I had a dreadful start to the morning. I should’ve imagined it was on account of the huge pile of red cabbage, onion, garlic on purple sprouting broccoli with half a side of chicken I consumed at 11pm after drinking 4 pints of (and I kid you not) ‘Old Muck’ at the local pub. It was eaten with some haste in front of MasterChef and it was probably that which caused me to continue throwing food at my masticating maw way after my stomach was more bloated than haggis.

Way before my alarm deployed I was woken by the most horrific emission from the depths of my duvet. First an explosion of brown noise, then the most disgraceful odour that arrived into my nostrils with such intensity I was jettisoned from my bed with my eyeballs stinging from tears and gagging like I’d just eaten Susan Boyles hair.

It was 6.13 am.

I’m in a less than amused state sitting here writing this I can tell you. I’m bloody exhausted and my poor guts are moaning like Nigel Farage in the European Parliament. Still, on the bright side, it’s much milder today; yesterday was awful, pissing rain all day.

I had another meeting in the morning at a coffee shop at London Bridge then back in the office in time to spend the rest of the afternoon bored out my chuff. Once in I learnt that I’ve another fucking meeting tomorrow, unfortunately this means that there will be no Piqued ending a very slow week of not much on ‘ere.

Before I leave you with Gerry’s chart, a tune and an early wish that you’ve good weekends (spare a thought for me learning Italian from 10 til 4 on both Saturday and Sunday) I’ll leave you with one final gripe. Women stumbling about on account of high heels. Why the fuck do they bother? Yesterday, whilst with client, streams of women clopped by with pained expressions, walking as if they’d been inserted with rasps. This was bad enough on the less portly examples, one poor victim, dragging about an arse as large as the head of Nelson Mandela outside the Royal Festival Hall, looked like one of those Raptors in Jurassic Park, but fatter.

Catch you Monday, yeah. Ciao.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Example Won’t Go Quietly 25 3
29 Editors You Don’t Know Love 22 10
28 Kids In Glass Houses Matters At All NE 1
27 Gorillaz Stylo 30 2
26 Hot Chip One Life Stand 20 9
25 Band Of Skulls I Know What I Am NE 1
24 Delphic Halcyon NE 1
23 I Blame Coco Caesar 18 7
22 Bombay Bicycle Club Evening/Morning 27 2
21 Eels A Line In The Dirt 23 4
20 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 16 8
19 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 29 2
18 Flyleaf Again 14 7
17 Pearl Jam Got Some 12 13
16 Good Shoes Under Control 19 4
15 Mumford And Sons The Cave 21 3
14 The xx VCR 8 6
13 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 11 5
12 Renegades Renegades 13 4
11 Wolfmother White Feather 15 3
10 Alice In Chains Your Decision 6 9
9 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons 17 2
8 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 9 4
7 Muse Resistance 5 6
6 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 10 3
5 The Big Pink Velvet 4 4
4 Miike Snow Sylvia 7 4
3 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 2 4
2 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 3 5
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 1 6

In a continuing effort to actually do shit through a working day, as opposed to just writing this and actively breathing in the office, I worked from home yesterday morning. At 11am I found myself perched atop my bicycle heading off to the doctors in order to gain written permission to attend the gym and increase the stamina of my pathetic spinal column. I discovered, on entering the surgery, the cycle had been more of a ‘get ball rolling exercise’ as 5 minutes later I left with a fresh appointment for next week, some forms to fill out and a little plastic pot in which to do a tinkle. I wasn’t fussed, I’d already achieved more that morning than I had since fucking Christmas. I had lunch, sent off a final few emails and fucked off in the freezing rain for a meeting at the Royal Festival Hall.

Here’s what went down over the weekend, by the way, and two youtube entries to make up for my lack of, er, youtube entries.

***

I fulfilled my aim of relishing in my final weekend of freedom.

It began on Friday with dinner with some friends. They’d invited IC and I over during the week and we’d accepted, of course. If we’d not I wouldn’t have mentioned it. Fucking nice night it was, we ate, chatted and popped outside for the odd smoke. Time rushed by because it was a Friday evening, in fact, the whole weekend zipped by. This is a cruel reality, while the working week creeps along on its belly the free time evaporates like steam in the Danakil desert. Indeed, the time passed so rapidly that we thought it was about 11 when we left, not 2am.

I stayed in bed until after lunch on Saturday, lovely. I had cold pizza at IC’s for breakfast courtesy of Mary’s home cooking the night before. Reg, the handyman, was working in the Bathroom installing a new shower. About time too, IC and Mary had been waiting for the new shower since Christmas but Reg had just had his tonsils out which had delayed proceedings. I was reading the paper in the in the kitchen when Reg appeared to turn off the water. He brought up the topic of his tonsils and then went on to mention that he was almost nearly 60 and a couple of years ago he’d had his appendix removed. After acknowledging that he’d been victim to what are essentially the sorts of operations more commonly associated with children (and he was nearly 60) he then casually mentioned that when he was 18 he’d been stabbed. In the stomach.

What followed was enough to cause my jaw to descend to my balls. Apparently, Reg had walked out of a pub toilet where is was struck in the guts with a blade, the knife wasn’t meant for him, it was destined for the bloke to his left so the attacker apologised then went outside with the intended victim to continue fighting. Reg on the other hand went back to the bar. He said that as it didn’t really hurt he wasn’t too fussed. A couple of days later though his stomach began to come out in what he described as cricket-ball lumps, so he offed himself to the hospital and was rushed into surgery. The blade had actually penetrated the lining of his stomach and, in essence, the food and drink he’d had since the injury was falling out. The doctor told him that if he’d left the injury for another couple of hours he’d be dead and to emphasise his point, Reg lifted his sweatshirt and presented me with a 3-inch scar across his belly.

Later in the afternoon IC, Mary and I took the bus to town. We’d invited Mary to J Sheekey for an early dinner for a combination of a belated birthday and to say thanks for all the free haircuts. Sheekey is considered to be one of London’s finest fish restaurants, whilst the main restaurants pricing reflects this, the Oyster Bar is as cheap as Pizza Express, say. It’s a very pleasant way to spend some time; diners sit round the bar and order from the staff in the middle, it’s both pretty and informal, the food is fresh, simple and without wishing to sound like a cunt, fun. You can’t order and eat a whole Cornish Cock Crab without being at least mildly amused…

We had a quick drink after we left and IC and I went back to Hackney to meet some friends up the road from the Twatcave. The small room had about 10 people including Swineshead and his missus punctuated by food and wine. Despite the earlier meal I ate myself stupid with the odd glass, this may explain why I got up very late on Sunday too; it was as if my bed was actively preventing my escape.

