gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

One thing my trip did teach me is that mothballs are one of the few things that not only smell unimaginably abhorrent but also have the ability to transfer the disgusting stench as fucking taste in the horrified mouth. If sufficiently fortified I’ve no doubt this taste would make me physically sick. In my experience the only other thing that can do this is rotting human flesh, something I’ve encountered 3 more times than I’d have ideally preferred.

The restaurants in Turkey seem to use these spherical cunts as we British would use those little lemon scented cubes we chaps piss on in urinals. In warm climes I’ve no doubt mothballs are the last word in keeping flies out of ones privy but quite frankly, I’d rather they skated on my tip than have to put up with the pain of that ludicrously disgusting stink, then taste.

My Turkey experience bolted down a passing revulsion for these nasty things and I’ve come back into the UK with a pathological hatred for them, which is bordering on a sort of fear. Now I can smell them on people’s clothes, on busses, tubes and to my complete terror, in the toilets of the curry house I visited last night with Frank and Red following an ill-advised wringing of the fucking credit card. This impromptu meal came at the end of yet another exasperating day regarding the lack of any fucking development with my flat. My solicitor called and basically said that in addition to contacting the financial ombudsmen and Law Society he’s considering calling the bloody police as he think my buyers ‘solicitors’ are in fact fraudulent operators as they’re asking for the mortgage deposit before exchange, which, I’ve been informed is a bit like demanding a one-wheeled cart to draw a dead horse. Fucking mothballs.

My health is improving. I started to get ill as we were leaving the hotel Thursday week for the bus to catch the plane. It came on bloody fast, first the throat, then the weakness and finally that out of body daze that forces you towards the horizontal. I was feeling so shit I wasn’t even fussed about the flight and the final leg via public transport home (with loads of luggage) was harder than reaching the summit of Everest, yeah. I spent the Friday, Saturday and Sunday in and out of bed, Monday and Tuesday showed scant signs of improvement and Wednesday I was really not okay to go to work, so I went anyway.

That morning journey was dreadful, the bus was rammed, slow and the tube had a well-spoken lady quite literally screaming evangelist rhetoric at commuters who gradually changed carriages throughout the course of the long haul from Monument to Wimbledon. I decided to hold firm for a while but as the passengers diminished her aggression increased and I was far from able to cope with her din. Indeed, I too was forced to leave the carriage when this mentally impaired prick-ess decided to turn her vindictive invective onto me, personally. In front of 7 looking-the-other-way passengers she stood over me, pointed to my bent head and proclaimed ‘satan is among us’ as the train drew into East Putney. I decided not to act, she was of course quite right.

Oh, the bike is awesome; instead of ‘The Loud One’ she’s now officially christened ‘Brutta.’ More on her next week, and the paintballing fiasco due on Sunday, I should imagine. Gerry’s chart, a rather soporific (and dark) choon and an earnest wish your weekends are neat and tidy.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Ash True Love 1980 NE 1
29 Wolfmother New Moon Rising NE 1
28 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 21 11
27 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff 18 5
26 David Guetta Ft Akon Sexy Chick 28 2
25 Muse Uprising 20 11
24 Massive Attack Splitting The Atom NE 1
23 Kasabian Underdog 30 2
22 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 17 10
21 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 14 13
20 Slayer Hate World Wide 27 2
19 Paramore Ignorance 13 9
18 Ian Brown Stellify 15 8
17 Stereophonics Ignorance NE 1
16 Foo Fighters Wheels 19 3
15 Idlewild Readers And Writers 24 2
14 Julian Casablancas 11th Dimension 22 2
13 The Xx Crystallized 8 8
12 Weezer (If You’re…….) I Want You To. 10 4
11 Biffy Clyro The Captain 16 3
10 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 11 5
9 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 9 4
8 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 4 9
7 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 6 5
6 Ladyhawke Magic 12 2
5 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere 7 3
4 Rammstein Pussy 3 4
3 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 5 6
2 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 2 7
1 Editors Papillon 1 6

IC isn’t, like me, a fucking pig. The more I like something the faster I’ll shove it into my maw, the doner kebab, for example, was virtually inhaled. But I found a chink in IC’s armour in the form of stuffed mussels, or as the Turkish call them, stuffed mussels. Don’t get me wrong, they’re very good, but IC regarded them as Manna and employed my tried and tested method of eating them as if they were about be stolen by a thief, or as the Turkish call them, bastards.

The same cannot be said for the bread. Let me stop you right there if you’re thinking the bread was bad, on the contrary it was very good, but bread with every meal, everyday? And lot’s of it? Because that’s what happened, hey, by the time we left we thought we wer aktually turnings into a bread!!! Aahahaha. GR8.

The day following the riot IC and I decided to hotfoot it over the Galata Bridge to Taxim and visit the ‘Modern Art Gallery’ which was a dirty rotten lie. In many respects Istanbul is about 10 years ‘behind,’ Turkish Modern Art could’ve come from 1990’s Goldsmiths but it was still very interesting seeing how the YBA’s were being re-hashed without all the phalluses and pickled fish, in fairness there were a couple of really nice pieces but nothing to set the world on fire. The gallery was virtually empty so it would seem that no one is that interested anyway. Fuck it then.

We headed over to the ancient Galata Tower for lunch but it was shut (for lunch) so we nipped round the corner to an empty café for some freshly cooked fodder, and beer. This part of town was poor and a bit ramshackle but the food was great and the weather was right nice, if a bit too hot. The local beer incidentally is bloody nice too (and cheaper than tap water.)

IC and I encountered poverty quite a few times on the trip, it wasn’t overt but if you took the time to get properly lost in back streets by the Grand Bazaar ‘real’ Istanbul made itself known. These markets were quite different from the tits and teeth Bazaars, and seemed to comprise of shops selling endless quantities of cheap cloth to the throngs similarly attired like bobbins. Fake goods lined the narrow streets and for the first time we didn’t get hassled, not one iota, these folk weren’t interested in tourists, they knew they had nothing to offer us.

The last meal on the last night was an expensive affair, well, relatively speaking. We dined in a very posh linen crisp fish restaurant on a sumptuous terrace overlooking the sea of Mamara where we chose the dead fish we were to be shortly served. Once again we got the wine for a song but the fish was a bit on the wee side, though delicious. Throughout most of the meal some old hag took it on herself to stare intently at us, I don’t think this went unnoticed because when she scuttled off the manager gave us a free pudding. No idea what it was, a sort of yoghurt thing but it was right nice.

One of the best things about Turkey was the lack of British people there. Nothing worse than being abroad seeing your fellow countrymen barking orders at locals all greased up on the local moonshine. The one we did encounter was a cross between Keith Richard and a penis. IC and I were having coffee outside of a posh furniture that doubled-up as a coffee gaff when a man with a hat and bare feet (the alarm bells were ringing from the off) began to nasally enthuse at the wowness factor of our being there, for some reason. He even dragged the shop owner out, who he was draped over like a soiled prophylactic, to let him bathe in the WOW of it all. IC and I sipped our coffee glancing nervously at it other with fixed grins. The Englishman started to go on about classical music, I knew before I said something about the Last Night of The Proms that I shouldn’t, English nearly blew his balls off when I did, then rushed back in the shop to take advantage of the owners sublime music system (and coffee) before actually patting me on the head, which IC didn’t like one bit. The classical recital he put on was live and began with applauding that English and Owner replicated with irritating enthusiasm, it was time for IC and I to get away, we hurriedly paid for our coffee as English played air-violin with imploring eyes, the wanker. As we were leaving English ran after us to say farewell and, for the sake of something to say, I asked him how long he and the shop owner, with whom he was taking substantial liberties if I’m honest, had known one another. ‘Oh,’ said English swishing the air, ‘I met him yesterday.’

