Yesterday contained two highlights, one was the podcast I did with Swineshead on my return from work, it’ll be up in a few days (don’t worry, I’ll remind you) and the other was a combination of the lasagne I made with a black-as-death comedy show on BBC4 about a geriatric ward, soon to be reviewed on WWM when I’ve got round to writing it.

Of course, yesterday contained a myriad of shitlights. Work is fucking awful, I didn’t drink anything last night and I from the afternoon onwards, following a quick trip to the opticians, was forced to endure a pair of spectacles dating from my 20’s whilst my current frames were handed in to be re-glazed.

My right eye is okay, it’s been getting steadily worse as time passes but its rate of deterioration has been acceptable, indeed, I’ve not needed a new lens for the right eye for nigh on eight years. The left eye is a different matter; apparently I have what is called ‘astigmatism,’ putting it bluntly, instead of being a round shape, my eyeball resembles a fucking egg that is gradually flattening. In terms of ‘being able to see’ this isn’t, for the time being, a problem: when my glasses are off I simply can’t see very well, when my glasses are on I can see ‘normally,’ but when I wear glasses with an old prescription it’s as if my left eye is convulsing in it’s socket trying desperately to get focus and transforming one side of the world into a 1960’s movie-filter employed during close-up shots of the leading lady.

If this isn’t bad enough, when I dropped off my old frames I picked up my new sunglasses with their brand new prescription. Going from the fucked spectacles to the new shades is like suddenly being pissed in one eye. So disorientating is it that I’m having to correct my walking gait to prevent me from going round in one protracted circle. As ridiculous as this sounds, it’s like the left side of my body is being dragged to the ground.

I’m aware that in due course my eye will get used to this new way of seeing, this means that whenever possible I am required to wear the new prescription over the old. Subsequently I’m sat in the office wearing dark glasses and feeling like a complete tool, to add insult to injury, I don’t know what on earth possessed me to select these fucking frames –well I do, they look a bit ‘punk’- but that doesn’t mean it translates well on my stupid beardy face.

I look like a fucking cunt.

I was looking back over some old posts last night having spent a few hours in the pub with Harry, and came to the rather distressing conclusion that this blog used to be quiet good and is now fucking shite. Gone are the days when I’d happily describe a squalid life of heavy drinking, wanking and spending half of Sunday’s hangover with my bowel open like a basking shark’s gob featuring long and graphic descriptions of what subsequently emerged, these day’s it’s all, well, cheery –save the odd rant.

I can only apologise, I suppose this is what gives when you find yourself stepping off the gallows and running off into a meadow full of wildflowers and no wasps. Someone once said they stopped reading this blog (last year) because ‘I wasn’t having enough accidents’ anymore. Even the vague tension brought on by the selling of my London shed has, for the time being at least, ended in a tentative thumbs up. This could all come crashing round my ears but things for the now are okay, good even… apart from work, of course, that remains an abhorrence, a drawn curtain over whatever spark of creativity existed before it occurred to me I’d financially entombed myself. I’ll make no bones about, the reason you’re reading this shit is because it justifies my day, this isn’t an exercise in ego -I mean who really gives a cunts wink what I had for my tea, I don’t- this, dear readers, is a Pressure Valve.

Cool, so I’m going to vituperate now. Today, flagship news programme on Radio4, (worth the license fee on its own if you ask me) has been broadcast for 50 years and from day one it’s featured a slot called ‘Thought for the Day,’ you’ve probably heard of it. Thought for the Day, on at 7.45am everyday save Sunday, is exactly 2.45 minutes of faith-based guff featuring the dulcet tones of Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Sikh and Buddhist thinkers. I catch it rarely but when I do I always listen as it opens a gateway into something I don’t subscribe to at all, or know, and on occasion the featured religion can act as a catalyst for something quite nice about the world in which we live, but largely it’s just a load of old bollocks.

To date there has been no place so far for secular or atheist viewpoints but Radio4 controller Mark Damazer has said that the rules for who can speak on Thought for the Day may be up for grabs. I think this is a mistake. For a start having some faith-led numpty waffle on about stuff they believe in is a good enforcer of precisely why one shouldn’t blindly adhere to a conditioning and proscribed existence. But more of a concern is who exactly will replace the antiquated doctrines of the vapid and frankly trite bores that occupy the TFTD slot.

Whilst it’s a given we’ll be subject to lily livered ‘humanists,’ exasperated Darwinists, Dawkinites, lefty do-gooders, we could also be exposed to the screaming guts of creationists, intelligent-designists, Scientologists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Satanists, Zoroastrians, Mormons, Wicca’s, Druids… fuck, anyone with a bloody soap box happy to pontificate about the human condition and how we’re all going to Hell/ Hel/ Diyu/ Anaon/ Uffern/ Pekloo/ Mictlán/ Gimokodan/ Kalichi/ Hetgwauge/ Adlivun/ Metnal/ Jahannam/ Avici/ Naraka/ Shobari Waka/ O le nu’u-o-nonoa or Slough in a handcart.

At least the present line-up of weaklings represent established faiths that wield genuine and, at times, terrifying power over millions. It’s sort of good to know what’s going on, like reading The Sun to see what the majority of the nations are digesting with their Golden Nuggets.

I’ve received some bad news regarding the neck-sticking-out posture I developed on Saturday afternoon regarding my new flat and the selling of my current greasy pad. Essentially, the buyers mortgage broker has ‘disappeared’ chucking the whole fucking sale into jeopardy leaving me swimming in a lake of hot financial shit. Oh, business has dried up too, which is just great… excuse the short post, I need to call Dignitas.

Friday night IC, Dave and I were forced to go to a pub local to Dave in Hackney, he’d just come off shift and his missus was laid up with a migraine. The boozer in question had been recently refurbished and whilst not offensive on the eye was packed full of coke-sniffing little farties in the first flush of the weekend. I went for a pee before we left and, choosing the chod bin over the urinal, was harangued by two little buzzing tits desperate to get into the small room and fix themselves with another serving of Bolivia’s finest. After I’d seen to business I opened the door and was virtually knocked sideways by one of these little characters desperate for privacy. I grabbed him (I was a little pissed and he was shorter than me) and curtly informed him that his fucking moustache was coated in a thick quantity of white powder, without a second to spare his mate leant forward, licked the power off his pal and both disappeared into the toilet giggling like school girls.