Once I’d escaped its cotton grasp I cleaned Brutta. It took an age; this is down to my having coated her in a fuck-load of WD40 a few ago after noticing evidence of salt corrosion on her wheels and engine. I spent in excess of an hour farting about with sponges and buckets of warm soapy water; it’s good to know my efforts paid off as on Monday the fucking rain on the way in to the office reversed all of Sundays efforts.

After the mammoth and, in hindsight, wasted task, IC and I took a slow walk down to London Fields to collect her bicycle from the shop, we sauntered back home via the pub for a quick glass of wine before finishing off the weekend in a Vietnamese restaurant with a mountain of food. IC, whose been attending the gym like she being paid to go, must’ve eaten her bodyweight in dumplings. I’m suspecting worms.

Sorry for lack of post yesterday. Annoyingly there is a post all ready to go but just as I was about to post it the company email slipped into a fucking coma. In terms of business this was a total disaster, but for keeping my sanity via the online connection of friends, websites etc., it was the equivalent of being fed lead and lobotomised by a portly accountant with a beige bow tie and comb-over. I was unable to do anything; the will to find things to do was countered by the pathetic reward system, to wit, buggering about online once a work task had been surmounted. De-motivated, I left for home at 3pm in the freezing cold and for all intents and purposes that was my day as I did nout in the evening, save eating and endless episodes of Underbelly, which is magnificent.

I’m writing this from home, I’ve meeting later and as I was unsure if the system would be up and running I figured working from here would be prudent. It’s a lot easier doing stuff from home I hasten to add, I’ve done a ton of stuff already, the tea tastes nicer and I can shit with impunity.

I’ll post Monday’s post tomorrow along with what other balls I’ve been subject too.

This is my last weekend for three fucking weeks. Next weekend and the one after, on both Saturday and Sunday, I’ve Italian lessons from 10 ‘til 4. This not only means the days are completely arsed but Friday and Saturday night will have be conducted with an eye on sobriety. I’ve paid for this learning shit so it would be a bit silly to get messed up the night before and turn up to class semi-blazed and spend the day trying to not to be sick on my lap.

The delicious weekend is already cacked-full of decadence and I’m good to go. It’s been a dismal week at work, fraught and desperate with nothing much better on the horizon. Factoring in the forthcoming weekends destruction I intend to clasp this one to my chest and fondle its balls.

‘Boutique owner Belinda Weatherall said: “It could only happen in a place like Fowey, I think it’s a lovely idea and I hope he never gets discovered”’ is the sentence that almost caused me to bite off my fucking knees. I read it on the BBC website this morning and learnt, almost to my cost, that the Cornish residents of aforementioned toff-hole have a ‘phantom baker.’

Apparently, some cunt has been baking bread and leaving it outside peoples homes, and the haw-haw residents of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’ by the way, which speaks volumes to me) are falling over themselves to smugly git-off about how ‘lovely’ it all is, I mean check this fucker out, ‘Town crier Michael Penprase said: “It was beautiful-looking bread. My wife put a notice in the window asking for a sliced loaf!”’

Oh please fucking spare us you inward-facing pile of pricks. Not even the dour police warning to ‘not eat it in case it was poisoned’ assuaged the contemptuous bile that had surfaced from this example of over-privileged middle-class joshing. To put it bluntly, if there was a phantom baker round my way it’d been seen as an act of charity, not a fucking quirky jape.

Yeah, have nice weekend, go on, have it.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Gorillaz Stylo NE 1
29 Alkaline Trio This Addiction NE 1
28 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 20 11
27 Bombay Bicycle Club Evening/Morning NE 1
26 Placebo Bright Lights 19 8
25 Example Won’t Go Quietly 27 2
24 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 17 9
23 Eels A Line In The Dirt 25 3
22 Editors You Don’t Know Love 14 9
21 Mumford And Sons The Cave 29 2
20 Hot Chip One Life Stand 15 8
19 Good Shoes Under Control 22 3
18 I Blame Coco Caesar 12 6
17 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons NE 1
16 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 10 7
15 Wolfmother White Feather 24 2
14 Flyleaf Again 9 6
13 Renegades Renegades 18 3
12 Pearl Jam Got Some 8 12
11 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 13 4
10 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 21 2
9 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 11 3
8 The xx VCR 4 5
7 Miike Snow Sylvia 16 3
6 Alice In Chains Your Decision 3 8
5 Muse Resistance 5 5
4 The Big Pink Velvet 7 3
3 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 6 4
2 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 2 3
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 1 5

In my limited experience of the ways of weather and such-like, things usually get a little more clement after the 14th February. I’ve no doubt, if you read my Valentine Day post last week, that this isn’t a coincidence. Why then does the weather continue to be so fucking awful? When it’s not raining it’s snowing, and all the while it’s cunting freezing. I’ve never known anything like it, it’s been completely shite since November and there are still no signs of it letting up.

As a subsequence I’ve not even bothered to clean Brutta. Bearing in mind she’s still relatively new, she currently looks as if she’s passed through Shane Macgowan’s digestive system. Yesterday I happened on a picture of her a couple of months before the salt and grime had taken a chance to begin eating through her hindquarters. It was rather depressing if I’m honest, I’m sure I can get 90% of her back to some sort of showroom state but other parts (off-manifold pipes for example) are already beyond help without full removal and presented to a good old fashioned sandblaster.

On the plus side, she’s done almost 1500 miles. This means that she’s almost completely run in, every time I jump on her fucking back and set off I’m aware of a noticeable gain in power. Whilst the exterior may be showing signs of wear, the heart that beats within is silky smooth and full of berries. This morning a bike I’d been gently racing through the city sidled up towards me at London Bridge. The riders eyes were on stalks indicating that he’d been putting some effort in keeping up with me, this was confirmed when he pointed at Brutta and gasped, ‘Christ, that explains it, I thought it was a 400, it’s not is it.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘it most certainly isn’t,’ before pissing off right fast.

I have to say, Brutta’s engine is very discreet-looking, if it wasn’t for the bastard roar from the arse-end you could almost be forgiven for thinking it was a 250 at first glance. The competition, who assume I’m pootling about on some sort of kids bike, get an enormous surprise when they have a go, as it were. In addition to a thunderstorm of torque, I can slip through gaps like mercury and only the odd brain-dead have-a-go type has any chance of, like, owning me, yeah. So why are Bruttas’ not more popular? Why isn’t everyone on one?

