. In 20 minutes I was out and preparing myself to climb aboard my black bitch which would whisk me to the office for a day of moaning and occasional yelps as my fucking spine played hide and seek with my discs.

My boss gave me one of those kneeling-seat devices on which I’m perched as I type this. It’s certainly better for the back than a chair but has two major disadvantages, the first is that it’s only a fraction less painful than having twisted back as all my weight is resting on my knees/shins and, secondly, as I’m floating over my colleagues like some sort of disabled angel of death, they are privy to my perpetually contorted visage as jolts of electronic-agony leap from my arse to my neck every time I so much as exhale. It’s most fucking irksome I can tell you not to mention a tad humiliating.

I was preparing myself to spend the evening wriggling alone in front of The Wire, I’d mentally planned the lowest impact supper (stuff in the fridge which would be served cold) and I can’t say I was feeling terribly cheery. At the eleventh hour Frank suggested a pint, I’d already considered going for a walk as the stick is helping to cool my boots, so to learn there would be a pint waiting at the end was most invigorating.

But my evening took a turn for the splendid, when, out of the blue, IC walked up my stairs with flowers and ingredients for dinner. I hobbled off to the pub while she showered and made supper and by the time I returned a plate of fresh scallops, smoked haddock and rocket was shoved under my nose with a bottle of Shiraz breathing happily at reach.

Sensational!

Formidable!

Magnifique!

Saved.

I am in a most foul temperament. My back has gone right fucked, I’m using my fucking walking stick again and I’m in bloody agony in any given position -save lying down on my side in a half foetal position with a pillow between my knees and another stuffed into the small of my fucking useless back. This isn’t a good position for the office. The only alternative is to gently adopt a position that most effectively bypasses the contentious area so I’m bolt upright in my chair like a Victorian Civil Servant wincing everytime I so much as blink.

I suspected it was going to do this, the warning signs have been in evidence since last week but instead of taking some extra time to do the strengthening exercises… I didn’t. I spurned the exercises like they were Argos receipts for Tupperware, I laughed in their goddamnn faces with my eyes glowing with fucking hate, me, I did… but now I pay.

The upshot is time consuming, costly and of course, the other thing, er, oh yes, more painful than having a roasted angle grinder dropped onto your genitals from the top of K2. No more gentle-massaging osteopath for me, it’s chiropractor time, the fucking back cracker, the clicker, the snapper, the angel of death.

Last night, after a couple of pints with Frank up the road, I returned home. Dimly aware that the spot of alcohol I’d consumed was having little effect on my spine, I made some supper and watched some of Tribe (I don’t know why I bother. Every week it’s the same; Bruce Parry meets some indigenous people, gets fucked out of his skull and vomits copiously. Surely it’s cheaper to just send the cunt to Blackpool on Friday night?) but I was partially saved by The Wire, I say ‘partially’ because the dawning realisation that I couldn’t sit with honking was pissing me off.

I’ve made an appointment to see the doctor this afternoon. Only my moustache can save me now.

No youtube today, it hurts too much to look for something.

Homemade fishcakes take a fucking age to prepare, about an hour and half if you’re making fresh breadcrumbs like what I dun. The result of my labour was sensational; they were served with asparagus and a parsley sauce with enough garlic to fell Edith Piaf. After dinner IC and I settled down to Wolf Creek and polished off the rest of the Moet that my boss had given me for being a bloody good bloke. It was Friday and I was in excellent cheer.

I awoke on Saturday with my spine wrapped round a bedspring. I cursed myself for not being a little more pedantic with the exercises my osteopath had suggested I undertake on a daily basis. It’s one thing to do them when ones back feels like it’s made of broken beer bottles and another when it’s acting as it should (i.e., not throwing you on the ground when you gently cough.) I managed to get vertical after some effort and even performed a cooking task that resulted in two huge kippers for lunch. After lunch had settled, and following a trog, I threw myself on the deck and worked on my spine, after 30 mins it began to perform, basic movement was resumed albeit with a certain amount of spontaneous discomfort/fucking screaming agony.

It was glorious day, the summer we never really had suddenly happened, with cruel irony, on the last day of summer. At 4 o clock IC and I jumped on the black bitch, in my case I sort of climbed on it moaning softly, and we headed off for deepest darkest Surrey -the proper countryside stuff with all just fields and winding narrow lanes. The ride there was soporific despite the rapid pace, the roads that slice their way out of London are some of the most bike-friendly in South East England, the clement weather icing the bike-themed cake.

We arrived at James’ gaff at 5. His wife and kids, one 4 and one brand-new, played with us in the garden as we nattered and cracked into the first of the evenings beers. After the kids had knackered themselves out they were tucked away and James, IC and I nipped down the lane to the pub which is almost a cliché in its country pubness. We had a few and James bought us some sandwiches to soak up the booze, after a pleasant few hours we headed back up the lane and experienced the velvety pitch black of the countryside on the way home.