On Saturday morning I stuck out my neck and signed the rent agreement to a one-bedroom gaff in Hackney. The reason I’m taking this chance is that the place is great and I’m very fond of Hackney, when I was little I used to go with dad on his rounds to the arched garages and later, I used to hung out there in my early 20’s. Despite being a different place back then it’s always had this natural air of bohemianism about it, a sort of self-awareness and pride that it’s not like any other part of London.

Over the past year I’ve been in Hackney much more than I was almost two decades ago, and whilst parts of it remain as they did, other areas have become knowingly ‘trendy’ and infused with cunts -media types, trustafarian ‘artists’ and ‘musicians,’ promoters abound… the fact that people as described above feel comfortable, almost obliged, to openly indulge in narcotics with impunity is just the sort of crap that make locals and long standing residents roll their eyes in dismay. Nonetheless, even with this sort of nonsense going on, it beats the stultifying dull existence of southwest London and I can’t wait to get out.

On Saturday afternoon after signing off my ass to my new landlord (a decent fellow) I met up with Gerry in a quiet boozer in Shoreditch. We had a happy couple of hours discussing music and family and I left to meet IC in what is now fast becoming a local. Paul and Mary joined us and had a few drinks before going back to IC and Mary’s gaff to play poker. We played until the small hours, I was doing okay for a while until I fucked up on a bluff and lost half my winnings in one shot, IC faired worse and Paul cleared us out. Blast.

Sunday IC and I went for lunchbreakfast by Regents Canal and took on a Bloody Mary with Eggs Benedict (I’m a Benedict addict, yeah) and we accidentally walked past the local and stopped off for a swift half that turned into a longer session as friends popped by to join us. Sunday ended with IC, Mary, Paul and I eating pancakes with that Anvil movie which is funny, sad, moving and fucking marvellous.

I’m off to the fucking dentist in an hour. Obviously I hate the dentist, you can have that, not just because all dentists are weird and hurty but because I view today’s dental surgery as a right royal rip-off? Why? I’ll tell you.

The last time I darkened the doors of a dental surgery it was to get my teeth cleaned by the hygienist, I’d been fairly regular for the past few years so I wasn’t as fussed as when I had my teeth cleaned following a 15 year hiatus in 2003. The hygienist was new and had attitude, a big arse, too much make-up and spoke like a Russian villain -I took an instant disgust to her.

I assumed the position and she commenced the procedure, scraping, buffing, prevaricating and after 25 mins, 5 less than usual, she was done. Ace, maybe I’d judged the fat clown harshly… she then told me to book a second appointment to do the top set.

Sessions with the hygienist are £45 a shot, it’s already a fucking fortune as all they do is take advantage of an inability to see behind ones own teeth and get dirt off. I was less than pleased and vented, explaining that when I arrived following my dental wilderness years my teeth were like that of Wilfred Bramble and I didn’t get charged twice then. So when I booked this time round I demanded that the hygienist did the whole session in one shot or I’d take my gob elsewhere. No problem, I was happily informed. I’m retrospectively hopping.

I’ve a packed weekend ahead including handing over a load of cash to my future landlord and sticking my neck out in terms of completion on the sale of my flat. I stand to lose £1.5 k if, for example, the vendors mortgage lender/surveyor quibble the deal. So, from August the 1st I’ll have both a mortgage and rent to pay, not good.

Sweet Christ it’s Gerry’s chart and a tune. Nice weekends all.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Jamie T Sticks N’ Stones NE 1
29 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 17 6
28 Franz Ferdinand Can’t Stop Feeling 30 2
27 Placebo For What It’s Worth 21 10
26 Hollywood Undead Young 28 2
25 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother NE 1
24 Fightstar Never Change 22 3
23 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 15 8
22 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 18 6
21 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 8
20 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi NE 1
19 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 19 4
18 Green Day 21 Guns NE 1
17 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 13 4
16 The Twang Barney Rubble 26 2
15 Lacuna Coil Spellbound NE 1
14 Kings Of Leon Notion 12 5
13 Linkin Park New Divide 16 6
12 Gallows London Is The Reason 9 5
11 The Maccabees Can You Give It 20 3
10 The Gossip Heavy Cross 8 8
9 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 14 3
8 Blue October Dirt Room 7 7
7 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 5 6
6 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 10 3
5 Depeche Mode Peace 6 5
4 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 4 4
3 Shinedown Second Chance 2 7
2 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 3 4
1 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 1 6

Aaah, the voice of tolerance and moderation has spoken, sorry; the grunt of a fucking pimple-brained nazi has rung out in the European media reddening the face of all but a handful of bull-necked townies.

Nick Griffin isn’t known for his powers of oration, problematic when you’re setting out your stall for fascist dictation, but even by his standards yesterdays little nugget of horror was as ill-conceived as operating a toaster in the bath.

Just in case you missed it, sadly it wasn’t given the attention it deserved, the MEP for the North-West of England (god help us all) said the EU had to get ‘very tough’ with migrants from sub-Saharan Africa. How Nick? What do you propose? Can I have some more jelly? His reply, “Sink boats carrying illegal immigrants to prevent them entering Europe.”

Cue retard clapping and honking. The stunned interviewer, BBC Correspondent Shirin Wheeler, said, “I don’t think the EU is in the business of murdering people at sea.” If he’d said something like “well fuck that, this country is full, if they’re going to try and enter illegally we’ll do anything at our disposal to stop ‘em, the black bastards,” at least he couldn’t be accused of dishonesty via a maintenance of his warped polemic. But he didn’t do that.

Remembering the new ‘hey guys, the BNP aren’t nazis!’ policy adopted a few months ago, little Nicky got on his tiny bicycle (with stabilisers, spokey dokeys, bell-end horn and plastic SS flag) and pedalled back as fast as his stubby little legs would allow. “Oh No!” he squealed, “I didn’t say anyone should be murdered at sea! I say boats should be sunk, they can throw them a life raft and they can go back to Libya!”

