My ears are still ringing as I type this, that, dear reader, is a result. In fact, my ears haven’t rung this good since 2006 when I last saw Slayer at Brixton and I’d completely forgotten about the phenomenon of ‘magic trousers’ when the bass and kick drum are so intense they cause ones clothes to physically vibrate.

Jamie and I met at the flat and popped to the local for a quick sharpener for the awful journey ahead, a bus and the perpetual district line with one change and we were there an hour after leaving the pub. We’d already decided that the support acts Masterdon and Trivium would have to be sacrificed in favour of beer and tabs and by the time we’d faffed about it was time for the main act.

Hammersmith Apollo is a bloody good venue, it’s not to big and maybe because it was Thursday it wasn’t too rammed, indeed, Jamie and I were comfortably stood a few metres from the front surrounded by what was a very multicultural middle aged audience with kids flying ahead.

Slayer happened, from the outset the sound quality was exceptional, whilst being incredibly loud it was crystal clear and the band themselves were tighter than a virgins daughter. They played a very mixed set too, because it wasn’t an album tour they indulged themselves in some really old, fast stuff and displayed a ferocity for gentlemen half their age. The drummer must have hidden limbs and how Kerry King’s head didn’t fall off his neck will remain an enigma until the grave.

On a final feedingback note, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so cheery, for a band that sing about war, death, religion, death and death again they seemed very happy chaps. Marvellous.

After purchasing a tee shirt (I’d vowed not too) Jamie decided he wanted to inhale a Big Mac and a cheeseburger with fries, of course I abstained, and we trundled back home with our ears singing songs of terror, it took nearly an hour and a half for fucks sake. A can each, a joint, which resulted in hysterical laughter following a conversation about car crashes, then bed.

I’ve a perfectly lazy weekend lined up in Hackney with a party on Saturday night to celebrate my bro’s b’day (which is today). I would also like to extend the happy returns to Swineshead, many of them.

Have splendid weekends, chart first then a tune from it….

30 The View 5 Rebeccas NE 1
29 White Lies Death 23 9
28 Guns N Roses Chinese Democracy NE 1
27 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle NE 1
26 Jack White & Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 26 4
25 The Ting Tings Be The One 18 5
24 Pendulum Granite 17 6
23 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene NE 1
22 Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 14 12
21 Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space…… 27 2
20 Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 13 9
19 Keane The Lovers Are Losing 21 3
18 Disturbed Indestructible 11 7
17 The Datsuns Human Error 20 4
16 Friendly Fires Paris 22 2
15 The Kooks Sway 8 7
14 The Stereophonics You’re My Star 19 3
13 Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It 15 4
12 Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 10 5
11 MGMT Kids 7 7
10 Cage The Elephant In One Ear 12 5
9 Fightstar The English Way 9 4
8 M.I.A. Paper Planes 16 4
7 Metallica The Day That Never Comes 4 9
6 Trivium Down From The Sky 5 4
5 AC/DC Rock N Roll Train 2 6
4 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 6 5
3 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer NE 1
2 Bloc Party Talons 3 6
1 Elbow The Bones Of You 1 7

I’m orf to see popular beat combo The Slayers this evening. This is all well and good but the fucking venue is in Hammersmith, a most dreadful place to get to from here, it takes ages and I have to suffer the district line, the most despicable bit of railroad since the Krakow trip.

Had a rather dull day in the office yesterday, spent a large part of commenting on this storm in a teacup at the BBC, you’d have to be dead not to know what happened but in a nutshell, a libertine comedian made a joke to an elderly actor about how accommodating his dissolute granddaughter is and the twin set and pearls brigade reacted as if the pope had converted to Islam. As a subsequence the BBC have lost a very talented broadcaster and the unique way the BBC is funded is in jeopardy potentially ending the 90 year history of the biggest and most respected news broadcaster in the fucking world. Still the granddaughter in question, a burlesque performer and one of many notches on said comedian’s bed stands to make a fortune on the back of it so it’s not all bad…

After day of knuckle biting disbelief I arrived back home and readied myself for an impromptu meeting with Frank in the local. We had a pair of ales amidst a lot of shouting men who were watching more shouting men chasing a ball about as more men shouted and I got home for supper which involved an entire head of broccoli, deliciously.

This prequeled the latest instalment of Dead Set which was marginally better than the first two I have to say (I really wish they’d not bothered with that fucking filter, it’s like watching TV with cataracts) and then settled down in front of the vastly superior Wire, season 4 episode 4 for those of you who know.

Hang on… Someone’s shouting… Satanic Sluts? Oh yes. That’s the name of the troupe that the aforementioned granddaughter is in, you know, the one splashed all over the tabloids before being paid a fortune for her story in Heat, Closer, Grazia et al and then appearing on I’m a Celebrity Big Brother Island Swap and to be seen falling out of the Funky Buddha, Groucho club and fucking Lidl… you want to see some of her work, her burlesque troop in action?

My pleasure, always happy to profile raw talent such as this for the love of all that is decent kind and precious.

The crowd go wild…

Short one today, up to my balls in work

Saw Frank for a pint last night and got back in time to watch the first and second part of Dead Set. I’m not going to go into massive detail as I believe it will be reviewed in detail on Watch With Mothers but I have to say I’m a bit disappointed. The camera work is awful, ‘knowingly’ shaky, and I hate that fucking filter they’re using making things all dark. The bit with the car breaking down and that bloke trying to fix the engine was ridiculous, they were there for hours and there was a house a few metres away…

Still, it’s alright.

Not entirely sure what to say about today’s link save the fact the guy in question is a fucking looney…

It’s proper winter-cold this morning but it looks right lovely, all the twigs and leaves are brushed with frost where the low sunshine hasn’t reached, it’s blue-clear and the umberorange autumnal colours are at their most vibrant intensity. The roads are fucking slippery too, fucking.

Someone mention roads? That reminds me of something that the nazi in bumbling-blonde-buffoon guise we call ‘Mayor’ has decided to augment (and this may come as a surprise to those of you that know me only as the he-who-rides-alone-hero on his black bitch) that will result in the deaths of, well, let me put a figure on it now and see how close we get, 26 people in the first 9 months, the time it takes for the gestation of an ickle baby.

