This Swine flu business is a storm in a fucking teacup. As far as I’m concerned it’s another good reason to kick business in the nuts and it’s already having an effect on mine. I’ve nothing to do with tourism but shit I do involves them, if the tourists stay away then I indirectly get whacked. Up until now this recession lark hasn’t really affected tourism, or rather, not the bit that involves me by proxy but mention ‘pandemic’ and people react with shit-dribbling hysteria.
I’ll accept, there is a good chance there’ll be a pandemic, but the worst-case scenario only puts the death toll (in the UK) at 50,000. That’s about the number of people that are killed every year from farting, and we all love those.
In the meantime, we just need to forget all about this recession/pandemic business and get out there, spend money, have fun, you’ve earned it, every last man jack of you… that’s you mum -btw can’t you go out and get some fish fingers you lazy cow? I’m sick of boiled fucking eggs. Don’t forget to turn the heating on at 4; I want a bath when I get in.
The Friday chart is early today because I’m not about tomorrow for reasons cited yesterday. So, have good weekends, enjoy the begrudgingly given bank holiday and I’ll see you next week, hopefully.
*cough*
Enjoy the vid, it’s a beauty.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Enemy No Time For Tears 20 6
29 Lily Allen Not Fair NE 1
28 The Kills Black Balloon 21 5
27 Green Day Know Your Enemy 30 2
26 The Maccabees Love You Better NE 1
25 The View Temptation Dice 25 3
24 U2 Magnificent 22 3
23 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 16 10
22 Madina Lake Never Take Us Alive 29 2
21 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal 17 5
20 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door 13 5
19 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 19 10
18 P J Harvey and John Parish Black Hearted Love 15 5
17 Kasabian Fire NE 1
16 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 10 7
15 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 27 2
14 AC/DC Anything Goes 9 5
13 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 18 2
12 The Prodigy Warriors Dance 23 2
11 Hollywood Undead Undead 12 3
10 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 5 6
9 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 14 3
8 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 11 5
7 Fightstar Mercury Summer 4 7
6 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 6 5
5 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 7 4
4 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 8 4
3 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 3 6
2 Depeche Mode Wrong 1 7
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 2 3
Woo, alright. How’s it going? Hey, I cycled my ass in here in record time. Just feeling the burn right now at my desk. Guess what? Strawberries, right here. Fresh as. Eat that, hey! Not my berries, man! Get your own! You cunt.
I’m in a dead strange mood, crushed half to death by my situation in this fucking office though strangely elated by life in general. I say ‘strangely,’ I’m a half empty sort, actually I’m a beer all over my lap with shards of glass sticking out of my neck going ‘aarrghh’ with blood pissing all over the bar, but not today.
This may have something to do with the weather, time of year and a flurry of short trips over the next few weeks, Madrid this weekend, Italy in a fortnight.
Anyway, due to my workload and cynical drive for more hits and cheap laughs, I’ve decided to resurrect the Friday list, but on Wednesday. Sadly its had to be heavily edited due to the vast quantity of cyber perverts but I’ll let the odd nasty slip through for the sake of a warped giggle.
Search Terms for 7 days ending 2009-04-29
“dr crippen” “roger taylor” 5
utubetits 1
girl by butcher womentits 1
mans wanking carol voderman 1
nude cunt poto galary 1
carol vorderman open leg shot 1
u tube amy winehouse 1
stuart f wilson & co property agent 1
www.horsecunts 1
sweet gay feet pics 1
“nude chef pic” 1
“butterfly cunt” 1
long cock u tube 1
piss hunters tube 1
graham hodgson tattoos 1
dogs sucking boobs 1
bouibaise 1
amy matthews nipslip 1
laddies arse holes 1
brazil cunt tube 1
pictures of hairy nipples 1
womens arsehole pics 1
eskimotits.com 1
fake nude pics of carol vorderman 1
vorderman nip slip 4
amy matthews naked 2
straponal.com 1
naked pics fat white girls tatoos 1
fake carole vorderman porn pics 1
tubenude les picture 1
www.piqued.co.uk 1
loads of women one cock tube 1
red tub lara croft nude on bus 1
nudestube 1
pendulous tits pic 1
old cunts 1
utub website barbei 1
habitat “my plans for the weekend” 1
nigolla lawson 4
news reader penny smith on u tube saying 1
eskimo fucking big black boobs 1
ragged jeans flip-flop pictures porn 1
pendulous tits pics 1
www.carolvordermannippleslips 1
joanna lumley on utube 1
casey stoners wife 1
blackcocktube 1
huge teddy bear fucks naked girls pics 1
cock shave pictures art 1
utube broadcast yourself 1
bruce parry nude photos 1
naked size ten women wanking pictures 1
“irish girls” holidays topless 1
amanda redmond nude 1
sexy photo of indian and big boos nude p 1
vendors in bristol that sell fresh lsd m 1
nigella nude 1
jools oliver spaghetti bolognese 1
esther rantzen topless nude naked nipple 1
penis pics gallery bear 1
my girlfriend’s best glory hole pictures 1
nude pictures of gordon ramsey 1
free photos of last of the summer wine 1
girls milkbig boobs tits nipples 1
utube large pennis 1
nude girl and big pennis 1
“debbie lee” motorcycle helmet 1
the exercise of emily rose utupe 1
“weird tits” photos 1
youtube pierced cock wank 1
blue u tube 1
“stretching tits” picture 1
fucing girles 18-20 1
sylvia saint tube 1
shirley bassey nipple slip 1
jake and dinos chapman 1
how big are nigellas tits 1
big titts pizzas 1 1
yuo tube super bikes pictures 1
tube free fuking bear gay 1
horse cunts 1
french connection nudity picture hairy 1
utube song 3 6 9 the goose drank wine 1
One aspect of my job I’ve never minded too much is the whole meeting-clients-outside-the-office gig. This is, of course, because I get to leave the office, the meeting is an inconvenient necessity. On occasion, the meeting will turn out to be enjoyable, especially if I get on with the client and they pay for a long, fine lunch… sadly, these two elements rarely combine, when lunch does happen it’s more inclined to be some dismal oriental fusion presided over by some have-a-go fatty who is unable to speak without spraying bits of egg-fried ballsack all over my face.