I suppose it’s encounters like this that make a holiday a holiday, but I’d be happier without them, still, for all the negatives there are always dozens of positives. Looking back now the best part of the trip was a spot of luck regarding the hotel. Every night from the roof terrace IC and I bore witness to the most magical sunsets I’ve ever seen, they were almost silly beautiful, in perpetual change as if we were captured in a giant kaleidoscope. From where we sat we could see Asia, two seas, architectural hymns to god, seagull poo… sipping wine, plonked in a part of the world with more historical significance than just about anywhere, 360 view, drinking. And smoking. The evening prayers that bounced off the landscape were now just perfect.

Oh, I just picked up my new bike…

Sultan Ahmed Mosque, commonly known as The Blue Mosque, the source of my morning alarm, is regarded by many as the jewel in the crown of Islam, until recently it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World, apparently. A visit was essential, I’ve never been in a Mosque so it seemed canny to bust my cherry on what is regarded as the best one there is, hey, why settle for Spumanti when there is champagne on offer, right? Fuck yeah. First off, the place is enormous, really huge, it make St. Paul’s look like a privy.

Anyone can freely enter the grounds that surrounded the magnificent dome dressed in any way they ruddy well like. On entering the dome, however, guests are asked to keep arms and legs covered and one must remove ones shoes. American visitors thought it was okay to just cover their shoes with the plastic bags provided for carrying ones footwear which incensed me, not subscribing to religious doctrine is one thing but some fucking respect is another entirely. In fact I was so angry I accidentally dropped my shoes on the ‘no shoe zone’ which was a little counterproductive.

I wasn’t quite expecting the Mosque to be as awe inspiring as it was, it’s achingly beautiful (called the Blue Mosque because of the vast quantity of tiny blue tiles than line the interior) and the atmosphere quite humbling, emotive, even. Within there was a line that visitors were not permitted to cross and beyond lay the stained glass and electrifying script that glowed before a handful of devotees. When we walked back into the sunshine IC and I were both rather moved, I donated to money to the upkeep of the building and a man took my money with smiling gratitude and a little wink which was right nice. I was so chuffed I bought a fresh pack of tabs and on a whim, a lighter featuring stick people having oral sex.

The sunshine came as a welcome relief, on the second day it rained in short violent bursts forcing me to purchasing a vast umbrella for about £2. We didn’t mind much, it was still warm and anyway, we had stuff to see indoors.

The Basilica Cistern is one of the best things I’ve seen. Built by the Romans to supply water for the city (by 7,000 slaves, apparently) this huge subterranean water tank supports the city above on dozens of enormous columns (Ionic, Doric and Corinthian architect fans) semi-submerged into the crystal clear water below. Lately it’s been jazzed up, each column is lit up by eerie orange lights and a walkway meanders through the crepuscular cavern, ethereal music chimes in the background, it’s magical but in a not-so-funny sort of way, spooky too. The highlight is a pair of carved Medusa head’s chillingly positioned horizontally at the base of the columns at the far end of the well giving it even more of a haunted touch. I relished in the shudders.

We journeyed over the North bank to visit the fish market and were harassed by a bunch of local eateries that sit virtually on top of palettes of Bluefish, Bream and Bass, some still flicked their tails and gulped warm air in defiance of their fatal awakening. We chose a very rustic looking place on account of the menu and sat outside only yards from the river bank. Battered mussels and Bream were cooked to fucking perfection, no fuss or fancy, belt and braces top quality food that would’ve cost a bloody fortune at Sheeky’s or Bibendum, bill came to under a tenner.

Throughout our stay we regularly visited the Grand Bazaar and the slightly more gentile Spice Bazaar. Both are ostentatious riots of colour, heat and activity, particularly the latter which was much smaller though less intense, largely because real life business was being conducted there. As with the restaurants traders would leap out at you with theatrical grins and unsubtle one-liners, ‘Hey **** (a reference to a particular tattoo) let me talk to you, hey, I just wanna talk ,****..!’ I was referred to said tat so often on my trip I started to answer to it as if it was my god-given name. In a way I found it sort of endearing.

The markets are a place to lose yourselves for a few hours, in the case of the Grand Bazaar quite literally. On one occasion we took a wrong turn and found ourselves in someone’s ramshackle house after being ushered up by a less-than-comely youth under the misapprehension the market had another level, we found ourselves overlooking the top of the markets with a young Turk staring at IC with a nasty grin and a skewed twinkle in his eye, who, without breaking his malevolent gaze, began demanding money, we rapidly retreated pursued by a now less-than-friendly native.

Most of the stuff sold in the markets is much the same, trinkets, coloured pottery, shisha pipes, sweets, but prices vary widely, you can pay more than double for an item seen seconds before in an adjacent stall. The Spice Bazaar was my favourite and incredibly cheap for spices, obviously. You could buy Saffron for a much less than a tenth of the price in Supermarkets in London and Iranian Beluga Caviar was about £18 a pot. It was visually stunning too, mini mountains of multicoloured spice peaked precariously over their sacks without caution to the passing throngs, it says a lot for the Turkish this, there’re extraordinarily trusting in that part of town (allegedly it’s a different story on the North bank) and apart from the incident cited, at no point did I or IC feel threatened or any way unsafe day or night.

We lunched out every day and ate out every night; for the most part the food was sensational. I managed to eat loads of lamb koftis and kebab meat, the latter a bit disappointing in many respects as most of them mix lamb and beef and due in part to the lack of crap contained within they felt surprisingly listless to the spicy elephant legs you get over here. Having said that it was a different story on the streets, kebab stalls were everywhere and in a display of uncharacteristic tolerance I decided to have only one ‘dirty’ kebab, though it took me a short while to locate an ‘authentic’ one of just pure lamb. I did on the last day and by the love of god was it worth it, served in a sort of flatbread with salad and chilli sauce I almost wept tears of fucking joy as I ate it. No shit kids, I’d go all the way back there just to have another. I was so bloody happy I asked to guy to give me his trademark wrapper for posterity which the hero gently folded and presented to me as if the finest ermine in Christendom. It sits happily attached to my fridge with two pretty Islamic Fridge magnets and a rubber tit.

One of the nicest meals we had -outside of those described- was in a little place by the hotel. There was a small snag though, the owner was a lovely Muslim chap who wouldn’t sell us alcohol but agreed to let us bring our own wine in. I think he regretted his decision as soon as IC and I turned up pissed a couple of hours later waving a bottle of Turkey’s finest. Of course he didn’t have an opener (he breathed with a sigh of relief) so I went back to the shop to get this issue resolved and returned. He politely asked us if we wouldn’t mind keeping the wine on the floor of his restaurant throughout our meal. His lamb koftis were out of this world.

Bit more tomorrow. I’m still bloody crook but feeling able to face a day in the office, maybe. On more thrilling news, my new bike will be ready for collection this week. Sadly this fact is offset by the lack of anything from my fucking solicitors. Cunts.

A treat for Dead Kennedy fans right here…

ALLLLLLLLAAAARRRRRRRAGGGHHHHHH, HEEEEEEMYYYUNUNUNUNEEEEEEEAARRRRR and so forth. Six am on the dot every day from a sound system that would make Motorhead blush, astonishing noise that could be heard reverberating around the whole city for a good 20 minutes, every morning, every day.

Prayers happened 5 times a day, 6, 1, 4, 7 and 8pm from a multitude of Mosques. But the longest by far was the morning, after a few days IC and I would wake in anticipation of it. At first it was annoying, but there was also something rather beautiful about it. In many respects this is the essence of Istanbul, a city of opposites and tolerance; it’s both clean and shoddy, irritating and awe inspiring, shit and lovely all packed into one small corner of the world -I’m no traveller but of all the places I’ve visited this was the one that snatched the breath from your lungs in the most unexpected of quarters.