In addition to being a black streak of fucking lightening bitch, I’m also a cyclist and a bus user. Boris, I hasten to add, also rides a bicycle but I’m now 100% convinced he’s a Cameron Cyclist (i.e., one who cycles about between two blacked-out Mercedes stuffed with armed policemen) and has less idea of the workings of London’s roads than Robert Mugabe.

Allow me to indulge. For a start bikers have been surreptitiously using bus lanes since they became commonplace in the early 70’s, they don’t take the piss, they’re gingerly employed as a last resort to cut through traffic, I say ‘last resort’ because a bus lane is a diesel catalyst so one is very aware by stepping into them your risk of sliding to your doom under the wheels of a bendy is greatly increased.

To allow bikers to use them as a matter of course is fucking insane. Bikers don’t need them as they can overtake traffic, cyclist do need them because they can’t (safely) overtake traffic, and if they do so they’ll find some hairy-arsed Despatch Rider up their bracket quite rightly pissed off for slowing them down when they can, after all, use the fucking bus lane.

But really, bikers aren’t this issue here. Whilst I accept you get the odd twat, perhaps a few more of them that despatch for a living (I used to be one so I’m speaking from experience) those that ride bikes in excess of 50cc have to take a very rigorous test to allow them to ride on the road. Indeed, it’s widely recognised that motorcyclists are the most skilled of all motorists for a cornucopia of reasons, one of which is an empathetic use of the road (it’s very useful in determining potential life extinguishing actions of a young cunt in souped up Hyundai) and in this respect have a certain degree of sympathy for the humble cyclist.

That said, this mantra doesn’t apply to the mopeds, and here is the real problem and the core of my issue with that blonde bastard in City Hall. Any cunt can get on a moped, get a provisional licence from the Post Office, nip to Halfords and get some L plates and a helmet and you’re good to go. Within a matter of minutes you’ll be nipping in and out of traffic like a wasp with an inverted sting, and of course, having no experience at all, the whole ‘looking out for cyclists, bikers, old dears, cars, busses’ etc won’t even enter into the equation, not to mention the state of the road. Of course, since the congestion charge there’s been an explosion of these fucksicles.

It’s bad enough having the little cunts overtaking vehicles (or trying to overtake me as I’m overtaking vehicles!) so by giving them the legal right (and this applies to bikers too) to UNDERTAKE is madder than eating dog poo for heartburn. And the cunt banned drinking on the fucking tube.

Despite the previous rant I had a good day yesterday and I’m in a jolly good frame of mind. IC and I met in Oxford Street to check out some gear before heading down to fucking Tooting (via a wee cocktail in Soho) and dinner in a bells and titties Japanese restaurant. The food was excellent though we took a few chances that didn’t always yield air-punching joy. It was as we were leaving that we concluded it was the beginnings of the really cold few months we’ll have to endure until next September, or something. Despite this I’d forgotten how splendid it is to return home and get all-warm with liqueurs and cigarettes.

Right, special youtube today that Swineshead brought to my pedantic attention. Rather than just bunging it up I asked the author, Swedemason, for permission, which he granted.

If I’m to be honest I was initially quite disappointed. The Business Design Centre, which doesn’t inspire bacchanalian hedonism in both name or venue, was packed solid. Lots of little stalls set over 3 floors with hundreds of people crowded round tables reaching in and out in order to gain miniscule servings of wine. Dan, Iko, IC and I moved in and joined the throngs. After 10 mins we were all feeling a little more comfortable and 30 minutes later it all became rather more fun.

The deal was quite simple, ask for a wine-sample and it would be administered. This was usually accompanied by a verbal description of its nose, flavours and finishing notes etc., but I couldn’t really care less. If I liked it I’d acknowledge its origin, indeed, I discovered I liked a German white number and something from Hastings (believe it or not) and if I didn’t I’d swiftly move on. After an hour or so the crowds were superfluous to the job in hand, giggling happened, especially when I spotted a young fellow with wine all over his white t-shirt unable to walk. Some of the vendors were pissed silly too, the lady at a Merlot stand announce that her wine was ‘completely shit’ before charging my glass to the brim. When we did finally leave there were at least 2 completely horizontal ‘wine-tasters’ outside one requiring the assistance of an ambulance crew and the other being poked at by the London Constabulary.

We four popped back to IC’s gaff after purchasing some picnic food and carried on, Swineshead and his missus joined us too and an impromptu gathering sort of materialised. By now IC and I were a little worse for wear and the party we’d been invited to had to be iced, this was probably a sensible course of action. The previous evening we’d been out in Hoxton at a club and managed to burn off most of the night, in hindsight by the time we arrived at the wine-tasting wotnot I think we were still suffering from the after effects of the night before. In addition IC and I had been invited to my brothers gaff for lunch with the family on Sunday.

We woke up late Sunday morning both of us feeling strangely well, it was only after breakfast and the journey to my brothers via Shorditch to get some food and check some shops that the hangover kicked in. At London Bridge I stared at a family on platform 15 for about 10 seconds thinking ‘that looks like my sister, brother in law and niece,’ which of course it was.

We all took the train to Peckham and were greeted by my bro, his missus and mum and dad. The afternoon passed by with food and wine and plenty of nattering. My niece still thinks I’m the devil incarnate but she managed to look at me without howling, most of time anyway. She gets on great with everyone else though, her loss yeah.

After everyone had gone IC and I stayed for a bit longer with my bro and his missus before deciding to head back early evening. By the time we arrived home we were so knackered we only just managed to eat before we fell asleep.

I’m exhausted this morning it’s cold but bright and sunny and I’m feeling pretty, pretty good.

(per voi bella)

Does anyone know how to fix my fucking media fucking player? I mean it used to work, it was quite happy ripping and burning, ripping and burning… but for some fucking reason it burns the first track of an album/playlist and just fucking quits –and it’s not the CD’s, so don’t come that old shit with me, I’ve tried about 4 different flavours and none of the cunts work. Oh, oh, oh why don’t you use i-tunes, Piqued? I can’t use i-tunes because, apparently, media player files are wpl files and i-player uses mp3…. Oh,oh, why don’t you convert your wpl files into mp3 files, Piqued, you can use Switch or some other compatible software what you can down fucking load from the cunting intrawebbo… none of them will work for free, they want me to pay for this christing service because (as I’m learning ) wpl files are exclusive to Microsoft.

I’m at my wits end, I spent half of last night fucking about on my PC trying to resolve this issue (and believe me, I’ve tried EVERTHING) and the other half miming how I’d pull Bill Gates cock off in front of his screaming face before I exchanged his testicles with his eyes.