Yesterday’s meeting was lunchless but I was keen to meet the client, a very, very upmarket jeweller, as it was a good chance to re-establish a contract that would help business and keep me solvent until next month.
I arrived dead on time mid afternoon and entered the premises, it was ludicrously opulent, sort of gaff that makes you feel completely worthless despite knowing full well that on all levels that is utterly wrong. I felt my teenage class-war-self screaming pathetically through the window. Is this what I had become? I was about to lick the boots of vanity and greed, I was about to willingly bow down, unfurl my fucking tongue and slurp at the feet of the filthy, dirty rich.
After meeting the client, short, female, heels (shit) and her assistant who didn’t utter a single word from the beginning of the meeting until the end, I was taken through 3 heavy security doors to a large boardroom surrounded by vast oil paintings depicting what I think was 18th century diamond trading. Yuck. The meeting began; I spoke, then questions, answers, so on and so forth, fake smiles, insincere gestures until I was bored sick. I failed to secure any deal making the entire experience as useful as a third armpit and wasting my time in the process. Go me.
But all was not lost, it was 4pm and I was free. I wandered through the West End before deciding to head up to The Proud Gallery in Camden for a photographic exhibition featuring the early days of AC/DC on whose bandwagon every bugger seemed to have boarded of late. I needed something to confront the malaise imposed upon me by the meeting and the fucking job that involves my having to eat shit. Sadly most of Camden is full of pseudo ‘punk’ cunts and by the time I’d dawdled up there it was shut and so I failed to achieve anything save further disappointment. I shot an espresso and, feeling better, went to Old Street to meet IC for a drink in a pub we share an affection. We had dinner in a Hackney, a splendid low-key affair that saw to the ills of the day whilst simultaneously reminding me which was is up, marvellous.
Religious Groups have (doesn’t that phrase inspire a collective sigh of ‘here we go’) condemned an online game in which cartoon holy figures have a fight to the death.
I would’ve thought that if such characters existed in reality as described in various manuals (you know, omnipotent, all seeing/knowing creators of mankind/universe/kebabs) they’d really be able to deal with this matter themselves, if it displeased them, like. But just in case a handful of Pastors, Imams and Buddhist leaders have spoken out and called for a ban to this sort of thing because it denigrates their respective religions.
Few things here, it’s speaking up against such things denigrates their religion for reasons cited, but it’s nice they can all agree on one thing which sort of makes this game unique as it’s achieved something no person or group has managed in 2000 years.
I would’ve thought, though, that there are many other things that religious groups would’ve selected to be banned way before some silly bloody game that no one had heard of until they began to moan about it. Images of child abuse spring to mind, but apparently a crap game for the aesthetically challenged is the one that really sticks in the collective craw. What twats, they’ve that in common too.
My weekend was splendid even if punctuated with a couple of food disasters. My attempts at sushi on Friday were disappointing to say the least, the seaweed I used tasted of hemp and I’ve failed to master the actual rolling part. The sushi rice was marvellous though; I can build from there I guess… or just not ever bother again and buy it. On Saturday morning I decided to give Hollandaise sauce a shot and wound up with what resembles baby sick, I could try that again too, or just order it the next time I have breakfast out.
On Saturday IC and I went to Portobello Market for a wander. It was sunny and hot and packed full of tourists who insisted on stopping every few feet to photograph yet another stall selling pocket watches, silver toast racks and bits of printing type. By the time we sat down for a drink at 6-ish my legs were hanging off mainly from tourist circumnavigation.
We got the bus to Covent Garden and arrived at the fish restaurant in the nick of time. It’s not particularly pricey if you avoid the caviar and champagne (in fact, it’s downright cheap of you want it to be) but the place is quite posh which caused a few snotty glances from some of our fellow diners, not that we gave a shit.
We ordered an enormous cooked crab, fisherman’s pie and haddock rarebit to share (the lot for under £30) and bottle of wine (£20) and ate probably the finest meal I’ve had in memory –it was worth it for the leviathan crab alone. We sat round the decadent bar, which lends an air of informality to proceedings, and after 5 minutes IC and I were cracking shells, scooping out chunks of tender flesh and laughing our heads off. 10 minutes later we were up to our elbows in crab flesh and posing with bits of claw driven mental by the childish thrill of eating like fucking animals. The fisherman’s pie was absurdly good and the haddock rarebit was simple perfection. I recommend this place, I recommend it so highly that I point blank refuse to tell you what’s it’s called unless you ask me nicely. I’m that kind if a shit.
Sunday involved a Grand Prix, a Moto GP and a barbeque at friends, but I’m too busy to go into detail, and my mind is now addled with Saturday’s meal making it hard to focus, that and other things.
The week is getting worse in terms of work. The idea of having a job is to accrue monies in lieu of goods and services, it’s not, as far as I can ascertain, to fucking lose more money than one is earning due to the inability of decision makers to remain committed to a project, opting instead to run off and hide in a pack of lies and fear and leaving muggins ‘ere to foot the bill, or rather, return the bill for which he’s already been paid, thus having to pay it back, subsequently, paying to work. EH?! The cunts.
Everything else is tickety boo though.
Saw my bro last night. The handful of readers who read this crap on a regular basis may just about recall my mentioning of an incident involving a behemoth jar of Branston Pickle and my bro’s big toe a fortnight ago… Well, as diagnosed, it’s broken.
This is family trait; serious injury or harm requires denial. I broke my ankle when I was 12 following a motorcycle accident (sure I’ve written about this before) and walked about on it for over 6 weeks until mum wondered why one side of my shoe had worn out. My foot had turned in itself and it required months of agonising physio to straighten it out. Similarly, my bro is going on a Trek through Peru and Colombia next week and didn’t want to admit that he’d done any series harm to himself so as not to jeopardise his trip. Well it seems he may have, but knowing him he’ll go anyway, cos he’s fucking hard, like me. I’m well hard, me.
I’ve a packed weekend coming up. IC has been mentioned on here for almost a year now. This is a good excuse to drink my weight in alcohol and eat mercilessly. Tonight, for example, I’m going to go home via Sainsbury and attempt to make sushi with my bear hands. And drink.