Istanbul is literally divided into two; the north part is all commerce and industry, it’s like any other modern city, office blocks punctuated by bars and cafes with the odd cinema, theatre and gallery. The traffic is perpetual and it’s noisy seemingly without reference to the more archaic occurrences over the Galata Bridge to the south. On the Tuesday a very 21st century riot kicked off after students protesting against the G20 summit were inexcusably assaulted by the local constabulary, you may have read about it in the papers… In the south no one even knew about this until the following day, if at all.

We arrived on Saturday after a reasonably relaxed flight and were plopped into midsummer weather at lunchtime after losing a couple of hours over Europe. After a minor standoff at passport control in which all the UK bods were forced to pay 10 fucking Euro for a visa stamp (I didn’t have 10 Euro to hand and demanded to know why I was being charged passage when IC was able to wander through with impunity.) After being frogmarched to a cash machine by an official we found ourselves outside the airport surrounded by a sea of coach and cabs without a clue how to get to our hotel. We knew the district the accommodation was in so began to ask which coach we needed to get to our destination. Each time we asked we were ushered towards grinning cab drivers until we discovered we were actually being directed towards a very specific coach surrounded by grinning taxi drivers… said coach took us to Taxim (capiche?) where once again we found ourselves in the midst of yet more coaches and cabbies (and 72 hours later the venue for the riot.) IC and I decided against our better nature to get a £20 (45 Turkish Lira) cab to the hotel, unaware as we were then a tram costing 75p would have virtually dropped us outside the door.

It was 4-ish when we checked in, hot and tired but full of that weird exuberance when finding oneself, quite suddenly, in a different country with people doing different shit and not speaking the Queens lingo, or in the case of IC, The Pope.

The staff were friendly and only too keen to help a pair of knackered tourists, bit too keen actually, the young bloke on reception seemed intent on showing us every fucking hillock, but he was okay, even more so when he got IC and I a bottle of wine and sent us onto the roof terrace. This was the best part about the hotel, the rooms were clean and featured a nice en suite but were a bit subterranean and small, the terrace on the other hand offered a 360 degree panorama of Istanbul with the Blue Mosque a quarter of a mile off and The Golden Horn even closer. We sat there sipping Turkish wine (which to my utter surprise is bloody lovely) and generally feeling a bit chuffed with ourselves.

After the wine we hit the city. Istanbul is very walkable, indeed most of the major places of interest were no more than a 20 minute stroll from the hotel. As soon as we stepped out every shopkeeper, restaurateur, cafe owner did the same thing and began pitching us with smiles and accommodating gestures in the direction of their wares or services. It wasn’t too bad round the hotel which was located in Sultanahmet on a quiet cobbled street a few hundred yards from the Egyptian obelisk where the harassment began to ratchet up a notch, gently at first but with increasing intensity all the way to the Galata Bridge where mawkish maître d’s lurking in the dozens of fish restaurants that line the underside virtually throw themselves at your feet in order to halt your progress… It’s a price worth paying mind you, however irritating it might be.

There are so many restaurants under the Galata Bridge that offer the same sort of fare it’s largely impossible to tell one from the other outside of the quantity, or lack of, diners. Trying to examine a menu always results in hard-core pitching but as Istanbul is by and large a Muslim city we quickly learnt to edit the fellows not serving booze and take our chances with the ones that do. The trick is play them at their own game, ask for free wine, it usually sees them off, but on a couple of occasions we got just that, at worst we always won a discount of some sort.

Once a decision has been made the neighbouring competition melts away and we could relax. The view of the river and the banks littered with cafes, markets and Mosques are sublime enough to negate description and the food is fucking amazing, everything fresh and local, the bridge-eateries are only a few feet from freshly landed fish. Over the top of the bridge, day and night, fishermen crowd both sides of the bridge with lines cast into the clear water below. This means that diners are treated to a curtain of silvery nylon line punctuated by the odd descending hook and the occasion rising bluefish with his fate sealed tight.

Once seated the waiting staff, unburdened by pressure of new business, are chatty, friendly and genuinely interested in their rather scruffy diners. I have to say, by and large, the Turks are friendly and decent, from the piss poor tinker right up to shop managers in the posher parts of town… having said that it’s easy for me to say that being a cock-proud bloke, IC was subject to lascivious gazes, salacious winking, comments and on one occasion a foolhardy grab to the point she almost began to envy the karakul burka-clad sisters.

On the first night we ate and drank to our hearts content and after a day’s travel slept like the dead until being blasted off our mattress by the rapturous cacophony from the Blue Mosque. Christ it was fucking loud, almost as if the bloke was lying next to me with the business end of his loudspeaker attached to my ear.

The hotel breakfast was not to my liking, salty weird cheese and spongy meat; I didn’t fancy cereal so we more or less gave it a miss. The Sunday weather wasn’t too clement either, strangely overcast but humid, IC and I didn’t really care though, we had a mission to explore.

More tomorrow. I should explain that if this reads dreadfully it’s because since I returned on Thursday evening I’ve been knocked sideways by a bastard cold and doing anything is aggro. Oh, Jerry’s chart won’t post on this fucking machine but fear not, it’ll be posted soon and I’ve a choon from the current.

I hope I don’t die, by the way.

No Piqued for a week, there’s a huge, badly written archive if you get bored, actually, I was looking back on something a few weeks ago and it was peppered with all bad shit, missing words. Stuff like that.

I had to take public transport last night, and again this morning. It’s a dour experience, in particular the final leg of the journey home. I alight in the city after a miserable 40 minutes on the tube and have to hang out the place like a tart waiting for the bus. It’s no problem getting a bus out of Hackney in the morning but getting one back in late afternoon is a right bastard if you’ll pardon my fucking language. Of course it’s rammed full, full of cunts. Probably.

Right, Gerry’s chart, a tune and have good weekends, and indeed the following week. Spare a though for me in Istanbul. RIIIFFKKIII!

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Gossip Love Long Distance 23 6
29 All Time Low Weightless 29 3
28 Hockey Song Away 28 4
27 The Cribs Cheat On Me 20 8
26 Foo Fighters Wheels NE 1
25 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 18 12
24 Biffy Clyro The Captain NE 1
23 You Me At Six Kiss And Tell 22 4
22 Steel Panther Community Property 25 3
21 Gallows I Dread The Night 16 7
20 Bat For Lashes Sleep Alone 19 3
19 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere NE 1
18 Pearl Jam The Fixer 12 8
17 Muse Uprising 14 9
16 Weezer (If You’re…….) I Want You To. 21 2
15 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 10 9
14 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff 15 3
13 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 17 3
12 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 27 2
11 Paramore Ignorance 7 7
10 Ian Brown Stellify 6 6
9 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 5 8
8 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 8 4
7 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 4 11
6 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 9 3
5 The xx Crystallized 3 6
4 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 13 5
3 Rammstein Pussy 11 2
2 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 2 7
1 Editors Papillon 1 4

Technically, the Black Bitch is still mine but I’m not allowed to ride her anymore, so effectively, I’m bikeless. I don’t think I’ve been bikeless since I was 18… apart from the occasionally protracted service… but that doesn’t really count as I still had a bike, it was just being fiddled with and I could lawfully ride it at any given moment. Now I’m actually bikeless, it’s a bloody horrid feeling, akin to impotency I should imagine.

Yesterday evening the Black Bitch was taken to the folks so it may be parked up off road, she was then locked and covered until such time she’s purchased by another fellow. Following a light grilling from my parents with regard to their perception that I may be involved in Satanism (I’m not kidding, incidentally) a bemused Piqued was dropped off at the station to catch the train, the bus, to home. It was a horrific journey, the train full of teenage Hockey players who made such an ear-shredding din I was forced to change carriages. And the fucking bus was well late.