Yes, Nick. After being sunk, injury free of course, simply throw them a life raft, easily thrown as we all know, we’ve all done that, thrown fucking life rafts you toggle, and they’ll just happily go back to Libya. Can I have some ice cream now, please? Raspberry Ripple, and a balloon. Goody gum drops.

It would seem that Nick Griffin isn’t just despised by virtually anyone with an IQ over 10, even the French National Front Lega Nord want nothing to do with him, and being turned down by them is akin to a premiership footballer failing to get into Danielle Lloyds Y-fronts.

FREE RONNIE BIGGS!!

ONG!! MICHASEL JACXSON IS DED. For FUCK sake, now the kiddy fiddling race traitor has been planted I hope that’s the last of all this nonsense. Look, I was never a Jackson fan anyway, I mean he clearly had talent but I’m afraid all the nonce stuff put me off. I feel similarly towards Gary Glitter who at least had the decency not to black up.

Obviously I didn’t see the memorial concert, I value the tripe in my stomach too much, but I did hear his daughter on the end of the hourly news broadcast on Radio 4 trying to hold it together (and failing) as she spoke about her Daddy describing him as the “the best father you could ever imagine.”

Really? I’m afraid I have to take issue with this as young Paris (and this isn’t her fault by the way so I’m not directing this at her) is a Jackson product. Jackson ‘married’ Debbie Rowe, the nurse of his dermatologist 1996, she bore him three children (rumoured to be artificially inseminated, and if you’ve seen the state of Ms. Rowe, who is far away from pop star totty as I am to the Mariana Trench, I can’t hold that against him) and three years later filed for divorce, but in an out-of-court settlement surrendered her parental rights and received millions and millions of bucks.

It’s also come to light that the kids didn’t know Ms. Rowe was their mum until recently, and in the light of Jackson’s death, Ms. Rowe doesn’t know if she’s going to pursue custody of her own fucking kids who are currently in the care of Jackson’s mother… this isn’t normal is it? Bearing all this in mind the quote of last nights tacky crane-necking has to go to civil rights leader the Reverend Al Sharpton who turned towards MJ’s children and said, “there weren’t nothing strange about your daddy.”

Turning back to me now, I had weird dreams about Russell Brand who berated me for not being a vegetarian before taking me back to his room via a lift that travelled horizontally round a vast Georgian hotel, I was then showered with gifts wrapped in pages from the Hackney Gazette.

I’m cancelling the Wednesday list, it’s getting too disgusting and I fear, despite editing, attracting people with similar peccadillos to MJ.

NOW. Go to WWM and click on the ‘DownTuned’ link (up at the top) and read an article about Throbbing Gristle, then pop back and see today’s vid, it’s badly shot but the sound is good and sort of explains the gaps left in my appalling stab at music journalism.

Not content with having a president who likes to be beaten by hookers dressed as Waffen SS, and whose father was an actual fascist, now the CEO of the FIA, Bernie Ecclestone, has declared that ‘Hitler… got things done,’ when enthusing about the totalitarian way Formula One is governed.

It’s more of an immature thing to say than actually offensive because he’s technically right. Hitler got the economy going after WW1 by preparing munitions for war, he invaded Poland, Denmark and Norway, occupied Holland and Belgium and bombed the heart of London, he built roads and cars, rallied his own people and he managed to exterminate innocent children women and men on a mind numbing scale and this is why Hitler is an unimaginably insensitive and ridiculous leader to cite.

But Ecclestone didn’t actually say, ‘Hitler got things done.’ He said, “In a lot of ways, terrible to say this I suppose, but apart from the fact that Hitler got taken away and persuaded to do things that I have no idea whether he wanted to do or not, he was in the way that he could command a lot of people, able to get things done.”
The press have plucked out ‘Hitler… got things done,’ and left out the part which, in my considered and measured opinion, should see him reduced to the status of car park attendant.

It seems to me that Ecclestone is excusing Hitler for the Holocaust, that he was ‘persuaded to do things that I have no idea he wanted to do or not.’ Like it wasn’t his fault really, it was ‘others.’

Dismissing this monsters responsibility for the deaths of millions of innocents in the most appalling ways available to the human psyche is the part I find deeply disturbing.

I’ve fucking burnt myself. It hurts, a lot. And it’s not my fault, I wasn’t courting the sun, I’m not one of those simpletons who feels compelled to lie down, flesh out, and expose their organs to a perpetual nuclear assault. I can’t remember the last time this happened, it certainly would’ve been accidental as in this instance but I would’ve recalled the pain sufficiently to date my last encounter with The Hot One, this means that I’ve burnt myself worse than anytime in my history, fucking ‘ouch,’ yeah.

The weekend began very suddenly when Jamie appeared at my soon-to-not-be-gaff and we instantly fucked off on the tube to Clapham Common and made out way to a pub facing the common (it has a discreet roof terrace largely free of the arseholes that frequent that part of London.)

After almost planting an entire pint of beer on my front cock and bag when I sat down on a broken seat, Jamie and I settled down in the warm sunshine and caught up. Frank joined us and we remained outside until cooler air forced us down into the belly of the hostelry where we were joined first by James and then Rob with his missus in tow. Things get a bit vague here on in, at some point Jamie, Frank and I went home via the Lebanese Café for a shawarma, I do recall that it was fucking lovely, and then we went back to mine and made a load of noise, because I’m leaving and I don’t give a fuck, or rather, I didn’t then. Frank left and Jamie played guitar (he’s very good by the way, unlike that knuckle-dragging horror of connective tissue and gristle that survives below me on rudimentary mental facilities) and I woke up at 4 am on my couch with the day starting.

Jamie left the following morning and I remained asleep for a while before succumbing to my weekend. I was extremely aware that IC was away and was determined to make the best of my circumstance, perhaps even celebrate what may be the final Saturday I spend alone in chez Piqued? So I did some sewing. Not sure how this happened but I find sewing therapeutic, I like it enough to have a college qualification in textiles, which is basically posh-sewing. I shoved on The Iron Giant (someone said it was good, it’s fucking brilliant!) and made good a pair of IC’s jeans that I’d volunteered to repair. Feeling very homely with myself I decided to spurn the world and after visiting the shops for a paper and milk shut myself in for the rest of the afternoon and evening that revolved both happily and fractiously around the ongoing issues with the tattoo-to-be. I ate, watched a thrilling but completely shit movie, and sank a bottle of wine, all the while pondering the bloody ink design. It’s coming on nicely now you’ll be delighted to hear.