Gerry’s chart, a tune, and an earnest desire you all have wonderful weekends. Bye.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Green Day Know Your Enemy NE 1
29 Madina Lake Never Take Us Alive NE 1
28 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 18 8
27 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover NE 1
26 Bat For Lashes Daniel 12 5
25 The View Temptation Dice 30 2
24 Just Jack Embers 21 5
23 The Prodigy Warriors Dance NE 1
22 U2 Magnificent 26 2
21 The Kills Black Balloon 17 4
20 The Enemy No Time For Tears 13 5
19 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 14 9
18 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say NE 1
17 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal 19 4
16 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 10 9
15 P J Harvey and John Parish Black Hearted Love 16 4
14 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 27 2
13 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door 11 4
12 Hollywood Undead Undead 22 2
11 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 23 4
10 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 6 6
9 AC/DC Anything Goes 5 4
8 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 15 3
7 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 9 3
6 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 8 4
5 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 4 5
4 Fightstar Mercury Summer 3 6
3 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 2 5
2 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 7 2
1 Depeche Mode Wrong 1 6
Celebrating St. Georges Day has become one of those things one can’t really do anymore, as if we did in the first instance. The St. Georges flag is imbued with meaning far beyond just ‘England,’ Unlike St. Patrick’s Day -patron saint of getting horrifically pissed with your face painted green- St. Georges Day has unfortunate connotations with bullnecked skinheads demanding that England be kept free from ‘foreigners,’ which, if you have the vaguest clue of this countries history, is so fucking stupid it actually beggars belief.
Before we’ve even started on this one St. George himself was a Turk who became a Roman Soldier. This spreads his patronage wider than just England, indeed he’s also the patron saint of Germany, not sure how that worked in the two world wars, and many others: Aragon, Catalonia, Georgia, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Greece, Moscow, Istanbul, Genoa and Venice. And the cub Scouts.
Why on earth he’s our patron saint at all is beyond me, but it’s good reason to laugh at racists I suppose, and for that, I thank him.
It was proper hot yesterday, almost sweltering, which intensified the already tense atmosphere in the office. Even the cycle back was a blessed relief. Following a quick brush up I set off for Clerkenwell to meet Harry, Den and Bob and a few ales in the warm sunshine. Bob turned up with a small entourage and soon we were all engaged.
During the evening I discovered that two of the party had qualifications very similar to myself, but not as good, yet were employed by institutions I’d happily work in for fuck all (if I had the time and money.) Somewhere I’ve taken the wrong turn, I’m wasting my life in this place, and am now seriously considering doing something about it when I’ve unloaded the responsibility of my mortgage and straightened out my debts with the sale of my grotty flat.
My more immediate concern, though, is my Black Bitch who I couldn’t resist any longer this morning. She’s got a slow puncture, which is a fucking pain in the arse.
I wonder what shampoo George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher uses
Hark! I really meant to mention something yesterday but I did forgotted. A new series of Down The Line began on Radio 4 at 6.30 yesterday evening. Don’t fuck about, do a listen again or an i-player or some other hip cool daddio inter-of-the-net move and have a listen. It’s well cunting, guy. Yoosh.
Sorry.
Just cycled in and I though I’d get on this shit whilst the adrenaline was still pumping my arse. Actually, I think I’ll stop and have a coffee and a fag and come back when I’m a bit calmer. I feel deranged.
I had a pleasant evening following a horrific day. Met up with Rosh in this overpriced, twee little pub populated by drunken suits and lascivious South African receptionists. It’s amusing to watch them bump around each other but ultimately it’s a pity that such a pretty little boozer has been overrun by such vacuous beings. Sadly, it’s the only ‘pub’ option for that area which has gone from being a run down little backwater to the new fucking Kensington in less than two years.
Anyway, a few pints down it was time to head off home. The bus arrived and I was about to board when this short girl next to me missed her footing and just disappeared. One minute there was a whole person, the next, a head was jammed between the foot of the doors and the kerb. I was stood right next to the head, gawping down, in another world entirely. A firework of arms reached out for her, all but mine, I was still staring at her wondering what the fuck she was doing. I decided the best thing to do was laugh (which wasn’t the best thing to do as I think she’d really hurt herself.) Foreign arms pulled her up and to make amends for my outburst I decided to try and help which resulted in me jamming a hand into her armpit when she was already upright and steady. After having made this bold and wholly unnecessary gesture I maintained my position by pulling her onto the bus, forcing her Oyster bearing hand to the reader before walking her horrified personage to the nearest seat and physically dumping her down. I ran upstairs to spend the next 10 minutes cringing myself blue.
For the last week now I’ve had to turn my back to my black bitch and head off to work on my bicycle. I say ‘had,’ I don’t have to. I just should, perhaps, must.
Here’s the logic. I smoke and drink. I like to smoke and drink, particularly drink because you don’t have to go outside to do it, yet. These days it’s more socially acceptable to be seen wobbling outside a school with piss trickling down your leg screaming the theme to Miami Vice than lighting a Benson 500 yards from a bus stop.
So to stave of the icy hand of death without spurning my vices, I’ve come to realise that some form of exercise is in order, even if it hurts and is stultifying dull. Cycling isn’t for me, it requires so much effort for so little gain. Of course, when I was a kid a bicycle was the last word in freedom but these days I’m used to moving my right hand half an inch and hitting 100mph in 5 seconds, a bicycle no longer has that magic for obvious reasons.
Nonetheless, there I am sweating up yet another hill, gasping down the other side, fighting off cars, swerving around buggies… it’s horrific. It has to be done though, I’m fucking 40 and if I wish to maintain some aspect of my hedonistic 20’s I’m required to pay it off with some form of bloody exercise.
The bicycle journey home hangs over my head like a sword of Damocles. I hope my Black Bitch is okay; she must be well pissed off. I LOVE YOU BLACK BITCH.
JG Ballard has gone and left us. The shit. There seems to be a reaping, killing wind at present harvesting the great and the good, and it’s not on, frankly. I didn’t subscribe to this nonsense when I was happily eating baked beans in front of Trumpton, I should’ve realised this business of existing was a rum deal when my little pal from down the road had a week off school after the poor little bugger witnessed the postman having a bloody, fatal seizure outside his house one morning from his bedroom.