In order to not wake the family we spent the rest of the evening in James shed listening to music and drinking wine. By the time we went to bed we were all shattered but not without control of our respective faculties. The following morning the expected howl from the little one didn’t materialise and IC and I slept comfortably until 10. We had a fried breakfast, marvellous, and before we set off took some pics of the kids on the black bitch. After the goodbyes we headed back out into the sunshine and hit the road, before arriving home we popped by to see my old mum who forced cake and tea on us and we passed a happy hour talking about dead people in cars.

Back to the flat for a while and then IC and I went for a walk and did a tiny bit of shopping. The day was fading fast, the light is now gone by 7 for all intents and purposes and the air is taking on that familiar nip of the autumn. We decided to save the evening by going out for a curry at the eatery up the road from my gaff. I’m used to others leading the way when it comes to curry but as IC is less informed about South Indian cuisine than I, yours truly took the ordering bull by the horns. I hit the bloody nail on the head by ordering just the right amount of delicious stuff to share and we left feeling sated but not bloated, a difficult balance had been achieved, equilibrium was restored and the usual humdrum Sunday-evening pisser was wholly negated. Before heading off to bed we watched an old BBC adaptation of Dicken’s The Signal Man, which is 30 minutes of pure shit-flowing terror. Marvellous.

My back is still contorted like Auschwitz-Birkenau barbed wire but on a lighter note I’ve grown a Frank Zappa moustache.

Marvellous.

I had a dream last night in which I was a DJ (‘DJ’ such as the Fats Boy Slim as opposed to the late, and much missed, John Peel) and not having had any aspirations to carry on in such a baffling manner, it took me by surprise when I was informed ‘I was on.’ by a young Cherie Lunghi. Despite not having a clue what I was doing I was rather good, actually, it was a positive experience, and take it from me, a piece of piss.

My intention to have a clean night in front of the box was somewhat compromised, not to the point of silliness I hasten to add. I had a couple of hastily arranged pints with Frank at the local, it was a lovely day yesterday and it seemed a shame to waste the clement, albeit crepuscular, evening (it’s dark by 7.30 already) but fulfilled my Wire duties from 9pm to midnight following a luxury bath (I was completely naked!).

My regular reader will be pleased to know that I’ve fully recovered from ‘Curry Wednesday,’ I’m back on 3’s and 4’s and feeling prepared for what the weekend has to offer. I’ve decided to avoid the disgusting Friday List this week, it’ll make the occasional appearance but, with regard to an earlier mention of Mr. Peel, here is a typically eccentric offing from The Fall.

Have a nice weekend.

Had a pleasant evening with my pal who was over from that America. Unusually it was just he and I which gave us a chance for a proper ol’ chat. We had a couple of beers in a local off The Kings Road (not a part of London that inspires me if I’m to be honest) then went for a curry, though this being Chelsea the delicious but mean serving of food was presented to us by obsequious waiting staff (I can pour my own fucking beer thank you) making our cheery dining experience slightly aggravating. Nonetheless we left stuffed-fat and popped by my mates ludicrously lavish hotel for a quick drink at the bar. In spite of tempting offers to imbibe further I was insistent, that on this occasion, I’d spurn the black and orange-eyed Cyclops in favour of the walking to the bus stop to catch the last tube. It was 11.15.

Reluctantly I passed by the cabs waiting outside the hotel and walked to the High Street. Despite groups of appalling teenagers, all of them dressed like Hugh Grant and Jemima Khan, giggling and hooraying outside nightclubs with that disgusting youthful naivety after encountering alcohol and the chance of a fuck, there wasn’t a bus in sight. I really needed to get home, the curry was sitting heavily on my nipsy but yet I spurned the endless snake of cabs buzzing past like stag beetles.

After three quarters of an hour walking I finally boarded a bus that went in entirely the wrong direction. I alighted and waited another 20 minutes and took another fucking bus to South Kensington. By now my arsehole felt like it was chewing a toffee, even the short walk to the tube required me to clamp my arse flanks together like it was my first night in a Turkish jail.

The bastard tube journey to Wimbledon (my only hope of getting a bus anywhere near home) took a fucking age. I sat there clamped tighter than a bomb-filled oyster and tried to read. It was impossible, I couldn’t focus.

Walking from the tube to the bus stop required Everest surmounting determination, desperate for a trog I had to wait another 15 agonising minutes for transport. By now I was starting to feel all mystery, the constant pressure on my freckle was taking its toll. My mind started to play games, imagine being found unconscious on the top deck of a bus with ones pants literally blown off and my Chelsea boots filled with Saag Goshit? Jesus.