Jesus.

Okay, this is what happens. You have your list of items to burn, whack in a blank CD, the list goes through the ‘pending’ stage prior to ‘writing to disc’, it’ll happily burn the first track and then ‘finalizing disc’ (it’s FINALISING!) appears on the screen and the CD pops out, I’m then informed that my CD may be damaged or incompatible aaaarrghhhh! –actually fuck it, I really do want to know what Gates would look like with bollocks in his eye sockets as he smokes his shrivelled member.

I’ve a packed weekend lined up, no doubt I’ll expand on Monday, but first the Gerry list and a tune from it will follow. Have nice weekends.

30. The Courteeners That Kiss 29
29. The Killers Human 30
28. Oasis The Shock Of The Lightning 19
27. Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space……. NE
26. Jack White and Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 24
25. The Last Shadow Puppets My Mistakes Were Made For You 16
24. Fall Out Boy I Don’t Care 21
23. White Lies Death 14
22. Friendly Fires Paris NE
21. Keane The Lovers Are Losing 22
20. The Datsuns Human Error 25
19. The Stereophonics You’re My Star 26
18. The Ting Tings Be The One 18
17. Pendulum Granite 15
16. M.I.A. Paper Planes RE
15. Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It 20
14. Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 10
13. Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 8
12. Cage The Elephant In One Ear 17
11. Disturbed Indestructible 7
10. Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 11
9. Fightstar The English Way 13
8. The Kooks Sway 4
7. MGMT Kids 5
6. Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 6
5. Trivium Down From The Sky 9
4. Metallica The Day That Never Comes 3
3. Bloc Party Talons 12
2. AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 2
1. Elbow The Bones Of You 1

On a particular radio station this morning a certain a Welsh journalist known, for his aggressive interview technique, was responsible for an item titled thus: Is Blogging Dead?

The snag, it transpires, isn’t the amateur blogger such as myself (and my pals listed to the right) its that people like us have been (arguably) drowned out by a “tsunami of paid bilge.” Well this is just typical really, everything creative, precious, at some point will be exploited -be it art, music, writing- by those keen to make money/publicity at the expense of the artist/musician/writer.

In terms of art, sponsorship and by default, exploitation, by the rich and powerful has largely been the norm. The Italian renaissance was funded by the Medici family for example (they even paid their artists advances) but plenty of artists die in penury at which point shrewd collectors make vast fortunes at their expense. More recently Charles Saatchi did a pretty good job of buying up mediocre works and giving publicity (and therefore value) to individuals who themselves went on to amass enormous incomes by exploiting themselves. Again, this isn’t new. Art has always been egocentric; ‘the starving artist in the garret’ could always have got a job after all…

Music is a little more complicated, the corporate exploitation of the musician is much more recent and technology-driven, for example, a troupe of travelling Wilburys in the 17the century would’ve found it hard for to fall foul to some nob in the city slapping on of their choons it on a commercial for the latest pony and trap.

Like the artist and the musician the creative writer is prepared to work for free, after all, being ‘creative’ isn’t a life-choice, it’s more of something ‘one can’t help’ but there is a slight difference in that any fucker can write -not everyone can paint or play an instrument- and if they can’t (Katie Price, you cunt) there will be someone prepared to do it for them.

In the blog sense the issue here is more about the exploitation of the line that exists between writing as a means of communication (‘tsunami of paid bilge’) and as a form of creativity (me?). It’s particularly irksome when the former is dressed up as the latter but hasn’t this always been the case? Take ‘documentary’ style advertising on television, Advertorial in magazines, fake tits.

Blogging is here to stay as is the exploitation of creativity, as my old dad says, ‘there ain’t nothing new under the sun’.

Here’s Rory Cellan-Jones a regular on said show (widely regarded as the best news show in the whole fucking world) “as I was walking the dog this morning, I checked Twitter on my phone and saw that it was alive with comments about “the death of blogging.” According to an article in Wired Magazine, Twitter, Flickr and Facebook make blogs look “so 2004″. Oh dear. My response was to go straight home – and write a blog post.”

I was reading over the weekend about those two NHS doctors accused of trying to detonate a car bomb via mobile phones outside a packed nightclub, I have a few issues with this matter.

Firstly, if you wish to knack people and you’ve access to lots of drugs and wotnot why not go on an injection/infection spree? You could either target specific infidels or, if you so wish, set in motion some horrendous virus and knack thousands, perhaps millions. In addition to a lower body count an explosion is a bit, well, showy and if you’re completely fucking cack handed like this pair, utterly ineffective.

Secondly, the Hippocratic oath. I was under the impression this pledge superseded all beliefs, it’s a bit worrying when doctors (NHS ones in particularly) take it on themselves to harm instead of help. At least Harold Shipman worked alone and perhaps in some demented way thought he was doing the elderly folk a favour? In this instance there were two of them, how did they both come to realise they had a fanatical desire to kill? How many more bent NHS doctors are out there waiting to bring havoc on society? This could be the thin end of the fucking wedge readers.

Finally, if you are going to attempt atrocities in the name of some belief then have the nuts to fess up when you get caught! The Taliban had the decency to own up to killing that lady who was working for a charity and they didn’t even get busted. There is no such thing as bad publicity when it comes to balls out fanaticism, though I can see why you may be a little reluctant to confess to being an incompetent wank stain after failing to correctly assemble and detonate two very simple devices after your burning car/Glasgow airport ploy has already had MI5 and security staff stifling giggles.

I hope they get ruddy well struck off.

Last night I met Frank forra pint, the poor fellow was a bit mis following the death of his rat (Britney) but I cheered him up by giving him a reacharoo in the bogs. I then slunk back to my gaff and gorged my head with some of the delights IC had brought back from her trip. Apparently some of it was horsemeat, I love horses now.

It’s a lovely day, clear crisp and sunny. Shame I’m at work, its gone completely dead in here due to some fat bloke harping on about the recession. Apparently we’re in one. Ooooh. Boo! Fuck off.

It’s a lovely day today eh reader? (How are the piles mum?)