Still, life has its plus points, one them being cocktails, over-priced drinking pudding for adults, and that is just how my weekend began. IC and I didn’t stay long though; we were hoping to get a table at this Turkish Restaurant down the road and didn’t want to miss our chance. Fortunately we got in by the skin of out teeth, place was rammed which is both a good sign and pain in the fucking arse. The food was cheap, delicious and plentiful; so much so that we didn’t require a main course and we left bloated an hour and half later with change to spare, so we returned home and had some wines to celebrate.
I got up late on Saturday feeling remarkably well, ate breakfast and watched the F1qualifying repeat on BBC1. IC had nipped off to meet Mary on Broadway market so I read the paper for while then met them both in a sun-drenched London Fields in which we lazed about for an hour. For some reason, during a conversation about suchlike, I remembered that when I was about 8 I told my sister, 5 at the time, that mum was mentally handicapped. It was only when she was about 9 (we were waiting for Dukes of Hazard and caught the end of something on TV about a group of youngsters with Downs Syndrome) my sister said to me loudly, ‘is that what mum has?’ as mum walked in. Needless to say, after establishing that yours truly was responsible for this pack of lies, she royally hit the roof and I was sent to my room without my weekly fix of Daisy Duke’s arse.
IC and I popped home via Tesco and readied ourselves for the evening. Swineshead’s missus had invited us over for a few drinks and some food to celebrate her birthday. She’d made some fantastic Thai food which helped us see off the booze a little more rapidly that I anticipated. After retrieving another bottle from the local shop the night past in a splendid fug chatter, though unfortunately we had to leave a little earlier than we desired due to a non-booze related malaise. Back at home IC slipped off to bed while I retreated into the kitchen to continue the evening with the paper and a bit of Port.
Sunday, another sunny day. I watched the F1 with breakfast, IC pottered about, we took it easy until 4-ish until we took the 55 bus to Clerkenwell to meet some friends, one of whom had turned 30. Paul, the birthday boy, was already arseholed when we arrived. Initially there was only a handful of us, an hour later 30 strong had taken over one side of the pub, by now Paul was on the coffees looking like a poached egg. A pub quiz started, I lazily gave it a shot with Alan who was sat opposite and lo and behold, we fucking won. I collected a bottle of Prosecco to subdued applause.
Following an embarrassing incident with the spoils (I gave it to the by now inebriated Paul after first promising it to Alan to celebrate the birth of soon-to-be son. God it was toe-curling) we got home exhausted and hungry and watched Wild Hogs, utter fucking drivel but saved by, well, lots of motorcycles and not much else.
It’s another sunny day, I’m bored stupid already and business is crap.
This is without doubt the best tune AC/DC recorded.
I’m waging war against Nat West. I’ve just discovered that they’ve been actually lying to me, for over a year, about taking a grievance to the financial ombudsman. They’ve gone as far as issuing fake ‘case reference’ numbers and names -it’s truly unbelievable.
I found all this out yesterday afternoon when I made a simple ‘how’s it going with my fucking problem?’ enquiry, and hit a wall of silence. I was shoved about by ‘phone (buck passing) until I verbally cornered a Claire from some call centre in the midlands who inadvertently spilled the baked beans all over the fucking kitchen.
I’m now investigating various options, press, solicitors, parcels of dogshit, I’m going to bloody well win this. Watch this space.
Here’s Gerry’s chart already, I’ve some research to undertake. First off, is the stool of a Labrador more obnoxious than that of a Terrier? Or shall I just send some spunks?
Good weekend please, ta.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The View Temptation Dice NE 1
29 La Roux In For The Kill 18 6
28 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom 19 6
27 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again NE 1
26 U2 Magnificent NE 1
25 The Hot Melts Edith 17 7
24 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 15 13
23 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 27 3
22 Hollywood Undead Undead NE 1
21 Just Jack Embers 24 4
20 Shinedown Sound Of Madness 12 6
19 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal 25 3
18 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 10 7
17 The Kills Black Balloon 20 3
16 P J Harvey & John Parish Black Hearted Love 22 3
15 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 28 2
14 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 9 8
13 The Enemy No Time For Tears 13 4
12 Bat For Lashes Daniel 8 4
11 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door 14 3
10 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 3 8
9 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 16 2
8 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 11 3
7 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) NE 1
6 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 4 5
5 AC/DC Anything Goes 7 3
4 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 6 4
3 Fightstar Mercury Summer 5 5
2 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 2 4
1 Depeche Mode Wrong 1 5
I was going to say something about that woman that got smacked by that cop, but I’ve just heard she’s got Max Clifford to bleat on her behest leaving me in somewhat of a dilemma.
Of course, there is no excuse in any capacity, what-so-ever, for police violence (the cop gave her a right nasty back handed slap before walloping her in the back of her legs) even if the cop in question was being shrieked at by what is quite clearly a shit-stirring little madam. Put it this way, she could’ve avoided being smacked in the same way that if you may wish to avoid dangling your Bovril smeared genitals over the gaping jaws of a starving alligator… but that’s not the point.
Anyway, my dilemma, she didn’t deserved to be smacked and beaten, but now she’s gone to Max Clifford, she does. The twat.
I cycled into work again today, in the rain, and this was after I’d journeyed from East London to the South West by bus and tube first thing this morning. I can’t recall the last time I cycled in the pissing rain; if I had I might have remembered the clouds of little flying teeth swarming under blooming trees by the river. I hit 5 huge balloons of the little fuckers, flailing arms and shouting just allowed them further into my being -mouth, eyes, nose, ears, hair, armpits, calves- all attacked. I’ve just emptied dozens from my hair, 5 from my ears and even a dead one in my fucking pants. I await the spots as one awaits a prostate examination.
To add to my woes Clemet Freud has died. This is complete and utter shit. He was by far and away my favourite radio personality, for me he even eclipsed the sublime Humph for sheer magnitude of wit. Without going into detail I recall a time when, a few years ago, he de-tuned dark considerations, just because of his facet to make all of your being laugh. Bloody hell, actually.
I’ve never, ever done this, but in case it happened there are 3 spare sets floating about with friends and family, all of whom were away. I was completely fucked! Then I remembered the estate agent had a set. It’s only round the corner from my gaff so over I shot. It was 5 by now, the agency I discovered had shut at 3, so I called the main number and after picking up a message on the answer phone and much buggering about I finally managed to get the mobile number of my agent, who wasn’t fucking there, so I left a curt (perhaps more exasperated) message on his voicemail. I wasn’t holding much hope for a ring-back and whilst working through more drastic measures in order to gain access to my home the fellow surprised me by calling me and agreeing to nip over to his office and liberate my keys! This is an estate agent acting selflessly, for the sake of no more than, well, altruism! Duh!