Sunday I was out by 10.30 the Black Bitch and I flew to the folks. My niece is now talking and it seems this has helped her overcome her fear of Uncle Nasty. Dad and I drove to Brands Hatch in his beautifully restored 1972 MGB, he bought it for a song a few years ago and has spent a great deal of time fiddling with her private parts, it’s now immaculate and best of all, convertible.

I should imagine this latter point heralded the beginnings of my burning. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, perfect to be in open-top British Sportscar, we burbled happily there in under an hour and arrived in time for the first race, classic Formula 2 which isn’t really my bag, bit too processional. The Supersport race that followed was fantastic though, massive 5000cc cars that are louder than Motorhead at 5 feet inspiring goosebumps and envy at not being given the chance of a go. All the while I’m outside in a vest with the sun beating down on me.

The Historic Formula 1 race was a bit of an anti climax though I did get to see the sublime Lotus once driven by Nigel Mansell screaming through druids, but the biggest pisser of all was The Orwell series, 8000cc Supercars and the race dad and I were looking forward to the most.

The cars look stunning, almost cliché-macho but achingly beautiful with voices to match, a sweet screaming rumble that lasted for 2 laps before a French driver planted his BRM (possibly the only one left in the world ) into a tyre wall at 140 mph. The resulting delay signified the worst; no news of someone’s condition is bad news as it’s the protocol when a fatality occurs. Dad and I couldn’t see what had happened as it was in the entrance to paddock on the far side of the circuit but we knew he’d hit the wall with such force only the two rear two wheels were in daylight. He’d also collected a Chevron driven by a Japanese fellow who’d flown all the way from Tokyo to enjoy one lap before having his pride and joy smashed up like an egg.

After almost an hour and the excellent news Frenchie was conscious and talking, the race resumed. This time, on the first lap, a chap in his heart breaking Lola got out of shape at Clearways and smacked both the nearside tyres into his chassis and wound up crunched and steaming right in front of us. It was a dismal sight, the proud, brutal machine slumped awkwardly from which the driver alighted shaken and devastated at not only killing the race but the thousands of pounds worth of damage accrued subsequently. And that was end of that; they didn’t run them again due to time. Blast and shit.

The 70’s saloons that followed went some went to making up for it, Imps, Coopers, Jags, Anglias, Cortinas, all in full race spec sliding and buzzing over the track… by now I’d the vaguest inkling that I’d taken on too much sun, it was getting late but the warm sunshine maintained it’s fiery gaze. Dad and I left and headed home after 5-ish, the roads were clear for a Sunday and we sat digesting the day with the Kent countryside framing our passage. Back at the folks I grabbed the Black Bitch and returned to my gaff after a brief stop at Tesco to collect some ingredients for something Italian to eat, I had a craving that had to be satisfied.

After an agonising bath and a spot of culinary know-how, I ate spaghetti and meatballs in a sensational tomato sauce watching Top Gear, did a spot on the Tat and watched the Moto GP. By now I was Ducati-red and regretting ‘what?! Fuck that!’ to dad’s suggestion I stick on some sun block… still, it wasn’t my fault I got burnt was it? No, any fool can see that.

The big news isn’t really big news at all, well it is to me, it’s huge news. Essentially, I’ve found somewhere to live in ‘Ackney. In addition to it being cheaper than I’d hoped there is a small gated garden where I can safely park my black bitch bike and it’s in the same block as IC. I went and saw it last night and apart from a few very minor niggles (it’s not enormous and the bedroom is sans windows) it’s perfect.

There is one hiccup in all this mind, I’ve sold my flat, sure, but I don’t know when the fucking sale will be completed. The gaff in ‘Ackney is free in 3 weeks and I have to grab it now, so I may be in the ridiculous situation of being Piqued-Two-Gaffs for a couple of weeks with the chance that the sale on my flat might fall over on it’s botty and I’ll wind up losing a bleedin’ monkey in dead rent. Strike a ruddy light.

After I posted yesterdays sweat infused bile I went back on the tube to get my passport from Victoria. Ignore what I said yesterday about the tube being preferable to outside, by 2pm it was diabolical, I was like a joint of beef running clear juices though, unlike brisket, muttering and sneezing from the perpetual hay fever I’ve had since Monday, and still have as I drip over this keyboard.

I arrived at the passport of office and was sent to a window containing a fucking weirdo. The guy was enormous, huge, but spoke like a 6 year old girl with a lisp and took, it seemed, a great deal of pleasure in extending the last word of any given sentence. He pronounced my surname for about 10 seconds looking directly in my eye, this caused me to snigger so he snapped, ‘what’s so funnnneeeoi,’ which served to perpetuate my stifled guffaws. My only option was to lie and said he had pronounced my name wrong, he stormed off to get my passport then returned to examine the finished article and my face with such contorted concentration I lost my composure again. I was curtly informed to keep a straight face so he could make sure he was giving the passport to the real owner and then stared at me so intently for about a minute my fucking blood ran cold. It was harrowfying, all my laughter extinguished by what I can only describe as sheer menace.

Feeling frankly violated I shuddered off to get the tube back home, I was too traumatised to make it back to the office, I took a bath and set off at 5.30 pm for my final tube excursion. By the time I arrived at Old Street I was wetter than Kenneth Williams and the sheer heat of the evening did nothing to help.

The 55 turned up late as usual, my heart sank when I saw that it was sardine-packed, a couple of people got off and the doors opened so I could get on. A wall of heat struck me in the chest; it must have been almost 100 degrees in there. The driver looked at me with an expression reserved for a chap at peace with his impending execution, I think he was out of his mind. A forest of elbows and knees erupted as the blob of passengers tried to preserve what space they had forcing me to stand by the driver who on any other day would’ve barked at me to move further down the bus, instead he looked at me and smiled weakly.

Due to the traffic I was like this for half an hour, mercy came at Shoreditch church where half the bus emptied and I was able to get a seat upstairs. It was only then I realised the fucking heating was on.