After yesterdays post it began to piss down with rain, I should have known, fuck the weather centre, whenever I clean my black bitch it rains, it’s a dead cert. Perhaps more depressing than that yesterday I was forced to change my visor (twice a year I have to do this, in spring I have the greatest pleasure attaching my black ‘un –it simply heralds the start of summer- and yesterday at 5pm came the awful realisation that there wasn’t enough light and it was the time-of-the-clear –which simply heralds the start of darkness and pain, cold and misery. So imagine how irked I was this morning to ride in with all sun streaming off my eyeballs. But not that irked.)

I returned home and bathed soaking my whole body (including my genitals) in a lovely hot bath, I dried myself off sensually, dressed and heading out into the pissing rain in order to catch the tube to Liverpool Street. This is now quite a familiar journey of an evening. IC was due back from abroad and it was my intention to meet her. I hung about for a bit shirking the attentions of clochard and baggage women and after a delay IC finally rolled into the station looking all nice and shit.

We headed back to her gaff and she bestowed ‘pon me a mountain of beautiful comestibles from overseas, how on earth she managed to fit so much stuff into hand luggage is a mystery for Doctor Who. Cheeses (3 kinds) Ham (2 varieties) Tortellini (walnut and gorgonzola) and a range of biscuits that would fill an isle in Waitrose.

Sensational.

Has anyone a spare wheelchair?

The weekend was pleasant enough, drinks with Harry and Liam on Friday night in town then home at 11 for the last of season 3 of The Wire. Despite being gripped by proceedings I was fighting to stay awake, I made it to the end (it’s the best thing ever, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this in passing) and the next thing I know I’m awake a few hours later, still reclining on the sofa, during the second half of F1 qualifying -the latter aspect being rather fortuitous even if I do say so myself.

I went to bed at about 8am and re-surfaced at midday with my sleep structure broken into bite-sized lumps. After kippers I jumped on the black bitch and made my way over to see James, his missus (who is up the junction) and their little lad Harry who, unlike my petulant niece, at 1 has the basic courtesy to greet me with some basic system of congeniality. By 5 I was home and preparing myself for the evening.

I met Frank and his missus at 7 at the tube station and we headed orf to Fitzrovia, it was Ally’s b’day and we had invitations. Rather unfashionably we were practically the first to arrive, no bother, I got stuck in being all social and wotnot, feeling strangely aware that IC wasn’t within reach, but after a few glasses of wine began to unwind and settle in. It was jolly nice evening, bumped into some old friends, had a deep and meaningful with one of ‘em about The Wire (word on the street is that Breaking Bad is bloody good) and generally made a pleasant nuisance of myself. Frank his missus and I even managed to return to south London on the last tube and we endured the journey by drawing each other. The time past in a flash, marvellous.

Obviously being all full of beans I wasn’t going to bed straight away and I rocked out for a while, possibly until 4am or thereabouts. 2pm Sunday, I donned my leathers after another fucking kipper and the F1 the black bitch and I shattered gravity and silence in a rapid journey to my folks. We so owned the road, yeah.

My niece was there when I arrived, I received the usual curt welcome and then she flatly ignored me. But it was clear not all was well and in the course of an hour we watched her break out in little spots. My sis and bro-in-law arrived just in time to diagnose measles (she had the MMR jab last week) and dad and I popped out into the garage to check on his bikes. I left at 4 and by 5 I was at home enjoying a nice kuppa.

I took on a Sunday roast starring a neck of lamb, which was expensive and a bit flavourless and watched a patchy French movie called Satan which wasn’t helped with intermittent subtitles. At about midnight I decided to hit the hay but could I sleep? Could I fuck. I got up again and watched TV, as luck would have it the Moto GP was repeated at 2am, I tried to sleep again at 3am. Nothing. This is why Piqued is late, I slept in this morning and despite feeling a bit frazzled I’m a happy fellow.

Before I go, dad told me this story, which had me honking like a goose…

The alternator had bust on one of his bikes so using yellow pages he located a mechanic in South London who could re-wind it. Dad described this chap as a bit scruffy with a rickety garage and motorcycle parts scattered about, the bloke did the job, dad paid him and left. All good.

A few months later at an autojumble dad ran into an old mate, Alan and casually mentioned the mechanic who fixed his alternator. Alan knew of the mechanic and asked my dad if the mechanic was pissed when he’d visited. My dad said ‘no, why?’ and it transpired the mechanic had a propensity to drink a little too much. Apparently quite recently Alan had some re-wires done on four alternators ‘…and they were a right fucking mess, wires criss-crossed everywhere, only one worked…at the time he was drinking brandy out the spout of a teapot.’

I’ve had a minor situation with my magnificent moustache in so far that it caught a bit on fire last night when re-igniting the end of my hand-rolled cigarette. There was a sudden bust of foul smelling smoke and the sound of crackling akin to a bush-fire and yours truly stumbled into the bathroom fastidiously patting down the inferno with an open-palm.

Aside from nearly breaking my nose with my skull ring the damage wasn’t quite as bad as anticipated but I was forced to clip back a bulk of its weight in order to resume some semblance of hirsute balance. It’s rather annoying to be honest, it’ll be at least another 10 days before I’m back on form damn and blast it all. On the plus side my nostrils are now completely hair-free…

I’ve recently installed one of those new-fangled energy-saving light bulbs into my bathroom. It was as I was attending to my lip furniture I noticed I was in increasing danger of being blinded. It seems that after the quite pathetic iridescence attained when initially operated the bulb happily increases in strength until ones bathroom becomes the sun. I’m less than impressed, fuck the planet, I value this being-able-to-see facility I was born with, I’m getting the old fashioned ones re-fitted.

It’s Gerry Chart time; this week I’ve even allowed Gerry to excuse himself for some of his choices, so after the word ‘weekends’ it’s over to him. After that I’ve a little popular tune for you taken from the Gerry Chart –not my usual fare neither and it’s rather good.

Have good ‘weekends’

“Apologies in advance. All 4 new entries this week are from bands that I care not a jot for.
The music scene is weak so I’m struggling for new material.
Saying that (*whispers) I quite like a couple of them……………………..