Sorry.
Right, anyway, he sorted me out, problem solved I could now focus on the main issue of drinking and making sure I was asleep by 11pm at the latest so I could get up at 3.45am in order to meet IC at Heathrow when her plane landed at 6am.
When the alarm did go off at 3.45 I’d been asleep for approximately and hour and a half, I was still reeling from the wine I’d put away (though that was some 3 hours previous) and almost talked myself out of the whole hastily arranged decision –I’d only decided I was going to do this whilst waiting for the estate agent, IC wasn’t expecting me- I literally rolled out of bed with a crash. I dressed blindly, grabbed the notes I’d made on night buses and wandered out.
4am. The witching hour. Most people die in their sleep at 4am. I considered doing to same thing half awake. The night was blacker than pitch and completely silent. My breath echoed through the street as I made my way to the main road, I wasn’t entirely sure if I wasn’t still in my bed. I felt like fucking shit. The night bus I’d carefully researched was 5 minutes early as I was 30 seconds from my stop. It burbled past, only one option, Smoke. I remembered it was Easter Day.
15 minutes later another appeared, this one containing a squad of nasty-looking zit creatures. I sat alone on the top deck as a fight broke out below me, too much noise. The fight waxed and waned ‘til finally the bus driver blew a gasket; he slammed on the brakes and screamed for their absence, they left without defiance. Silence again, we rumbled towards the city, I alighted at Oval and waited for another bus to Paddington. It was 5am when bus number 2 arrived; it passed by Vauxhall where it attracted a nest of clubbers all pilled up on whizzer, or fizzer, or something. Either way it was too loud, they sat near me guffawing and yelling like retards freed in a patisserie.
Finally the bus arrived at its destination, feeling marginally more human I took the express train to Heathrow, terminal 5 (terminal disease) and suddenly I was back where I’d been the previous weekend, the whole building becoming hideously familiar as dawn erupted from the night.
My brain began to adjust, the hangover subsided, I felt human for coffee and a paper. I had time to kill; it was over half an hour before IC’s flight even landed. I’d been over efficient. I thought of my empty bed cooling by the open window…
The arrivals ‘lounge’ at Heathrow is centred around two sets of facing doors, 50 yards apart, from where people emerge. An endless trickle of matter occasionally spewing forth a global cornucopia of gender, culture and colour. I sat watching as the lounge filled-up with placard-bearing cabbies -bearded, bespectacled, balding with fading blue arm tattoos- and families awaiting loved ones and friends.
The board told me that IC’s plane had landed, arrived, bags… I moved into position between the two sets of doors having to spin my head from right to left in order to glimpse the permanent crowds passing into the concourse from either side in case she was among them. Fortunately I didn’t take notice of the flight info, ‘bags arrived’ meant that a passengers appearance was imminent, the board still claimed ‘bags unloading’ when I noticed a familiar figure wandering into view. I hid behind the throngs and followed her surreptitiously to the smoking area out the front before asking her for a light. Nice one. Mission accomplished.
It took ages to get back home, over an hour and a half by a combination of tubes. My decision to deprive myself of sleep was fortuitous as IC was obviously jet lagged and shattered which invited a certain amount of balance into proceedings. I learnt that IC had been present at the birth of her niece, it wasn’t her decision, it just happened, and the effect on her had been profoundly positive to say the least (despite the shock of seeing a human head coming out of a ladies front bottom).
At 11.30am my parents turned up at my gaff to take us to my brothers place in Peckham where the rest of family was waiting. We drank wine and ate lamb, IC and I were exhausted but the usual bustlings of the gathering sustained us, it was a splendid afternoon, even my niece decided I was okay. My parents kindly drove us back to Tooting, IC was falling asleep but she knew that it was vital she stayed awake until the evening to re-adjust the body clock. We got home at 6-ish and spent the evening flopped in front of the box drinking slowly and picking at smoked salmon and crackers in a sort of cosy fug but by 11pm we were done.
Easter Monday, we woke up at 1pm feeling partially refreshed, we ate kippers and headed back to East London in the warm sunshine. The afternoon seemed to disappear so we went out for dinner early evening to stop and catch up with ourselves as normality returned, just in time to realise that the following day we’d have to go to fucking work. This inspired a cocktail.
Nothing happened yesterday apart from work and home, I was completely exhausted, I didn’t even drink anything. The highlight of the day was watching the Moto GP on the iplayer in the evening and even that was a bit pedestrian.
When they came on stage (I say ‘they’ a small bald man and two guitar brandishing male models straight out of Buffy) I was talking to Gerry at regular speaking volume, 5 minutes later I was complaining to Gerry in exactly the same manner that they were too quiet. The sound got a bit louder, with my volume adjusted –a bit- accordingly, I began to moan that the male models weren’t playing but miming, I checked this with Jamie, himself a skilled guitarist, who concurred.
They rattled off a few classics that were fucked by either a re-hashed tempo (Temple of Love being the worst offender) or childish re-arrangement (Alice) but largely selected the worst of their most recent back catalogue including the woefully dire Vision Thing. There was too much dry ice, it was still too quiet and the light show resembled a plastic pound-shop carrier bag.
Despite this we three had a bloody good night, aside from excellent company it was definitely aided by 3 pints in the evening sunshine pre gig, another 3 during and a lamb shawarma when we got back to Tooting. Marvellous.
On Good Friday after Jamie had wobbled off into the morning I decided that it was better to go to Sainsbury now rather than wait until Saturday when, I figured (based on my hangover) that it would be emptier. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The shithole was rammed full of humans, mostly behemoth of the female gender, buying chocolate like it was due for prohibition, some of it being consumed there and then. You could’ve lost a digit if you reached out for an item at the wrong moment, quite disgusting it was, and the place stank of rotten fanny, and tits.
I spent most of day designing this fucking tattoo I’ve decided to adorn my weedy arm with. It’s turning into a right-to-do, much harder than I anticipated with regard to schematising the lily part of the design. I needed the pint with Frank in the evening and following a delicious rack of lamb that had been in the oven all day I had a relatively early night.