At last I arrived at my stop. I hobbled back to the flat having to pause every few paces in order to suck up the dreadful weight under my belt. By the time I entered my flat I was almost in tears, the searing pain in my botty was akin to hot pins being inserted into my perineum.

I crawled indoors muttering prayers to my mother, by the time I reached the bathroom my trousers lay on the stairs like the shed skin of a snake. Finally, it was time. I assumed the position but before I’d time to dock my exhausted hoop gave way and I landed as I fired out effluent like the space shuttle taking off backwards.

I actually shouted with sheer relief, not that the sound of a Bugatti accelerating through the Tunnel at Monaco wouldn’t have already woken the street.

And I got most of it the chod bin.

Really short P today, up to my clockweights in it.

I can’t possibly go without mentioning the death of Richard Wright, the quiet man of Pink Floyd and without question, from the very outset, the ‘sound’ of the band. It may not be immediately obvious, subtle is as subtle does after all, but stripped of Wrights unique keyboard skills and vocals harmonies the Pink Floyd we know would simply not exist.

I’ve attached a perfect example in today’s youtube offing but first, I’ve just made the pregnant girl in front of me in the office physically sick. Obviously this wasn’t intentional, I was merely telling her of how the cunt next to me on the bus this morning dropped a fart of such intensity I had to move seats. That was it; she stood up with her hand cupped over her mouth, eyes bulging, and ran to the loos.

RIP Rick (sorry to sully your tribute)

I’m currently residing in my London residence.

I awoke from my slumber in the morning, undertook my morning ablutions (had a ruddy big shit) dressed and, spurning my spotty-goody-two-shoes bicycle, aimed for the filthy comforts of my black bitch.

‘It’s been a while,’ I grunted, taking off her cover with all the delicacy of a docker. I jumped on her back and rammed my keys into her. Gently I stroked her ‘start’ button; the engine turned over once and stirred no more. The Bitch! It’s obvious what’s happened here, I used the bicycle yesterday and in a fit of piqued (yes? Oh, sorry. Carry on…) she’s thrown her rings off her pistons. Jesus, wome… oh, I’ve got a flat battery.

For the last year or so I’ve been staving off the inevitable. I’ve been manually charging the battery every few weeks now since Christmas and as we descend into the icy clutches of the coming months it’s just not worth the risk of this happening again. Reluctantly I phoned the bike shop down the road and enquired if they had a battery for a Black Bitch in stock. Yes, good. £65 quid. Fuck.

Of course the little tit that runs the place –he takes too much business off scooter-types for my liking- wouldn’t trust me to pay for the battery after it’d been primed (batteries are dry until point of sale, at such time they are filled with acid and charged for an hour or two and only then are they good to go) so I had to go down there, pay and walk back. In 30 minutes I’ll go back, pick up the fresh cell, plonk it in the Bitch and go to work.

Had a pleasant night following a successful day all told. Met up with Frank at the usual where the landlord informed us the brewery were axing his guest ale scheme due to cost. This isn’t good; I was enjoying a pint of Conker Bonker last night for the first time, indeed, I regularly drink delicious absurd sounding guest ales, but the fact I won’t be able to indulge in the future is worse than child abuse. I was livid when I heard, I’ve a good mind to go over to the managing directors home, tie him and his wife up, cut off her head in front of his screaming face and torch the gaff, frankly.

Right I’m off to get the battery after a bit more toast. And tea. (And a wank)

So, 21, Twenty-one, that’s how old the winner of yesterdays Grand Prix was, youngest ever F1 winner in the history of the sport. Twenty fucking one.

I think I remember 21, that was the first of many years where I spent half my waking hours -10 on a good day- skinning up and the other half getting monged. It was okay though, I was on the dole after getting booted out of Art College. Aah, happy, happy days. I think. I’ve have forgotten to be honest. Come to think of it they weren’t happy days, they were dreadful. I did fuck all at the best of times and same for the worst.

Anyway, I bet Sebastian Vettel can’t stand up on the top deck of a crowded bus after coughing his lungs up for the entire 25 minutes journey, fall over on the angry bloke to his right and smack the teenager behind him full in the face with his rucksack as the bus inexplicable lurches forward prior to falling half way down the stairs, visage contorted into a silent scream, and landing on a tiny little African lady at the bottom… beat that Vettel. Twenty-one. Christ.

It’s been a jolly nice weekend, save the horrors of Saturday night. I trundled to the East after work Friday and following a couple of beers with Harry and John on Old Street spent the remainder of the evening with IC and her flatmate. Still exhausted form Thursday I managed to sleep until midday on Saturday. It was a splendid day, completely un-forecast sunshine and warmth, we undertook a spot of shopping and all too soon I was heading back south to my flat. I had to shower and change into my suit, then get back on the fucking bus and tube for a stultifying dull excursion to The Royal Albert Hall for the Last Night of the Proms.