After calming down at IC’s for an hour as she packed, we went to visit my new (?) flat at the bottom of her block before nipping out for cheap cocktails and bar snacks at a local. Lovely it was. It was still 20 degrees when we got home; actually, if it wasn’t for a spot of booze I’ve no idea how on earth I’d have slept. Thanks booze.

Right, I’ve a weekend without IC, and you know what that means lads, eh?! That’s right! When the cats away get depressed and drink wine on your own. Actually I’m saving that for Saturday. Tonight meeting with some mates in Clapham and Sunday Dad and I going to Brands Hatch to watch overgrown children drive very fast. Chart, (gorgeous) tune and may your weekends be free of maggots.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Franz Ferdinand Can’t Stop Feeling NE 1
29 Green Day 21 Guns NE 1
28 Hollywood Undead Young NE 1
27 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 24 9
26 The Twang Barney Rubble NE 1
25 Florence And The Machine Rabbit Heart 28 2
24 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 17 8
23 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 14 12
22 Fightstar Never Change 25 2
21 Placebo For What It’s Worth 15 9
20 The Maccabees Can You Give It 27 2
19 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 21 3
18 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 16 5
17 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 12 5
16 Linkin Park New Divide 23 5
15 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 11 7
14 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 20 2
13 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 18 3
12 Kings Of Leon Notion 13 4
11 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 8 7
10 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 19 2
9 Gallows London Is The Reason 6 4
8 The Gossip Heavy Cross 3 7
7 Blue October Dirt Room 5 6
6 Depeche Mode Peace 9 4
5 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 4 5
4 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 7 3
3 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 10 3
2 Shinedown Second Chance 2 6
1 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 1 5

This morning I had to get on a fucking tube train at 8.30. It was already like Egypt when I left my flat so the walk to the station was undertaken with a fair amount of trepidation… No, that’s not quite right, I had a mole at the counter.

Bizarrely, despite being air con free, it wasn’t to bad, possibly because I was expecting to step into a dog meat tagine, in fact it was preferable to stepping out of Victoria station some 30 mins later where the heat hit me like a wall, reminding me of alighting the plane at, well, Egypt.

At Victoria I grabbed an espresso in a café and walked to the passport office. I’d been given an allocated time but despite this warned that ‘my appointment time is not unique as more than one counter will be in operation.’ For the second time that day my expectations were dashed, the throngs of bustling, shouting travellers and a 2 hour queue were exchanged for a mere 3 minute wait and instant service. Just as well I’d gone in person as my cunting passport photos were no good, again. I’d already taken a ‘just in case’ set but as I’d had to get a friend to countersign the back of the photos they were unusable due to the signature being visible (apparently) on the image. Even more hair shreddingly annoying, I was told the countersignature wasn’t necessary.

After getting another set of photos taken I finally got the all clear, paid and then took the tube back to the office via Southfields where lots of arseholes with buck teeth and boaters were hanging about Wimbledon Tennis Courts. I’m due back on the same dismal route to Victoria later to collect my passport. I’m good though, just had some life-changing news which, should it come to pass as it were, will be broadcast here tomorrow.

Who’d have thought Molly Sugden and Karl Malden would be forever associated? But thanks to the icy hand of death, it is so. Both made their curtain call yesterday and another part of childhood is nibbled at by the worm of time. Bloody shame, I liked them both… actually, maybe the association goes beyond their timely passing as she was always harping on about her ‘pussy’ and he had a nose like a fucking cock.

You should recognise the bloke on bass, he had two mates, these days one fronts a famed rock band and the other is an icon, the latter often seen wearing this bands tee shirt…

This heat business is getting beyond a joke. It’s one thing to flop about the weekend feeling all fait and gorgeous and another entirely to sit leaking in sweatshop on the brink of crying frustrated jets of steam because your bum crack won’t stop playing The Ganges. The evening isn’t much better, last night relief came in the form of both a bath and a shower but the in-between parts were tongue-lolling hideousness. Someone please make it stop.

Apparently during a heatwave -and we’re officially in one, the last pre-dates Piqued by 6 months- the suicide and murder rate shoot way above the national average. The reason is obvious, boiling rage churns with buried childish memories of summer holidays when life meant play, men not used to wearing shorts walk about the streets in a state of clueless derangement, women of all ages dress like they’re 17 on a night out in Sunderland. Slowly, we’re all going stark staring mad…

All this horror plays off on a background of Tennis, and as I work in fucking Wimbledon all that shit about a Scotsman being the first Brit (he’s not British, he’s a Scotch) to win Wimbledon since Sir Ronald Braithwaite-Smythe in 1456 or something is right here in my sweltering face. Ooooh, you can almost taste the tension etc., bollocks.

The sorts of people that like tennis are cunts. Short-haired, privately schooled men, petit my-shit-don’t-stink girls with flawless skin and rancid eyes and Germans, squadrons of ‘em, dour, humourless and vast. If Wimbledon reckons it’s so fucking good then why isn’t it only on 2 weeks of the year? I can tell you why, shit, boring and Cliff Richard.

I think I’d better stop now; this heat is driving me crazy.

Two Family Guys before the fucking Friday list…

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Hats off to Bernard Madoff, he’s managed to achieve something remarkable even by the greasy yardstick of the United States. His well-documented crime was to initiate a Ponzi scheme, put simply, set up an Investment plan and pay investors from money paid in by other investors rather than real profits. Naughty man.

His investment group was making exceptional returns, too-good-to-be-true returns as it happens, and if it wasn’t for the global recession -which caused investors to withdraw sums that didn’t exist- he’d probably still be happily trading.

Just before we go into the Piqued rant, quite obviously due shortly, it’s worth noting the Ponzi scheme is named after Charles Ponzi who notoriously used the technique in the United States in the 1920’s. Indeed, because of the too-good-to-be-true returns Madoff’s firm was investigated eight times by the US Securities and Exchange Commission. I wonder why his operation wasn’t shut down sooner? Perhaps the US economy couldn’t afford to shut him because of what, or who, Madoff was investing his fortunes in… Oooh ruddy er.