30. The Killers Human NE
29. The Courteeners That Kiss NE
28. We Are Scientists Impatience 20
27. Madcon Beggin’ 17
26. The Stereophonics You’re My Star NE
25. The Datsuns Human Error 29
24. Jack White & Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 28
23. The Verve Love Is Noise 16
22. Keane The Lovers Are Losing NE
21. Fall Out Boy I Don’t Care 24
20. Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It 26
19. Oasis The Shock Of The Lightning 12
18. The Ting Tings Be The One 19
17. Cage The Elephant In One Ear 21
16. The Last Shadow Puppets My Mistakes Were Made For You 13
15. Pendulum Granite 11
14. White Lies Death 7
13. Fightstar The English Way 22
12. Bloc Party Talons 15
11. Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 14
10. Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 5
9. Trivium Down From The Sky 18
8. Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 8
7. Disturbed Indestructible 10
6. Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 9
5. MGMT Kids 3
4. The Kooks Sway 6
3. Metallica The Day That Never Comes 2
2. AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 4
1. Elbow The Bones Of You 1

Remember 2 things… Keane don’t sound like Keane anymore
The Stereophonics released a brilliant single (‘Dakota’) in 2005”

It’s a lovely muthafucking day. Apparently it’s gonna be like this all weekend muthafarkas… Eat that, yeah.

Work appears to have curled up and died, it’s deader in here than Lady Die (the queens of a farts) and I’m atrociously bored. I should imagine this has something to do with the news perpetually harping on about the fucking credit-crunch/looming recession. Money is a capitalist concept, simply conceive that there isn’t a problem and everything will settle down –oh and kill the bank managers. And David Cameron for good measure.

Following a day of eyeball-aching dullness in which I achieved less than that half-wit that sits outside Tooting Broadway station permanently comatose on White Lightening shouting ‘woooaaaaaah’ at pigeons (the lucky bastard) I got back home and lowered my hot young body and magnificent moustache into a piping hot bath. I was completely naked readers, you could see my winkle and nuts and everything.

At exactly 7pm I met IC on da streets of sarf London in order to procure some comestibles from the Church of Sainsbury. It’s well cheap in there, well. I bought an I-pod dock for the kitchen for under 20 quid and to my delight, on arriving home, discovered it worked! Yes.

I made a supper of swordfish and salad with my hands carefully coordinating them with my eyes so I didn’t injure myself and we settled down for dins dins in the kitchen with the new electrical purchase cheerfully pumping goth into our heads. Suddenly, without so much as a by your leave IC presented me with a tee shirt that tickled my fancy beyond the English language. Unfortunately this may have compromised my anonymity for if you see a chap with a tee-shirt that will make you physically vomit at its sheer awesomeness than you know it is I, LeClerc, I mean Piqued.

I’m sat in the office with the sunshine barking all over my face. The day is a chasm of fuck all and I really should be elsewhere doing something constructive. The next exciting thing to happen will be a fag in about 20 mins, I’ll have another coffee after that then at some point ace the day with a bloody great poo.

This is wonderful.

Late today on account of my being late for work.

Look, this Wire stuff is getting ridiculous, it was the middle of the night before I hit the sack, as a subsequence I overslept. I think I have a problem. I’ve not seen any regular TV for weeks, the last time I saw a film it was summer and I’m now finding myself watching season 1 with IC. Readers, I do have a fucking problem. Help me, please…

HELPS ME…

Calm, calm, Jesus, calm. Shhhh. Yes. And rest.

Yesterday passed quickly and I found myself at home up to my elbows in laundry, gawd. Is a woman’s work ever done? At 7.30 I popped out to visit Rosh and Merve a bus ride away for a quick drink. Merve had bought me a bag of chillies; I have to say they are fucking pretty to look at. I was given a quick lesson on the varieties and more pertinently, warnings. Some are strong enough to pop a chap into the earth, I jest not, only last week some boob died after eating a load of chillies for a bet.

I have to say I’m of excellent cheer this morning, despite my being tired. And despite, as I left the flat this morning, noticing that Cunt is fucking incapable of identifying a basic colour system. What? I hear you cry. Well the bottles and papers go in the green recycling box and everything else go in the purple one. It’s not hard is it? Seeing as the filthy little cumstain does fuck all day in and day out one might have thought he’d remember this vary basic, virtually retarded-in-simplicity, system?

I can forgive him I suppose; the system has only been in place for 6 years so I can see how he might have forgotten.

Dear Santa, for Christmas may I have the body parts of my downstairs neighbour placed in a roll of carpet and dumped into the skip round the corner.

Thank you,

Loved Piqued.

I’d switched my alarm off for the weekend and last night forgot to set it. Of course, I overslept and arrived late for work. It’s not a problem mind. If anyone has a problem with it, right, I’ll smash their faces in, yeah.

I had to leave work early yesterday because of my appointment with the physio, leaving work early is nearly always a good thing but having to go to hospital isn’t on the list. The more times I visit these places the more I’m convinced that being ill and stuff really isn’t for me. The corridors are stuffed full of waddling creaky humans each with an expression as dour as rape, it smells like a pig’s arsehole and the perpetual murmur of misery and pain is enough to send one running for the Holocaust Exhibition at The Imperial War museum for some light relief.

My physio spent nearly all of my session telling me not to worry about my back, she wouldn’t leave it, after the 5th time of ‘…but the most important thing is to not worry about it’ I said ‘look, I’m not worried about it, okay?’ and she finally shut-up. Apparently my back is fine, it just needs exercise. After a few checks I was discharged and hopefully, that’s the end of that… (?)

After a few drinks with Frank and some delicious Italian cured ham for supper I settled down in front of The Wire, again. The Wire is like narcotics, it requires a bit of effort to get into and then you’re hooked. For those of you not addicted there are 5 seasons (or series) each containing 12 episodes. Each episode is an hour long. There is no such thing as watching ‘an episode.’ It doesn’t happen.

This may explain why I overslept in the first place; I think it was nearly 2am when I hit the sack and even then it was a wrench.

I hate The Wire, it’s fucking me up. I need another. I think it’s my duty to set up some sort of support group muthafucker.

I got it wrong about the ‘ooh, autumn is here’ post last week. It’s not here, summer has come back, cruelly, yes, because at any moment now it’s going to go and really drop us in the cack, looking at it positively and all.

On Friday night IC and I went over to see SH and his missus. Another friend Jane arrived alluding to a carbon copy of a night last April. It was one of those evenings that resulted in much puerile giggling with conversation flying about over some splendid grub. It was too late when IC and I arrived back at her gaff and the following day was suitably buggered.

The intention to attended James’ sons first birthday had to be iced due to the malaise of the previous night. The journey from Hackney to Croydon and back again seemed as insurmountable as Captain Scott’s doomed expedition to the North Pole so after a huge kip and some food/coffee-counselling we tentatively sidled off to the west end late afternoon for some bits and pieces for IC’s sister (she’s seeing her next weekend in Italy, not that that’s any of your business.)