I don’t watch Eastenders anymore, please check link to WWM on right and enjoy the rantings of those that do, but learnt that tonight a certain Boris Johnson makes a ‘cameo’ appearance on the soap. It seems to be causing a bit of a fuss and I’m not entirely sure why…

Well I am a bit; apparently Ken Livingston was denied a spot on the show when he suggested it to the BBC so the Corporation are being accused of political bias. I suppose I can see something in this but, really, what sort of prick would go from anti-Boris to pro-Boris based on his popping up on a soap opera? Judging by the preview on the BBC homepage, in which a clearly self-conscious Johnson attempts to act (check out that just-washed jerky head movement) it may do him more harm than good by highlighting what a fat toe-curling twit he is. Other arguments levelled at his BBC appearance are around the ‘he should be doing his job’ ilk. On the one hand this is fair-enough but for those of us living under his blonde bouffant it’s business as usual. Boris has done fuck-all for Londoners apart from stopping me from drinking on public transport and encouraging me to put mine and others lives in danger by allowing me to blast down bus lanes (as discussed in previous entries) when I’m not bikeless, of course.

So what if he’s on Eastenders, Neighbours, Emmerdale, Crossroads, Albion Market or what ever TV-bilge he cares to lend his talentlessness. At least it keeps the tit out of County Hall making up cynical and stupid dictates in lieu of actual transport policy that would allow me to get from Hackney to Wimbledon in less than the two fucking hours it took me this morning by crammed, public transport. That did smelled of dirty bottoms.

Oh, flat latest. During the day I had yet another row with my insouciant solicitor who seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to not harangue the shit out my buyers legal ‘team’ when they curtly inform her that faxes are treated as post in terms of a 48-hour turnaround. In short, they now have every last shred of documentation required to initiate the exchange, but can’t be fucked to do anything about it. I’m sick to the back teeth of this shit and am haemorrhaging money like a menstruating primate with a serrated knife in its neck. Cunts!

On account of a small but not earth shattering cock-up regarding the new bike, I decided to bring the Black Bitch out for one final trundle, and that really is it as both my insurance and tax expire at midnight tonight and it’ll be illegal to ride her.

So instead of going back to the folks and parking her up (I’m doing that tonight) I pointed her East-wise and stopped by en route at the bike shop to procure a new motorcycle cover and ended up buying a crash helmet that looks and fits great but channels the worlds wind directly into me two lug ‘oles. For obvious reasons a helmet is non-refundable so I’ve got to deal with it. Oh well. Later on Paul from round the corner popped over for a spot of wine, IC dropped by to say hi, and the former and I played a few games of chess. Which was nice.

Things seem to be moving forward with the fucking solicitors. After paying for cunt’s dad building insurance out of my own fucking pocket (don’t ask, it was the only way to progress) and forking out some more money for some sort of indemnity insurance or something I got a call this very morning and was told, by my solicitors, that exchange was imminent. I’ve heard that one before though so I refuse to see my glass as half full.

Bollocks, though.

Yesterday evening I did the last ride from work to home, and this morning, the last ride from home to work. At the end of the working day I’m going to take the Black Bitch on one last journey to my folks where she’ll be covered and locked to await her new owner. I have to say it feels a little emotional. It’s the longest I’ve owned a single machine (over 10 years) and she’s been fast, furious, enormous fun, life affirming at times of bad luck and desperation and despite being subject to regular thrashings, virtually trouble free. Even now the engine is as sweet as honey.

In the last couple of years Speed Triples have become increasingly popular, almost passé. When I bought mine they were still quite a rare sight on British roads, largely because they were trailing a new path. Neither balls out sportsbike or teeth shuddering cruiser, they appealed to an unclassified sort of biker, and obviously I fitted the pitch or I wouldn’t have stuck with mine for so long. If it wasn’t for this ambiguity I’d never had been able to afford a nearly-new one. The fat bastard I bought it off simply didn’t get along with it, though he’d already spent a few hundred quid on instantly deprecating extras… factor in the 1999 model aesthetic which remains the prettiest of the range (the earlier and later models have a sort of ubiquity about them) with the livery existing only for that one precious year and, of course, a bit of Piqued input over time made the Black Bitch unique. You’ll never see one like mine, it’s not possible.

I’ve previously stated on these very pages that if you don’t ‘get’ the motorcycle thing (whatever the ‘thing’ is, a mental condition probably) you will not understand why a mechanical object can inspire genuine emotion. This isn’t me projecting my desire onto the machine; this is something that comes from the physical nature of the motorcycle, the way riding makes me feel, and the look and sound of it prior to, during and after. I don’t look at pictures of motorcycles. I look at pictures of motorcycles and my mind starts it, and rides it, and I get an emotion back…

Either tomorrow, or Thursday, I’ll take public transport to Bermondsey and after some simple paperwork the money granddad left to me will be exchanged for a brand new Husqvarna SM610. I’ve never owned a bike from new but have had the frustration of running an engine in following a top-end rebuild. To put it bluntly I’ll have to ride the new bike gingerly for a few hundred miles until all the mechanical components have settled into their groove, quite literally. Having said that this doesn’t diminish the prospect of having a new bike one iota.

Like the Speed Triple, the Husqvarna -though off the peg- is unique by default. Well sort of, of course, others exist but they’re absurdly rare. I’ve never seen one in London (apart from the one I test rode) either in black or in the more popular livery of yellow and blue. The fact that mine had to be specially imported from the manufacturers in Italy bears this out. If it wasn’t for the fact I have a dedicated dealer virtually on my doorstep, replete with parts and service facilities, buying one would negate all the practicalities of owning a Supermoto. This may explain to a certain extent why they’re so rare, not much point in owning a machine if you can’t get the parts for it, and there are hardly any Husqvarna dealers in the UK.

Unlike the Speed Triple, the Husqvarna isn’t all things to all men; it’s a purebred (ironically born of a hybrid, it’s half sportsbike, half motocross bike.) The fact they look beautiful (to me at least, IC isn’t convinced) isn’t a reason to buy one if, for example, you were commuting on a daily basis to the South coast it’d be an impractical choice. But for what I need it for it’s perfect, it’s made for fast city silliness and will eat country roads, although getting to them on motorways is where I’ll notice the bikes commitment to do two thing exceptionally as opposed to everything adequately.

Having said that, what really sold me, what actually caused me to go from, ‘I want one’ to ‘I will have one’ is the sound. A large single-cylinder 4-stroke that thumps out the sound of hell. It’s lumbering doom metal at tickover and death at full throttle. Reminiscent of the golden days of British bikes but cutting a sharper, more defined note, this bike is guaranteed to frighten the all piss out of London.

Still, I’m going to miss the Black Bitch. Thanks Black Bitch, wuv oo.

Last night in the restaurant, mid way through a right fucking nice roast dinner (English cliché, roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding) IC and I ruminated on how, of late, weekends are the equivalent of stuffing a year into a month. The one past was of no exception.

It began on Friday evening following another day of ex-flat-based horror, I had a bit of time to relax before popping off to Sue’s to meet IC, Jo, Swineshead and his missus for some wine and a catch-up. I wasn’t on form as I was shattered but the evening passed pleasantly enough, though I was dead chuffed to see my bed.

On Saturday morning after some breakfast IC and I took the bicycles out of Hackney and clipped the edge of the city before dismounting in Brick Lane. The shock of physical inertia was nauseating, my legs were like trifle and I felt faint for a good 10 mins, though I kept this to myself as IC wasn’t even out of breath and I’d pedalled like a fucking twit just to keep up with her. We drifted through the sunshine and nipped into Rough Trade to meet some friends visiting from Italy. The trio were hungry but didn’t fancy curry, finding any other sort of food in that neck of the woods isn’t easy so they were forced to make do with (above par I have to say) burgers from the confines of the knowingly trendy Vibe Bar. The afternoon slipped by nicely with a pint or two and at 4pm IC and I cycled back to Hackney (it was much worse on the way home) to my garden in order to undertake some 18-certificate work on IC’s velocipede.