His achievement wasn’t just to pinch over £40 billion in the space of a 16 year period, it’s to be branded ‘extraordinarily evil’ by the beak, ‘a monster who should be caged’ a ‘beast’ by some of his victims before being sentenced to 150 years in prison -which is just fucking silly as he’s 71 and in some way complements the hyperbole regarding the comments on his new found status as the devil incarnate.

What Madoff did was utterly wrong, but he needed the rapaciousness of his investors to generate a fortune, he’s not ‘evil,’ he’s a giant shit taking advantage of both capitalism and the wilfully greedy. ‘Evil’ would be, say, waging fraudulent wars via cynical deception resulting in the deaths and injury of thousands of innocent women, children and men for financial rewards beyond numbers, and then, sickeningly, in addition to not facing any sort of prosecution, retiring in cunting luxury without a care in the world… On a lighter note I had a cold beef sandwich last night whilst watching Valentino Rossi win his 100th Moto GP race, so I couldn’t really give a shiny turd.

A Darren Walker of South Shields has been cleared of obscenity after writing a blog in which he describes the kidnap and murder of Girls Aloud. Isn’t this quite literally a thought crime? He didn’t actually do anything, just made some stuff up.

I’ve not read what he wrote so can’t comment on the quality of his writing nor whether it was tongue-in-cheek or played out as a sexual fantasy. Either way, I’m a little more concerned about people passing on very real images of child abuse than I am about the contents of some Geordie’s head. Thinking it might be an idea for the Obscene Publications Unit to do the same? Maybe? That’s not a waste of time and public money, you see.

I had a glorious weekend, on Friday I hooked up with IC in a boiling hot sarf east landan at a works-related house party, and mucked in. She had been gently boozing since lunchtime with work colleagues and was remarkably stable. Some weren’t as in control of their facilities as she, including one of IC’s bosses who called me racist because I still rate Lewis Hamilton over Jenson Button. As a result I had one of those dreadful moments where I had to swallow my tongue for the sake of diplomacy, the fucking twat.

We stopped by at Dan’s on our way home who was hosting the dying end of a housewarming do and went back to IC’s for some much needed rest. Saturday I was up by lunchtime and we went off to Broadway Market to visit the much-ignored Pie and Mash shop. The place is the same since the turn of last century the owner is the grandson of the original proprietor and is very proud of his establishment, it’s a beautiful place, almost like a living museum. Unique.

I took to Mr. Cooke immediately, he referred to me as ‘young man’ and was keen to tell us of its history whilst lamenting all the people that pop-in to take pics or look around without actually buying anything, despite being very polite to them when they did. There are no knives in Cooke’s, during the second world was some tea-leaf pinched the lot and his dad never bothered replacing them so one eats with a spoon and fork. The food is very plain, simple, but, as long as you season it well, delicious. IC didn’t really take to the parsley liquor and pie-pastry but to my less refined English tongue, it was just what I needed.

After filling our stomach’s (I could barely finish mine) we set off for Piccadilly to see the Tracy Emin exhibition at The White Cube. It’s divided, polarised, some pieces sensational whilst other dour and insipid. The more obscene stuff works particularly well -I always enjoy her childishness- especially the large fabric panels. After a quick injection of culture we bought a heap of sushi, which we took back to my flat to consume with Cava throughout the course of the evening.

At some point IC suggested we play poker as we’ve both recently learnt the rudimentary aspects of the game. It would seem IC has moved on a bit, she took fucking £10 off me in less than an hour… After watching a movie I challenged her to a return match and another fiver flew out of the window. Bugger.

Following breakfast on Sunday we shot over to the folks (for a late fathers day gathering) on the Black Bitch in some of the most humid and oppressive weather I’ve experienced in the UK. Even cutting through the turgid air at 90 mph did nothing to generate anything more than the barest wisp of a breeze and we arrived sweaty and fractious. Despite having eaten we took on a late lunch (mum never said anything about food) and the family spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden watching my niece belt about the place like her little arse was ablaze. She’s now talking a lot and seems very pleased with herself, she’s also much happier with me around which isn’t a bad thing. They always give in at some point. A few hours later and we set off home, the weather slightly more bearable but still way over my comfort zone.

We ate and watched Let the Right One In (which is fucking superb, look, I even swore to demonstrate both a lack of vocabulary and my enthusiasm, right there) at about 9 and initiated proceedings for Monday with a view to bed. I was sat in the lounge when for the kitchen Mary (IC flatmate) erupted in a gale of laughter shortly followed by IC. At some point over the weekend IC had split open the back of her trousers from the top pocket to the back of her knee exposing all of her particularly exquisite arse. Magnifique.

And so it starts.

Oooh, all the office is a-buzz with Michael Jackson, the pedo race traitor who sold lots of records as his grip on reality slipped from his little sparkly-gloved hand like his fortunes. I was never a Michael Jackson fan, didn’t like a single one of his records but I was very impressed by his dancing stuff, for me, though, that never really compensated for his not being properly investigated for child abuse… actually, fuck it, he abused children and got away with it. And he was unable to correctly pronounce the title of his best selling album, indeed, the best selling album in history, insisting instead of calling it ‘Triller,’ what a tit!

I had a long lunch with my boss, a colleague and a preferred client. We were summoned to a posh (though not overpriced by any means) steak house near Oxford Circus. It was fucking hot on the tube and by the time we arrived my appetite was non-existent, this wasn’t helped by my feeling fraught from the journey punctuated by massive delays on account of some tool dying at Warren Street.

I’ve never really been a huge fan of steak, I mean it’s okay but I’m much happier with lamb. The waiter was kind enough to show us different cuts and advise us of the best way it should be prepared, I opted for a Scottish aged sirloin, medium rare was the best way to enjoy it, apparently. Half a chest was delivered 15 minutes later, my steak was double the size of the combined quantity of my lunch companions, my heart sank, possibly preparing to explode. I began to eat, it was okay, made better with béarnaise sauce but it wasn’t like eating a rack of lamb, or a kebab. I made it half way through and was forced to retire, someone suggested a doggy bag… I agreed somewhat reluctantly.

