When she finally got to me quivering at the top of the short flight of stairs to the awaiting pews, IC whispered, ‘Bello, fuck off.’
Her smile was one of sheer adoration crossed with a hint of terror, I swallowed down an eruption of hysteria and we gingerly began to approach the pews in front of the waiting priests. We were both mindful of the fact the back of her wedding dress was in danger of catching a heel as we descended the stairs, all of sudden I envisaged her falling forwards and smashing her pretty little face on one of the stone steps. Christ. I tightened my grip.
Once safely down the ceremony got underway, I think. Thing is they were all giving it that in Italian so I had to rely on nods and cues to follow the service. Little bits were in English, not the good bits like ‘I do’ and ‘you’ll obey me,’ just the peripheral stuff about God and stuff. But because it was my wedding and it was leading up the bit where I’d actually marry IC, it was all rather, well, thrilling.
Finally, we said our vows (in English for me, of course) exchanged rings and our marriage was declared. It was indescribably beautiful, significant and moving. And I’ve no intention of commenting further.
Following the splice we had to sign a load of documents in the vestry before passing through the courtyard, stopping to drink together from the spring at the marble fountain and appearing into the sunshine under a swarm of rice and cheers. That was the moment I felt ‘married,’ it still felt wholly unreal but something had definitely shifted within.
We chatted dazedly with guests and family for a while before being taken to Lake Garda by Lorenzo in a Mercedes adorned with flowers and ribbon. I think I sat at the front grinning like I’d just snorted the whole of Peru, put it this way, it was a fifty minute trip and I can hardly recall anything save face-ache.
Sirmone is a beautiful little medieval town on the shores of Lake Garda. IC and I had chosen the town for these reasons and we’d selected the venue for the wedding a few months before the date of the reception. On account of IC’s negotiation skills we’d managed to get a (relatively) good price for what we wanted, an attractive contemporary dining room with a huge deck over the Lake, excellent food, endless local wine, friendly staff, nice bogs and a view to make your eyes pop off.
We arrived at Sirmone and parked a few hundred yards from the venue as the little cobbled streets are designed for meandering, not cars. Despite the fact it was just ‘off season’ (one of the reasons we got the venue at a fair price) there were still fair few tourists wondering about, sat outside cafes and what have you. IC and I walked through the castle gates, a few guests and friends that had already arrived followed behind.
As we were both still in our wedding garb (me with top hat and IC in her sensational white dress) we drew more than a slight amount of attention. People were stopping us to take photos, clapping, shouting congratulations. One restaurateur came out of his eatery and led all his diners and most of the adjacent square in cheers and applause. It was all very bizarre in the nicest possible way.
Last part next week, then it’s back to the usual moaning and shouting.
Here’s Gerry’s chart and a tune. I’m off to Sonisphere right now to see Slayer, among others.
Marvellous.
NO.
ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Nero Promises NE 1 30
29 Beady Eye Beat Goes On NE 1 29
28 Chase And Status ft Tinie Tempah Hitz 28 2 28
27 Arcade Fire Speaking In Tongues 30 2 27
26 Grinderman Nickey Mouse And The Goodbye Man NE 1 26
25 Depeche Mode Personal Jesus 2011 14 7 3
24 Blondie Mother 27 2 24
23 Paramore Monster 18 4 18
22 Black Keys Next Girl 12 10 2
21 Twin Atlantic Time For You To Stand Up NE 1 21
20 Enter Shikari Quelle Surprise NE 1 20
19 The Wombats Techno Fan 16 7 16
18 Frankie + The Heartstrings That Postcard 13 6 12
17 Airship Kids 22 2 17
16 Adele Set Fire To The Rain 6 9 3
15 King Blues I Want You 17 3 15
14 Martin Solveig ft Kele Ready 2 Go 8 6 8
13 Avenged Sevenfold So Far Away 11 3 11
12 Japanese Popstars ft Tom Smith Joshua 15 2 12
11 The Kills Future Starts Slow 10 5 10
10 Kaiser Chiefs Little Shocks 7 5 5
9 Cults Abducted 20 2 9
8 Motorhead I Know How To Die 9 5 8
7 Skindred ft Jacoby Shaddix Warning NE 1 7
6 Bring Me The Horizon Blessed With A Curse 3 10 1
5 Foo Fighters Walk 4 8 4
4 Miles Kane Inhaler 5 3 4
3 All The Young Welcome Home NE 1 3
2 White Lies Holy Ghost 2 4 2
1 The Horrors Still Life 1 5 1
At the closing stages of my speech I signalled to my new sister-in-law’s husband who discreetly made his way to my side, with a guitar. He began to play the introduction to the beautiful song he’d written for my lyrics, and cued me in. What came out of my mouth wasn’t the well rehearsed number I’d spent weeks practising, instead, a squeaking cry of pain poured out of my face. I was so startled by the noise it took me a few seconds to realise it was me.
Somehow I managed to get through the entire song without deviating from the initial out-of-key din I’d selected from the off. Mercifully my guitarist didn’t put a string out of place which, to a minor degree, saved me from further humiliation. When I finished I noticed my wife was suitable teary, as were some of the other guests. I’m not surprised, it was fucking awful.
The morning of my wedding had begun like a bit of a cliché. Panic. I’d woken up in the hotel with the tiniest of hangovers, this instantly evaporated when it dawned on me what day it was. I was going to get married. In two hours.
My brother -we’d shared a room- got me upright and started shoving various items of clothing into my confused direction as he readied himself for best man duties. This bit was all very peculiar as I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening in reality. Me? Getting married..!?
I was intently nervous, elated and bewildered all at once. I kept looking at myself in the mirror to make sure that what stared back was in fact me. My bro talked to me excitedly, yes, this was nice, I agreed, but still not feeling all there. Also staying at the same hotel was James who dropped by to make sure everything was going to plan. When we were all happy that we’d remembered everything and I wasn’t going to be sick, we went down to lobby where Michel was waiting to take us to the church.
It was a beautiful day, hot, sunny and despite earlier forecasts it looked like the weather would remain good for the whole day. It took twenty minutes to get to the church, during this time I attempted to join in the jovial banter but found myself witnessing the scenario as opposed to living it.
There were already a few guests waiting at the church when we arrived. Michel advised that we had a quick drink to sharpen ourselves up; this excellent idea was put into immediate effect at a little bar a few yards down the road. By the time I’d drained my glass I was hopping from one foot to the other. We returned the church; the handful of people waiting had increased to a veritable throng into which I was thrust from one family member/friend to another.
Suddenly Batman (one of the priests) appeared with a broad smile and suggested I might like to go inside and assume the position. The church was already half full of guests and more followed me in. I was told to stand at the back of the church in front of the rood screen, beyond which was a sixteenth century fresco of the annunciation behind a highly decorative alter, actually really quite ni…
…Then it happened.
The music whispered to life, the murmur of the guests dissipated and I looked to my right where IC was just coming through the door that leads to a pretty little courtyard. She looked so beautiful I nearly exploded into a fit of uncontrolled blubbing, ‘that’s all for you, dude,’ something in my head kept saying. ‘Christ, that’s all for me,’ I said under corrugated breath.
More next week.
Gerry’s chart and a tune. Toodle pip.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Arcade Fire Speaking In Tongues NE 1 30
29 Moby The Day 22 6 12
28 Chase And Status ft Tinie Tempah Hitz NE 1 28
27 Blondie Mother NE 1 27
26 The Blackout Never By Your Side 21 6 16
25 P J Harvey The Glorious Land 17 10 1
24 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down……….. 18 12 5
23 Brother New Year’s Day 23 3 23
22 Airship Kids NE 1 22
21 The National Conversation 16 14 11 2
20 Cults Abducted NE 1 20
19 The Vaccines All In White 15 7 5
18 Paramore Monster 19 3 18
17 King Blues I Want You 27 2 17
16 The Wombats Techno Fan 16 6 16
15 Japanese Popstars ft Tom Smith Joshua NE 1 15
14 Depeche Mode Personal Jesus 2011 8 6 3
13 Frankie + The Heartstrings That Postcard 12 5 12
12 Black Keys Next Girl 7 9 2
11 Avenged Sevenfold So Far Away 20 2 11
10 The Kills Future Starts Slow 10 4 10
9 Motorhead I Know How To Die 11 4 9
8 Martin Solveig ft Kele Ready 2 Go 9 5 8
7 Kaiser Chiefs Little Shocks 5 4 5
6 Adele Set Fire To The Rain 3 8 3
5 Miles Kane Inhaler 13 2 5
4 Foo Fighters Walk 6 7 4
3 Bring Me The Horizon Blessed With A Curse 2 9 1
2 White Lies Holy Ghost 4 3 2
1 The Horrors Still Life 1 4 1
Apart from the large Herons that would sweep over us, twist up into clear blue sky before plunging dart-shaped into the crystal sea, there isn’t really much more to say about the local animals, save the mosquitoes that, predictably, dined on European flesh as if it were Soylent Green –which it actually was. We sort of accidentally adopted a dog that we named ‘Wankita’. She was small mangy thing that just started to hang around us. She even slept on the porch one evening (I wasn’t complaining, she could keep the wildlife at bay) but we weren’t going to get too close. For a start she had an owner of sorts and secondly she was a flea theme park. There was an offer to dive with a school of dolphins, we saw them splashing and splishing from the beach, but I just thought, ‘nah, cunts,’ and dismissed the thought as if it were a previously cited bug.
The rest of our stay in Mexico is notably uneventful (save one life-changing event that I’ll come on to later) because something unexpected occurred. I don’t understand why someone would want to lie on a beach all day (and I still don’t) but I hadn’t considered how much I’d enjoy traipsing up and down miles of empty beach with my missus, on one side the rolling cerulean ocean as it smoothed eyeball-shattering white sand, on the other, picture-card palms waving slowly in the merest of breezes, bearing heavy clusters of drupe like an endowment of green and brown bollocks.
But most of all I’d not anticipated how much I enjoyed being in the water itself.
I’ve no objection to swimming in the sea per se but I’m more used to a cold grey muck that chews angrily at pebbles and rocks, the bone freezing stuff that takes five minutes to acclimatise to whilst one tip-toes gingerly over pointy stones, nails and ripped up cans of Blackthorn cider. After much persuading from IC I donned a pair of trunks, walked across the soft dry sand and dipped my toe in to the… fuck-a-donkey, warm crystal water! Like a five-year-old idiot I pounded into the sea and sploshed about in a manner most unbecoming of an English fellow. I dived, dove, ducked, swam and frolicked as waves crashed hither and thither. It was fucking marvellous.