The weather was absurdly beautiful, due to a combination of still being a bit tiddly and the unique autumnal light central London took on a most peculiar aspect, like that as seen through the eyes of tourists. Along the way we popped into a small and bloody rude exhibition near Grosvenor Place featuring lots of photos of Japanese birds all trussed up with things in their front bottoms. It was therefore logical that we had California Rolls in The Japan Centre shortly after. IC and I decided to blow out a party and just go for some dinner in a lovely pub off Broadway market when we got back to Hackney.

Perhaps foolishly and a bit tired of the hangover we’d already had a couple of sharpener cocktails before we even arrived. We ordered food but made a complete cock-up of it, IC ended up with two Thai fishcake starters and me with a Stilton and beef burger, which I didn’t really want. Not caring less we ordered some wine and settled down prior to walking wonkily back home through a holiday-themed-by-proxy London Fields.

Sunday, another day, another hangover, though this one not as bad as the previous mornings/afternoon/whenever the fuck it was. It was enough to blow out another social engagement in favour of rest but we sensibly concluded a bloody Mary sat happily in a pub garden was in order late afternoon and we secured the hospitality of a very nice tavern that was playing most of Neil Young’s back catalogue. We got back and had kippers for tea, well I did, IC mainly had bones and we watched a couple of Wires before finally waving off the weekend.

It’s an appalling realisation that it’s Monday again. Damn and blast.

My weekend is fudge-packed. But first I’ve got to get through today with a teensy bit of a hangover.

The evening began well, bath, book, radio, roast dinner and my intention was to watch a really early Hitchcock at 10.00pm, The Lady Vanishes -made in perpetuity since-and slip orf to bed with more book-shit.

Unfortunately I decided that I should make IC a compilation of popular hip tunes mid way through the movie, which, I’m sorry to say hasn’t aged well. What to do…Bollocks to Hitchcock, TV off, headphones on, and that was it. To make matters worse I began poking at sections of my collection that had been neglected lately and discovered a fucking raft of mind-blowing stuff I’d forgotten I owned.

It was 2am when I forced myself to put down the Christian Death album and go to bed. I’m okay today; don’t get me wrong, just a bit tired…

Right, new shit. Because the Friday List is now virtually un-publishable because of evil little cunts wishing to view pictures of minors, and not the sort that are part of the NUM, I’ve decided to share a gift. One of my mates, Gerry, has been obsessively and compulsively making his own chart for the last 30 years, yes 30. Disorder? No way.

The simple list-rule, that all the tracks must be released and the chart positions are determined by the tastes of Gerry and no other, has been in situation from the outset. He now has a little cult following and it’s my intention to, like, share with y’all yeah.

Fortunately Gerry and I share a very similar taste in tunes but every so often he’ll include something that will make me question the very fundamental aspects of my being and subconsciously insist I go on that killing spree I’ve always been denying myself.

After the NEW Friday List I’ve a viral sent to me by some poor sod who reads this and thought, correctly, that I’d like it. And after that I’d like to wish you all pleasant weekends.

30. M.I.A. Paper Planes 30
29. The Datsuns Human Error NE
28. Jack White & Alicia Keys Another Way To Die NE
27. Slipknot Psychosocial 18
26. Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It NE
25. Snow Patrol Take Back The City 17
24. Fall Out Boy I Don’t Care 26
23. The Subways I Won’t Let You Down 16
22. Fightstar The English Way NE
21. Cage The Elephant In One Ear 27
20. We Are Scientists Impatience 12
19. The Ting Tings Be The One 22
18. Trivium Down From The Sky NE
17. Madcon Beggin’ 13
16. The Verve Love Is Noise 9
15. Bloc Party Talons 20
14. Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 23
13. The Last Shadow Puppets My Mistakes Were Made For You 15
12. Oasis The Shock Of The Lightning 10
11. Pendulum Granite 14
10. Disturbed Indestructible 11
9. Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 20
8. Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 8
7. White Lies Death 6
6. The Kooks Sway 7
5. Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 1
4. AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 5
3. MGMT Kids 4
2. Metallica The Day That Never Comes 2
1. Elbow The Bones Of You 3

VIRAL HERE. Beep. Beep. Beep (etc.,)

Pleasent weekends.

Autumn has stopped playing, last week it had turned and dropped the odd leaf, reluctantly crisped the air… now it’s exploded into a veritable riot of colour and light, rust and banana coloured leaves wriggle afore a sky as clear and as blue as Damselfish. The air is as sharp as a lemon and all around scarves and gloves are being slipped over pimpled flesh as the sunshine cuts through buildings and fences casting shadows as black as tarmac. This is nature in the throes of death before the bleak winter months and it’s achingly beautiful.

I rode in this morning through a birdless south London, my bike rumbling beneath me slipping past cars and houses like honey, mothers pushed their packaged young, the late red-faced schoolboy rushed for the bus, a bloke throwing his fucking guts up by a busstop… I mean really hurling one out, the noise of his evacuation louder than Motorhead.

My first day back at work after my short vacation was soporific, the day passed fast despite my getting things done with casual indifference. What helped was an appointment at 2am at hospital; my broken back broke up the day.

Quick update, sick of spending a footballers wage on having my back treated I decided a few weeks ago to ask the NHS for some assistance and to my delight they bent over backwards (ho ho) to help. I arrived at the scheduled time and waited in the Physiotherapy department, I was a little apprehensive that my x-ray results would show that I was shortly destined to wheel myself about in sheltered accommodation nursing a can of White Lightening but to my fucking delight it would seem that the damage caused is largely reversible.

This initial joy was curtailed somewhat on discovering that my session with the physio was going to be observed by two women and I’d forgotten my fucking shorts. The room in which this torture was to take place was as big as a navvy’s privy which meant that I was forced to stand in a room with 3 pairs of noses 3 inches away from my spine and 2 from my balls (and winkle). To make matters more irksome I was also extraordinarily aware that I had a little bit of wet on the gusset of my pants due to a less than fastidious shake half an hour earlier. Dear reader, I now knows how it feels to be a Ukrainian lapdancer being forced to work for free. With a bit of wee on the gusset.

The session was very productive mind you to the point that I reckon I’ll be ready to cycle next after another session on Monday. Marvellous.