One of the reasons Brutta is so rare is because it’s essentially a one trick pony, as described in other boring posts such as this. It’s perfect for what I use it for and would be equally happy twisting its way through A roads in the countryside, but that’s it. It’s dreadful on motorways, basically going fast in a straight line for a protracted period of time, as it’s simply not designed for that. The ideal motorcycle (if you don’t have access to a stable of different bikes) is a machine that’ll do everything, perhaps not do everything perfectly, but very well at least. The Black Bitch was such a creature.

But the Husqvarna SM610 is a full-on Supermoto, it’s a race-bike when all is said and done, it’s dedicated to doing one, maybe, two things, fucking well, and this is what is niggling me. I accept that this is completely irresponsible as most of my time on Brutta will be used to go to and from work, but there are steps I can take to turn my bike into a road-legal track bike. Such steps would see the power and noise increase by a noticeable degree and resolve the issue of corrosion on the exhaust pipes by default. It would also invalidate my warranty, increase engine wear, shove up my insurance and cost about £600.

After saying yesterday that I wouldn’t mention my unsold flat I’ve decided to do so, only to say that when I do sell the cunt, I’m going to buy a Leo Vince race system. It may be idiotic but my dick is already twitching at the very thought of this completely idiotic move.

Hurrah!

Frank is getting married. I’m only mentioning this by means of explaining why I was in Moss Bros at 6.30 yesterday evening with French gentleman all fussing over my trouser. Obviously I could’ve not mentioned anything at all, which means that I could’ve left Frank, his personal life and the French fellow out of this. But I suppose it’s a good time to bring it up as Frank’s marriage is due to feature a fair bit over the forthcoming couple of months. With respect to this, think of my mentioning it by means of introduction to this aspect of Piqued, then fuck off.

Actually, don’t fuck off. I’m not done yet.

Hello.

My estate agent finally got back to me yesterday afternoon. Apparently my buyer is abroad ‘in a place with limited mobile access and not much time,’ which, as far as I am concerned, means ‘up yours.’ I’ve decided to keep with the same agent/solicitor set up with regards to flogging my gaff as I’ve paid for legal stuff that I can claw back when (if?) I sell it, but I’m so done with my second ex-buyer, yeah. I’ve decided not to broach this topic until I get to exchange, a few months time if I’m lucky… in the interim, I’ll try and forget about it. (Cunts, the lot of ‘em.)

After being fiddled with by the French fellow Harry joined us and we nicked off to The Lamb and Flag for a pair of beers before walking to a Curry House near Tottenham Court Road. It was chucking it down with rain so I wasn’t best pleased when, on entering the eatery, I discovered I had to walk all the way back to the fucking pub to get my bag. Mercifully it was still there when I returned (10 mins there, 10 mins back) and nothing had been nicked from it neither.

The curry was fucking excellent, incidentally. We shared the mains (2 lamb, one chicken) plus some lentils n’ spinach and a spot of rice for old times sake. And a couple of onion Bhajis (and some popadoms.) By the time we were done I was visibly stuffed. This required me to sit on the Central Line with my arse cheeks clamped tighter than all clams, by the time I alighted at Bow I had to take the second exit just to let out some air away from the bus queue.

I listened to the dark ramblings of Charles Bukowski on the bus home. He’s an easy target for post twenty-something’s who, despite adoring him in their respective youths, now look down on him as some sort of faux-poet, a cheap artist, the embodiment of the bloody obvious, even. As time moves on from his death more and more from his archive is coming to light. While the novels are fixed there is a whole world of surprises yet to be discovered, recordings, films… go on you tube. Here’s your starter for ten.

Yes, finally! I didn’t get to hear a ruddy thing about my cunting fucking bastard ex-place of residence that I’m still haemorrhaging dead money into. It was nice of both my estate agent and solicitor to call me and keep me posted though…what? Sorry, it was me that called them. Neither even bothered fucking answering. So that’s it, unless they call me today, both of them, I’m going to jump ship and give someone else the fucking commission. Incidentally, the way they make you feel as if they’re doing you some sort of favour is reprehensible. I’d sooner consort with war criminals.

In addition to a day in anticipation of some sort of news I had the added dread of starting my evening in a fucking gym. The dismal ride home, compounded by brain-injured drivers of both cab and bus, driving rain and cold, was not to be sated by Golden Virginia when I’d finally locked my commute on the other side of my front door. I’d decided to abstain from the tabs as I was dimly aware that any assistance I gave my lungs would benefit whatever mediaeval torture device I was expecting to wrestle with in order to benefit myself healthways.

I’d initially considered just using the pool. I used to represent my school at 13, front crawl. I even won something once, this is in spite of my nasty little comprehensive having neither a pool or training outside of a Polish nonce shouting at me from the dry-side of the public baths. Apart from Motocross, it was the only form of physical exercise with which I had some sort of ability. The last time I entered the water, about 7 years ago, I darted in with all the keenness of my 13-year-old-self completely forgetting my 33-year-old heart/lungs/muscles all addled with dope and too much wine. I got half way across and into serious difficulty, which resulted in my having to doggy paddle semi-submerged to the side presenting a succession of those awful watery burps to passing breast-strokers each time I surfaced. When I finally got to safety I duly barfed up my Full English and the previous evenings Cottage Pie.

With this in mind I figured that doing some preliminary exercise to avoid a re-occurrence of this disturbing episode was the best course of action. At 7, IC and I set off for the gym, I arrived and got my free pass and was directed towards a muscle-bound member of staff who asked me if I’d been to a gym before. I told him I had, about 7 years ago. Reluctantly he asked me which of the instruments I wanted to use, I wanted to tell him ‘none,’ but pointed wearily at the rowing machine.

From the corner of my eye I could see IC making a dash on the running machine; he followed my gaze and suggested I warm up on one. This I spurned on account of my back, at which point he looked directly at me and said ‘oh.’ Suddenly I was being bombarded with questions, what exactly was wrong with my back, had I had treatment? Did I have a doctor’s note? Of course I didn’t, I’d been advised verbally by the Physio at the hospital to not undertake any form of exercise that would impact on my spine, such as running, all-in-wrestling and whatnot. I tried to explain this but gym-boy continued to shake his head muttering something about insurance, I offered to sign a disclaimer, he sighed and fucked off to speak to his manager after I’d requested to do the very same thing.