It’d been a long time since I’d had to remove and change headrace bearings, so, armed with a couple of pints, I attacked the job in hand with aplomb. First problem was not having a big enough spanner for the main nut, I popped by the pound shop for a £6 adjustable which was a gnat’s cock too small, so I visited another in order to procure a larger adjustable for another £6 for fucks sake. Dismantling the front end following this was a breeze, even drifting the old cups out of the frame with a metal rod (an ex-spotlight support) and a hammer was relatively easy. The new bottom cup was tapped home in seconds but the top cup wasn’t having any of it. Every time it started to lock into position an encouraging belt home would lurch it free. After an hour of this I was almost in tears. I knew I needed a wooden block to distribute the weight of my maniacal blows but I had nothing to hand. In addition the freshly mounted lower cup -with its gleaming greased bearings- was covered in all shit from the pea shingle in the garden.

I paused, took some time out to clean the gritted bearings and noticed a spare chopping board in the kitchen, I broke this in half and used it as a buffer and with one targeted whack the fucking cup went home. Five minutes later the bicycle was re-assembled and the job granted the status of complete success.

Mary and IC had some friends over from Sweden so it seemed rude not to pop off to the local and meet them for a few well-deserved drinks. Indy and his missus, Paul from around the corner and the former two protagonists and I spent a marvellous evening drinking cheap cocktails, though at some point I opted for beer, I think I’m off cocktails for the while, they’re too fiddly.

When we finally got home IC was too exhausted to eat despite my rustling up a sensational dish of smoked haddock, fried potato, onions and tomato in 20 mins. I had hers in front of F1 qualifying with a splash of wine. The hangover on Sunday wasn’t too bad which was fortuitous as we had a big ride to the countryside to visit my nieces, one brand new.

It took a while to get out of Hackney as there was a huge parade passing through the junction by Hackney Downs and the traffic was being held back by police. It was lively, loud and colourful, the antithesis of the sort of thing you’d get in my former hell-hole, made me feel rather proud if I’m completely honest. As we waiting at the front of the queue of traffic one of the cops invited me to gently cut through the parade and I was waved through with a beaming smile. Lovely.

It took a while to untangle ourselves from the London traffic and we stopped near New Malden so I could get IC a new crash helmet as the one she had, a hand-me-down from my sister, wasn’t only unsafe and elderly but made her look like she needed help going to the loo.

IC doesn’t like wearing crash helmets, which isn’t ideal; she finds them claustrophobic, I can sympathise with her to an extent, being a sufferer of that particular phobia, but I’m blessed with a helmet caveat. I knew that she’d need some encouragement to ensure that what she got fitted correctly and didn’t say ‘yes’ to the first thing flung on her head. It’s been a few years since I bought a new lid and I have to say technology has leapt forward. These days one can purchase a lid that opens completely at the front with a switch but looks as if it’s a regular full-face helmet in its languid state, this was ideal. Better still there was a black one for under £100 that fitted. After 30 rather tense minutes the job was done and off we set for the final leg of the trip.

When we arrived my sister had one of her enormous tits stuck in junior’s mouth. My new niece is tiny, much smaller than her sister at that age. Said sister was pegging about the place clearly not overly chuffed at the attention being bestowed on her sibling. I know how she feels. When her mother was born I was so un-impressed I tried to knack it with greenfly killer in the shed but was caught red handed. Not dissuaded by a severe bollocking and a fortnights Mr Benn curfew (my sister had to go to hospital, incidentally) she ‘fell’ down the stairs a month later… accidents will happen yeah.

IC and I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon with the family, mum and dad showed up with cake sending my eldest niece into sugar frenzy. Lovely afternoon but at 4pm we were forced back onto the road to head London-wise without a ton of traffic. We stopped on Waterloo Bridge for a fag and I suddenly realised that this was pretty much last orders for the Black Bitch who, come Wednesday, will be taken off the public roads to retire and await her lucky new owner. I feel a bit sad about it actually but this is somewhat off-set by the gaining of a shiny new Husqvarna SM610, here on known as ‘The Loud One,’ this week.

Home at 6, quick brush up and straight out to the restaurant cited at the beginning of today’s subdued crap. We had a great big fat time and waddled home with the prospect of a weeks work to take the shine off things.

Right, this band were hyped for greatness that never happened. I saw them unsigned but already tipped at Kingston Poly in 1990. The bands parents were there too. Bless.

After a morning at work in which nothing happened, I set off at midday to catch the train. I had cunningly planned to meet IC at Wimbledon station; she was coming from Waterloo and had arranged to alight the first carriage at exactly 1.06 where she was waiting, suitably suited, booted and looking right nice.

We carried on to Walton and took a cab to the registry office in Weybridge where a nervous but contained Gerry was greeting guests. We were ushered into the registry office and the bride followed in a fluff of bridesmaids and eager relations and the ceremony commenced. I rather like registry weddings, they’re usually a lot more light-hearted and jovial than the church-based counterpart and this was no exception, in addition there is no messing about, in and out in 20 mins, bosh.

The weather for a late September was exemplarily, more like a summers day in July, warm, clear and sunny, they couldn’t have planned it better. After some photos of the delighted pair and their family in the landscaped garden we popped off to a nearby Italian for lunch, the whole restaurant had been reserved for the guests, 30 or so of us. As their wasn’t a surfeit of revellers the group was tight and in excellent cheer, bonding was a breeze and as the wine flowed in earnest it became an exercise in simplicity. Food happened, I ate a pizza the size of Land Rover wheel and IC wrestled with sea bass, delicious. Following restrained and at time emotional speeches we drank up and popped back to Gerry’s gaff for more celebrations.

As night fell the guests started to drift and we felt that we too should leave the cheery couple to their own devices. An incident on the train on the way home, which resulted in IC getting a little telling-off from a disembodied voice, made for a most amusing journey home and by 9.30 we were back the Twatcave happy and in control of our faculties. What a lovely day, well, from the time I left the office at least… Having catastrophic problems with the flat, I’m putting it back on the market with an extra few grand on it. Hopefully I can re-coup the money I’ve lost and will continue to lose by getting more for it second time round, I’m not holding my breath. Devastating.

Last few days of the Black Bitch and I too, she’s going to be permanently off road from Wednesday evening, I should get a few quid for her when she’s sold but it’s a drop in the ocean in comparison to the money I’m losing, FOR CHRISSAKES.

Sorry.

Anyway, on the ride in this morning a car pulled across me without indicating, of course I beeped the horn and for good measure revved my engine churning the air into a cacophony a dirty grindcore. I overtook the car, flipped the bird as they say in that America when, instead of the usual cowering, the driver, now behind, flashed her lights, blue ones that go ‘wooooo, wooooo’. My heart sunk to my toenails.

A few yards ahead the lights turned red so I stopped, turned round and faced the uniformed bint who look like she’d been hit with a poisoned bladder. Feeling vindicated by the fact she’d nearly knocked me under a bus I gestured to her that she might want to use indicators, she in turn referred to my erect digit and then mouthed that I was going too fast and to ‘slow down,’ I again gestured to her indicators before realising this was futile so I turned my back on her and gave her a ‘meh’ wave wholly expecting her roof to light up just before getting pinched for something… The fact that nothing happened would suggest I was in the right, and I wasn’t speeding anyway, much.