It’s been a while since we’ve heard much from Cunt. Well, the little fuckhole is back. I was woken last night on 3 separate occasions by the sound of his back door opening in order for the little shit to loudly hock up a greenie and spit it into the ether. Why? He has a fucking bathroom/sink etc., what sort of a dented brain gitprong would want to do that? Jesus.

It’s Al Jourgensen’s 50th birthday today, here he is in full flight. Hurrah!

Joined the mile high club this weekend. That’s right. Got onto a plane with a load of people, flew about a bit (over a mile high, yeah) and landed. Yes. Go me.

Friday happened, as it so usually does, after work has been done. After arriving back at 6-ish and performing my ablutions (taking a bloody enormous plop) and packing some shit (not the one I just had, ’shit’ in the euphemistic sense) in my rucksack I headed over to East London to chez IC for a gentle evening of food and the odd cautionary wine. We had a couple of hours kip before getting up at fucking 3am to catch the bus to Liverpool Street, to board the loathsome Stanstead Express and to get to the airport and our gate before the plane buggered off without us. We’d left ourselves plenty of time but after grabbing some food and silly little quantities of toiletries for the flight -as per regulation thanks to retarded fundamentalists- it turned into a closer-than-expected call. In hindsight we got on the plane and it immediately flew orf.

My old mum may recall my harping on about my dislike of flying and/or budget airlines in Fridays post. The case of the former is a known quantity but I have to say the latter pleasantly surprised me, possibly because I was expecting the equivalent of Auschwitz cattle trucks in space. It’s not nice by any means, but as flying is so essentially awful anyway it didn’t seem so bad. Also, flying both there and Back IC and I were the only two passengers that managed to avoid having some tool joining us on the isle seat, I put this down to a combination of my magnificent moustache and fiery glances at which ever poor sap considered taking a load of their dogs. This made the journey 100% better though we both could’ve done without the perpetual harassment from Ryanair cabin crew to buy their shit. It’s like fucking Dalston market up there.

Apart from the actual flying bit there were two major annoyances, the seats don’t lean back and I’ve discovered that my right ear doesn’t like the descent. This was particularly bad when we were landing at our destination, it felt as if someone had placed red-hot flail ball into my ear canal which was threatening to explode in a plume of earwax and cartilage. Once we had landed I remained stone deaf for half the day.

It was clear, in spite of the agony in the left side of my head as we were landing a couple of hours later, that the climate was very different to the one we’d left in London. It was hot and sunny with deep blue clear skies and felt more like high summer than the drizzly October we’d left behind. After passing through customs (and having the bloke in the passport booth make a comment about my magnificent moustache) in the knowingly modern airport we took the spotlessly clean Metro on a 25 min ride to our stop which was just yards from our more than adequate hotel. It was 10.00am and we were knackered but decided that we could have a snooze later in the afternoon before going out again, now was the time to explore.

Porto is In Portugal, it’s where Port wine comes from in case you didn’t know this, you do now. Geographically it’s very hilly and cut in half by the Douro river which leads out into the Altlantic a few miles West. On the North side, which is where the old town is and we were located, the bank is crammed full of medieval winding streets/steps that open into numerous squares each, it seems, with it’s own church and monument –a bloke on a horse. It’s idiotically gorgeous; think of a cross between the old parts of Paris and Venice but with a touch of scruffiness and you are some way there. On the South side is where all the Port in the world comes from, each winery proudly bearing its name over a crescent of bars and restaurants. It’s piss-pot heaven; Tom Chaplin from Keane who was recently convalescing in The Priory apparently has a keen taste for the stuff hence his treatment. If I had my way I’d personally buy him a one-way ticket and happily escort the Mars-faced berk to every fucking one until his liver dribbled out of his mouth, but that’s another story.

IC and I walked out into the blinking sunshine and began our tour; we stopped at markets and churches unchanged for centuries, passed up and down cobbles and flagons worn down with generations of shuffling feet pausing every minute to soak up the aftershocks of serendipity and the sheer beauty of a town that seems isolated from time and progressive modernity. It doesn’t really seem to give two hoots about wonga either, for a European city it’s ridiculously cheap… Two Espresso, a Euro, Two glasses of Port 2 and half Euros, champagne 9 fucking Euros, entire meals comprising of the freshest fish and eaten in decadent surroundings, with wine, never came to more than 25 Euros… I could go on, I will… Malboro 3, Romeo and Juliet cigars 5, our three star hotel was 20 Euros each per night… yet the place isn’t crammed full of tourists, nor has it compromised itself to suit their needs.

The locals are not what one would call easy on the eye and have a rather nasty habit of public spitting but they’re friendly enough (in some instances absurdly so, one girl walked us for 10 minutes to our destination) despite being perhaps a little wary of our being there. Can’t really blame them in my case, the English don’t have a good track record of being ambassadors for their country. Thankfully I had IC to offset all that nonsense and her language skills proved essential as the natives didn’t really speak the Queens parlance.

Late afternoon we took a kip, when we woke it was dusk and the place had transformed into a Victorian Christmas. Far from gaudy Porto was lit with discretion and respect to itself; there were no banging tunes or screaming bars, just lots of cafés quietly entertaining customers. After a drink in a place that looked like The Ritz we had supper by the river, IC had shrimp in this sauce that made my dick heavy and I took on the sardines that we so fresh they blinked at you. The bill made me laugh, it was less than the price of 2 large Doner kebabs and that was with wine.

By now the holiday mood had kicked in, we decided to go back to the Hotel in order to enquire of any late-night drinking establishments. The thing about Porto is that it doesn’t really do bars, you can drink in all the cafes and restaurants but they have a tendency to shut (and open) at will. This problem is compounded by the sheer size of the place, not in terms of geography, in terms of the sheer number of spaghetti like streets that lead to other streets and so on. In some cases it was almost possible to reach out and make contact with both sides of the street with either hand

It was approaching midnight. The hotel bar was closed for a refurbishment so the concierge, after taking one look at the pair of us, ordered a cab to take us to place that, apparently ‘we’d really like.’ It was only a few minutes away yet the map of how to get there would flummox Ran Fiennes (bad example there by all accounts but you get the picture).