Following the sultry trip back to the office (my companions now suffering from too much wine –I had abstained believe or not) I did a spot of work and then nipped off early to sort my passport out at the local main post office. By the time I joined the queue I was sweating and angry, then further infuriated by the post office person informing me that I had to re-fill out my form and because ‘I’d changed so much’ (shorter hair, beard) the passport shots had to be counter-signed. A complete waste of time… but a fortuitous turn of events as I learnt yesterday evening I’m going to Italy with IC mid-July. This now mean I’m going to have to get my passport done in person, next week. Join me then for some more protracted moaning and aggressive annoyance.

But before all that it’s worth mentioning that cold sirloin steak thinly sliced and shoved in a cheese-bread roll with some mustard and horseradish is a fucking sensation. Gerry’s chart, a tune and an earnest desire that your weekends are as joyous as the aforementioned sandwich follows, right here, in the form of this code GC+ED=JW.

Eee Hee, Ow!

NO ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 19 5
29 Kasabian Fire 23 9
28 Florence And The Machine Rabbit Heart NE 1
27 The Maccabees Can You Give It NE 1
26 Papa Roach Lifeline 28 3
25 Fightstar Never Change NE 1
24 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 14 8
23 Linkin Park New Divide 29 4
22 The Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 16 10
21 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 24 2
20 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes NE 1
19 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch NE 1
18 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 30 2
17 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 9 7
16 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 15 4
15 Placebo For What It’s Worth 10 8
14 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 8 11
13 Kings Of Leon Notion 17 3
12 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 13 4
11 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 6 6
10 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 22 2
9 Depeche Mode Peace 12 3
8 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 6
7 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 18 2
6 Gallows London Is The Reason 7 3
5 Blue October Dirt Room 3 5
4 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 5 4
3 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 6
2 Shinedown Second Chance 4 5
1 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 2 4

On the way home from work I stopped by Sainsbury to use the Coinstar, a machine that converts coins (for a small fee) into a cash voucher. Of course, the fucker wasn’t working and I was just about to walk off to get the passport photo done when a little old lady, very slowly pushing her shopper, stopped and produced a small purse of coins.

“It’s not working,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s out of order, dear.”
“I know, they’re very good aren’t they.”
“Yes, but it’s not working.”
“Saves me having to count them.”
“It’s not working!”
“What?”
“It’s out of order! Broken! Look…” I pointed at the ‘out of order’ sign that she peered at for a few seconds.
“Oh. Fuck.” She said.

After composing myself I went into the photo booth. Obviously it’s been a decade since I used one so I wasn’t expecting all the fucking pre-amble. First a short lecture about not smiling, sitting at an angle, wearing a ski mask etc., a little graphic appeared to show EXACTLY where my face and eyes were to go. I adjusted the seat but found I had to lean into the frame to suit the pedantic requirements of the passport office before this awful countdown to the shoot began. ‘Are you ready? Any second now, 5,4…’ I began to madly blink in case I accidentally blinked when the final moment came, 3, 2, 1/blink. Fuck! I was permitted to reject the image before it was printed, which I duly did, and then the countdown began again …3, 2, 1/blink. FUCK!!

This happened a further two more times, it was a hot day, I was stressed, uncomfortable and late. The resulting photograph resembling an aggrieved Ned Kelly with a hunch is a guaranteed finger up the nick next time I travel abroad. Jolly good show.

I took the tube and bus to Swineshead’s gaff for about 8. We spent a happy few hours smoking and chatting as I gingerly consumed two bottles of the redoubtable Speckled Hen. At 11-ish I was exhausted and made my way to IC’s flat about 10 mins walk up the road. I walked in and there were 4 girls (IC, Mary, Jo and Swineshead’s missus) sat in the kitchen with wine enthusiastically discussing the protests in Iran with regard to the expulsion of diplomats and completely shattering my illusion that girls only talk about shopping, diets and cock.

Another day in the office…

When I came home last night a Yellow-Pages thick envelope was waiting for my attention on my doorstep, well, I say ‘my doorstep,’ I don’t have a fucking doorstep, I pass over the freeholders at enormous speed in order to gain access to my flat before being subject to inane conversation from Cunt (the latest being ‘have you just been to the pub for a beer and a good smoke?’) who lurks downstairs like a touched Morlock.

I opened the package and discovered with mixed blessings (happy to go, just very lazy) that my Solicitors have been in touch -I’m destined to spend most of the day discreetly filling out a tonne of forms, my single aim today is to have it completed before I get home- and one of the things they require is a proof of identity, such as a copy of my passport, no problemo yeah, I have a scanner and shit, just pop it under the… holy fucking jesus, it expires in a fortnight.

It’s not that I’m going abroad in the next month or so, the expiry isn’t the issue, it’s the passport photograph that is. For the last three decades they’ve all been reprehensible and each taken prior to an overhaul of the way I look physically. I spent my 20’s looking like I’d just been nicked at Stonehenge for selling smack and the soon-to-be superseded incarnation features yours truly as follower of The Horned One, black hair down to my arse and a large soul patch denoting deviant sexual practice.

For the past few years passing through customs has been a living nightmare, the sour-faced authorities take a dim view of the weak-smiled appeaser presented in conjunction with the frozen face of The Prince of Death. Instead of relying on visual clues it’s as if they stare into your very soul sucking your identity out of the marrow in your bones. Honestly, by the time I’m out the airport I feel quietly violated.

Doubtless my short-ish haired biker/tramp look will be consigned to the annals of history in a month potentially causing unprecedented disruption. Even if I decide to be clean-shaven again I’ll still be presenting customs with an image of, in their eyes, an Islamist. I could shave it off now and save myself the bother but the chance to get a free rectal examination is too good a chance to give over. Now that’s the violation I like.

The Wednesday list, and a tune…

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nurse sucking milk from girl nipples vid 1
jenny agutter porn 1

I was so tired at work yesterday I even fell asleep taking a shit. I had to splash water over my face about 5 times throughout the course of the day, the bags under my eyes resembled bad tit implants. It was fucking horrid.

Amazingly, I managed to take the tube at 7 to meet up with Urban Woo in a pub near Leicester Square. After a couple of ales and good chinwag I was feeling a little more human, I was home by 10 feeling ‘okay,’ but the exhaustion had returned due to the soporific motion of the tube. I went to bed and was out like the proverbial light, but as fuck would have it, wide awake by 5.30 and destined to remain so until the present.