As beach bars punctuated our long walks there was always plenty of opportunity for refreshments, I discovered the more margaritas I absorbed the more fun the sea was. We’d walk, drink, swim, for hours on end, in fact we spent days doing this. There was always time for a spot of serendipity, aside from the comings and goings of the natural habitat one afternoon we bumped into bar with a rock/reggae band playing on the beach. Bloody good they were too, the young, tanned sods.
In the evenings we’d eat locally with our toes wriggling in the sand, sometimes watching the sun set over the sea which was so absurdly beautiful the exact opposite of this unadulterated wonder would be contracting the Ebola virus just before Colour Me Badd’s ‘I wanna Sex you Up’ played on loop until you died.
Alas, all good things come to an end (an understatement if ever there was one) so we decided to end proceedings with a bit of a bang, if you please. As we were flying home from Cackcoon we felt it would be easier to spend a final night there, after a pitifully small amount of research at an internet cafe we found a five star mega hotel by the sea for $99.
This place was enormous, vast. It took ten minutes to walk from one side if it to the other and it featured Japanese Gardens, fucking indoor waterfalls, endless vines dangling from the enormous glass roof all enclosed in a building shaped like a pyramid. It had a convoluted swimming pool with a bar and steps down right on to the beach which had an uncanny effect of making all the natural beauty seem rather sterile. Our room on the 5th Floor was twice the size of our flat; it had a lounge fitted with all mod cons, a small kitchen, a bedroom and two balconies one of which contained a Jacuzzi. I really don’t get those, or maybe that was because when I tried it out I’d acquired a spot of sunstroke the previous day after leaving my silly-yet-effective straw cowboy hat at the cabana.
That evening we had the pleasure of some crooner in one of the bars (quite good he was if I’m honest) despite my managing to chuck my Martini all over the floor during his rendition of Twenty-Four Hours to Tulsa. The other guests were largely rich Americans, some of them quite clearly rich for reasons best described as ‘iffy’ as at times the place resembled the set of Goodfellas.
After our cocktails we retired to our room and ordered pizza and wine, bizarrely. I think it was our way of detuning. We consumed supper in front of a TV the size of a horse, even more peculiar is that we opted to watch a dreadful British horror film called Creep, it featured the London Underground and at one point, London Fields, for all intense and purposes, home.
After a quick swim in the pool the following morning it was time to go. We packed and got the cab to the airport for our 4pm flight, as we took off we flew right past our hotel and, worryingly, didn’t really seem to gain much height for next hour so which caused me to freak out. It was a shocking flight, more ups and downs than Amy Winehouse and with a disturbing view over the flooded plains of Mississippi. After circling for half an hour we landed in Detroit, passed through customs after being interrogated by a jobs worth prick (everyone else went straight through, not us –and I was fucking sober) and hit a miserable wine bar.
We all know ‘American’ and ‘wine’ are as compatible as ‘shine’ and ‘shit,’ the muck they served in the place, and the pompous way in which it was served, was enough to make one almost sick. ‘Almost,’ not entirely, as it was consumed, albeit speedily. As we left some tool with a baseball hat called over to us, ‘hey, you young crazy kids…’ ‘Young!!’ I snorted back, ‘I’m 42.’ Which shut the dick up.
The flight back to London wasn’t as bad as we had a couple of good films to watch and, of course, lashing of food and drink. We landed at midday UK time but for us it was good knows when, we took the bus home feeling all weird and finally arrived back at the flat a couple of hours later. I weakly carried my wife over the threshold and we had some champagne to cheer us both up.
It’s worth mentioning that the threshold we crossed was no longer the rented accommodation we left. It was now our flat following a phone call at 5am Mexico time from our Agent.
Before the wedding (we’ll come on to that next time) and during the honeymoon we’d been having daily conversations with our solicitors and the vendor as we tied up the last of the details. But this wasn’t all, I’d been having similar conversations with my solicitor regarding the sale of that place I own in Sarf Landan, regular readers will recall that my neighbour is a steaming great cunt. Astonishingly, following the 5am call I got another one at 5.30 informing me I’d finally rid myself of that dreadful place after five years of unimaginable hassle. Even typing this now it doesn’t feel real. But it is. Yay.
Gerry’s chart and tune make a welcome return (it’s presented all funny for reasons unknown) enjoy the selected hit from his parade (perhaps an unsurprising choice to those in the know –and well done for some spot on advertising at the beginning of the video. Jesus Christ) and I’ll be back next week.
30
Yuck
Shook Down
29
Chase And Status
Time
28
Incubus
Adolescents
27
King Blues
I Want You
26
Paramore
Monster
25
Kings Of Leon
Back Down South
24
Ed Sheeran
The A Team
23
Brother
New Year’s Day
22
Moby
The Day
21
The Blackout
Never By Your Side
20
Avenged Sevenfold
So Far Away
NE
19
Miles Kane
Rearrange
18
Arctic Monkeys
Don’t Sit Down
17
P J Harvey
The Glorious Land
16
The Wombats
Techno Fan
15
The Vaccines
All In White
13
14
The National
Conversation 16
13
Miles Kane
Inhaler
12
Frankie + The Heartstrings
That Postcard
11
Motorhead
I Know How To Die
10
The Kills
Future Starts Slow
9
Martin Solveig ft Kele
Ready 2 Go
8
Depeche Mode
Personal Jesus 2011
7
Black Keys
Next Girl
6
Foo Fighters
Walk
5
Kaiser Chiefs
Little Shocks
4
White Lies
Holy Ghost
3
Adele
Set Fire To The Rain
2
Bring Me The Horizon
Blessed With A Curse
1
The Horrors
Still Life
Not all the Mexican creatures that posed a threat were figments of my imagination, though some had the power to substantially revolt. On the second day, whilst walking down a dusty road, IC let out a gasp and pointed to a creature lying slumped by the side of road. I immediately assumed, as did she, it was a dead dog, more specifically, a small dead Labrador. We didn’t really want to approach it so we crossed over the road and passed on the other side. But something wasn’t quite right. When adjacent to the corpse curiosity took the better of me and I gingerly approached. What I discovered arrived so fast into my brain my head snapped back due to unprecedented disgust in a catalyst of utter shock. It was a fucking enormous rat.
That evening, after a dinner of nachos, guacamole, fresh shellfish and Margarita’s, we spent our first night in our new accommodation having arrived from Cancun the day before. It was a nice place, clean, cheap and set back from the main road in the central part of Tulum, a world away from the dump we’d stayed in on our first night after landing… allow me to digress.
Before arriving at Cancun we’d flown from Italy (following a two hour drive to the airport) at 11am local time. When we arrived at the airport we had enough time to stuff a few drinks down our necks before taking-off, and I’m pleased to say that after lunch over the Atlantic, which wasn’t too bad, Delta airlines reluctantly served us wine throughout the trip. By the time we reached Atlanta I was half cut and in a bad mood as I was aware that we had to do another routine of take-off/land, both of which I find fucking objectionable, as I did the cunts in the Airport. Even the bar staff.
The flight to Cancun was in a relatively small plane and to make matters worse, dry. I was delighted, initially, to land, until I saw where we’d landed. Cancun, dear reader, is a shite-hole. To add insult to injury the hotel the miserable taxi driver took us to was under a newly built flyover (apparently the only one in the region) and looked like Colditz.
It was 8pm local time and dark. We’d been up for 24 hours straight, we were jet-lagged, hung over and last thing I needed was to be pitched by the fat Mexican concierge, with food on his shirt, about how great his mates restaurant was, and how he was going to reserve a table, right now, “especially, for you.” (at which point he grinned and gunned us a pair of stubby fingers.)
I instantly told him where to get off, until IC reminded me we didn’t know where the fuck we were and both of us were in need of food and drink. The offer was reluctantly accepted and off we went. We both felt weird, for reasons cited, but also because we were both not entirely sure we’d done the right thing by being here in the first place, ‘here’ being Mexico.
The food in the restaurant was excellent, butterfly shrimp with lots of garlic sauce, and gradually we settled into our new environment. Seven Mariachi, all dressed to the nines, arrived and began to play loudly. It felt authentic enough as most of our fellow diners were Mexican, but still a bit tacky on account of my cynicism, either way it was entertaining enough (in a bemusing sort of way at least)and IC and I began to warm up. This faded quite soon after we left the restaurant as no taxi driver knew where our hotel was and we were both properly shattered. It took them half an hour to locate (it was here we learnt that we lived under the only fucking flyover in Cancun). Once it’d been discovered all I can remember is paying the driver almost nothing through gritted teeth and suddenly it was morning.
We left for Talum as soon as we could the following day, suffered a two hour coach ride to our destination and set about finding somewhere to stay. This was quite easy, it was the start of low season so we had a choice of accommodation, not all of it good but a choice nonetheless. After an hour we found a nice little place -clean, cheap, quiet- and only a five minute cab ride to the beach. Both of us were happy to dip in and out of the whole beach ‘thing,’ but we preferred the idea of being in town -well I say town; it was more of a lazy A road with bars, restaurants and shops lining both sides.
After our day, still a bit behind on sleep, we went to bed at 11-ish. I was woken at 2 am by IC yelping and scrabbling for the light, when it came on I saw a three inch long cockroach calmly sat on her leg, at which point she screamed. Now, I’d never seen an actual cockroach before so it took me a very short while to decide if it was frightening or not. I concluded decisively that it was and joined her.
The roach shot over the bed clothes and ran under the bed, we both alighted and stood at the farthest corner of the room staring at the last place the creature had been visible. IC decided that unless it was instantly dispatched she’d wait outside until morning, so it was down to muggings to deal with it. But first I needed a big shit.
Obviously IC wasn’t best pleased at the timing of my ablutions but the earlier meal of shellfish, nachos and guacamole weren’t going to stand casually by, indeed, they were most insistent. Unfortunately there was a large gap under the loo door, even in her moment of fear she knew I was somewhat vulnerable should the roach decide it wanted to check out the source of the commotion, so she agreed to keep watch from a chair as far away from the bed as possible.
I was mid-way through dropping a third Presidente when I heard another, slightly more protracted, scream. Then, “it’s on the fucking door!”
Door? Which door..? My heart stopped.
I heard it scratching outside the very door I was behind crouching out my dinner. Quick as a flash I dropped the rest of my nachos. ‘No time to wipe,’ I muttered as I grabbed a flip-flop off the floor and rose to my feet. I swung back the door and there it was, a mere inch from my face. I didn’t waste a second and I smashed the bastard as hard as I could. To my astonished horror it resisted the first few blows but gradually it began to flatten and, with stuff oozing from its back, dropped to the floor where I killed the shit out of it.