We were dropped outside a doorway with, oh joy of joys! a ‘smoking permitted’ sign and walked straight into a goth/rock club. I’d have been less surprised to have stumbled into bear baiting pit frankly, overjoyed IC and I went to bar a bought a bunch of drinks for 5p or something, and we smoked, sat down, inside, with drinks. Like men (in my case). Alas our time there was short lived, we’d had less than 5 hours kip in 24 hours and our heads began to loll. Fortunately cabs were lurking outside the bar like Hyenas and for price of a cup of tea we were back in the Hotel.

We made it in time for breakfast just before the 10.30 am curfew and went back upstairs to sleep some more. After what was lunchtime we ventured out to go and explore the Old Town and Port side more earnestly. It was fucking hot and lovely, we were crushed down into a wonderful outside café and drank a litre of Sangria (slowly) for the cost of a bottle of Volvic. Time passed slowly as a holiday should, we wandered about relaxed and took the place in, stopping occasionally for coffee/cigarettes/food/Sangria as separate entities or even all three at once. Despite this being the only day we’d spend all of it in Porto, in terms of de-stressing it felt like a week had passed and because we’d had such an early start the previous day and slept in irregular patches I was genuinely convinced it was day three.

That evening after miles of walking we had dinner at this opulent looking gaff, which I felt might not be very welcome to two less than conventional looking guests. I was wrong but they did get one over on us. The previous night we were served with this lovely mild local cheese and bread with our meal, later IC and I noticed it had appeared on our bill but as it was the cost of a tic-tac we didn’t give a shit. Once again, as soon as we sat down 3 delicious appetisers were brought out which we consumed with aplomb, I don’t really have gripe here because, again, they were very reasonably priced and stunning but, buyer beware, unless you send it back you will be charged, albeit peanuts. We both had the fish for a main course and FraAngelico with coffee for dessert. The former costs a fucking bomb over here, we got a quarter of a litre of the stuff for 4 Euros. As a subsequence I think we went back to the hotel, perhaps we had another drink, I really can’t recall.

Nonetheless we woke on Monday feeling refreshed, we had breakfast and went out for a final wander after checking out. The weather, initially, was a little overcast but it soon burned off. Our flight was at 9pm so we had a few hours in which to wish the city a farewell. We did some shopping, took a very late lunch at 4 and went back to the fucking airport both of us a bit pissed and pissed off we had to go back to London.

The return flight wasn’t as smooth. I had a mild panic attack as the aircraft was being compressed but it passed thanks to IC who managed to outwit it. Unless you’ve had one of the fuckers that last comment will remain obscure. To my delight the flight landed 15 mins early but the fucking queues at Stanstead put our further travel plans into jeopardy. We boarded the train in the nick of time and arrived back at Liverpool Street at one am before bussing back to Hackney and to bed.

I’m having a day off, spent most of it writing this, food shopping, unpacking and washing clothes after suffering the most awful bad luck on public transport from Hackney this morning -cancelled buses, derailed tubes- took me over three hours to do a one hour trip, it’s shit to be back and all in stark contrast to the magic of the past few days, despite having to fly.

Shortly I’m off to meet Frank for a beer in order to take the edge off my post trip-malaise before going to bed.

***

Oh fuck, I’m at work again and still a bit deaf.

It may be a gorgeous day but, my god, it’s fucking well cold innit…

Oh, hi. I said I wasn’t going to post to today, well I just wanted to pop my head round the door to gloat, apparently the place IC and I are going to tomorrow is fucking hot and by this time on the morrow we’ll already be there, drinking heavily I hope.

But there is one small obstacle to overcome.

It’s been almost 2 years since I last flew; in fact my last flight pre-dates the very muck you may or may not have been reading since Jan 2007. The reason for this is very straightforward, I consider flying only partially more desirable than being arse-raped by neo-nazis.

Lately a friend of mine, whose not been in a plane for 19 due to what I consider a perfectly rational objection to being stuffed into a metal pipe, force fed fake air and launch into the stratosphere by means of fucking explosives, has started taking flying lessons. I should imagine that flying a single prop wotnot would be rather fun, indeed, it’s something I’m rather keen to learn myself, but being the sort of chap who loves to ride his black bitch hard and fast yet would vomit into his own helmet if invited onto the back of his own machine with a guest pilot… you may see where my logic lies here.

In the past organising a flight has been a laborious process. For a kick off I only fly Virgin (they’ve not had an incident yet) and when I can’t fly Virgin I check the stats of the other carriers on their safety records and make a decision. I used to default to British Airways but I’d no more get onto one of their fucking planes these days than bake a cake made from pig shit and eat it off Sid Little’s ballbag with a spork. If things don’t add up I’ll avoid going, it’s as simple as that.

No surprise then that the whole budget airline thing has left me sipping coffee in terminal 1. Indeed, when IC arranged the excursion (she’s good at this sort of shit, she uses those big metal birds more frequently than I) I didn’t even think to question the carrier, when I did question the carrier after the flights and hotel had been booked and paid for I nearly disgraced myself prior to tearing out every strand of hair and squatting naked in the corner singing nursery rhymes backwards.

So, tomorrow I’ll experience the delights of a flying on a knackered National Express Coach stuffed full of folk I see on cop shows fighting outside KFC. I then have to repeat the experience on Monday afternoon. The upshot is that if I do make it my destination in one piece, as opposed to being scattered over half the Algarve in burning chunks, I’ll be in such a state of shock that it’ll be a miracle if make it out of the hotel privy.

Do have nice weekends, keep watching the skies.

Being the smashing fellow I am I’ve posted on today Watch With Mothers (article about Heat) so I suggest after a brief briefing here you fuck off there.

Here http://watchwithmothers.wordpress.com/

I’m feeling much better, my cold is leaving and my spine seems to be behaving itself. Last night I made a relatively cheery journey to the East End (no stick, no fucking stick!) to meet IC her flatmate and Paul for some Malaysian tucker.

Following lunch in an Italian eatery with a client I wasn’t feeling too hungry. Not so much as a result of the Piccante pizza I had but because of the vast quantities of snot I’d been consuming throughout the day generated by the spicy sausage and chilli oil.

We jumped on the bus and headed south, procured some wine from an offey and settled into the modest restaurant. IC and I opted for sea bass stuffed with garlic, onion and spices- it was light and delicious. The entire bill for the evening was 40 quid split 4 ways, cheaper than fucking chips what ho.

I’m winding down for my brief but delightful excursion, there may well be no Piqued tomoz but on my return I’ll force a review of the weekend into your eyes with my words.