Chart, choon… Congrats to Gerry again, marvellous day

I’m meeting my new niece on Sunday and the rest of the weekend is given over to a solid diary of activity, which may or may not be posted Monday depending on my mental state.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 20 10
29 All Time Low Weightless 30 2
28 Hockey Song Away 24 3
27 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too NE 1
26 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 17 9
25 Steel Panther Community Property 28 2
24 The Used Blood On My Hands 19 6
23 The Gossip Love Long Distance 16 5
22 You Me At Six Kiss And Tell 22 3
21 Weezer (If You’re Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To. NE 1
20 The Cribs Cheat On Me 15 7
19 Bat For Lashes Sleep Alone 25 2
18 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 14 11
17 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 27 2
16 Gallows I Dread The Night 11 6
15 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff 21 2
14 Muse Uprising 10 8
13 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 13 4
12 Pearl Jam The Fixer 8 7
11 Rammstein Pussy NE 1
10 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 9 8
9 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 18 2
8 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 12 3
7 Paramore Ignorance 6 6
6 Ian Brown Stellify 5 5
5 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 7 7
4 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 3 10
3 The xx Crystallized 4 5
2 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 1 6
1 Editors Papillon 2 3

Yesterday evening (after a harrowfying day in the office that saw me crushed at my desk by the hellish hands of anger, fear, disbelief and fucking fury at the way the solicitors involved in the selling of that cunting flat are behaving. To cut it short due to my unwillingness to drag myself through the process of recollection, it wound up with me buying buildings insurance on behalf of Cunt’s dad. Jesus) and after biking home I got on my bicycle, that non-engined thing I spurn as if it were a bubonic cock, and cycled to Broadway market to meet IC who was similarly engaged with velocipede. I cycled on pavements, jumped red lights and generally made myself as irritating as possible to pedestrian and motorist alike. The best bit was peddling through London Fields, over scattered russet brown leaves cradled gently by the tips of bottle-green grasses, past majestic Plane trees that sighed with the breeze, their austere canopy punctuated only by the dying purple light of the day… fucking ace.

I met IC at the pub opposite the pie and mash shop and drank Flowers as the horror of the damned exchange faded. At nightfall we cycled to Sue, herself recently moved, and had sushi and Martini before returning home to shower and change and see off the day with a shot of wine. A nice ending to what was a terrible start.

I’m still waiting. Such is my frustration I forgot to announce the birth of a second niece, born 7lbs and 2 oz on Tuesday, who I’m due to meet Sunday. But I wasn’t in a position to forget the wedding of my old mate Gerry (him of the Friday chart) as I had to prepare in advance for the afternoons ceremony. I’m sat here suited and booted and good to go. Congratulations to him and his missus, I dedicate today’s tune to them.

That bumbling blonde bastard Boris, the London hog’s Eye, fascist twit and all round fatso in nice guy clothes has come up with a another fucking gem, and clearly that’s sarcasm living and breathing in a universe of hyperbole.

His first act of wilful stupidity was to allow bikers in the bus lane… believe it or not I was actually against allowing bikers in the bus lane because bus lanes are, a. full of potholes and diesel and all round visceral blood spurting danger, and, b. I didn’t want loads of mopeds and couriers getting in my fucking way as I used them all the time from the off (though even I will admit it’s a lot easier these days to take large swathes of journey out by lawfully (as opposed to the old days of wobbling into the lane ‘accidentally’) screaming through them.) On the two occasions I did get pulled by the police I produced my registration document and pointed out that I was classified as a ‘bicycle,’ quite literally, and was therefore entitled to use them which led to head scratching on the part of the officer and my getting ‘let off’ without so much as a caution.

I digress.

I should also imagine that allowing bikers in the bus lane has led to a rise in fatalities/accidents though I’ve absolutely no proof to corroborate this and proving it would be contentious anyway because of the circumstantial factors involved via the nature of stop/starting busses, wandering pedestrians, left turning vehicles, et cetera.

But to allow cyclist to jump red lights, his latest wheeze, displays the sense found in an act of autosarcophagy. For a kick off this is a u-turn as in May 2008 it was reported, after getting caught jumping red lights, that, “Boris feels strongly that cyclists should not jump red lights and if he did so then clearly that was a mistake and he will be more careful in future.”

I know, of course, that Boris isn’t giving the green light for cyclists to jump red lights with impunity; it’s only left hand turns at junctions. And don’t get me wrong, in theory it’s a fine idea. The problem is thus; some cyclists will see the new incentive precisely as a license to jump red lights with impunity, it’s not as if the problem is bad enough as it currently stands.

This very morning a moustachioed Shoreditch type cheerfully jumped red light after red light after my nearly hitting him as I was turning right onto Hackney Road (he jumped the light, of course). In every instance he nearly collided with a car, or more pertinently a pedestrian, the prick. Admittedly, less than a fifth (in my experience) of cyclists cynically jump red lights and my grief is only with this bunch, but as soon as this new policy comes into practice, based on the tried and tested give ‘em an inch theory, that figure will double overnight. It’s one thing for the right-on (tax exempt) cyclist to harp on cheerlessly about their being some sort of champions of the planet and saviours of congestion but what about the humble, wholly innocent, pedestrian who are directly effected by this fucking silliness?

As implied, the majority of cyclists just want to sensibly get to work without some socio-political agenda and happily obey the laws that govern roads, but I’ve noticed a growing hardcore of cyclist that behave as if they own the fucking place. Some even have the bloody mindedness to stop right in front of me at the lights when their passage is blocked by a swathe of crossing traffic; they’ve nothing to gain save preventing me from accessing the road ahead. I can do 0-60 in 3 seconds and it takes the average bike 30 seconds to reach 15. Do you think these types are going to give a fuck for a pedestrian lawfully trying to cross the road before being pole axed from the right by a left-turning holier-than-thou tit on a single-geared carbon-fibre velocipede? And if cyclists can go left on a red, why can’t I? Why can’t we all? The ones that pay tax to pay for the fucking roads in the first place.

I would like to point out IC cycles through the city everyday, I’ve followed her in a few times and she always stops at red lights, and she’s kind to small animals.

Still no news on the fucking flat. But I have Slayer to guide me… this isn’t for the sensitive.

After my bro and his missus left on Sunday, I decided to paint the (what is now) a dining table. In the past it used to be my desk, the very one I used to sit over with my face contorted like a melting glove praying that my neighbour would succumb to a unique dose of the Antonine Plague, and it seemed fitting that all association of this foul and bitter creature be permanently struck from history.

IC had popped up to her flat and I’d arranged to join her in 20 minutes for a spot of supper. It’d been a merry afternoon following a late morning of intense cooking due to my lying in. A fisherman’s pie was laid at 2pm for the four of us with all the necessary accoutrements, such as wine, and by the time I was faced with the table and pot of green paint at around 8pm I was a little pissed.

This doesn’t mean to say I was incapable. In fact, when it comes to practical things I’m fairly competent (even when ravaged.) Before IC and I went out for dinner on Friday (a splendid little place near Columbia Road boasting ‘Georgian’ (as in the region not the regency) food which hasn’t a liquor license making it dirt cheap to boot) I’d assembled one of the fucking bookcases so cheerlessly acquired the previous Wednesday from the Swedish Fist. The fact I’d managed to assemble it almost entirely back to front, and upside down, is due to my propensity to refuse instructions and spurn preparation.

On Saturday morning I had to dismantle the fucked-up bookcase and re-assemble it correctly, though I decided to leave out the backboard (couldn’t be fagged to nail it on) which meant that when I filled the shelves with books it leant slumped like a pissed sailor on shore leave. I swore loudly, unburdened the shelves, corrected the mistake and re-added the books. The second bookcase was a lot easier to assemble as I was armed with the knowledge learnt from the failures of the first, though I was cheap with the backboard nails (as I had been with the first) and it was only when I stepped back to admire my handwork I noticed that both backboards were undulating like the North sea and both cases were leaning forwards on the verge of toppling. Furiously I removed all the fucking books again in order to gain access to the back of the cases and attach the fabric loops before drilling two holes in the plaster board in which to screw in the hooks to attached to the loops, and for the third time replaced the books. Then I remembered I’d not corrected the rippling fucking backboards that by now were good for the skate Park in London Fields. Best leave it before I took my hammer to it all.