I flung it outside, kissed my wife with a wink, and then went back to the bathroom to wipe my bottom.
It’s been the longest time since I started writing this crap that I’ve not posted, but that’s not really a sufficient way to begin. If I were to only say that the last month has been the best period of my life to date that would be plaintively unfair to the few remaining buggers that still perceiver with this… So I’m forced to start with an incident that took place on the sixth night of our trip in Mexico.
We were staying in what can best be described a bug infested treehouse. The correct word for such accommodation is ‘cabana’ but as we were on the second floor of a wooden structure with a straw-thatched roof built round a tree, one that backed onto a full-on fuck-off jungle (with Jaguars and snakes as long as two dead men, we discovered later) I think ‘treehouse’ is just fine. Besides, it’s us that were staying there, not you. And I can’t imagine you’ve been there.
This gaff had no electricity and the bog was cruder than Jim Davidson on a stag-do in Hull with a flush weaker than vicarage barley water. The four litres of liquid we kept in the plastic mini-drum by the bed wasn’t just for drinking, believe me. IC and I were forced to sleep under a fairly ineffective mosquito net that had miserably failed to keep these vicious little parasites off our ankles, legs, and my case, ball bag. I know we were woken at 2am by something because we had to use the light from IC’s phone to ascertain what the Christ had made a noise in our ‘room’. We were both more than aware that whatever had gained entry had done so with ease, I’d already pointed to the gaping gaps in the mesh-wall and roof when I’d begged IC to reconsider our (her) choice of hotel earlier that morning before we’d taken the coach to Chichen Itza to see the Mayan ruins.
We’d had an exhausting but super day out. I’d advise anyone to go and visit this place, the four hour journey there and back from Tulum, where we were based, was more than worth it -if only to see the ‘real’ Mexico. i.e. endless plains and jungle interspersed with almost third world levels of poverty and degradation from the windows of the air conditioned coach in which we travelled.
The pyramid at Chichen Itza is simple awe-inspiring and we devoured information as we traipsed about the site learning of the natives that built and inhabited this part of the ancient world. The only snag was that it was forty degrees and the heat debilitating, in addition to this the place contained horned lizards which, I discovered, frighten the living fuck out of me. These bastards could be three feet long and had the propensity to move in a way that, on recollection, inspires me to copiously vomit all over my underwear. No. No.
As IC wasn’t exactly basking in the heat (unlike the horned dinosaurs) it wasn’t much of an issue encouraging her into the air conditioned bar where they sold delicious mango margaritas for about two bucks a pop. Of the four hours we spent at the site three were in the bar watching mainly Mexican waiters, brightly coloured locals spinning about with bottles on their heads -some sort of tourist side show set against this dreadful din of twanging Spanish guitars- and each other with varying levels of yellow ice in our cocktail glasses.
By the time we arrived back to Tulum at eight-ish it was dark and we were feeling a little sordid from the cocktails and journey, so we popped back to the bar nearest the treehouse and spent a pleasant evening drinking and eating fresh nachos with guacamole. All had been tickety-boo until 2am.
My first thought that the creature thrashing about was one of those horned cunts, I must’ve verbalised this in a hissing shriek because I was told by IC that I was being ridiculous. She scanned the phone over the room, a plastic bag containing some toiletries a few feet away had fallen onto the floor. I’m not ashamed to say I lay behind her paralyzed with fear. It couldn’t have fallen by itself… it must have been knocked over by, by…
Then to entertain most horrific primeval fears, IC uttered something so completely terrifying I nearly, and mean really nearly, shat the bed.
“There is something looking at us.”
She had stopped moving the phone now and was directing the weak silvery light at a sizable dark shape a foot away from the side of the bed. Caught in the middle of the shape were a dull pair of little beady lights staring right back.
I was so frightened I actually tried to ignore it by rolling over and going to sleep. I know I was saying ‘No’ a lot because IC told me that I was, and then, what was I going to do about it? I wasn’t going to do anything about it. But it was still there, motionless as they had been at Chichen Itza before suddenly moving like fucking lightening.
It wasn’t a question of gathering courage; it was simply shit-filled fear that shifted my thinking away from ignoring it to doing something about the problem. Images of their earlier behaviour swarmed into my head. Still one second, suddenly running the next. Stop. Start. It had stopped, any fucking second it would…
I clambered out the mosquito net and jumped off the opposite side of the bed to where the creature lay; definitely expecting it to run under the bed, up my legs and using my genitals as purchase launch itself into my face and eat itself into my screaming mouth. When this didn’t happen I continued my flailing journey round the bed until, what seemed an age, arrived at the still dark shape whereupon I gathered every last quark of audacity to dash toward it, shouting. I drew back my leg and released it at the stationary monster; my foot shot from under me and made contact with a large plastic container two thirds full of water, stubbing my fucking toe in the process.
It was only about 10pm when a slaggle of high-heeled tit-tops fell, literally, out of the nightclub opposite where we were situated, interrupting our game of pool. One sat down in a most un-lady-like manner, burst into tears and then began to copiously vomit on her dress and the pavement. Three male friends nonchalantly arrived on the scene and chatted to each other; one occasionally glanced at the flooding pavement and moved in order to spare his shoe leather. Shortly, her female friend slumped beside her, took to her pins and wobbled off a few feet before collapsing in a heap and began to puke violently. I think she shit herself too, she certainly pissed her pants. The group of males found this highly amusing and instead of helping the poor creature they posed with her now unconscious body and took it turns to take pictures of themselves with her. A murmur of disapproval emanated from our party until one decided to deliver his opinion personally. We braced ourselves. These blokes were big cunts and we weren’t entirely sure if the larger group of similarly dressed cunts a few metres away were part of this cunt-crew.
We watched as Andy walked across the road to the group, still posing and taking pictures by the girl, and say his piece. He was gently but firmly ushered back by a tool in a Ben Sherman shirt and fucking loafers. He came back into the bar looking crestfallen.
‘That bloke with the camera is her fiancée.’ He said.
My stag do had begun after meeting my bro in Angel and heading to Surrey Quays. I was rather nervous about the whole affair, not because I don’t trust my friends to behave like friends, I just wasn’t entirely sure what was in store for me. We arrived at the brewery bang on 1pm where a small group of stags were already waiting, one of whom was my mate Dave who’d helped organise this leg of the do. We hung around chatting in the warm sunshine waiting for more chaps to arrive until the cheery lad running the impending tour ushered us inside with the offer of pitchers of beer.
The Meantime brewery is of the so-called Micro variety (the place is vast) and the beer made to tradition, original recipes. It’s been properly crafted, not just bunged in a vessel to ferment for a couple of days, and as a result the stuff is fucking sensational. By the time we’d settled into a few glasses of this stuff most of the stags had arrived, about 20 of us, and I watched with amusement as mates old and new, near and far, mingled. The tour started in earnest, our Guide was extremely informative and it occurred to me my stag do was in danger of turning into a seminar. Fortunately said Guide was highly entertaining, the topic was both interesting (and pertinent) and every 10 minutes we’d stop to sample another variety of the beer we’d been discussing. ‘Sample’ isn’t really appropriate as it has connotations of quantity, we were sampling in litres.
By the end we were all pissed, but not in a silly way. This stuff makes you feel a little high as well as wonky; it inspires a steady euphoria as opposed to random stupidity. In addition to these marvellous properties we were informed that if we drunk this and nothing else we’d have no hangover on account of its purity… We had some more beer before we left anyway, just to make sure. And to be on the safe side we took a couple of crates with us to keep us lubricated at the restaurant which, mercifully, is license free.
My brother was overseeing the operation as the official best-man but as no-one was being a wanker I think he found it relatively easy to herd us all onto the train back to Whitechapel. By now a couple of bods had drifted off (following some polite but distinctly slurred ‘excuse-me’s’) but we were joined by a few more at the Lahore Restaurant where were to indulge in kebab/curry finery of the most excellent variety, what.
Harry took control of this bit as he’d introduced me to the place in the first instance and knows the menu back to front. Starters came rolling out, poppadoms, pickles, salads, dhal, an assortment of spicy chicken and lamb, utterly sublime, the beer was going down a treat too -I’d come to the decision it was the best I’d ever drunk. I thought we were done when the main courses arrived. Sweet Christ, I was fuller than Sawney Bean but I couldn’t stop, the fucking kofta and kebabs were as moreish as crack and the naan’s wouldn’t leave me alone.
I don’t recall leaving the Lahore; we’d drunk all the beer and I was fucked out of my skull on food endorphins. We rolled through East London, all of us pregnant with undigested food but in excellent spirits, despite feeling triplet-bloated.
The walk to the Elbow Rooms in Shoreditch was a blessing in disguise because by the time we arrived all and sundry were feeling a little more up to speed with proceedings. My bro had organised a VIP corner for us but it wasn’t needed, the place was delightfully quiet, we even managed to get a full-sized pool table for the evening. Gerry (of the chart) joined us for a while, which was marvellous and around 15 of us stayed on until the wee hours, nearly all of us drinking JD and coke. It was ideal, took the edge of the dinner and was strong enough to keep us moving forward without being completely arseholed. Only Paul who’d been steadfastly drinking beer all evening was showing any sign of toppling. At one point I had to beg the doorman to let him back in because he was staggering after a white-out following a speedily consumed cigarette. I proposed to the doorman he did a ‘walk the line’ test, which he just about pulled off, but was so gone he didn’t realise he’d been given the all clear. I stayed chatting to the doorman about the state of the people opposite and every two minutes Paul would emerge arms up, walking as straight as he could, loudly exclaiming ‘look! See..!’ which nearly got him thrown out again.
By 2am, the time of closing there were a hardcore 10 of us, some melted away during the nightmarish walk through Hoxton, itself crammed with whacked out kids trying to twat their way into clubs and bars. We got the bus home and my bro, OWAICTT, Paul, Andy and Rob came back home for a nightcap, I think we had whisky, I’ve no idea. But I do recall we watched some Big Train on my PC before Paul and Andy left for home at 5-ish leaving us to finally sleep.
I woke up to the sound of OWAICTT throwing up his bootlaces, feeling oddly okay (no hangover, really, just a bit shaky) I went into the living room to find Rob crashed out on the sofa bed and my bro sprawled on the couch, both dead to the world. I made some tea and spent a few hours watching Alan Partridge youtube as OWAICTT moved between sofa bed and bathroom to deposit the gunge in his guts. Rob and my bro headed off, OWAICTT, who’d finally managed to sleep, stayed put. I watched the MotoGP and at 2-ish OWAICTT resurrected.