On Saturday, after more frustrating designing which caused me to scream ‘bollocks’ so loud I aroused Cunt’s sprog from its stupor, I headed off to my folks on the Bitch Noir. It was raining but I was just happy to ride, yeah. Once there I did some graft on the number plate base with a hacksaw and emery cloth, gave the Bitch a good clean and nattered to my folks about shit. I was home by 4 and which point I learnt that I’d locked my fucking self out.
Part 2 of this shit continues tomorrow, I’ve work to be getting on with.
With reference to an innocent man walking away from the police with his hands in his pockets, getting a baton across the back of his legs and shoved with such force he barely had time to use them to break his fall, I’m very interested to know why the police officer in question hasn’t been fucking suspended.
This matter is now the subject of an enquiry and when there is an enquiry all relevant parties are taken off duty. It’s standard practice. But I notice this hasn’t happened, this office is currently on duty, and no one seems too fussed about it. I am though, me, I am bloody fussed about it, look —> *fussed*
The launch of that work-thing yesterday evening went very well despite discovering that free wine is always welcome in the past and loathed in the present. I have a hangover, not as bad as the one from previous incarnations of this auspicious occasion, but one nonetheless. As usual the event was done by 9-ish and moved onto a nearby hotel with a few of the guests. More wine happened (I came back last night remarkably flush on account of having not spent a bean, including a black cab journey at some point) and I did my best to engage in polite conversation without saying ‘cunt’ ‘fuck’ etc., for about five minutes before saying ‘cunt’ ‘fuck’ (and ‘dirty prick’ I recall) telling a very off colour joke about a bloke in the woods with his daughter and getting furiously worked-up about the non-suspension of certain police offers as a crescent of people stared at me in silence. Shit.
I’m off to see the Sisters of Mercy tonight with Gerry and James, then it’s Easter, during which I intend to recover from the past few day’s extravagancies, maybe.
Piqued will be taking a short Ester break so here’s Gerry’s chart –Sparks are back!
News just in, IC’s sister has just gone into labour…that’s hot off the press so it is.
Happy Easter.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Walkmen In The New Year 22 7
29 Funeral For A Friend Rules And Games 20 6
28 Twisted Wheel We Are Us NE 1
27 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 29 2
26 Hockey Too Fake 17 8
25 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal 25 2
24 Just Jack Embers 27 3
23 Lady Gaga Poker Face 15 5
22 P J Harvey & John Parish Black Hearted Love 28 2
21 Oasis Falling Down 11 9
20 The Kills Black Balloon 24 2
19 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom 13 5
18 La Roux In For The Kill 21 5
17 The Hot Melts Edith 9 6
16 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me NE 1
15 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 8 12
14 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door 23 2
13 The Enemy No Time For Tears 16 3
12 Shinedown Sound Of Madness 6 5
11 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 19 2
10 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 7 6
9 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 5 7
8 Bat For Lashes Daniel 10 3
7 AC/DC Anything Goes 14 2
6 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 18 3
5 Fightstar Mercury Summer 12 4
4 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 4 4
3 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 2 7
2 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 3 3
1 Depeche Mode Wrong 1 4
One would’ve thought I’d learnt my lesson on Sunday, but as I sat down with Frank and Rob at a very conveniently located Tandori at Waterloo, I figured that if the fodder-to-be converted my rumbling gut into a plume of red hot slurry the following day, I’d fuck the day off and spend a quiet Wednesday straining compost in the little gentlemen’s shed behind a closed, warped door.
I then recalled I had a meeting, the suit-based one mentioned yesterday. Fuck the meeting, I wanted Nalli Gosth (a slow roasted lamb shank with medium-hot sauce) and Peshwari naan more than I wanted a job, or a solid shit, so I ordered.
Disappointment (for you.) Not only was the food beautiful but my toilets are as cheery as porcine pals prancing in plop. And I didn’t get leathered so this morning I’m feeling rather dandy, despite looking like I’ve just been demobbed from service in North Africa.
I received an email yesterday from Blogged.com, specifically from a lady called Amy Liu. She said, ‘we evaluated your blog based on the following criteria: Frequency of Updates, Relevance of Content, Site Design, and Writing Style. After carefully reviewing each of these criteria, your site was given its 6.3 score out of 10.’
6.3 eh. I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss what ‘blogged’ thinks this crap is worth. I didn’t ask to be reviewed, nor do I go about randomly reviewing tripe that I stumble across on online. What’s next, some cunt coming up to me in the street after randomly reviewing the way I scratch my nose? It’s a bloody nerve if you ask me.
That Kate Bush video I posted yesterday is interesting. There is something rather beguiling about it, simple as it is. The only snag is that I was permanently distracted by the thought that her front bottom probably resembled a fir trapper’s hat, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
A large proportion of yesterday was spent removing sloppy toxins from my rear pipe-hole. The post guano burn was mildly excruciating and it was a blessed relief when, mid afternoon, I farted out the last of the previous afternoons meal. It really was worth it though. The food at Lahore is amazing, and because it’s Muslim owned they don’t have a liquor licence, this makes a significant impact on the cost of the bill as you have to take along your own booze. The downside of the experience, as mentioned, is the following day. But it doesn’t affect everyone like this, Harry and Rik were fine. This may be why the odd Muslim seems a little down in the mouth. Perhaps Islamic fundamentalism can be quelled with no more than a little Pepto-Bismol.
By late afternoon I figured I was sufficiently empty to meet my bro in London Bridge for an ale or two. He was limping slightly after having dropped a barrel sized jar of Branston Pickle directly on to his big toe; needless to say the tale was met with gales of laughter that I feared may reactivate my delicate plumbing. He may have to go to hospital by the way at it sounds like he’s broken it. Hysterical.
I’ve a busy few days, meeting Frank and Rob for a pints in Waterloo tonight, I have to attend an important work-related event tomorrow evening in a fucking suit if you please, and Thursday Jamie, Gerry and I are off to see the Sisters of Mercy.
First, continuing with woman week (did I tell you it was woman week all week on Piqued? Did I? Well in case I didn’t, it is) here’s Siouxsie Sioux, a proper role model for young women.