After dumping a bunch of stuff at the charity shop IC and I grabbed the bus to take the train from London Bridge to Gatwick, not for the purposes of vacation (that’s next week) but to visit some of IC’s friends who have, one would imagine, the misfortune to live there.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. The road they live down is quite lovely, not a shred of noise, so we were able to spend the afternoon in their pretty garden in the warm sunshine. A very congenial way to see off the last official day of summer, especially as we’d wine to sip along the way and stuff to pick at. We set off at dusk and were home by 9-ish, IC and I decided to spurn the world and locked ourselves in the Twatcave for the remainder of the evening, it’s a hazy memory, but I do recall IC not minding black metal…

Armed with the recent disaster regarding all things bookshelf, I paused before slapping paint on my former desk. I carefully cleaned the surface and masked the perimeter with tape before gingerly brushing a revolting green gloss over the past. Satisfied with my efforts I left the fug of solvent in the flat and went upstairs to spend the evening with IC.

I got in last night after a meeting with my bro at a boozer in Monument eager to check my efforts. My black heart sank; the paint had split on the table as it had dried (I should’ve sanded the surface before I applied the paint to key it in but didn’t think it was necessary) so I angrily tore off the masking tape that simultaneously lifted sheets of fresh paint off the table with it. I was speechless with rage.

Actually, it’s a wonder today’s Piqued happened at all as I’m still smashed to pieces from still not having heard a fucking word from either estate agent, solicitor or priest.

Typing ‘Gahhhhhh’ doesn’t do my ravaged head justice.

Today’s clip posted in ‘comments’ below, it’s not safe for work.

Apparently I’m stressed. I was a little bit shocked when I was informed that my recent behaviour was over and above that of someone who was just tired. As I pondered this I realised I was grinding my teeth, ‘good lord,’ I asserted, ‘I’m like a coiled fucking spring.’

This isn’t the same sort of stress I used to encounter when living in Tooting over a gaping fanny flap, or indeed the whole anxiety-based pisser of physically moving, this is something much deeper and less tangible as I’ve not been properly acknowledge it.

Allow me if you will. I’ve occasionally mentioned the crap with my buyer’s solicitors most likely in the form of vitriol-fuelled rants. Well, if you consider that absolutely nothing has changed with regard to my current predicament, it may go some way to explaining how this fucking horror-show has been suppressed within, occasionally rearing its filthy head over the parapet. Admittedly, I’m not the most tolerant of people but lately I’ve been on a hair-trigger. My filter has been removed. The slightest, merest inconvenience results in an instant fit.

It’s perfectly simple, I should’ve exchanged weeks ago. Because I’ve not even got to this stage of completing on the sale of my ex-gaff I’m still paying my mortgage and council tax, in addition to my rent and Council tax in Hackney. In short, it’s costing me a fortune and the meagre profit I’m supposed to be making on that cunt-hole in Tooting is being eaten by increasing debt. To put it bluntly it’s doing my fucking head in.

Last night IC and I went to The Coliseum in London to see an opera, The Grand Macabre. To be honest IC wanted to go, I wasn’t that keen and due to my job I was able to get us a pair of complimentary tickets. Well fuck me sideways, I wasn’t actually expecting to enjoy it but it’s bloody marvellous. It’s crude, laugh-out-loud funny, visually stunning and I enjoyed every bit of it, despite being sat next to a hippo who spilled into my seat (that wasn’t IC by the way, she’s as fit as fuck.)

We got home quite late whereupon I was confronted by a bunch of redirected mail informing me that they now had my change of address, which they sent to my old one. Is it just me?

I’ve a packed weekend ahead, but I have to say all is being marred by the current problems described herein. And I’ve got a spot on my arse.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 All Time Low Weightless NE 1
29 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 21 8
28 Steel Panther Community Property NE 1
27 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man NE 1
26 The Big Pink Dominos 22 3
25 Bat For Lashes Sleep Alone NE 1
24 Hockey Song Away 30 2
23 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 15 11
22 You Me At Six Kiss And Tell 28 2
21 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff NE 1
20 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 13 9
19 The Used Blood On My Hands 19 5
18 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See NE 1
17 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 16 8
16 The Gossip Love Long Distance 18 4
15 The Cribs Cheat On Me 14 6
14 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 12 10
13 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 17 3
12 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 20 2
11 Gallows I Dread The Night 10 5
10 Muse Uprising 7 7
9 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 6 7
8 Pearl Jam The Fixer 8 6
7 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 9 6
6 Paramore Ignorance 5 5
5 Ian Brown Stellify 3 4
4 The xx Crystallized 4 4
3 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 1 9
2 Editors Papillon 11 2
1 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 2 5

Sundown. IC, Sue and I had taken the train from Hackney to Tottenham Hale and a short bus ride to arrive at the Cathedral of Ikea slumped in the middle of some disgusting retail park like a great blue turd. I was exhausted from a combination of a lack of sleep, a dull day in the office and a lunchtime excursion to a motorcycle accessory shop in order to procure a pair of all singing and dancing armoured-gortex-waterproof-trousers for the approaching lights-out of the autumn.

I was there to pick of some shelves but hadn’t factored in Sue’s intention to furnish half of East London. Even getting through the showroom part was painful and by the time we reached the getting fields I only had enough energy to muster displeasure, which must have been right nice for IC who was doing a very good job at trying to appease my frustration. Of course in the interim, as Sue deliberated over plates and pillows, I wearily purchased stuff to clutter up my pedantically un-cluttered flat moaning relentlessly between bouts of sitting down. Gentle reader, it was fucking purgatory. By the time we arrived at the shelves section at the end I was dead on my feet. The shelves were the size of Christ’s Cross and heavier than pig iron. Further expense will be due in the form of a private taxi, I yelled weakly.

We were finally out some 2 hours after having set foot in the place and loaded our gear (most of it mine as it transpired *ahem*) into the back of one of those people mover things and driven back to Hackney at breakneck speak by a tall, loud driver who is quite simply a future pile-up. I was simply too tired to complain and somehow his idiotic driving was sated by my desire to get home.

One hour later in IC’s kitchen I was feeling much better, still knackered but with food, wine and furniture inside considerably more calm. I vow to never go to that Swedish farmyard ever again. Ever.

Before today’s tune I feel I must excuse myself. The composer (and musician, Burzum is a one man band) is a convicted murderer (21 years for the murder of a fellow black metal musician, he was realised recently) with links to Satanism and watered-down Nazism. To be perfectly honest I nearly didn’t post this, in addition to the above I can’t understand what he’s harping on about because he’s Norwegian and I don’t want to be accused of promoting unpleasant doctrines, should any be present.

Having said all that the tune blew my head off, I subscribe to the music not the sentiment of the composer, as one might Wagner. As Buzz Osbourne of The Melvins once said, what sort of a dick takes their political cues from an entertainer?

I couldn’t believe my fucking ears this morning on Today, it’s one thing to deal with Thought For The Day (already a bone of contention for both religious and non-religious listeners, despite my contempt for any form of religion you may be surprised to hear that I sort of don’t mind it, I digress) but to have to suffer further Christ-based twaddle in the form of ‘news’ was quite frankly beyond contempt. But then it got me thinking.

In 1888 a 15-year-old girl entered a Carmelite Convent in some godforsaken (do I stutter? No) bit of France. The poor cow died nine years later of consumption but not after having written a book called The Story of a Soul, which probably is nothing like The Story of O as it speaks of doing good deeds in heaven as opposed to being whipped into a sexual frenzy and fucked half to death. Widely known as the Little Flower, to those that subscribe to Catholicism, St Therese of Lisieux was declared ‘the greatest saint of modern time’ in 1925 and her poor-little diseased remains became official relics.