He and I walked to London Fields to meet IC, Mary and Ann who were having a picnic in the sunshine. After briefly saying ‘hello,’ OWAICTT headed off to catch the train to Leeds leaving us to see off the rest of the afternoon. Somehow we wound up in the pub…
This week has been both frantic and calm, the former on account of last minute wedding-based/honeymoon details and the latter because I’m knackered and can’t be arsed to do anything, except wait until next Wednesday when we fly off. Of course there is still plenty to be done whether I like it or not, I need to pack, we still have some final arrangement to make and it looks likely that we will buy our gaff in Hackney and I will sell my shit-hole in South London, both in the next few days, maybe even before the weekend.
So, this is it folks, I approach the end of an era. This time next week I’m going to get married. Fucking hell. Married. Me. Following this we’re off to Mexico for the honeymoon. Honeymoon.
Jesus.
I’ll post when I get back but it’s likely it’ll be a month or so, this is assuming we don’t get beheaded by Mexican bandits, that’s if we make it there in the first place, it’s a long flight, actually I’ve loads of flying to do… Christ, I’ve been so busy planning everything I’ve not had time to panic about the MASSIVE amount of time I’ll spend suspended in the fucking sky…
Gerry’s chart, a tune and I’ll see some of you end of May. Be good now.
Jesus.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 The Vaccines If You Wanna 18 9 5
29 Beady Eye Millionaire 21 3 21
28 Morrissey Glamorous Glue 28 2 28
27 Cee Lo Green Bright Lights Bigger City NE 1 27
26 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 16 10 2
25 The Black Keys Next Girl NE 1 25
24 Airborne Toxic Event Numb 27 2 24
23 The Blackout Higher And Higher 15 6 13
22 Cage The Elephant Around My Head 26 2 22
21 The Guillemots The Basket 14 6 14
20 My Passion The Mess We Made Of Our Lives 17 3 17
19 Mona Listen To Your Love NE 1 19
18 Friendly Fires Live Those Days Tonight 23 2 18
17 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 9 13 1
16 Nero Guilt 26 3 16
15 Hurts Illuminated 19 4 15
14 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 10 7 4
13 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 11 5 9
12 Miles Kane Rearrange NE 1 12
11 The Young Knives Love My Name 8 5 7
10 Bring Me The Horizon Blessed With A Curse NE 1 10
9 The Wombats Anti-D 12 8 9
8 Feeder Side By Side 4 5 2
7 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 5 7 5
6 The Joy Formidable Whirring 3 6 3
5 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair 6 4 5
4 The Kills Satellite 2 6 1
3 The National Conversation 16 7 3 3
2 P J Harvey The Glorious Land 13 2 2
1 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole 1 4 1
In addition to having spent three years as a couple this very day, IC and I are off to Italy in exactly one fortnight where a couple of days later we’re due to be married. Even typing that fries my brain. If you were to have read the miserable dirge in the earlier days of this crap such a concept would have seemed less conceivable than flying tortoises. In the spirit of marital tradition, this weekend pays witness to my stag-do. I’ve an inkling of what is going to happen as my brother has organised it -I’ve been privy to the odd question regarding the basic nature of the occasion- but essentially I’m clueless; I don’t even know how many mates are coming though apparently it’s ‘quite a few.’
The long weekend past has been marvellous. It’s involved a bit more drinking that anticipated, some of it conducted in Victoria Park with a Frisbee so help me god, but most in a particular boozer in Hackney, which was nice.
On Saturday IC and I took the train to Gatwick to see a couple of pals, we sat in their garden drinking wine and chatting about death and what cunts Tesco are before gingerly making our way back. Sunday was Easter so IC, my bro and I made our way to my folks. The trains were packed solid for the whole journey there and back but it was worth the effort, largely because there was no booze being plied so it gave my poor liver a chance to re-cooperate. We spent the usual family afternoon playing with the nieces and taking turns to offend mum by loudly belching with the occasional fart for good measure. That evening I accidentally stayed up all night listening to death metal with the odd glass of wine while IC slept soundly in bed, for some reason, at the time, I felt I needed it, which I most certainly didn’t. It made the following bank holiday Monday a bit clunky, but I clung on and pulled through like a hero/piss pot.
The intervening days at work have been an utter waste of time. I’ve had to come into the office for miserly meetings when I really should’ve be at home writing or tossing my orb, but at least it makes it easier to get to the West End where I’m due to meet IC for a spot of dinner at a favoured restaurant.
In a similarly positive vein I’m only having a half day tomorrow, I’ve an appointment with a tattooist in the afternoon. I’m not sure I mentioned this but the work I had done a couple of months ago wasn’t to my satisfaction. I’m hoping (to put it fucking mildly) that the bloke whose being doing wonderful things on M’s arm can rectify the design issue on mine. I’ll be done by six, at which point the long weekend part two begins in earnest.
Join me next week why don’t you. Here’s Gerry’s chart and tune from within. Before I go I’d just like to remember Poly Styrene. She was fucking brilliant. Goodnight, Ma’am.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Morrissey Glamorous Glue NE 1 30
29 White Lies Strangers 20 9 4
28 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 23 9 15
27 Airborne Toxic Event Numb NE 1 27
26 Cage The Elephant Around My Head NE 1 26
25 Nero Guilt 29 2 25
24 Interpol Lights 16 7 8
23 Friendly Fires Live Those Days Tonight NE 1 23
22 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 19 4 19
21 Beady Eye Millionaire 27 2 21
20 Morning Parade A & E 14 9 1
19 Hurts Illuminated 22 3 19
18 The Vaccines If You Wanna 12 8 5
17 My Passion The Mess We Made Of Our Lives 24 2 17
16 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 11 9 2
15 The Blackout Higher And Higher 13 5 13
14 The Guillemots The Basket 17 5 14
13 P J Harvey The Glorious Land NE 1 13
12 The Wombats Anti-D 15 7 12
11 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 9 4 9
10 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 5 6 4
9 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 4 12 1
8 The Young Knives Love My Name 7 4 7
7 The National Conversation 16 18 2 7
6 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair 10 3 6
5 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 6 6 5
4 Feeder Side By Side 2 4 2
3 The Joy Formidable Whirring 3 5 3
2 The Kills Satellite 1 5 1
1 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole 8 3 1
It was only on entering the surgery that horrific memories of teeth extraction (Wisdom and otherwise) bleeding gums and spontaneous mind-bending pain came to the fore. In the five minutes or so before I was summoned to the couch I worked myself up into a mess, so on entering the nasty white room a part of me decided to aggressively inform the small masked man -ready with his needles- that I stained my teeth by smoking roll-ups, drinking red wine, beer, coffee, tea etc., before he had a chance to say ‘good afternoon,’ ‘if he was going to.
He sighed, ‘I know Mr. Piqued, we have your records.’ And down I went couch-ways with things already being forced into my gob. An assistant took care of the saliva, which is obviously the mouth trying to drown the invading alien forces, as the dentist went about my teeth with a barely muttered ‘let me know if this hurts,’ possibly one of the most ridiculous questions ever uttered by one human to another because when it does ‘hurt’ one has a tendency to convulse into the stratosphere with star-shaped limbs under a blood-curdling scream.
I find this part the worst, you know it’s going to hurt at some point again but you’re not sure exactly when. I tensed up to the point I feared I would turn the contents of my lower bowel into diamonds. When it did ‘hurt’ again I almost bit his fucking fingers off.
Bizarrely, after all that pain and worry, I was given the all clear, but only after being told that I’d been cleaning my teeth too ‘pedantically,’ a comment that still puzzles me as I type this. Under normal circumstances I’d have stuck around for an explanation.
The hygienist in the adjacent room had bowled me psychological googly. I was expecting a mundane scrap and polish but the bitch was clumsier than Mr. Bean. Regularly she’d stray away from the tooth and gouge a needle or a whizzing grinder through my gums which almost brought me to tears. By the end I was wishing I could witness her being hung, drawn and quartered as I stood by laughing with a glass of wine and a bonk-on.
The weekend that followed was marvellous though. IC and I had dinner together on Friday and Saturday lunchtime her pals took her off for her Hen-do (Lea-on-Sea with Prosecco on the train there, Prosecco on the beach with seafood and Prosecco on the return journey, if you please) leaving me to F1 qualifying and snooker that I guilty watched aside a vast window full of blazing sunshine. In the evening I met up with Paul and my bro for a few drinks before offing ourselves to the Vietnamese gaff to ram delicious things into my swollen mouth. This led onto to the local where a whole load of friends were only too keen to ply us with weird cocktails shots (‘Dr. Pepper’ third pint of lager with a shot of Amaretto in the middle) and the more traditional ales until we were all giggling berks. At some point I tried to play pool, one point dropping the chalk into a no-neck mans lager which I managed to retrieve before he noticed. Had he done so you wouldn’t be reading this, believe me.
Sunday was typically lazy, boring F1 so it seemed silly to not meet IC and few pals in the pub to see off the week and ready myself for the grinding hell of the sodding working week ahead.
I’ll desist from a protracted moan regarding the state of my business. Everything has fucked off for Easter so coming into the office or attempting work from home as become more futile than picking ticks off doggy do. It’s a horrific state to be in, especially as I don’t get a basic salary anymore. These days’ holidays are merely times in the calendar when you know that you can’t generate an income, which doesn’t make for a relaxing break. In addition to this both the buying and selling of various flats is being greeted with similar complacency, adding to the pressure. On the plus side of things the wedding hurdles are being surmounted but the dawning expense isn’t helping financial concerns.
Still, I’ve been making time for IC and friends in the evening. Priorities and all that, even if said festivities will result in me begging for change outside Angel tube station sipping White Lighting through a straw clenched between perfectly clean teeth.
Here’s Gerry’s Easter chart and a tune within, it aches.
Happy Good Friday all.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Yuck Gat Away 28 2 28
29 Nero Guilt NE 1 29
28 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 20 5 14
27 Beady Eye Millionaire NE 1 27
26 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room 25 3 25
25 Foo Fighters Rope 15 7 6
24 My Passion The Mess We Made Of Our Lives NE 1 24
23 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 16 8 15
22 Hurts Illuminated 27 2 22
21 Young Guns Stitches 14 5 12
20 White Lies Strangers 11 8 4
19 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 23 3 19
18 The National Conversation 16 NE 1 18
17 The Guillemots The Basket 21 4 17
16 Interpol Lights 10 6 8
15 The Wombats Anti-D 19 6 15
14 Morning Parade A & E 8 8 1
13 The Blackout Higher And Higher 13 4 13
12 The Vaccines If You Wanna 9 7 5
11 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 5 8 2
10 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair 17 2 10
9 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 12 3 9
8 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole 24 2 8
7 The Young Knives Love My Name 11 3 7
6 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 18 5 6
5 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 4 5 4
4 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 11 1
3 The Joy Formidable Whirring 6 4 3
2 Feeder Side By Side 3 3 2
1 The Kills Satellite 2 4 1
It was the launch of the BBC Prom last night. As in previous years I was plied with free booze at The Royal College of Music while the great and good circled around me before attending post-launch drinks with some colleagues at a nearby boozer. Subsequently I’m typing this crap with an almighty fucking hangover.