For 15 minutes I sat and watched exercising people. I was right pissed off; in addition to ballsing up the beginning of my evening it became apparent I’d inadvertently psyched myself up to actually workout. I watched IC enviously as she continued to pound out miles, all about me people were lifting, pedalling, pulling, cavorting. I wanted a go, I really actually wanted a go… Gymboy came back with a form. My doctor needed to sign it before I was allowed back. I don’t have a doctor. I had one once when I was back in that other fucking place which means I’ve got to write letters and make calls in order to see one in Hackney. I slunk off home to make some dinner leaving IC running for victory. Bugger it.

I’m expecting some ‘nearly done’ news on the fucking flat today; doubtless I’ll hear nothing, so one wonders why I started today’s tedious diatribe by mentioning it, especially after such a jolly weekend.

It began on Friday (oh, Friday, why hast thou forsaken me?) after clambering on Brutta, grin spread from ear to ear and arriving back at the Twatcave with my digits hanging off. After they’d managed to sufficiently recover I prepared myself for the evening’s delights, hooked up with IC and bussed it to an imposing Georgian boozer in the middle of a dark and silent Victoria Park for dinner.

This is my favourite part of the week, Friday evening, 9-ish, when the weekend sits expectantly ahead like an unopened yet probably delightful gift. To kick it all of with IC and a bit of nice fodder and wine is the sum of all things marvellous. I had lamb, dear reader, lots of lovely fucking lamb and after a bottle or so and much chatting we reluctantly left our seats and retired homewards.

I slept in on Saturday, in fact I didn’t actually get up until after 1 due to the odd glass I’d consumed during and following dinner, but once fixed by breakfast, I set about doing my bidding. I had stupid items to purchase, radiator key, boot dubbin, Balti dishes, the flat needed cleaning, food needed preparing, my arse needed winding. At about 5 IC invited me over for Apperativo, Mary joined us and we toasted the forthcoming evenings schedule, which saw IC and I headed for Old Street to meet some friends.

The purpose of the gathering was to see Andy and his missus, they’d popped over from Madrid, they’d not been in London for 5 years or so and we’d collectively (12 of us in the end) decided to feed and water ourselves to celebrate this auspicious occasion at the most convenient place possible. It seems Shoreditch was selected because we found ourselves in a bar opposite the soon-to-be no-more Foundry drinking wine. I was astonished how empty the place was; it was a Saturday night after all and it’s not as if the venue was a dump either. I can only put it down to the fact that Valentine’s Day was imminent and couples had decided Saturday night was a better time to celebrate over Sunday..? I dunno, don’t ask me.

After a drink we shuffled off to a Vietnamese place on Kingsland Road. If you recall IC, Pat and I got our fingers burnt a few weeks ago after winding up in an eatery that seemed reluctant to serve food? Well the only reason we were there was because this evenings designated venue was packed solid. Fortunately, in this instance, one of our party had booked an enormous table in the favoured restaurant, this was a fucking result. Said venue is of excellent repute and it’s cheap to boot.

Starters were ordered on our behalf, spring rolls, deep fried calamari and such like, and we chose mains in the midst of eating these morsels of lush, whilst drinking and generally slapping each other backs, I opted for roasted duck ‘wokked’ (apparently) with veg, an excellent decision I must say. After much feasting IC and I spurned the group decision to carry on drinking further; we had plans for Sunday and didn’t want to fuck them before we’d a chance. Instead we went home, got a second wind, and drank a bottle of Cava by accident.

Despite this, Sunday’s hangover wasn’t too bad. IC had booked a place for a late breakfast which was very close to where we’d been on Friday by way of coincidence. I had Eggs Benedict (IC the Royale) which was good but not as good as we’ve had in other places, the venue itself was right nice and adequately made up for the vinegary hollandaise.

Following the food we drifted back home via Victoria Park. It was a crisp day, a little overcast but pleasant enough. It was 2-ish when we finally got back, we watched ‘Whatever Works’ a Woody Allen driven Larry David vehicle which was a bit like Allen’s return to 70’s form (and belly laugh out loud in places) but it’s no Annie Hall. Following this I had some cooking to do, stuffed courgettes with a salmon and tuna-sauce pie. It took a while to prepare but, conveniently, sat happily in the fridge ready to be slammed in the oven when required.

We ate at about 8 watching Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes, which by rights should’ve been dreadful but wasn’t and celebrated our sickeningly happy situation with reference to the day in hand with some fizz. The food was some of the best I’ve ever prepared too. Jolly good show.

On account of all the eating and drinking I’ve been indulging in since Christmas I’ve noticed an increased girth about my mid-person, more worryingly, perhaps, IC recently remarked on this visible aspect of my indulgence. Of course, she goes to the gym and works it off, I on the other hand prefer to sit on my freckle and assure myself that playing Grand Theft Auto is a workout of sorts.

Last week IC presented me with a trial pass to the local sweatshop. Apparently we can get a ‘couples’ membership at a discounted rate, unlimited access 7 days a week, or something. Whilst recoiling in abject horror at the very concept of this, my growing gut and, I suppose, vague awareness that my smoking and drinking might have to be countered as I approach middle fucking age, I’ve decided that this evening I’m going to go to the gym. Do read that sentence again, I just did and I’m not even sure if I believe it.

On February 14, A.D. 496, the feast of St. Valentine was first declared by Pope Gelasius and the Lupercalia was outlawed as a pagan ritual. That’s right, the Lupercalia, what the FUCK is that? Well, gentle reader; the origins of Valentine’s Day come from Lupercalia and festival that took place in ancient Rome, unsurprisingly.

The festival honoured Lupercus and Faunus the gods of fertility and farming in the form of much feasting and wotnot, we’ll get onto wotnot in a short while, but the basic idea of these celebrations was to purify the land to ensure good crop, and to do the same thing to woman of childbearing age. Just to give you an idea of how important these celebrations were, February comes from the latin ‘Februare’ meaning ‘to purify.’

During the Lupercalia, 2 priests, called luperci, knacked 2 goats and a dog at the sacred cave where Romulus and Remus (founders of Rome, their mum was a vestal virgin, dad was Mars, god of war (not the chocolate bar) and they were raised by a wolf what allowed the lads to suckle on her tits after Mars ordered their deaths and a servant of the imprisoned mum sneaked them away to this cave…) were supposed to have been nurtured.

After a feasting and sacrificing came the good bit, the luperci clothed themselves in the dead goatskin and ran through the city streets whipping girls and women with strips of skin cut from the sacrificed creatures. You don’t get that sort of carry on after the General Synod, sadly. This act was thought to purify the girls and make them more able to have nippers; basically, they believed that a beating ensured fertility.