Last time I’d seen someone as white as IC was me, 20 years ago following my fainting as a geriatric auxiliary nurse on having a lump of gangrenous flesh land in my hand with a memory gouging ‘plaaah.’ In this instance IC was being told her flight to New York was at Gatwick, not Heathrow, which is where we were at 9am on Saturday morning following our getting up at 7am with horrific hangovers caused by an excellent pub-supper in a boozer in Hackney the previous evening.
She was still open-mouthed and ghost-like when I pushed her into the back of black cab and politely told the driver, ‘Gatwick’ and ‘give it some fucking berries.’ We could’ve taken the Gatwick Express but time was of the essence, I thought.
IC, like I, is a stickler for detail. This is all well and good but, as I’ve done many- a- time, the bleedin’ obvious is occasionally drowned out by relatively petty concerns. Never underestimate what packing a suitcase does for common sense. IC was of course furious with herself and shocked through disbelief as she pondered the stations to this rather substantial mistake. We shot round the M25 in the pissing rain watching the meter roll round like the speedo on my Black Bitch. Both of us were aware that the bill for the cab may be a complete waste of money as there was no guarantee, with an hour to spare, we’d make the flight. This wasn’t at all good.
The taxi driver did a fucking good job, it’s an hour by coach between the two airports and he did it in 38 minutes in appalling driving conditions. The bill, however, wasn’t. £137. I paid the driver as IC dashed off in a last bid attempt to repair some of the damage to her schedule and I met her at check-in where she was politely informed the flight was full.
How could this be? She was booked on the flight, right? The dopey looking tart at check-in explained that all flights are overbooked, it wasn’t a problem (it was) and by means of compensation, British Airways would give her £570 (it’s like a regular debit card, pin in the number at any cash point and bingo) and a seat on the next flight in 3 hours. However, the next flight was departing from Heathhrow… Fucking hell. IC had no choice as such, and £570 was basically her flight paid for and money towards the cab. The argument that would’ve ensued was crushed in the first breath, nice one, even.
BA paid for her to travel back to Heathrow by coach with yours truly in tow. IC was concerned my Saturday was evaporating but I’d decided that I’d stick around to make sure all was well. I don’t trust British Airways.
By the time IC got to check-in it was 2-ish, an two and a half hours before her flight. I waited for her by the trolleys; even from the distance I was at I could see something wasn’t right. After 10 mins she turned to face me and beckoned me over. The flight was full; she was then informed by yet another dopey painted harridan that by means of compensation, British Airways would give her £570 (it’s like a regular debit card, pin in the number at any cash point and bingo)and book her a seat on the next flight in 3 hours…
It was then we noticed that all the people we’d been queuing with at Gatwick were milling about the concourse or having heated exchanges with BA staff. We bumped into a couple we’d been with at Gatwick, they were in the same boat as IC. Of course, another £570 smackers would be nice but it was getting late, besides, BA could keep doing this ad infinitum, which wouldn’t be a bad thing in one sense but the bottom line is that you go to an airport to travel, not to wait about generating cash. Anyway, this was a farcical. Manager!
The manager had just come on shift when we got to her after waiting for about an hour. Fresh faced and professional she went through what we already knew, until I informed her that Gatwick had sent us to Heathrow to catch the flight. She stopped, and then started to blame Gatwick for palming us off on Heathrow, until I pointed out the ridiculousness of her argument as they were all British Airways, they all used the same system and IC was booked to fly at 4.30, as were the other couple. The fact it was full was bullshit. I told her this at which point she asked me if I was a passenger, sensing I was about to be ousted I told her I was IC’s agent, she bought it.
I kept on at her about this booking aspect, irrespective of our airport location, we’d been told IC was BOOKED on the 3.30 flight… then she made a mistake. She used a term I’d not heard, ‘rev-man.’ Now listen to this because if you’re ever in the same spot, and by now there were over 50 people in our position, you might be able to make to come out of this with your holiday paid for and still get to fly on the same day.
Rev-man stands for Reservation Management. BA overbook all their flights as a matter of course (apparently 10% of all passengers don’t make their flight on time) so unless you’ve checked in online 24 hours before you travel (BA don’t mention this as they prefer the flexibility to fuck you about) your booking is in flux until about 30 mins before the plane departs. (If a flight is full with a surplus of passengers wishing to travel, BA will operate a volunteer service. Basically they’ll announce to the passengers who have seats that BA will give them £570 to give up their seat and ‘book’ them on the next flight to their next destination. This means that right up until the time a gate closes there is a slim chance you’ll still get a seat on the plane.)
I asked the manager what rev-man is and she reluctantly answered. Rev-man is the booking system. The only way to make sure you’re booked on the flight is via this system, so I told her to contact rev-man and book IC’s seat there and then. By now the 4.30 flight had gone, so another £570 was already in the bag.
She wasn’t happy about this, apparently it wasn’t protocol to book seats in this manner but, to her credit, she gave it a shot. It took poor cow over an hour juggling 3 phones at once with colleagues badgering her throughout. Occasionally she’d turn away from the desk to hiss foul language at the wall as we stood there calmly waiting. Finally, she succeeded. IC was booked on the 7.30 flight to Newark (not JFK, oh well) now with a total of £1140, an upgrade and access to the club lounge for free champagne.
I hung about for a bit, IC and I had some food (we’d not eaten due to all the running about) and a drink in the bar. Then, she was gone. I made my way home; it took nearly 2 fucking hours due to tube disruption and fell into a bottle of Cava when I got in. I felt as if I’d deserved it. I’d have drunk it even if I hadn’t deserved it.
2pm Sunday. I met Harry and Rik at The Vibe Bar on Brick Lane, an achingly self conscious 20-something-prat hangout. Nonetheless, we were able to sit outside in the sunshine and sup cold fizzy lager. After a while we took a leisurely stroll to the Lahore Kebab House and enjoyed an even longer leisurely curry until full to the back teeth. I’m paying for this today incidentally.
I got up this morning, emptied my back, got on the Black Bitch and realised that all wasn’t well. I got to work, dropped off slurry and decided that it was best I came home to recover, so here I am.
I highly recommend the Lahore, but do be aware that sometimes you have to pay for the good times with hot black shit.
First off, I’m sure you’ll all join me (that’s you, mum, you can bleach my pants after) in a rousing chorus of happy birthday. Gerry of Gerry’s Chart is having a birthday on this very day. To celebrate I’ve made him a cake, which is delicious, and we’ll be enjoying the chilled out pop sounds of The Sisters of Mercy next week in order to revive this joyous day.