Making it worse was the fact it was a lovely, perfect evening, one I could’ve spent with IC outside a gorgeous pub chatting as day turned to dusk to night –but no, I had to work. After meeting some clients, which was saved by some posh booze, I had to suffer over an hour of musical cacophony before being realised for more drinks and a just-in-time piss. Twenty minutes later I was back in my seat for the tub-thumping flag waving horror that is the last of the Last Night. But it wasn’t all-bad, the traditional folk bit was surprisingly moving, indeed, I found myself close to actually giving a shit. I wasn’t going to stay for the National Anthem, it gives me the fear, so when everyone stood up for the Land of Cider and Stabbing bit I shot out like dysentery and made my way back East.

Sunday. I managed to sleep to midday again. IC and I went for a walk to Columbia Road and stopped for tea on the way. It was a gorgeous day despite the little pinch of the autumn in the air. We met up with SH and his missus for a couple of ales late afternoon and converted the day into early evening. That miserable Sunday evening dread was somewhat negated by Rainbow Trout and the F1 highlights having previously exchanged the TV in favour of fresh air and movement.

Another lovely day today despite more lies from the Met Office.

Twenty-one. Fucking hell.

Oh, before I go a mate of mine has a new website project running. It’s a clever little site that pulls together restaurant locations from movies and TV and puts them onto a Google Map.

You can be assured it’s good because he’s got an unkempt beard and drinks heavily.

www.eatlikethem.com

I’ve had virtually no fucking sleep. Jesus Christ.

This wasn’t due to anything outside of sleep apnea, more specifically hypopnea, which occurs during REM rather than deep sleep. In my case it’s brought on by a combination of being very tired (and sober) which makes falling off to sleep, when I get into bed, a chore. As soon as I shift from drift-off into the sleep-bit I suddenly wake up unable to fucking breathe usually finding myself right at the end off the bed bolt upright and last night twice off it. It’s fucking horrid.

Subsequently, short P. I’ve decided to do a (edited for references to Gary Glitter type activity, depressingly) Friday list because I’m too knackered to write anything. I can assure you the rest of the list as is, in certain instances it’s quite awful.

bigtittube 1
milking breasts fuck tubes 1
utube women farting and burping 2
bigtittube 2
nude tube 2
blackfucktube 1
nice pussy fucking.com 1
utupe video dancing drunk 1
old cunt pictures 1
cunts fucked by dogs 1
home birth diries the 13 pound baby 1
u-tube cock suckers 1
nude tube 1
dog fucking tube 1
big black cock tube 1
sexycunts 1
amy matthews tits 1
bigtittube 1
sarah palin toplesss 1
java+ try and chtch 1
you toube twoman hang in iran 1
blackfucktube 1
utube cunts 1
accessible big girls fucking site 1
piqued.co.uk 1
utubes images choc 3
free porn i slep it in her cunt and foun 2
“nigella express music” 2
wankingtube 1
“dog fucks girls” 1
amy matthews tits 1
carol vordermans arse 1
utub third eye excercises 1
nissan micra wallpapers 1
nipple sucking and pumping sexy pics 1
fuking girles animales 1
bukkake u tube 1
chemistry nonclementure 1
tit wanks with animals 1
“my wife fucks dog” 1
hairy cunt hairs pictures free 2
nigella naked 2
www.moantube.com 2
victoria lawson monster cock 1
www.minihorsefucking.com 1
duck pissing 1
micra wallpapers 1
demi moore nudephoto 1

It’s been a long time since I went to any sort of club, too long actually. A combination of their not being the sorts of clubs one wishes to go to and my general dislike for people that go to clubs may have something to do with it. Since the closure of The Crypt, my regular weekly haunt for a few years in the early part of 90’s, I’ve been to the odd rock affair but they mug you at the bar in lieu of gassy piss and they’re usually rammed with dreadful student types who think that CBGB are a band.

After a harrowing day at work which nearly resulted in a client going to the press to highlight a disagreement (the matter is now resolved thanks to some silver tongued diplomacy by yours truly believe it or not) I hopped home on the Black Bitch, ate some nachos after a bath and fucked off out of it. I arrived at Old Street at 8.15 feeling suddenly exhausted, the day had caught up with me and I was wondering if I was up for a protracted mid-week outing. IC was waiting for me outside of the designated bar, my tiredness began to evaporate, half an hour later, half a pint down, I was as right as rain.