Unsurprisingly, to regular frequenters of this page, it’s been a consistently boozy week -what with the clement weather, access to a very accommodating park with friends on Saturday and a pals 30th birthday on the Sunday at Primrose fucking Hill, if you please. Monday I saw some mates in a pub in Soho, Tuesday IC decided to cook for me, Mary and Patti (wine happened) Wednesday IC and I celebrated with fizz the fact that in one month we’re to be married, let me type that again, I’m going to be married in a month. And yesterday I told you about already, it’s right up there. Look.
In between all this I was treated to some terrifying documentaries on the New World Oder courtesy of Swineshead, had an appointment with a new tattoo artist who is fixing the disaster on my arm at the end of the month and shortly I’ve an encounter with the sodding dentist. I also signed the contract to sell my ex-dwelling in that unspeakably awful part of south London and IC and I signed the contracts to buy our beautiful gaff in sunny Hackney. Note the lack of excitement in both cases, I’m a pessimist, until the cash has changed hands it’s not happening. I also passed a behemoth stool over the weekend that required absolutely no wiping after.
In addition to all this I’m skint and suffering a quite sensationally awful month in terms of business which appears to have dried up like an octogenarian fanny. I’m rather concerned if truth be told. It’s not as if I even like my job.
Generally speaking all is well, though. Save one rather significant aspect. My bike. It’s not working to put it bluntly -some electrical issue that I’m not able to rectify- which means I’m not getting my life-affirming boost of thrills and near spills atop a thumping engine as I operate levers and pulleys with a grin broader than the Norfolk equivalent. Cunting horrific it is.
It’s not just the stultifying agony (and expense) of public transport, riding bikes for me is like taking drugs, it makes me feel fucking great, takes my mind off the world and without it I suffer withdrawal symptoms. So instead of screaming through the city laughing and shouting I’m reduced to sitting/standing in conditions not fit for livestock on the way to the kebab shop. And it takes hours.
After a bad day in the office (at least I’m spared having to come in everyday these days) climbing aboard my bike and screeching off will guarantee that within five minutes I’ll not only be 100% stress free and gurgling with happiness I’ll probably have one in me as well.
But hey, enough of my yakking. Here’s Gerry’s popular chart and a tune from within. Please have fine weekends. I’m off to have my teeth smashed off.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 The View Grace 21 6 15
29 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 18 7 6
28 Yuck Gat Away NE 1 28
27 Hurts Illuminated NE 1 27
26 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 19 8 8
25 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room 30 2 25
24 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole NE 1 24
23 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 27 2 23
22 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 13 5 10
21 The Guillemots The Basket 25 3 21
20 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 14 4 14
19 The Wombats Anti-D 22 5 19
18 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 24 4 18
17 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair NE 1 17
16 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 16 7 15
15 Foo Fighters Rope 9 6 6
14 Young Guns Stitches 12 4 12
13 The Blackout Higher And Higher 17 3 13
12 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 20 2 12
11 White Lies Strangers 7 7 4
10 Interpol Lights 8 5 8
9 The Vaccines If You Wanna 6 6 5
8 Morning Parade A & E 4 7 1
7 The Young Knives Love My Name 11 3 7
6 The Joy Formidable Whirring 15 3 6
5 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 2 7 2
4 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 5 4 4
3 Feeder Side By Side 10 2 3
2 The Kills Satellite 3 3 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 10 1
I’m afraid a weekly post is about all I can muster at the mo, there has been a veritable explosion of deadlines, flat-hassle, work-shit and day to day insanity on an unprecedented scale based on the former with actual insanity involved in the latter. I don’t know what the fuck has happened to my mind but it appears to have fled from my system to act as a barely responsible parent occasionally glancing down on its offspings flailing limbs as it attempts to go about its daily ablutions. It’s like I’ve disconnected with my own sense of reality, put it this way, mental images of a post-music Sid Barrett wandering about Cambridge with a plastic bag and a limp feel like true love at the moment. I’m sure that worked as a good metaphor for my head. I’m positive in fact.
I do recall that I have felt this way in early April in previous years. And it would seem that that I’m not alone in this craziness. You only have to look at the strange comings and goings of fellow citizens in the local press and you’ll spot bizarre behavioural anomalies that aren’t in keeping with day to day ‘normality’. (If you’re expecting a list you can fuck off. You’ve the internet, check it yourselves.)
And please don’t think that all the oddness is down to the sudden appearance of the big burning yellow thing. Of course I can easily comprehend that we’ve suddenly gone from a bitter, windy and rain-soaked winter straight to a balmy summer without so much as a by-your-leave to Spring. I know for a fact some of you reading this will feel as I do, do you hear me? A cast iron solid fact, right there.
Despite myself the past week hasn’t been without its highlights. Gerry’s birthday on Sunday being a fine example. He joined us in the evening after an afternoon of gentle boozing with IC, JM and Patti, so by the time he arrived we were very much in the mood to extend our congratulations. Why I even managed to give him that book I’ve been harping on about (England’s Dreaming. Jon Savage) as some sort of remuneration for getting fucking older, which was nice.
I spent all of Monday writing -instead of doing this I was getting paid, properly for once- and had a sedentary evening to re-charge. Wednesday evening was spent in a quiet boozer with my cousins in Battersea; this almost didn’t happen thanks to some cunt throwing himself under a train at Surbiton which halted the entire South-West rail network for over ten hours. Fortunately I bumped into my brother at Waterloo (packed rigid with thousands of frustrated commuters) on his way to the same venue so we popped off for a couple of beers in the warm evening sunshine in the hope they’d have mopped up the selfish tool splashed all over the front of the 3.20 to London… actually, maybe I’m being a bit harsh on the deceased, maybe he’d been subject to this craziness as well. (Oddly one of IC’s colleagues did the very same thing the very same day at a different station. See? It’s not just me…)
After the pub-break we got back to Waterloo to discover, if anything, the situation had worsened so we spent hours buggering about with tubes/busses in order to make our delayed appointment. I’m pleased to say it was more than worth it.
So here am I gawping into the jaws of the weekend, the parameters of which fizzle and pop about my addled brain. I’m sure it’ll be lovely… I just hope I’m all there when it happens.
Here’s Gerry’s chart and a very special tune from in it. What’s that thing they say about a butterfly beating its wings… Keep it real gentle reader, keep real.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room NE 1 30
29 The Levellers Family 21 3 21
28 Alex Turner Submarine 19 4 18
27 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely NE 1 27
26 Chapel Club Surfacing 16 12 1
25 The Guillemots The Basket 28 2 25
24 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 22 3 22
23 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 13 7 3
22 The Wombats Anti-D 24 4 22
21 The View Grace 15 5 15
20 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist NE 1 20
19 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 11 7 8
18 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 9 6 6
17 The Blackout Higher And Higher 30 2 17
16 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 20 6 15
15 The Joy Formidable Whirring 25 2 15
14 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 17 3 14
13 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 10 4 10
12 Young Guns Stitches 14 3 12
11 The Young Knives Love My Name 18 2 11
10 Feeder Side By Side NE 1 10
9 Foo Fighters Rope 6 5 6
8 Interpol Lights 8 4 8
7 White Lies Strangers 4 6 4
6 The Vaccines If You Wanna 5 5 5
5 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 7 3 5
4 Morning Parade A & E 3 6 1
3 The Kills Satellite 12 2 3
2 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 2 6 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 9 1
It’s been a hectic week, and it’s all down to work and this new writing venture thing. The former is going more slowly than Wayne Rooney playing Sudoku, which panics the boss who then shits me up, and the latter is getting increasingly intense, ironically, for all the right reasons.
Yesterday I was almost freaked-out with stress as the editor of the writing thing gave me another job on top of the weekly one. Don’t get me wrong here, this is all good stuff, but when you’ve the better paid job falling over on its arse it doesn’t make for a comfortable day, or, for that matter, the foreseeable days/weeks/months ahead.
So on Wednesday I decided to treat myself, I met up with my bro, Rob, Rick and Harry in a boozer orf of that Wardour Street and got nice and tight, not too much, but enough. I managed to share my woes (i.e., talk intently at them until their eyeballs glazed over) and make them understand that it’s sheer hell, which it isn’t really.
I was home at a reasonable hour, shoved dubious hummus into my face via cream crackers and sat down in front of the PC with a glass of wine. This was a mistake, the hangover I had this morning was utterly awful and, to make matters worse, at midday I had a meeting with the boss and a couple of clients at The Hospital Club, which is fucking horrid by the way.
The meeting seems hazy but it seemed to have gone down well, fortunately both clients had a sense of humour and I seemed to be going down well, whatever it was I was doing to inspire that. On the way back home I managed to embarrass myself on the tube via Charlie Brooker (totally lost it regarding a piece on spiders) and couldn’t gather my dignity, incurring the stony glances of my fellow passengers which merely fuelled my giggling. I must have looked like a farting-mouthed lunatic.
What astonished me even more than the hangover was my enforced visit to the gym at 3.30. Christ. Like last week I darkened the doors three times this week, and I still can’t fathom out how this happened because I HATE going so much. It’s not like I’m taking it easy on myself when I’m there by the way, it really, truly, fucking hurts and worst part is I can’t see any benefit –I can only assume if I wasn’t going regularly (ish) they’d need to take down one of my bedroom walls just to get me outside.
Anyway, one would imagine it countered the meal I had with IC at a rarely visited but favoured eatery in that there Hackney last night, I had pork belly which went into my belly and then became Piqued belly, which was nice.