But before all that, I’m feeling shit. Not sure why. I abstained last night and busied my self with working on the new tattoo and eating a largely unsuccessful pasta bake- as fodder it was a triumph, as a contender for the best thing I’ve ever made, it wasn’t- making the desire to glug back some wines all the more tempting.
I picked at bits of the TV including a ‘Would you help a Stranger’ on Channel 4. I watched it with interest as I’ve been on the receiving end of an assault which, had it been allowed to continue, would’ve seen me eating food from a pipe. Fortunately I was in a local boozer and a lad I’d been to school with, plus another fellow who ‘knew me around,’ dove in (Gerry, in fact, will recall the state of the pub the following day) and a full-on pub punch-up ensued.
Strictly speaking strangers didn’t help me, though I didn’t know my saviours that well, but they did step in for me and paid the price sustaining injuries far more than I. Just before I was dragged semi-conscious behind the bar I remember ones nose exploding over me like a firework. Unlike the poor sod that got assaulted in Waterloo for no reason (as was I, I was simply punched in the face (holding a pint) stood against a wall because some ballsack fancied my girlfriend) I never got a chance to thank my Samaritans. So, for what it’s worth, I’d like to do so now.
As most people that survive a random attack will testify, the bruises heal fast but the psychological damage never quite goes away. I felt for the 12 year old who got a hiding on the bus, I really did. I didn’t go to a pub for over a year and took to drinking with friends at home, making excuses when they all went off the boozer. In fact, even writing this I’ve noticed I’m slightly shaking.
Right, the weekend beckons. IC going away tomorrow which isn’t good but tonight should be action packed. Gerry’s chart first, though not a choon from within but one I’ve certainly posted before. I should imagine Dave Grohl has been given a kicking too because this video perfectly describes the sorts of fantasy scenarios one puts oneself in after your face resembles a smashed plum. Good weekends all.
Get well soon Nappers.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Snow Patrol If There’s A Rocket……. 17 6
29 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore NE 1
28 P J Harvey & John Parish Black Hearted Love NE 1
27 Just Jack Embers 27 2
26 The Prodigy Omen 15 11
25 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal NE 1
24 The Kills Black Balloon NE 1
23 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door NE 1
22 The Walkmen In The New Year 10 6
21 La Roux In For The Kill 20 4
20 Funeral For A Friend Rules And Games 15 5
19 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth NE 1
18 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 23 2
17 Hockey Too Fake 9 7
16 The Enemy No Time For Tears 22 2
15 Lady Gaga Poker Face 14 4
14 AC/DC Anything Goes NE 1
13 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom 11 4
12 Fightstar Mercury Summer 18 3
11 Oasis Falling Down 7 8
10 Bat For Lashes Daniel 24 2
9 The Hot Melts Edith 8 5
8 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 4 11
7 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 12 5
6 Shinedown Sound Of Madness 5 4
5 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 3 6
4 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 6 3
3 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 16 2
2 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 1 6
1 Depeche Mode Wrong 2 3
I am a protester sympathiser. If I could’ve afforded to take a day off I would’ve gone, but opted for the anti-war protests that took off peacefully round Trafalgar instead of the melee in the city, though I sympathise with this cause too, except not as much. Bankers’ greed has forced us all to live off cabbage and carrots and it’s a fucking disgrace. But that’s capitalism, I’m afraid that’s the way it goes. No one was moaning when it was all bread and roses were they?
To swing some sort of change sometimes it’s necessary to take to the streets, it worked with poll tax for example, but what annoys me are the few that turn up to undermine the democratic right to protest peacefully.
Last night on the news I watched some angry prick screaming ‘cuuuuunt’ into the ear of policeman. The policeman wasn’t even looking at this chap; he was trying to ward off some other fellow who’d lost his temper over something, making the ‘cuuuuunt’ screamer look like an utter tool. What was his agenda? I mean I could have understood it a little more if he was frustrated at the policy in The Middle East resulting in hundreds dead on a daily basis, and felt his need to be heard was to scream ‘cuuuuunt’ at some bloke doing his job.
I don’t need to imagine that the majority of violent protestors were either students or those that don’t work for one reason or another coming together under the collective and tiresome banner of ‘Anarchist.’ I’ve no problem with anarchy as a concept, in the same way, conceptually, ‘communism’ looks all right on paper, but it’s an ideal, people don’t work like that. Simple fact.
Whether they like it or not the Anarchists are part of the system, part of capitalism. If you use money for example, you’re part of the problem, and everyone has to use money, including the dole sustained cunts yelling ‘cuuuuunt’ at policeman. It’s not the violence, or the breaking of windows that pisses me off, or even the yelling of ‘cuuuuunt’ at cops, it’s the fucking hypocrisy. I’d have so much more respect for the ‘Anarchists’ if they just came out and said that they fancied a ruck with the pigs, even if it’s a bit cowardly.
Having a dust up with the law at a public demonstration is a bit like attacking a metaphorically tied man. Whilst the ‘anarchists’ seem to think they’re above the law (in Vans shoes, Nike baseball hats and GAP hoodies, very ‘anti-capitalism’ that) most police adhere to a lawful code of ‘not allowed to stove heads in under provocation’ meaning they (the ‘kists) can pretty much chuck bottles and bricks with impunity, unlike plod. The very law the ‘anarchists’ are fighting against is protecting them. It’s all so deliciously ironic isn’t it.
I’ve been busy at work and out and about as usual. Hey u know mee, rite. I was concerned the demonstration would impede my progress to East London yesterday evening to see IC but, because Bank station was closed and many city workers had either taken the day off or nicked off early, I was arrived in Old Street in record time. Better still the 48 bus was completely empty.
Let’s hope the G20 summit goes as well as my journey, eh?
I went to a pub quiz last night with Rosh, Merv, Anna and Doc. It was lots of fun, the chaps that ran the quiz were hilarious but it was a disaster in terms of points (the team insisted on playing the joker on music round which was all boy bands) so I drew a big spunking cock on the score sheet.
I do apologise for another very slow Piqued, I’m extraordinarily busy at the moment so I’ve taken the decision to shut this blog down for good. I’d like to say it’s been fun but it hasn’t.