As mentioned last week, this refusal to sleep in my gaff is because my heart and soul aren’t there anymore. And I still have no clue when this matter will be resolved. I hoping that a completion date will settle me but until then, am I destined to spend an hour at the crack of dawn sewing up my jeans and washing clothes as I did this morning?

Spot the Piqued (and the typo) in comments below…

Christ I’m bored

Sorry this is late. I’ve been reviewing the Throbbing Gristle show for WWM, sooner or later it’ll be here http://downtuned.net/

The weekend was, as usual, fantastic. It began with dinner with IC in an upstairs dining room in pub off Columbia Road, sort of gastro pub fare; bloody nice it was (even if the downstairs half was full of media wankers.)

Saturday we popped over to Dalston to help Dan and Y move to their new gaff in Hackney. My back hasn’t been too clever of late so helping someone to move might not have been the cleverest idea but I’m happy to say all is well (at the moment.) What isn’t so great is my ongoing battle with claustrophobia, so why on earth I volunteered to sit in the back on the Transit to collect some more gear is anyone’s guess.

I assumed there would be some light from the front windscreen but instead the back of the van was boxed in. It was like the black hole of Calcutta, dark, hot and completely disorientating. One of Dan’s mates (K) and I sat over the wheel arches and were thrown about like peas in a drum. K attempted small talk but I was in the grip of a balls-out panic attack, which caused me to respond in panting exultations of complete crap confusing us both in the process. I looked around in the dark for a handle to open a door, my eyes popping out of my head in a state of blind fear as my breathing became erratic and complicated. Fuck! I couldn’t see a latch, I tried to contain myself but felt that exchanging dignity over death (this is what a panic attack feels like) I opted for lurching at the side door and to my palpable relief located a small lever that opened the inside to the day, light and air flooded in. I breathed again and the attack subdued. Merciful god.

We spent a few hours lugging furniture up and down stairs and left to go to get some shopping for the evening. We passed Swineshead and his missus on the way to Victoria Park and stopped for a chat, grabbed the provisions and rested at home for while.

At 5-ish IC, Mary and I went to London Fields. It was a bit overcast when we arrived; already a group of two-dozen had laid out blankets which were spread with food, mainly Swedish dishes like the revellers, the Swedes celebrate the solstice with the attention it deserves. More and more began to arrive, the sun came out, my bro turned up, the booze began flowing, endless it was. Marvellous. I nearly got locked in London Fields toilet, we managed to fuck up a DJ with spiced vodka en-route to a gig, the Swedes began dancing… We packed up when it was dark and went to the pub, IC bought me a cocktail which ran down my beard, a few of us went back to IC’s and Mary’s, a couple paired off and left, the house ran dry of people but not drinks, by daybreak there was just me, IC, Mary and a sobbing girl, I was pissed beyond reason. I must have gone to bed because I woke up at midday still rotten and feeling incapacitated, mystery and bloody ill.

I watched the Grand Prix with papers I don’t recall getting, I don’t recall the Grand Prix either but I do remember that we went out for breakfast and had a massive fry-up. Feeling very, very marginally ‘better’ we took the 38 to Charing Cross, the bus journey was a nightmare as my body fought for sobriety and by 4pm we were at Heaven, though far from in it. I was feeling so awful I even spurned a hair of the dog, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I wanted to be in bed. At 4.30 S.C.U.M. played a superb set but the highlight of the afternoon/evening was Throbbing Gristle, one of the best gigs I’ve seen, read all about shortly.

Blown away we took the bus back to Hackney in the sunshine, the depressing air of Sunday began to blacken the soul, we got pizza and popped back to watch a movie, it was so appalling I can’t even be arsed to utter its name.

I’m bloody knackered. I’ve not been sleeping so well at my gaff since I found out I was going to be moving. Last night was the first time in weeks I’ve spent an entire evening ‘in,’ I’m going to avoid doing that again, gave me the bloody fear it did… the shattered remains of what was ‘home’ have now all but gone; it’s like living in the flat of a deceased relative.

After a bit of TV, food, I spent most of the evening designing the tattoo. Every time I finished off an area to my satisfaction, I’d spot something not quite right and get stuck back in, then I’d fuck it and have to use Tipex.

The earlier processes of tracing paper, tape, pencil etc., are far behind, and now that I’ve pretty much solved the design aspect I’m thoroughly enjoying its making. It’s not without its woes mind; I studied ‘fine art’, not graphics, so whilst it’s easy to glean visual information from life drawing and sketches, schematising it is more problematic as, not being as experienced in this field, I’m inclined to get it just right and fuck it up. Factor in the OCD, the comfort of wine and cigarettes and a refusal to face that bedroom; I didn’t get to sleep until 4am.

I’ve a fucking busy weekend lined up, stuffed from arsehole to beak so it is. Dinner with IC tonight then tomoz helping a mate move, huge party Saturday night and then, Sunday afternoon, Throbbing Gristle. I’ll be reviewing it next week on WWM, so there’s one for the diary, right there. There. Their…(I’m pointing at your diary, go and get it.)

Chart, Choon, good one have… don’t forget the podcast! —>

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes NE 1
29 Linkin Park New Divide 24 3
28 Papa Roach Lifeline 30 2
27 La Roux Bulletproof 22 4
26 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 18 10
25 All-American Rejects I Wanna 27 2
24 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love NE 1
23 Kasabian Fire 19 8
22 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain NE 1
21 Scott Matthews Fractured 17 4
20 Absent Elk Sun And Water 14 6
19 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 12 4
18 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting NE 1
17 Kings Of Leon Notion 26 2
16 The Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 13 9
15 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 21 3
14 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 9 7
13 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 16 3
12 Depeche Mode Peace 20 2
11 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 5
10 Placebo For What It’s Worth 6 7
9 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 7 6
8 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 4 10
7 Gallows London Is The Reason 15 2
6 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 5 5
5 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 8 3
4 Shinedown Second Chance 10 4
3 Blue October Dirt Room 2 4
2 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 3 3
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 5