Its Gerry’s birthday on Sunday, here’s his chart to celebrate. Have good weekends, be good.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 02/04/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 The Blackout Higher And Higher NE 1 30
29 Band Of Horses Dilly 16 10 2
28 The Guillemots The Basket NE 1 28
27 Elbow Neat Little Rows 11 8 9
26 Glasvegas Euphoria Take My Hand 23 3 23
25 The Joy Formidable Whirring NE 1 25
24 The Wombats Anti-D 25 3 24
23 Kings Of Leon The Immortals 20 4 20
22 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 29 2 22
21 The Levellers Family 27 2 21
20 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 15 5 15
19 Alex Turner Submarine 18 3 18
18 The Young Knives Love My Name NE 1 18
17 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 26 2 17
16 Chapel Club Surfacing 9 11 1
15 The View Grace 17 4 15
14 Young Guns Stitches 21 2 14
13 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 4 6 3
12 The Kills Satellite NE 1 12
11 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 8 6 8
10 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 13 3 10
9 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 6 5 6
8 Interpol Lights 10 3 8
7 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 14 2 7
6 Foo Fighters Rope 7 4 6
5 The Vaccines If You Wanna 12 4 5
4 White Lies Strangers 5 5 4
3 Morning Parade A & E 2 5 1
2 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 3 5 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 8 1
It’s ridiculously busy over here. Things are looking good for the whole buying-of-the-flat situation (though it ain’t over yet) the wedding plans seems to be on track, work is being a right shit but the new writing venture seems positive -I’ve even got paid already, which is nice because I’m fucking skint.
Not that the latter situation did anything to dampen the weekend. I think I was a tad stressed Friday because I managed to get so pissed I’m struggling to recall how the evening ended. I know it began in Angel with my bro, IC and a few beers, after I’d returned home without IC (who was already homeski with Mary) I shoved a few more sharpeners before foolishly agreeing to visit a club in Shoreditch.
It was relatively empty when we arrived, enough time to say hello to a few faces then suddenly (to my addled brain anyway) it was packed solid with loads of people I know all stood at funny angles. I started talking to a couple of blokes by the bar, one was quite friendly, one wasn’t, which inspired me to talk more, fuck knows why. I didn’t realise until a while later that were both getting free drinks, it then dawned on me, very slowly, that maybe this club maybe theirs… and why was there a huge bouncer checking me out? I asked the less friendly one if this was his gaff, he nodded slowly and I decided I’d mingle with my pals, by now dispersed into every nook and cranny.
The rest of the evening is a haze, if that. I recall leaving the club under duress from IC and Mary then nothing until waking up 1pm Saturday feeling undead. We took ourselves off to Broadway Market, itself unnecessarily crowded, to drop off IC’s replacement bicycle at the repair shop for a spot of renovation, then we trickled home after bumping into Otto in the park. On the way I met Patti in the one of the locals for a catch-up, IC joined us later and was visibly disappointed that I was already on my first pint. I’d already had two coffees, I explained in earnest, and I was in a fucking pub! Obviously what I said made sense because she ordered a glass of wine.
The evening had been planned during the week. It was very simple; invite a couple of pals over to watch the last two episodes of ‘The Killing’ with some cheese, biscuits and perhaps one or two peanuts. Such is the addictive nature of the TV show, IC and I were not only prepared to give up a Saturday night for it, we were also happy to face the usual post-guest tidying up –by this I mean their detritus, not their internal organs or kneecaps.
In the end there were five of us including yours truly (as it happens the only male contingent that evening, which either speaks volumes about the TV Show, or me -not sure which). Still at least we had lots of scrummy cheese and the sparkly was delish!! LOL!!!!!!!!
I took to my bed feeling much more compos mentis than the previous evening; by the time I woke Sunday I was feeling perfectly okay.
IC and I had decided to spend the day together by means of celebrating a certain date in the calendar. The intention was to go to the flower market for a wander, the reality was a cocktail bar along the way (which has done nothing to aid my financial situation, even though it was reasonably priced). As we were about to go in IC thought she spotted her nicked bicycle passing by, later she said that she was positive it was hers but wasn’t too keen for me to go chasing after the bloke riding it. This was irksome but we didn’t let it ruin our day, by the same token we couldn’t help stare out of the bar window in case the cunt on her bike came back. Later on we discovered Mary had her bike stolen over the weekend too. That’s all of us now, every person I know who has a bike in Hackney has had it half-inched. I curse the thieves, I hope all their mum’s die in screaming agony in front of their fucking faces.
We’d intended to go out for dinner later but by the time we got home at 6-ish we just wanted pizza and film of some description. I wasn’t entirely done though, IC went off to bed at 11 and I decided to watch the F1 on catch-up. Bit dull, you know, but still an event of sorts.
It’s okay! ‘Chill!’ as they say in LA and Surbiton, I’m okay. I’ve had literally no-one wondering where the ruddy fuck this week’s latest instalment of hangovers, swearing and fairy liquid is. IT’S OKAY!! It’s here, yeah.
The reason it is late, by the way, is that the ‘excellent news’ mentioned a couple of posts back is rather time consuming –it involves writing by the way, and I’m getting paid, not much, but paid nonetheless. This is for free as you know, and will continue to be so. Amen.
So, where were we? I have to say not much has gone down since I last posted, though Saturday was a bit large. I can’t recall how it all began but IC and I invited my bro, Neil and Sian over for dinner, we also invited Jane and Adam on the off chance they’d show.
I began making the Bolognaise for said dinner last Thursday, I like it when it’s sat in the fridge for a while -serve the stuff straight from the pot just after it’s been made isn’t right, all that flavour gets lost. By Saturday, and after much adjusting, tinkering, the stuff was perfect. IC and I went out in the sunshine to do some shopping after I’d completely failed to start Johnston. I spent almost an hour leaping up and down on him, busting my shin in the process and actually soaking sweat through my leathers (unless you were aware Johnston was a 76’ Triumph Bonneville that last sentence read wrong.)
We met my bro in the beer garden of the local and all came home as one. Neil and Sian came over with cocktail shakers and subsequent ingredients and off it all kicked, Cosmo’s, wine and a ton of food, which was sensational, even by my own pedantic standards. I was so busy rushing around, and Neil so quick on the draw with the shaker, I didn’t notice how arseholed I was until, out the blue, Jane and Adam showed up.
Now we were 7, everything was going swimmingly, my bro suggested we crack open IC’s telescope and have a look at the full moon, apparently at its closest in 20 odd years. None of us had a clue how to use it and the instructions were somewhere… until it transpired Adam knew his business. Five minutes later we were staring into the Moon’s craters, I have to say it fair did our little pissed heads in, my bro and I were still popping to the balcony for a look way after 4am which is about time my memory gives in, though I do recalling knocking my zippo off said balcony. That could’ve killed someone, or a baby fox (it still works just fine even though it’s peppered with tiny dents)
IC and I woke at 1-ish with my bro splashed out on the sofa bed in the lounge that now resembled a sink estate. The afternoon was totally fucked; we sat about watching TV feeling like walnuts’ until IC went out at 6 leaving me in the company of the first Moto GP of the season.
The week has struggled past work-wise but most definitely helped by the arrival of the big yellow thing in the sky. IC and I celebrated the first day of spring on Monday, on Wednesday and Thursday I met a couple of pals in the boozer overlooking London Fields for an early evening pint and woven in between have been three trips to the sodding gym, which hurt like murder.
Before I bid you all a merry weekend and present Gerry’s chart, has any else noticed that world seems to be going fucking crazy, Japan, Libya, and now Pixie Geldof has dyed her hair orange.
Check out the choon, it’s Top of the Pops!
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Children Of Bodom Was It Worth It? 19 4 18
29 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat NE 1 29
28 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 18 11 1
27 The Levellers Family NE 1 27
26 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow NE 1 26
25 The Wombats Anti-D 28 2 25
24 Hurts Sunday 16 8 4
23 Glasvegas Euphoria Take My Hand 29 2 23
22 Mona Teenager 13 8 4
21 Young Guns Stitches NE 1 21
20 Kings Of Leon The Immortals 22 3 20
19 REM Uberlin 11 6 7
18 Alex Turner Submarine 24 2 18
17 The View Grace 17 3 17
16 Band Of Horses Dilly 8 9 2
15 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 15 4 15
14 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret NE 1 14
13 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 25 2 13
12 The Vaccines If You Wanna 14 3 12
11 Elbow Neat Little Rows 9 7 9
10 Interpol Lights 21 2 10
9 Chapel Club Surfacing 6 10 1
8 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 12 5 8
7 Foo Fighters Rope 10 3 7
6 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 7 4 6
5 White Lies Strangers 5 4 5
4 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 3 5 3
3 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 4 4 3
2 Morning Parade A & E 1 4 1
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 2 7 1
‘My fucking ears!’ I screamed as the plane began its descent. It’d happened on the way into Milan but the way into London was far worse. It felt as if someone was examining my ear drum with a drill bit. It was then I noticed I’d gone all deaf and that.
On top of this we missed the last train to London and were forced on a National Express coach, and I was suffering the early stages of a hangover due to my thirst-quenching extravagancies at the airport and on the sodding plane. By the time we arrived at Liverpool street at 2am I decided that a cab was the only way we could save the following working day. Our bed had transmogrified into a vision of Utopia, by the time we hit it I was out before my sweet little head hit the pillow…
The trip had begun on Friday evening. IC and I knew that we were going to go for an all-nighter as our plane left at 6am the following morning. One of our pals was providing a soundtrack to an avant-garde film (people dressed as creatures doing the hula on abandoned buildings etc). As ludicrously tossy as this may sound it was quite stunning, in addition to that the bar was fall-over cheap, you could smoke inside, and the accompanying installations and photos really added an element of ‘event’. IC and knew a surprising amount of guests and we spent a good while indulging in chat after the show had finished.
We got home at midnight, hurriedly packed, had a pissed row about we don’t know what, and left for the coach at Liverpool Street having made up over whatever it was that had caused us to have a row. Still, I managed to fulfil my intention of getting as ratted as I possible without falling over, now l could face Ryan Air and all the rigmarole of security without living it. But first I had to retrieve my glasses that I’d left on the coach.
It took me about five minutes to work out what was wrong; I just had this odd emotion of ‘something isn’t correct,’ an almost childlike feeling of non-specific vulnerability. We were approaching the check-in desk when it hit me I couldn’t see, I have to say I freaked a bit (a lot) and IC dragged me back in the direction of the now-departed coach. In a panic I barged into the coach company’s office where two little blokes were having a nice sit down, I babbled my problem; IC explained it, and one of the little fellas darted off into the night. Ten minutes later, and now close to tears, he returned with my bins! Apparently the coaches park up round the side of the airport for a few hours before heading off back to London. Anyway, I nearly blew him.
We checked in, stood about, and boarded the plane at 7am. Daylight and a clear day allowed me to see London vanish into the distance, which rarely happens, and IC and I spent a good deal of time giggling at the state of the air crew, one resembling a lab rat and one with a beehive plonked atop a face you could grate cheese. We landed and Len picked us up from the airport and whisked us off to IC’s home. By now I was virtually catatonic but this didn’t stop us from visiting the local supermarket in order to glean provisions for our stay and fridge back home.