An hour later we passed by Hoxton Square and arrived at the club, £3 entry, mercifully un-crowded with a very reasonably priced bar. The music, heavy electronic/goth, dances on the perimeter of my tastes, some of it was sublime, some not to my liking at all.

The first act on featured a topless lady with a pre-programmed laptop and a face like Genesis P’Orridge. I was forced to plunge my teeth into my lip to avoid bursting into laughter but somehow the dirge backing her toneless vocal and lyrics (if one could call it that) carried her through. The next lot on were a band featuring a synth player sporting the most ridiculous mop top since Rowan Atkinson made his debut as Blackadder and a lead singer in a fucking polar neck. They were frustrating to watch; at times they were right on the money but instead of allowing certain hypnotic phrases to carry one off they kept interrupting themselves with naff little changes, the twits.

After a few more beers and a chance encounter with the perpetually cheery Rose (her blog ‘If You’re Making One’ is linked to the right) I undertook a form of dancing with IC and her flatmate. By now it was late, I was already looking at the wrong side of 2am once home and settled so staving off the desire to get completely monged we three left. All in all a jolly Wednesday evening and an experience I’m happy to repeat.

Oh, Hilary Benn, heard him on Today this morning. The man is a gaping fucking arsehole; I don’t think I’ve heard such arrogance since Michael Howard, the beast of Westminster, in the 90’s. In fact, I despise him so much I’ve lost all respect for his dad. I was even prepared to overlook the fact that it was down to Tony Benn that the first incarnation of Triumph Motorcycles went to the wall. Not any more, the Benn’s are a family of cunts.

A taste of last night.

So, they’ve turned on the collider operated by the European Organization for Nuclear Research – better known by its French acronym Cern. The vast circular tunnel -the ring- which runs under the French-Swiss border contains more than 1,000 cylindrical magnets arranged end-to-end. The magnets are there to steer the beam -made up of particles called protons- around this 27km-long ring. Eventually, two proton beams will be steered in opposite directions around the LHC at close to the speed of light, completing about 11,000 laps each second. At allotted points around the tunnel, the beams will cross paths, smashing together near four massive “detectors” that monitor the collisions for interesting events. Scientists are hoping that new sub-atomic particles will emerge, revealing fundamental insights into the nature of the cosmos. Personally, I couldn’t give a tinkers cuss.

Had a marvellous night, I met up with Harry and Den, the former I’d not seen for a month and the latter three of them. My bro was there with his mate Al and we spent a jolly few hours drinking in a boozer by Clapham Common and discussing art, motorcycles and writing. When we arrived it was empty, by the time we left it was rammed, a pub quiz was in full swing, we should’ve entered, we got every single question right including one about an all girl group called Bewitched, which, astonishingly my bro got, the big Jessie.

For the last couple of evenings I’ve been eating salad, last night was no exception and whilst you may be recoiling in some sort of rabbit-horror I insist you hear me out. For kick off the salad has quite a lot of (three rashers of cooked streaky, shredded) bacon and (thinly sliced Parmigiano Reggie, not fucking grated cheap shit, urggghhh) Parmesan in it. Right there. In your face. Also there isn’t much actual salad, a handful of cherry tomatoes and some rocket/watercress stuff, aside from some black pepper and the sauce that’s it…

But what a sauce, invented last night using my brains on the way back from the pub. I won’t go into the exact detail of my thought process, the way I mentally discussed the basic oil and vinegar components of a salad sauce and before re-writing the fucking rules as to the fundamental constituents of a ‘classic salad dressing’, no. That’s not for here. I will give you the recipe though, for free, now. It’ll knock your socks off.

Dead simple, 3 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, a heaped teaspoon of creamed horseradish (the stuff you get in jars from supermarkets) and the same amount of capers, combine the ingredients and serve. I should win an award for it. Nigella could give it to me. Tits.

Back to Cern briefly, in 2003, Dr Adrian Kent, a theoretical physicist at the University of Cambridge, wrote a paper in which he argued that scientists had not adequately calculated the risks of a “killer strangelet” catastrophe scenario, basically, weird hypothetical particles in the LHC which could trigger the mass conversion of nuclei in ordinary atoms into more strange matter – transforming the Earth into a hot, dead lump. Other scientists expressed concern that a fundamental question (how improbable does a cataclysm have to be to warrant proceeding with an experiment?) had never been seriously inspected. The upshot of such worries is quite straightforward and easy to understand, theoretically the fact Cern could create a mini-black hole that swells and ‘gobbles up the Earth’ had been all but ignored. And I still couldn’t give a fucking shit.

Short Piqued today, I feel crap.

I’ve just got into work; I decided that unless I was two Lemsips down I wouldn’t leave the flat. Obviously I shouldn’t be here at all but I’ve got more fucking deadlines. It getting so my entire working life is one perpetual deadline, a single never ending scream between the desk, coffee machine, bogs and outside forra fag.