I heard about all this on Just a Minute on Monday I hasten to add, the only reason I’m mentioning it here is because it’s Valentine’s Day on Sunday and keeping with ancient tradition I’ve decided to take a riding crop to IC. Should I wind up in custody I just wanted to cover my ass with today’s ramblings.

Gerry’s Valentine Chart, a Valentine song (from a true Renaissance man) to follow, but first

*goes red*

er, nothing… aw shucks, you guys

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 20 11
29 Mumford And Sons The Cave NE 1
28 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 22 14
27 Example Won’t Go Quietly NE 1
26 You Me At Six Underdog 23 4
25 Eels A Line In The Dirt 26 2
24 Wolfmother White Feather NE 1
23 Phoenix 1901 18 6
22 Good Shoes Under Control 28 2
21 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum NE 1
20 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 15 10
19 Placebo Bright Lights 12 7
18 Renegades Renegades 24 2
17 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 10 8
16 Miike Snow Sylvia 30 2
15 Hot Chip One Life Stand 11 7
14 Editors You Don’t Know Love 7 8
13 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 14 3
12 I Blame Coco Caesar 9 5
11 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 17 2
10 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 5 6
9 Flyleaf Again 6 5
8 Pearl Jam Got Some 4 11
7 The Big Pink Velvet 19 2
6 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 16 3
5 Muse Resistance 8 4
4 The xx VCR 3 4
3 Alice In Chains Your Decision 2 7
2 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 13 2
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 1 4

In contravention to the start of yesterdays rant, I had the most horrific ride home last night. In addition to it being bastard cold, ten minutes into the ride I found myself in a fucking blizzard. I’ve ridden in snow before but this was another story entirely, the stuff was coming in from every conceivable angle being driven by 1000 mph nitrogen, it’s no exaggeration to say that I could hear the fucking snow pinging off my helmet. If this wasn’t bad enough I learnt that my new inner gloves/outer gloves will stave off the cold at anything over 1, but at O downwards they’re as effective as bum paper. The agony derived from my freezing digits forced me to pull over (twice) to allow me to remove my handwear and rub my claws together in order to generate some sort of heat. On top of this snow froze onto the outside of my visor, my breath did the same thing within, the road turned into the Cresta Run, my feet got wet and all the while I was cramped-up from an earnest desire to pass many stools.

I finally arrived back, parked bike, entered the Twatcave, took some time in the poo room before discovering my PC was riddled with a virus that wouldn’t allow me access that internet without it trying to flog me some spyware. After finally figuring out I’d need to reinstall some shit or other I re-booted the cunt and solved all but one problem, the anti-virus software. It was then I learnt my anti-viral software had expired, needless to say the reason for my malaise, once I’d got that sorted the PC spent an age grinding out all the muck that had accumulated through my complete lack of interest in the continued warnings about the anti-software expiring… Complete waste of time, like that previous paragraph.

Finally a nice night followed, I made a version of fish pie for IC, Ned and Sue and we whiled away the evening eating, drinking and playing on the PS3, The Simpson’s game to be accurate. It’s not my usual affair but it’s childish fun and more suitable to be enjoyed with ladies present as it doesn’t feature zombies or assassinations.

I spurned the bike today over Boris Transport, this wasn’t because of the intense cold, it’s simply that I’m meeting my bro and Harry for a pint this evening. Having said that, I think I may well have used the public facilities anyway. There is all fucking ice everywhere.

I had a very interesting journey home last night. It may be more interesting to read about than the actual experience as it was rather nerve racking.

Allow me if you will. Brutta and I approached the Vauxhall roundabout after traipsing past reams of stationary 4-wheel vehicles. I popped up the inside of a bunch of suckers as the lights changed and cut back across the front of the flow of traffic in order to get into the right-hand lane further ahead. I’ll be the first to admit this was a daring move, though executed to perfection of course, but not everyone was as enthusiastic as I. Of course, I took liberty to the sound of a horn of one of the so-owned motorists I’d just deleted from my commute.

Naturally, I gave the source of the horn the middle finger. I didn’t turn round, merely popped it up in between changing gears and roared off. Like most large roundabouts each corner is punctuated by traffic lights. The ones in front of me had just turned to red so imagine my surprise on deceleration-to-stop to feel a gentle pressure on the back of my calf. I looked down; it was a large bumper on closer examination. I turned round and a very, very angry skinned-head was sticking out of a black Range Rover, with all blacked out windows and suchwhat, and shouting at me. It’s worth mentioning that I vaguely recognised the head, possibly as someone connected to the football fraternity, but as I’m not au fait with this sport I couldn’t tell you which one it was. It’s also just as likely I’d seen the cunt on the news.

Anyway, the man was demanding I alighted from Brutta to engage in a violent confrontation after suggesting I wasn’t the ‘fucking tough guy’ the rude gesture implied, but as he didn’t actually leave his vehicle I reckoned he wasn’t entirely convinced that I wasn’t actually a ‘fucking tough guy.’ Despite this working in my favour getting my head kicked was still looking odds-on at this stage if I’m perfectly honest. The man in question was ever so cross.

I looked at other means at my disposal with which to diffuse the situation… then I noticed that sitting next to him was a small boy. The small boy looked petrified and as it wasn’t me doing the shouting I concluded it was the actions of his, I assumed, father that was instigating his abject horror. With this in mind it was time to make my move.

I lifted my visor and said, very clearly, loudly, even, ‘that’s not the sort of language to use in front of your son.’ (I’d seriously considered suggesting I’d flipped the bird only because I wanted to finger his child, but thought this might not go down well.) The shouting man looked momentarily confused and continued his tirade, well for a split second at least. ‘You Fu…!…Mug, you’re a mug, mate.’ He said, less enthusiastically, he glanced nervously at his son as the lights changed and I was gone. Fast.

In hindsight I think we all learnt a lesson that evening. The man in the Range Rover to not use bad language in front of a minor, not to mention frightening him half to death with his aggressive behaviour and for me to make sure I have a clear exit to fuck off out of it after making an obscene gesture.

If you’ve not been watching TV Burp… Catch.

I had a bloody load of night time mares last night. One featured an enormous house that I couldn’t escape from, a la The Prisoner, with a fucking Tiger in it who was still a bit peckish following the savage slaughter of Gok Wan and the other had Frank on the top of a 16-story-high ladder trying to get a tube of toothpaste out of a vice mounted on a wobbly shelf that I was also sat on. Where on earth these wee-hour horrors had come from I’ve no idea but I was awoken in a bloody fit. Admittedly I had watched From Hell that evening but as neither Tigers, wobbly shelves or toothpaste feature I doubt that was the source of my fears.