We’d been up for almost 36 hours straight before crashing on the sofa for a few hours’ kip. At 4-ish we went back into town to buy material for the confetti (in Italy ‘confetti’ are the favours) and the sugared almonds within, both of which took a huge amount of time as IC, her sister and mum pondered over the right cloth to use with regards to price which varied enormously. I stood patiently like the living dead fighting the urge to lie down on a pile of linen and snooze.
We had aperitivo on the way home which was life-saving and after dinner watched Hotel Paradiso before finally crashing into a black, deep slumber.
Sunday morning, off to the Lake of Garda with IC and her mum for a second visit to the reception venue sat right on the banks of the lake, a real ‘pinch me/ dream’ type place and far too good for the likes of me. Once again all the food was gratis, it was simply a case of choosing the menu for the guests, which meant we had to try all the options, including the wines.
Wave upon wave of absurdly wonderful dishes appeared, held aloft by a host of staff (they’d closed the restaurant for us) each one presented and detailed by the immaculate maître d –not that I could understand a word he said. Each dish was accompanied by a specific wine (also explained in foreign) which would be automatically applied to my glass every time I emptied the contents into my face. Marvellous.
After a few hours IC and I had made the necessary selections for the reception, it hadn’t been easy as everything was sensational, I was both stuffed and a bit pissed when we went for a short walk round the old town but it was sufficient to take the edge off the hour long drive home to see the Priest at 5pm.
We’d met Batman over Christmas, last time we arrived at the church and went straight in to see him, on this occasion we had to wait in the vast, freezing vestry listening to the dulcet tones of evening mass. After an age we were ushered into another large, cold room where I was subject to almost an hour of sitting and nodding at Batman and IC under the screaming face of the son of man who bore down on me from his tree. I fought to keep awake; the big lunch was making feel very comfortable.
Following (a very light) dinner in the evening IC and I went out to a bar five minutes from IC’s gaff to see some friends and a band performing a load of acoustic Alice in Chains tunes, they were very good actually, even if it was all a bit bizarre. It served as a stark reminder how different things are outside England, the bar in question was operated as a members club (10 Euro for a year) wine was 2 Euros a glass and all the entertainment free for as long as your membership lasts.
Monday first thing, another priest. This one is the bloke actually marrying us. He doesn’t seem as jolly as the other one (his boss as it happens) and he’s a little bit of a scruff too, which coming from me is a little rich, or telling.
After the hairy priest we spent a bit of time choosing the flowers, an expense I’d never taken into account (shit!) and then spent virtually the rest of the day trying to find the right bloody ribbon for the confetti. As it was our last proper day it seemed rude not have aperitivo before dinner and pop out after to the local bar for a spot of fizz.
It was a splendid evening, even if IC did get the name of the owner’s dead husband mixed with the name of her current partner. This wouldn’t have been so bad is she’d not done it in her face.
We were due to fly at 8pm Tuesday evening so we scheduled to set off from the house at 5pm as we needed to get the coach to the airport. The day was obviously ruined by the schedule, so we continued our hunt for the fucking ribbon. About an hour we were due to leave we finally found some.
Yay.
Right, I gotta go, I have some work to do, please enjoy Gery’s chart and choon and enjoy the weekend, for Christ’s sake.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Pulled Apart By Horses I Punched A Lion In The Throat 28 4 24
29 Glasvegas Euphoria Take My Hand NE 1 29
28 The Wombats Anti-D NE 1 28
27 My Chemical Romance Planetary (Go!) 30 2 27
26 Cold War Kids Louder Than Ever 26 3 26
25 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma NE 1 25
24 Alex Turner Submarine NE 1 24
23 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 13 6 9
22 Kings Of Leon The Immortals 29 2 22
21 Interpol Lights NE 1 21
20 Miles Kane Come Closer 15 5 14
19 Children Of Bodom Was It Worth It? 18 3 18
18 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 10 10 1
17 The View Grace 24 2 17
16 Hurts Sunday 11 7 4
15 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 20 3 15
14 The Vaccines If You Wanna 22 2 14
13 Mona Teenager 8 7 4
12 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 14 4 12
11 REM Uberlin 9 5 7
10 Foo Fighters Rope 17 2 10
9 Elbow Neat Little Rows 12 6 9
8 Band Of Horses Dilly 5 8 2
7 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 16 3 7
6 Chapel Club Surfacing 2 9 1
5 White Lies Strangers 6 3 5
4 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 7 3 4
3 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 3 4 3
2 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 4 6 2
1 Morning Parade A & E 1 3 1
Tuesday morning, up with the sparrows for a behemoth bus journey from East London to the West, specifically, the ludicrously affluent Eaton Place (which is where that craggy old fucker, Thatcher lives) and The Italian Embassy therein.
IC and I entered, got a numbered pass and, happily, seen to in about 10 minutes by a lady who had a face that resembled Billy Bass and a body that contained more plastic than Hong Kong. She nonchalantly sorted our paperwork and in 30 minutes we were granted a licence to get married in Italy. Marvellous.
Speaking of which, we’re off there tomorrow to finalise the menu for the reception and sort a few bits and pieces out with the priest whose doing the honours on the day, I’ll tell you all about it next week, just you see.
It’s been a funny old week. Things got a bit intense work-wise due to a deadline, my boss seemed unable to stop himself from heaping an enormous amount of pressure onto my lovely little head, which was about as welcome a wet turd in my trousers, or any turd frankly. At 9.25 on Wednesday I got a call that instantly fixed everything and I actually did a public ‘yeah!’ and punched the air like a Hollywood cliché. What an arsehole I am, right kids.
That evening I went out and got good and tight with Den, Harry, my bro and a film editor of some note, he regaled me with film-based tales until my knees cradled my jaw and I went home at 11 with Minor Threat screaming in my ears.
I worked from home yesterday and receive some excellent news which I can’t divulge, annoyingly, and IC and I went out to the local Vietnamese Restaurant for a celebratory meal of sorts. We rounded it off in the local with a few of our East-End pals then home full, refreshed and happy.
Gerry’s chart, a tune from said chart and a fervent desire your weekends will be as splendid as the one I’m anticipating (save the fucking Ryan-Air bit)
Hello!
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 12/03/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 My Chemical Romance Planetary (Go!) NE 1 30
29 Kings Of Leon The Immortals NE 1 29
28 Pulled Apart By Horses I Punched A Lion In The Throat 24 3 24
27 Brother Darling Buds Of May 16 6 12
26 Cold War Kids Louder Than Ever 30 2 26
25 Chase And Status Blind Faith 17 11 4
24 The View Grace NE 1 24
23 White Lies Bigger Than Us 15 14 1
22 The Vaccines If You Wanna NE 1 22
21 Yuck Holing Out 19 3 19
20 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 25 2 20
19 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 11 7 10
18 Children Of Bodom Was It Worth It? 23 2 18
17 Foo Fighters Rope NE 1 17
16 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 28 2 16
15 Miles Kane Come Closer 14 4 14
14 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 22 3 14
13 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 9 5 9
12 Elbow Neat Little Rows 13 5 12
11 Hurts Sunday 5 6 4
10 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 2 9 1
9 REM Uberlin 7 4 7
8 Mona Teenager 4 6 4
7 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 20 2 7
6 White Lies Strangers 12 2 6
5 Band Of Horses Dilly 2 7 2
4 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 8 5 4
3 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 6 3 3
2 Chapel Club Surfacing 1
IC and I had arrived at about 5.30, the place was quietly busy but one remaining table by the door was available. I was rather taken aback by a member of staff who said ‘good evening, Sir, not seen you for a while… ‘ To which I replied, ‘I’ve never been here in my life!’ Until IC reminded me we had about nine months ago. (My initial surprise at his memory was curtailed when I noticed that everyone in the place was in a suit and I was stood in my leather jacket and beaten Converse, as per.)
We sat down next to a table of three sharply dressed fellows, an Uncle Monty look-a-like, a young Tory boy and a particularly well-heeled man in glasses who was utterly pissed out of his tree speaking in incoherent bursts of blabber- it was just about possible to gather that he was, to use the vernacular, ‘posh.’
They were drinking champagne and had been there since lunch, I gathered, and their behaviour was public-school rowdy and not entirely without a touch of privileged campness. Indeed, Tory boy seemed to be the sexy focus, albeit blurred, of his two companions.
Specky was slumped in his chair and getting increasingly close to IC as he twisted in his seat blurting out non-sequiturs until the point came he actually made contact. IC invited him to move away, which he did. Then the younger, shorter, Uncle Monty said something to us… Not entirely sure what exactly but I didn’t like his tone.
The polite member of staff finished his shift and was replaced by a pedantic little woman who occasionally fawned over the three piss-pots like they were minor royalty, which they may have been for all I know, or care. Either which way, it was clear they were regulars and judging by the amount of booze, and the quality being consumed, earning the wine bar a tidy sum.
IC got another bottle just as Specky passed out in his chair, his two companions carried on regardless. Shortly Specky awoke and made a grab for his glass, missed and knocked it crashing to the floor. The pedant ran over with a dust-pan and brush, accompanied by cooing noises of placation, to slurs of received-pronounced apology.
Shortly after the latter pair went to the bar to get another bottle, I glanced over at Specky and concluded he was close to being very ill. I called to Uncle Monty and suggested that he/they might like to get their friend some water. This was greeted by what can only be described as aggressive conjecture, and at the same instant Specky made a go of standing up, fell forwards onto the table and with an almighty crash brought himself, table, glasses, bottle and bucket, cascading onto the ground.
At this point I stood up with a V sign and said, ‘I told you that you should’ve got your mate some fucking water.’ Tory boy and another member of staff grabbed the unconscious Specky and hauled him outside as Mrs. P got to work on the mess. Over this scene of chaos, still stood at the bar, Monty continued to throw incoherent insults at me and for the first time in a long, long while, something within gently parted from reason and I concluded that I was going to hit Monty in the fucking mouth.
I took two steps forward when I felt a hand in my hair pulling me back and down into my seat. Monty disappeared sharpish and my gaze was met by a less than chuffed IC. ‘What are you doing?!’ She said. ‘By all means carry-on but if you do, I’m off home.’ My cries of justifiable offence weren’t hitting the mark, I was calmed down and we finished the bottle in relative silence with Mrs. P shooting me disgusted glances, which I thought was a bit bloody rich.
As we were leaving P, aware that we too were money-spending punters (albeit with much less extravagance than the recently departed piss-pots) fell into her obsequious stride and reluctantly bid us a ‘good evening.’
‘Fuck off,’ I said back, we exited onto the street and took the bus home.
It’s been one of those weekends that leaves you feeling depressed because it was so good. Bollocks.