Actually, yesterday was all round balls, only two things cheered me, a couple of pints with Frank and seeing Noel Gallagher getting pushed over by that hero. It’s the best stuff Oasis have done in years. What makes it even more amusing is Liam’s reaction; he does that sort of Manc hop whereby something kicks off and, not wanting to get involved, they try to look as if they are in the thick of it by hopping about a bit with their fists sort of up-ish and taking random air swings -but only when the protagonist is retreating or has been restrained.

As for Noel, he went over like a little old man. Apparently he ‘may have fractured a rib’, which he didn’t, the fucking fairy.

Right, this band are in the process of taking legal action against that slut Sarah Palin for using this piece of music as part of her fascist campaign without authorisation, apparently. The lead singer is a shadow of her former self these days but back in the day she was right pretty. Cracking tune too. Oooooh…

The cold has moved down to my throat, it’s horrific. This morning at 4am, the time most people die, I woke unable to breathe. After a good cough and spit-up I was okay and settled back down to my dream which involved some people from work, a ‘helicopter’ ferry and the particle accelerator in Switzerland. It’s feeling particularly risible now, I’m at work and I really should be at home. If it wasn’t for deadlines I would be. But no, full of Lemsip I soldier on. Onward Congested Soldier Marching Onto Whatfor…?

My weekend was uneventfully splendid. Friday evening was spent watching the whole of the final season of Curb Your Enthusiasm after IC had made us dinner. You’ll be delighted to know that like yours truly she’s more than capable in the ways of the kitchen and equally adept at using the corkscrew.

I got up late on Saturday, the bastard cold had taken me into its barbed grip but I was not to be beaten, we had to go to the laundrette. One of my earliest memories is the laundrette. I’d go there with mum and Maureen, the lady that ran it -big hair, red lipstick and huge gold earrings- was perpetually giving me sweets. The ‘Oooh, Maureen, you are a naughty girl,’ from my mum as a I greedily consumed what ever luminous 70’s sweetmeat was offered is etched into my archive like Blake’s needle.

I’d not been to such a place since living in my previous accommodation sans washing machine. In those days my clothes were washed in the bath using soap flakes and elbow grease, the method, which was effective to a point (i.e., a blunt one) required an infrequent trip to the fucking launderette down the road which in addition to being a place to clean clothes acted as a hospice for piss-pots, smackheads and glue sniffing Scotchmen, the antithesis of Maureen’s smile and her sweets…

The launderette IC and I found ourselves in on a rainy Saturday in the Eastend to wash a feather duvet was occupied by 3 round Eastern European types and 2 children, one whose scream could’ve deafened Lemmy and the other who’d taken it on herself to be the fucking sentinel for the laundrette door. As IC and I aren’t au fait with the comings and goings of public laundry machines we were forced to enquire how they worked, the look that the younger of the fat arseholes running the place gave IC when she enquired was lucky to not to result in good kick to the cunt.

Following a successful operation we took a late lunch in a lovely Italian café and readied ourselves for the evening. A mutual friend had organised drinks in a bar off Hackney Road, we arrived in good time and settled into proceedings. IC knew many more guests than I but fuelled with social lube I muscled into to conversations and put myself about without, I hope, making a tit of myself. The Sunday hangover was a non-starter, we’d not gone overboard but I still managed to sleep until midday due to my malaise. I watched the Grand Prix while IC involved herself in domestic matters, my initial delight at the result following one of the best finales to a race in living memory has been somewhat curtailed with today’s news. Utterly ridiculous…

IC and I made our way back south popping into a lovely little boozer in Shoreditch along the way. We were back at mine for 6, I made supper (kippers with a simple salad of leaf and baby tomatoes) and we rounded the evening off watching Alan Partridge. See, splendidly uneventful, and not an old lady in sight…

I have a fucking cold, it’s not serious so please don’t worry, please. It is, however, a pain. My weekend will pass by with yours truly in some cloudy Lemsip haze, sans smell, taste and energy. Bah, is all I can say.

Is it just me or is anyone else finding this US Election business chilling? The Democrats are bad enough with their ‘I have a dream’ rhetoric but the award to the most disgusting family values/Apple pie/stars and stripes fuck has to go to the Republicans. It’s not so much McCain (though that’s more than enough thanks, the senile old fascist) or Sarah Palin, the self styled ‘Hockey Mom’ who doubles as one of the Stepford Wives, but the fucking cunts that support them.