I can only put it down to concerns over my ex-flat that feature all of the above ingredients save the tiger and the oversized ladder. It’s back on the market again as my second buyer, the smelly bitch, has disappeared. Depressingly I received a text from my agent early evening yesterday informing me that he’d ‘a couple of viewings’ lined up this week. So, after a year of having the place on the market, I’m quite literally back to square one. Great stuff, bloody great lovely fucking shitting stuff.

The temperature has returned to 1. My newish gloves seem to have lost their urge (as they wear the vital materials compress and they allow heat to escape) so by the time I was 30 minutes into my journey after work (which I left a little early because snow was happening) I was practically screaming in agony from the horrific pain emanating from my fingertops. I had visions of their being blackened with frostbite and remaining stuck in the end of my gloves when I took them off. I pulled over by The Salvation Army offices at Elephant and Castle to check. The very act of taking my gloves off had the strange effect of bringing them back to some sort of life; this sudden infusion of blood was almost as dreadful as their state of frozen fish fingerdom. Something needed to be done, and fast. I needed inner-gloves to support the outer pair, but I’d already passed Metropolis at Vauxhall so was forced into the humourless dealer in Shoreditch.

They’re miserable bunch of cunts in there. Nine times out of ten motorbike dealers are a cheery bunch with the necessary ‘all stand together, us against them’ sort of thing going down. Not in this place. The staff look at you as if they want to smash your face in, so I made my own way round the store under the steely gaze of some bellend until I’d located a pair of winter inners. They were purchased virtually wordlessly and I left feeling like I’d just contracted a hit on a schoolgirl. Outside another staff member was changing a bulb on a customers Honda Scooter (these sorts of machines and ‘riders’ shouldn’t be permitted to mix with the likes of REAL bikers and bikes, I mean who goes to a fucking mechanic to get a bulb changed?) They were no more that two feet away from Brutta. Both the ‘rider’ and, I presume ‘mechanic,’ watched me with contemptuous gaze as I mounted my steed. I waited until they’d gone back to their business and hit the starter. Brutta erupted with such a sudden roar the rider cleared the pavement and the ‘mechanic,’ who’d been squatting behind the scooter, leapt to his feet as if bolted with a cattle prod. Pricks!

Oh, the new inner gloves work a treat, and they were under £15.

I had a nice evening with IC, she came down to the Twatcave for a spot of Fisherman’s Pie and we split a bottle of wine in front of the aforementioned film, which is touch and go if I’m honest but ultimately worth it. I guess.

Is it still morning?

I met up with Gerry on a cold Thursday evening at a boozer just off Bond Street. It’d been exactly 5 years to the day that we’d seen Rammstein at Brixton, this time we were headed for Wembley. We popped a couple away and got on the tube to arrive in time for the end of the Combichrist set, who were a lot better than expected.

Just after Gerry received a text from a friend who was already jammed up the front, she invited us to pop down and say hello. This was easier said than done. Die-hard Rammstein fans (most of them in their early 20’s) had already staked a claim for space and weren’t best pleased at Gerry and I barging to the front. The initial ‘excuse me’s’ soon became ‘get out of my fucking way’s’ and the little bastards locked up to prevent our passage resulting in Gerry and I aggressively barging our way through to audible protests from fans, one or two comments were a little less than savoury forcing sarcastic responses, such as ‘how old are you rockstar?’ and ‘what’s wrong, lost the sandwiches mummy made you?’ It was a harrowfying 10 minutes but we made it back in time to grab another beer and conveniently locate ourselves in time for the start of the show.

They were jolly good, good sound with some genuinely awe-inspiring pyro, though the set list didn’t really get going until mid-way through Gerry and I had a killer time. This was helped by our moving to the back near the rear bar to allow us to freely purchase beer without queuing or missing any of the set. Marvellous. We had a thoroughly drunken tube journey to our respective stops and I winged it back in beer-time.

I was up by lunchtime Friday feeling a little rough round the edges and thanking my common sense for taking a day off. The weather was extraordinarily clement, spring-like no less and at 1pm I took the overground, to underground to DLR for the Excel centre, which is located in Docklands. It’s a very weird location, almost futuristic yet strangely calming, almost as if one is featuring in a 1970’s artists impression of a low rise sci-fi city yet to be realised.

It’s been an age since I went to a big bike show in London (the international bike show re-located from Earls’ Court to the NEC in the 80’s) so it was particularly nice having something virtually on my doorstep. I met Dave at The Triumph stand and we set off round the venue jumping on as much two-wheeled metal as our little legs would allow, all the while commenting on various bike-related aspects of design, engineering and ride. We paused for a beer by the stage that featured an Asda version of Jeremy Clarkson barking about some such. He had the charisma of a sacked porn actor and set the dim tone for the humiliating display of the regressive letching which followed.

Thirty tears ago nearly all bike mags featured young ladies (some not so young, actually) flopped over the latest exotica with all tits out. We’ve moved on from this, now motorcyclists aren’t all perceived, as they once were, as headbangers with low IQ’s, a casual approach to hygiene and medieval attitudes to the fairer sex. Worryingly the organisers of the event took it on themselves to have ‘babes’ on the stage which were painfully and lasciviously interviewed by the sub-Jeremy gitprong dribbling all over the mic. No one came out of this well; the ‘babes’ were the sort of ladies one finds assisting part-time in downmarket clothing retailers and the audience weren’t too keen on being subject to this pre-Greer meatfest and being treated, essentially, as fucking morons. This was the only disappointing element of what turned out to be a long and entertaining afternoon. I was home by 6 with my ass still glowing from all the beautiful machines I mentally blew all my lottery winnings on.

I didn’t want to go anywhere on Friday evening. IC was away and I was already due a sizable Saturday so it was Piqued Sensational Spudz on the menu, a bottle of wine and after Mastermind (which featured a chap being questioned on British bikes (I got over half right)) I did The Godfather on the box. I had completely forgotten what a triumph Coppala’s masterpiece is. A beautiful Friday was consigned to history at 1-ish

Saturday, my bro came over for lunch; I had prepared an enormous quantity of Spaghetti Bolognaise that we consumed in front of Iron Man. What a marvellous film that was too, it had completely slipped under my radar. Following this my bro did the awkward bit at the beginning of Resident Evil 5 leaving me late pm to wrestle with it, early evening Pat and Red joined me and we soon had some wine on the go with the game, this wasn’t a particularly sensible course of action.