I’d give my eye teeth to be back at that wine bar on Friday with IC about to take an Uncle Monty looky-like outside for a slap. Oh well.
I think Saturday was the best day, I had some mates coming down from that there North place and I met them all in London Fields at 4pm after IC and I had undertaken a spot of shopping earlier. Chas and I used to live together as students a few (*ahem*) years back, now he’s in front of me showing off his missus and two kids, one of whom thinks I’m a pirate, if you please.
We wandered about Broadway Market where we met IC, then we wandered to the pub which was busy but happy to accommodate children. We spent a cheery few hours drinking and herding the children away from danger, a full-time consideration and, I have to say, rather fun, before heading back to our gaff where Jamie was waiting for us. By now the smallest of the kids was asleep but her brother had taken it on himself to be a dog, he was still in dog mode when we got on the bus which was hilarious as he didn’t give two tits for his/our fellow passengers -actually, he was still yelping when IC, Jamie and I got off the bus after saying a fond goodbye to our Northern pals.
We were a little late getting to the restaurant to the point that everyone was patiently waiting for us to arrived. The place was packed out with rowdy groups of shoddy families and downmarket teens all adding to the overtly ‘Mexican’ atmosphere. It transpired later that Patti had thought this Mexican eatery was the nice one we’d been recommended a few block away.
I can’t say the food was that good either, I had this chilli burger thing which tasted okay but was wetter than a fishes bum, but in spite of all this we all had a splendid evening and the bill wasn’t to awful to boot. We all took the bus back to Patti and Mary’s gaff and had a few more glasses with some weird chocolate before Jamie, IC, my bro and I went back to ours to see the evening off with nightcaps, until 3am, or something.
All IC and I wanted to do on Sunday was crash in front of the box with cups of tea, this was achieved after a massive fry up at the excellent cafe round the corner and seen our guests off. We watched the latest two episodes of The Killing, during which I had an obscene panic attack out of the blue, and then Human Planet the eyeball popping BBC 1 Show narrated by John Hurt.
At 5-ish Paul called and suggested we might want to meet him at the pub, we reluctantly agreed and took the freezing walk to a seldom used local that was half empty yet fully accommodating. I wasn’t pissed when I met Gerry later on that evening but due to lack of food and adequate sleep I wasn’t quite right, in fact I had a panic derived whitey at some point, which I’m glad to say passed. Nonetheless, we had a marvellous evening chatting about this and that before time called us back to our respective dwellings heralding the cessation of the weekend.
I’ll recall the Uncle Monty tale later this week, in the meantime, eat this.
Following the weekend it seemed reasonable that IC and I would spend a couple of days drinking nothing stronger than tea and Tizer, but inconceivable our two days of abstinence would be obliterated by one Father Donaldson of the Catholic Church.
We’d met Father D a few months ago to help us organise the Catholic aspect of the forthcoming nuptials. After our meeting with the priest-overlord in Italy he agreed to let Father D do the ‘wedding preparation.’
Even if I’m not a fan of this organised religion business he seemed okay, he didn’t start giving us grief for ‘living in sin’ and he seemed entirely nonplussed by skull rings and my Slayer tee-shirt that I’d worn especially for the occasion. Even so, I was a little surprised when he called last week and agree us to meet in the pub to do the prep.
We all arrived at 7, IC and I got a bottle of wine and three glasses, FD preferred Fosters and suggested we go out for a fag before things got underway. He gave us the ‘I’ve done my job’ certificate before actually doing the prep. Instead we talked about paedo priests, the ordination of women in the Catholic church, the death penalty (that he was in favour with and I’m not) and beach holidays. At some point into our second bottle and him on his 4th pint he took 30 seconds out of our chit-chat to mumble the required prep, essentially, we’re allowed to enjoy sex but remember it’s primarily for pro-creation purposes and how I’m not allowed to rape IC when I fancy a bit of the other.
By the end, all of us thoroughly pissed, we fondly said goodbye over a last cigarette and went on our way. All very weird, really.
Yesterday I woke with a bit of a hangover, it’d been somewhat negated by a large bowl of Bolognaise sauce the previous evening so I was able to attend the fucking gym at midday without feeling like puking all over the shoulder press. After a shower I took myself off to my appointment at the tattoo parlour in Shoreditch.
I’d not been inked since a less-than-successful rendition of one of my designs a couple of years ago. The design wasn’t at fault but the execution wasn’t 100% to my satisfaction and over the months I decided that something needed to be done about it.
The artist I chose was the same chap that transferred my design onto IC last year, I was happy for him to lead the way this time and he suggested a design to compliment and embellish the iffy one. I was happy with what he came up with and off we went.
In the past I’d always been rather surprised that being tattooed hadn’t really hurt much but this artist was using a rotary needle, admittedly it’s quieter than the coil guns but by Christ it hurt. For a couple of hours I lay on my side whilst ink was applied to my upper time. It was either painful, excruciatingly so, or complete agony. Once or twice I felt the opening chords of a blackout, though I’m pleased to say this didn’t materialise.
IC showed up 30 mins before the end, by now I was almost speechless with exhaustion but at last it was done.
I am very happy with the work carried out but, annoyingly, it’s made the original tattoo look even worse. I forsee another visit shortly.
Bollocks.
Gerry’s stuff to follow after weekend greetings. Weekend greetings.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 05/03/11
NO.
ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Cold War Kids Louder Than Ever NE 1 30
29 Neon Trees Animal 19 6 19
28 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like NE 1 28
27 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 21 5 21
26 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 15 11 2
25 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book NE 1 25
24 Pulled Apart By Horses I Punched A Lion In The Throat 24 2 24
23 Children Of Bodom Was It Worth It? NE 1 23
22 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 27 2 22
21 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 13 7 7
20 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend NE 1 20
19 Yuck Holing Out 25 2 19
18 Glasvegas The World Is Yours 14 3 14
17 Chase And Status Blind Faith 8 10 4
16 Brother Darling Buds Of May 12 5 12
15 White Lies Bigger Than Us 7 13 1
14 Miles Kane Come Closer 20 3 14
13 Elbow Neat Little Rows 18 4 13
12 White Lies Strangers NE 1 12
11 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 10 6 10
10 Morning Parade A & E NE 1 10
9 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 11 4 9
8 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 5 4 5
7 REM Uberlin 9 3 7
6 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 16 2 6
5 Hurts Sunday 4 5 4
4 Mona Teenager 6 5 4
3 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 1 8 1
2 Band Of Horses Dilly 3 6 2
1 Chapel Club Surfacing 2 7 1
The meeting on Friday didn’t pan out as expected. I became apprehensive about it from the moment it occurred to me that my choice of venue hadn’t included 200 yelling children and the reincarnation of Toni Arthur cavorting about on a stage dressed in giant yellow dungarees. Fortunately, I was early and in a position to find a more suitable location, but The Festival Hall, the place we’d arranged to meet, most certainly wasn’t it. I jumped over to the Queen Elizabeth Hall which was also crowded but happily devoid of kids. I crammed myself onto a revolting white formica table and sipped lava-hot tea until my re-directed client (who I’d never met) called my phone and waited for me to stand up amongst the twin-set and pearl auntie’s waiting for some concert or other to begin.
Fortunately she was very pleasant and being Danish we could break the ice discussing The Killing before getting down to the horrors of business, which we’d sort of started when her colleague arrived just after 3pm. I realised I’d met him before and a dull bell clanged in my liver, within 5 minutes a glass of wine was being thrust into my hand and arrangements were being made to visit Gordon’s famed wine bar on the North bank when we’d finished the current bottle.
Even in fuzzy hindsight it was the best meeting I think I’ve had, but I’d arranged to meet IC and some friends at 8pm at our place and was keen to retain some sense of sobriety. How on earth I managed to get home and then re-engage in a separate session with IC, Den and Aiko is, even now, beyond me. But I was okay, possibly because of my pace and the inclusion of food at critical points, and we all had a splendid evening…
Still, it’s nothing to write home about, even if, in a way, I am.
Saturday took a while to become fully formed. When it began to solidify I met IC in the shopping centre in Dalston round lunchtime. Not the happiest place to be in after a skin-full the previous day (those sodium/fluorescent lights make the world a bit space cake at the best of times) but I ploughed through with a bit of help from the better half. We rewarded ourselves with a Masterchef catch-up and generally spent the remainder of the afternoon taking it easy before heading out once more to the pub in North London where we’re having our London wedding reception.
Our reasons for going were twofold, in the first instance we needed to give the guv’nor a cheque to secure the venue; the second was to meet an old pal of IC who she’d not seen in a while. To start off I wasn’t in the mood, the previous day had started to take its toll on me and I was knackered out. IC’s pal Diane was sufficiently engaging to make a spot of effort on my part and hour into proceedings I was rewarded by getting into the swing of things. We stayed until 10-ish before heading home to French cinema and nightcap, which sounds a lot more civilised that it was. Well that bit was, it’s what followed after IC went to bed leaving me in the deathrocker hands of youtube, a progressive thirst and the need to tinkle.
Let’s nail something down quickly. I’m not a fan of shaving and if it wasn’t for reasons of employment and the fact IC isn’t overtly keen on facial hair I’d have none of it. But I don’t seem to mind it on an ad hoc basis, sort of ‘whilst I’m washing my digits following micturition I may as well shave, like.’ And usually these intrusive decisions are made late and after a few tonics. Perhaps this is why I managed to tangle my upper lip in the blades of my fresh, disposable Gillette at 2am. Either way, the resulting blood was simply awesome, it just refused to stop, despite the ice cold water that was applied under bundles of tissue, so after almost an hour of this I just bunged a roll onto my face and went to bed still bleeding.
I was woken early on Sunday morning by a scream; IC had discovered me looking like poorly botched crime scene and it had given her rather a shock. She even said, ‘who did this to you,’ which was a little embarrassing.
Not one to be fussed by a couple of rather STD-looking scabs we went out for brunch as planned and spent a brilliant couple of hours in a favoured restaurant eating eggs Benedict and drinking Prosecco by way of celebrating an calendar event. Of course we’d also opened the door to a thoroughly reckless afternoon, as we were walking home from the restaurant we decided to stop by our local for one when a load of friends just seemed to appear from no-where and began aiding and abetting our weakened conditions.
On the way back to the flat at 7-ish we decided, as we lurched about like a pair of sailors on shore leave, that we fucking jolly roger well deserved it what with all the stress and shit we’d been having to deal, and continue, to deal with.
Cunts!
Right, I found this at 1am or something on Saturday prior to slicing open my face, could be one of the best things I’ve ever come into contact with. Here, have it all. And take the bags of rubbish down on your way out.