It’s religious fervour, there’s no other phrase for it. Four-minute ovations BEFORE they speak, the sing-song nar nar nar nar naaaar way in which they voice sound bites (accenting consonants like they’ve Asperger Syndrome -as if the phrases have been drummed into them during a serious of psychedelic experiments) the visceral hatred for the opposition and the almost prophet status of The One They Follow… This is a party that want to make abortion illegal, can you believe that? This is actually one of their policies!! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!

I had a so-so night, being ill and all (really, I’m fine) I ate some Tortellini with broccoli and bacon and deliberately drunk some wine, I was going to abstain. Fuck that, I’m sick. I need TV, sofa and Tempranillo. Luckily I had the last two Wires to watch from season one, slightly disappointed with the outcome but I’m already greasing myself up for Season Two…

Just had a Lemsip, the one I had an hour ago just kicked in as I finished it off. I think next time I’ll just freebase the powder. It’s good shit.

Nice weekends, don’t cry for me, it’s just a cold, just a cold.

The blonde bastard Boris Bonson, I mean ‘Johnston’ has, like Gordon Brown, disappeared. Johnson, right wing thug dressed as fluffy child-friendly clown, promised Londoners, in amongst a thousand other things, a referendum on the smoking policy in pubs and clubs with a view to it’s being overturned on a local level at the discretion of the fucking publican.

I’m sick to the back teeth of politicians doing this shit, vote for us and we’ll deliver x, y and z -instead they just ban something and piss off. The only time we see or hear of them subsequently is during an act of war/terrorism/disaster or when some public figure dies -both requiring them to stand there vomiting some mournful guff in an act of blantant bandwagoning. In the meantime said repressed homosexual public school bully-boy (insert any member of parliament here save those that didn’t go to public school or Alan Clark) is cavorting about in the stock exchange following perpetual meetings with business leaders. And that, dear reader is how it works.

Still it could be worse, we could be American.

Had a charming evening. Following a lunchtime dash during in which I gathered together some ingredients for supper, I spanked the afternoon, got back home and instantly began to prepare the food. I’d found an old recipe for Kedgeree, a once British staple in the breakfasts rooms of the fucking rich during the heyday of the Empire, these days an archaic jumble of smoked fish and rice.

But this recipe was special. Apparently the original dish came with a mild curry sauce, mild it maybe, simple it was not. It took nearly an hour of chopping, pounding, grinding and blending before I sieved this tiny quantity of paste into a bowl and added crème fraiche (in lieu of double cream aka heart failure). The smoked haddock was poached with a little milk and bay leaf and the basmati rice cooked with cumin seeds, after the sauce was added it was topped with a chopped hard boiled egg, a sprig of parsley because I’m a cunt and it was ready to go. It was jolly nice but the work to enjoyment ratio wasn’t really worth it.

After eating IC and watched ‘Intimacy’ which was a bit like watching a real life Lucien Freud painting, though more dull and depressing. The film is famed for its depictions of actual sex that I suppose in some respects could be justified with regards to the plot. Snag here is that the two actors rolling all over each other in some sort of Existentialist burp aren’t that easy on the eye. Give me some guff about a bloke hung like a wine bottle delivering a pizza to a pneumatic milf any day.

I had the most bizarre/revolting dream.

Imagine if you will a village park, overlooked by a handful of pretty brick houses, it’s bijou, green, trimmed, the perfect settling for pushchairs and mums and little people to run around all red-faced and overtired from the swings. But for no reason known to anyone outside the confines of my deepest conscious a scene of biblical horror is (ironically) carrying on, relatively unnoticed, by the sorts of gentlemen one finds inhabiting places like southern Afghanistan (hence ‘ironically’ or course. Yes? Oh forget it).

Two protagonists equipped with a variety of implements designed for halving screaming (and I mean blood curdling shrieking screaming, like that bit when that man get his head pulled off in Day of the Dead) men in twain. This in itself is diabolical enough but the most bizarre aspect is the large wooden contraption that occupies the view to the East side of the park. Its purpose, according to the recesses of my brain, is to pick the half dead, half cleaved screamers up with its barbed wire attachments and shake them about a bit, bounce ‘em up and down ‘til they go all horribly silent with all blood everywhere. And guts. Bits of limb…

Whilst all this was going relatively unnoticed by the families, I was stood there facing this relentless horror screaming as loudly as the chaps being vertically compromised. According to the dream I was there for a while, happily screaming my head off, because I saw a good six being dispatched and the two fellows undertaking the task didn’t seem to be rushing. Then I took a 58 bus (Routemaster) to Walthamstowe.

My bother and I were having a conversation about porn in a pub in Covent Garden with regard to a particular scene in which a gentleman twists his member (note ‘twist’ he wasn’t doing it up and down, like) in order to issue what appears to be toothpaste into a rather cross actresses hair. Our ensuing gestures and giggles weren’t going unnoticed by a middle ages couple at the adjacent table, indeed, it’s quite an achievement to approach forty and still have the capacity to offend people so much they actually get up, leave their drinks and go. It serves them right for ear-wigging if you ask me.