Pat wasn’t feeling up for coming out by Red and I were. We met up with Nicky at Hackney Central and took the bus to Kings Cross at around 9.30. The Venue we were destined for was, for want of a better word, a ‘goth club.’ Oscar was in charge of making tunes happen downstairs and when we arrived, apart from a disinterested barlord and a couple of Misfit lookylikes, we were his audience. Mercifully the venue filled up fast. It was a good-sized room with low ceilings and lots of skull-based graffiti and as we’d secured a perfect spot at the bar we happily imbibed as the dark crowd milled about us. A couple more friends arrived at 11. By the time Oscar resumed duties on the decks at 12 the place was comfortably packed and I was horrendously pissed. Testament to this was the fact I danced without the safety net of IC, fuck knows what I must’ve looked like.

At 2-ish Oliver ordered us all a 6 seater cab that arrived just before I contracted frost-bite. In the cab the severity of my inebriation made itself known in the form of a full-on whitey that almost resulted in me hurling my evenings indulgences all over the transport and its occupants. I’d not drunk an enormous amount but the earlier wine had upset the equilibrium, somehow I managed to survive the trip back largely by gulping fresh air from the passenger window. I’ve no doubt if I were in the middle of the machine I’d be writing letters of apology instead of this.

We stopped by Oliver’s for a final snifter and then Red and I took ourselves off home at 4am via a fast-ish food eatery. Things are a bit hazy from here, but I recall we got back and I was unable to eat my food. I shoved it in the fridge and went to sleep immediately.

It was 2am before I finally got up, Red was long gone and I was starving. I rescued the kofti and some salad from the previous evenings take out and shoved the lot into fresh bread; the resulting meal was surprisingly delicious. I undertook a spot of shopping and returned home with some provisions and bloody hangover, which had kicked off in earnest.

What remained of the afternoon was sat slumped in front of Come Dine With Me, Top Gear and Godfather 2, I’m not sure if I prefer the sequel to the original. At 7 I rammed my face with roast chicken, mashed potato, Brussels sprouts and made-from-scratch Onion Gravy which blew my socks off, and everything else. I spent an hour from 9 mainly visiting the loo. Jesus.

I was feeling much better by 11, so I took myself off by bus to meet IC off the Stanstead Express at Liverpool Street. It was a shame the weekend had to end on such a high note, but that’s life isn’t it. Right mum?

I’m off to see Rammstein tonight with Gerry. This is excellent news in the first instance, but even better than that, I’ve the day off tomorrow for the dual purpose of a. going to the bike show, and b. sleeping off the hangover I hope to arrange from this evenings entertainment.

For the second day in a row I’ve been forced onto public transport. Now that I’ve sussed the route a little better it’s not too bad, just slightly irksome what with all the chopping and changing from bus to tube to train et al. This morning I found myself on a brand news bus and I can’t say I’m very impressed. It’s great for additional legroom but the fucking seat has a Rizla width of cushion on it. After 5 mins my arse bones felt as it they were being jackhammered by a navvy, this in turn forced my spine to concertina like an accordion and by the time I alighted I was a foot shorter and could barely walk.

Yesterday evening I arrived at The Ship on Wardour Street at bang on 5.45. Red was there already and we were joined by Harry, Mark and Frank. As well as scoring a table (the place was, as usual, packed) the music was bloody lovely. After a few I toddled off to Oxford Street to get the central line back to Hackney, instead of going back to the Twatcave I popped by Sue’s gaff where IC and some pals were having a little catch up. I duly got stuck in after a massive great piss and after an hour or so, IC and I went home for a final glass of wine.

Right, on account of the lack of post tomorrow, Gerry’s chart is early, as is my desire to wish your weekends well, even though somewhat premature, unless you have the day off like me, are unemployed, retired or dead.

Hello.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Miike Snow Sylvia NE 1
29 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 18 11
28 Good Shoes Under Control NE 1
27 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 20 14
26 Eels A Line In The Dirt NE 1
25 Plan B Stay Too Long 16 5
24 Renegades Renegades NE 1
23 You Me At Six Underdog 26 3
22 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 15 13
21 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 17 4
20 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 12 10
19 The Big Pink Velvet NE 1
18 Phoenix 1901 19 5
17 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? NE 1
16 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 24 2
15 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 9 9
14 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 21 2
13 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound NE 1
12 Placebo Bright Lights 7 6
11 Hot Chip One Life Stand 13 6
10 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 8 7
9 I Blame Coco Caesar 11 4
8 Muse Resistance 14 3
7 Editors You Don’t Know Love 4 7
6 Flyleaf Again 10 4
5 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 5 5
4 Pearl Jam Got Some 3 10
3 The xx VCR 6 3
2 Alice In Chains Your Decision 1 6
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 2 3

I woke this morning to the heart-warming news that the nations pin-up, Jordan (real name Kati prys) has got married in Las Vegus to her kuckbixing boyfriend Alex Rede. And I couldn’t be hapeeer for bowth of thems. I no fo reel that they reely do larve eech otherz, reely reely truly abso looly.

To be perfectly honest, you’ve got to take your hat off to the bitch, she’s got tits of steel, frankly (and probably literally.) I’ve never known such utter shamelessness in the face of the gawping public via the baying media. And such wanton manipulation of that dim sucker who has agreed to get publicly turned over in a few weeks/months/years etc., Or am I being naïve, I hope I am and he’s going to get something out of this. From where I sit he’s just entered a world of misery. What an awful cunt she is.

Via Charlie Brooker’s Newswipe I was privy to an excerpt of some magazine show on Five hosted by Ian Wright, Melinda Massager and I think some teeth off The Apprentice. Just a tiny snippet made me howl with rage. A bloke was talking about the homeless and said ‘give them company, a sandwich maybe, but never any money,’

Why the fuck not?! They need money to get bombed. Surely if you’re living on the streets sans family and a roof the only possible thing you’ve got to look forward to is a tin or a needle. Homelessness isn’t a lifestyle choice; it’s a fucking awful, awful thing to happen to a person. When I drop some change into the hand of some poor unfortunate sod begging outside in the pissing howling rain I’m praying more than anything they find a solution to their despicable predicament, but for now, that’s a contribution to their more immediate concern of getting out of the dreadful weather and getting nicely wasted, on me.