That was Friday, my bro and I were in town and we pulled out all the stops, the evening was funny and at times very emotional for reasons not for here but the aftermath of our indulgence knocked out most of Saturday. This wasn’t a bad thing, whilst it was a beautiful day the more time I could spend without consciously being aware of time until Sunday evening the better.

Nonetheless, by 3 pm, following the play on Radio 4, I was sufficiently fixed enough to don my leathers and jump on my black bitch for a blast to the depths of Surrey. The weather, hot, sunny and more pertinently, still, played host to my scream over the asphalt away from the city. I’ve tried and probably failed to describe what it feels like to ride on days such as this so I won’t bother now but it really is the most fun one can have with ones trousers on. Marvellous.

I arrived at my sisters and received the usual greeting from my niece, tears, but she recovered soon after. My sister was upstairs throwing up from some sort of bug I was happy not to contract so I spent a happy hour with my bro in law in the garden watching my niece stagger about on her fat little legs, she learnt to walk on Tuesday incidentally. No big deal, I can walk, piece of piss.

By the time I left niece and I were getting on fine, the ride back was nearly as magnificent as the first and made more enjoyable by a cat and mouse tangle with some chap on a GSX1000. Marvellous. I popped into Sainsbury on my way back to pick up some kippers and pizza for breakfast and supper respectively, at home I got out of my sweaty leathers and went of to meet Frank in the local for a few pints of delicious ale. Obviously I got dressed first, it was hot enough to wander about the streets in ones pants but I don’t think it’s, well, very British.

At home I carried on drinking, I was thinking along the lines of ‘kill Sunday until such time you need to go into town and meet IC’, of course all I achieved was a fucking hangover that turned my water into orange gravy. A kipper helped to partially alleviate the agony but to my irritation time had ceased to engage with motion.

After writing some of this, reading, watching stuff on TV, I flopped onto the black bitch and headed out to the West part of Croydon to visit James. The poor bastard had just moved there with his family, still the gaff wasn’t bad at all and considerably better than his last dwelling. His son is the antithesis of my niece, a bit younger but he was all smiles and chuckles when I arrived, he maintained suitable interest for yours truly for the duration of my visit too but because he can’t walk yet I decided to spurn his advances.

I zipped home narrowly avoiding a head-on collision in Mitcham Lane, a man was simply driving on the wrong side of the road at 60 mph, it was as shocking and as literal as that, luckily I dove nearside in time to avoid his bumper, I gave the cunt the finger which he clocked. He was so completely out of his tree he just smiled. I hope he got killed before he did for anyone else, and I mean that with utter sincerity.

I arrived back home disappointed I’d done virtually nothing to speed up the day; I’d knocked a mere pair of hours out of it. It was no good, it was 7pm, I had 4 fucking hours left before I would even set off! This was ridiculous. I managed to catch the tail end of a programme I wished I’d seen in its entirety which angered me sufficiently to kill a good 30 minutes fuming, I arrived mid way through Top Gear which was duller than David Cameron’s fingernails. 9pm… 2 hours before I leave.

I watched some film with Michael Douglas, truly pitiful, I couldn’t concentrate, time was going backwards. After what seemed like the Neolithic period I finally set off. The tube journey was partially saved by Sebastian Horsley’s splendid Dandy in the Underworld, which I heartily recommend. If you go to Urban Woo’s sublime blog (link right) there is a link to his on the right incidentally…

I arrived at Liverpool Street at 11.45; I still had over an hour to wait before IC’s train arrived. ‘Bollocks’, I said rather loudly to some homeless tool giving me his life story in lieu of 20p and a half my roll-up. I sat down and was relentlessly hassled by bums and staff alike, the former wanting alms, the latter information as to what I was doing there sat reading and stabbing impatient glances at the clock.

I can’t recall a time when an hour has passed so relentlessly slowly; I was so near yet so far. My mind swam with the possibilities of a plane crash, a train derailment, an earthquake, some small twist of fate that would see me sat there in perpetuity waiting for the train that never came… But finally at 0.51, right on time, her train rolled into the station.

It should be patently obvious what it was like to see her after exactly three weeks We went home by cab, I was happier than a chap who’d been given a stay of execution, cleared of all charges and subsequently rewarded with the keys to the city. Yesterday, still with the same disposition, IC and I spent a largely aimless day catching up which ended in dinner in one of our favourite gaffs in the East.

Despite the rain, the decline of the summer, the office and all, I’m still feeling pretty bloody chuffed which must make reading this sufficiently nauseating.

Good.