I had a splendid evening with IC, we’re currently doing The Office back to back. The word genius is stretched too far these days but it applies to that show and everyone it in, especially Gervais. One of the reasons it works on the level it does is because it allows one to empathise/despise the characters via your own experiences in the office environment, if you’re unfortunate enough to have been in that situation, or, like me, in it right fucking now. I would be much happier if I was watching the show outside of my weekday horrors, particularly as yesterday was especially vile (I’ll spare you the details, it might inspire me to nip over to the protagonists desk and rip their liver out via the eye socket.)

Right, another days rant over. I’ve attached a treat for you, this is heart-warming stuff.

Viva La Lydon!

I was home reasonably early yesterday, about 15 minutes before the working day would’ve finished in the office. I’d spent the afternoon in a very casual meeting with a very pleasant client I’ve known for years, so I left the office at 2 after getting a load done in the morning. In some ways it went to show that this whole 9 to 5 business is a fucking sham. I reckon I could get the whole weeks work done in a couple of days, which makes me feel bloody miserable if I’m honest. It’s not like I’m going to get this wasted time back is it? Whatever happened to the 4 days week that’s what I want to know. It’s been banded about for years; it’d save both time and energy and give us all a break from the ridiculousness of unnecessary travel and time wastage. One would’ve thought with all this technology we’d have done the 4 days week and would now be looking at 3 maximum with half the workforce working from home. Something isn’t right here… the only people that stand to lose out if the UK workforce shorten their hours or do away with the office entirely are the transport companies. This would be good for the environment though, but, oh. Hang on. Oil. Surely it’s not about oil is it?

I spent yesterday evening away from the clutches of booze, instead Swineshead and I went on yet another killing spree in GT Auto. The game is a masterpiece. As it stands ‘games’ don’t receive the same accolade as other forms of visual entertainment, movies, theatre, art even. I put this down to snobbery. Some of the detail in GT Auto is frankly astonishing. For example, on Sunday following the slaughter of dozens of homeless people on the beach, I sat and watched workmen repair a road for 5 minutes. They actually made fucking progress, that was until I killed every last one of them, stole their lorry and drove it through a playground.

The amount of work involved in the games realisation is staggering, it’s not just the mind blowing graphics and physical feel of piloting the game -the sheer vastness combined with an attention to minutiae- it’s the script, the plot, the sheer bloody audacity of it. And on top of everything, it manages to have its tongue firmly planted in its cheek yet still maintain it’s grim reality with a wicked sense of humour to boot. That’s quite a tough brief to balance; yet it carries it off perfectly. I’d go as far to say that it’s genius.

The underground walk between The Northern Line and The Jubilee Line is, during rush hour at least, weird. Fritz Lang’s classic movie Metropolis is much in evidence, of course, but it’s when you’re in the throng that a peculiar aspect of being makes itself known. It’s not so much the trudging in the same direction en-mass; it’s the sound of shoes, nothing but shoes. So many people, no one speaking, or having any communication whatsoever, not even eye contact. You’re absorbed into a hueless blob of purpose in order to conform to the dictate of capitalism, save the sound of thousands of pieces of shoe leather making contact with granolithic concrete, there is nothing remotely human about the environment one finds oneself in. At first I found it rather amusing, no one talking, no cries of either despair or exultation, then I saw myself in the crowds flocking in the direction of this office and I concluded that far from being whimsical this situation was fucking awful.

The weekend went in a flash. It began in my flat with Swineshead and Ned enjoying a spot of murder on the PS3. As with these things the evening began to get more and more frazzled, giggling broke out, we were having a right royal time. Then our respective partners arrived from a meal out and we found ourselves back in reality, well some of us, Ned played on regardless much to my amusement. In fact Ned stayed well after everyone apart from IC had toddled off home.

After a very late breakfast on Saturday I cleaned my gaff and IC and I took the bus to London Bridge. From there we walked through Borough Market down the embankment passing marvellous bits of history with the Thames lapping at the shore to our collective left. The views and the sheer innocent joy of just walking in our city in all that space made up for the intense cold. We nipped into the Tate Modern to visit Miroslaw Balka’s ‘How It Is’ in The Turbine Hall. The huge sculpture is reminiscent of a cattle truck; one enters from the rear and is gradually absorbed into a disorientating blackness. I’m fairly sure the innate comparisons with the logistics of the holocaust are no accident, or maybe that’s just me? Either way I couldn’t help thinking about those dreadful railways and their beautiful, terminal cargo.

Cocktails were in order. We walked over Hungerford Bridge as the moon peeped from behind the cloud in the East; we took a while to gaze at our favourite satellite as it rose over the undulating waters of the Thames casting golden lights on its surface, then headed down through Charing Cross, Covent Garden and into Soho. Trying to find a place to imbibe comfortably on a Saturday night was no mean feat, but it was still quite early, 6-ish, and we eventually found a place that had a happy hour and free seating by the bar. The music was reprehensible but other factors made the venue more than bearable, the drinks and seating ostensibly. I began with a whisky sour and followed it with a gin Martini; IC had a pair of rum sours and a row with the cocktail waiter over its price. I watched her performance with pride, that’s my girl you see.

At 8-ish we walked to Carnaby Street and took a place in a bar hired by friends for the purposes of celebrating The Roberts’ birthday. I procured a bottle of wine for IC and I and in a flash the place was packed. A fella formally known as Robotic Chap arrived with Rose and a small entourage and much shouting over music happened. I was quite lubricated by the time we left, which wasn’t too late and neither IC or I had eaten yet. At home I roasted some tomato and onion, which was served with enormous fish cakes. And Champagne, the latter had been liberated from work, I wouldn’t pay for that stuff, Prosecco is much better and vastly cheaper… still, neither of us were complaining.

Sunday already, we had breakfast at IC’s and did a spot of shopping before retiring to our respective flats. I had to clean the fucking kitchen floor with a mop and shit, a task I loathe with abundance. I had a go on the PS3 to fix me and read the paper for a bit. IC came down and we played Scrabble for a while… bearing in mind English isn’t her first language, and the fact she not played it before, she did surprisingly well. We ate nut roast in front of a particularly amusing Come Dine With Me and polished off the evening with A Prophet, which isn’t as good as one would believe from the hype but a blast nonetheless.

The reason I was forced onto Johnson’s Shame, and the very reason I have to repeat this horrific exercise later, is because I’ve a meeting this afternoon. It’s not all bad though; I should get home earlier as result and I get out of this place for the afternoon.

Look, lot’s of Brutta-clones (though not as good, obviously)