First off ‘relics’ would seem to fly in the face of the whole body-being-merely-a-shell-for-the-soul gig, to treat mortal remains as more than just a marker of earthy existence has more in common with paganism than Catholicism, to then imbue them with some sort of magical significance is sort the sort of caper Satanists get up to. In fairness to Christianity (and you don’t hear ‘fairness’ and ‘Christian’ much in these pages) the Anglicans spurn such nonsense, precisely because, well, even they have a cut-off point when it comes to begging fucking belief.

So, ignoring this whole religious contradiction, and the fact the god these folk believe in allowed her to die at a very young age of a truly dreadful and violent disease, her saintly remains -‘credited’ with healing the sick, when in reality and guess what, ironically, her remains are riddled with highly contagious and wholly deadly tuberculosis for fucks sake- are now on month ‘tour’ in the UK. The tour will include York Minster the Catholic cathedrals of Plymouth, Birmingham, Cardiff, Liverpool, Salford, Lancaster, Middlesbrough, Leeds, Nottingham, Westminster… oh, and Wormwood Scrubs. I’m not kidding you (who thought that one up?)

Anyhoo, what we have here is a terribly sad story of a deluded young woman dying way before her 3 score year and 10 in the most horrific way imaginable way. And to think she spent the best part of her teens and early 20’s just thinking about a load of old crap.

The boxes of CD’s, records, books, Videos, DVD’s had been stacked up against two walls since I moved, 17 of the cunts, all sealed. As I rode home I made the decision that I’d spend the evening doing nothing but unpack and sort as I went along. By 1am for, the love of Christ, with barely any food in my guts I was still wandering aimlessly about my gaff with full-on OCD re-arranging the piles of items into subdivided piles of piles. By the door I had 3 boxes of stuff destined for the charity shop, this separate pile was my point of sanity, to think I’d rid myself of things I no longer wanted was of enormous comfort and justified the scattered remains. A trip to fucking Ikea beckons, I need shelves…

I’m still having to harangue solicitors and estate agents to push this fucking completion through. In fairness it’s not my end, it’s my buyers crew that are pissing me about. On the plus side, my guilt, should that stinking half-wit I lived above decides he wants to learn to play the fucking Timpani, is wholly assuaged. The buyer has been complicit in compounding the problems with the sale (and costing me money) by both employing these cunts in the first instance and not demanding a staff members severed finger for every day they fail to do the job she’s fucking paying them for.

But not all is bad. I’m dead happy in my new gaff, it’s by far and away the best place I’ve lived in and this morning I called up the Husqvarna dealers and ordered a brand new SM 610 with the money my granddad left me in his will. It’s what he would’ve wanted, probably.

Astonishing video.

I was bored half to death, I’ve tried so hard with so-called classical music, I really have… it just doesn’t, well, ‘work’ for me. My job has exposed me to the very best orchestras, conductors and musicians the world has to offer, so it’s not as if I’m making do with second fiddle if you will, or because I’m too bloody stupid to glean the intricacies and subtleties of whatever it is I’m missing, no, I simply find it dull.

Of course, in very rare moments, I’ve found myself stirred; I’d even go as far to say as ‘moved’ but this night wasn’t one of them. I was fighting to stay awake when the programme, sat on my knee during some recital or other, slipped off and hit the floor with a slap. The person in front spun round with in a visage of contempt and I found myself frozen in the steely gaze of one Sir David Attenborough.

The Last Night of The Proms had interrupted my first proper weekend in my new gaff. On the Friday I’d raced home and met up with IC prior to her taking me out for dinner in Stoke Newington a lovely (and empty) Italian place specialising in seafood, though I had a meaty antipasti to kick things off. The main course was half the Tyrrhenian Sea on a plate and required much fiddling in order to separate flesh from shells, bones and heads, bloody worth it though. We left not feeling overly full or that pissed and walked back to Hackney to make up for the latter aspect of our condition in my flat.

On Saturday I woke and made breakfast, we had coffee in the garden and I began to gently shake, not because of the previous evenings intake of Pinot Noir but for what I was about to do with regard to the blog on Friday. I jumped on the Black Bitch and rode over London Bridge and headed East to the bike dealers on the Old Kent Road where I met the guy I’d been discussing various options in terms of buying a new Husqvarna SM 610 and, the reason I was there, to test ride one.

I nearly pushed the dealer over when he started the engine, sweet Christ I nearly got a bonk-on, he was trying to explain some of the finer points with regard to the controls but they fell on deaf ears. Off I went, more gingerly than I anticipated, it felt like nothing I’d been on before and I came close to falling off the fucking thing when I turned right out the garage. Thing is you’re virtually stood up, if I were any shorter buying one would be inadvisable, and you’re sat legs akimbo over the front wheel with your arms sticking out. It made sitting on the Black Bitch an almost conservative affair and Speed Triple is renown for it’s confrontational riding position and styling, put it this way, if the Black Bitch is Cage Fighter then the Husky is Ninja assassin… The bike is so light and narrow but, fuck me ‘til I fart, it’s aggressive with enough torque to turn a road inside out.

Within 5 minutes I’d got into the swing of things. It’s the most fun I’ve had with my trousers on, it’s swoops round corners and quite literally flies over bumps and holes –in short it’s the perfect bike for my daily commute with some space left over for weekend chuckles. I’m sacrificing the brutal force of the Black Bitch for raw useable power. The Husky won’t do much over 100mph but she’ll happily pull the down shorts of anything in the city and due to her agility and thuggish grunt will still probably see off all but the most earnest sports biker in the Surrey hills. I intend to put this to the test.

But the journey to my flat was fraught. I wouldn’t be able to proceed with any purchase if the Husky didn’t fit into my garden. Aside from the financial aspect of the increased insurance, I’m not overly keen in leaving a brand new bike without any alarm to the potential violence and light fingeredness of passing East End villains. I’d connected with the Husky so completely the thought of it not fitting in the garden was worse than the though of Ebola. I popped her up the alleys and, with a minor degree of adjustment she slipped neatly into my garden. I could’ve wept if it wasn’t or the fact I needed a tab there and then. I sat smoking in the garden quietly quaking staring at the bike. IC popped down, she didn’t like it (to be honest I was rather hoping she would but knew she had a preference for Harley-type lumps so I wasn’t entirely surprised) but liked the indicators…

I reluctantly rode back to the garage. The Husky thundered cheerfully back through the city swerving traffic and pedestrians out of my way, I blasted over London Bridge and arrived back at the garage quite breathless with a grin on my face as if in possession with two cocks. I more or less made a purchase there and then. Updates will follow. Sadly, the ride back to Hackney wasn’t as enjoyable, the dear Black Bitch felt very heavy and lumpy, though straight-line speed she’s still quite the thing.

After all this excitement I was forced into my suit and left for the last Night. I met up with some colleagues beforehand and bumped into an old mate with whom I sat for the duration of the evening’s performance. Unfortunately for me I was also flanked by Michael Howard, David Mellor, Goldie and, of course, Sir David, a glaring and frankly bloody rude Sir David. In Life on Earth he shared a memorable scene with a Rwandan Primate in which he and said creature exchanged a grooming ritual. I was bored and suitably unimpressed by his attitude to the extent I considered rifling through his wiry hair in order to pick out imagined bugs before eating them, I then considered my employment contract and thought better of it. I substituted my angst for thoughts of the noisy bastard I’d been privileged to thump about on earlier.

After the Proms, which seemed like an eternity, my old mate and I went to Chelsea for dinner, I grabbed a cab and dropped him off at his car on the way to Hackney and arrived just as Mary, IC’s flatmate, returned from a 3 weeks excursion round Europe. It was 2am, I was a little pissed so it seemed foolish to not catch up with Mary and reclaim some of the lost Saturday with the missus. I’ve no idea what time we turned in but Sunday began rather hazily.

The afternoon involved more unpacking and shopping, early evening Mary had arranged a visit to the local with some pals, so we took on board a couple of two-for-one cocktails before heading back to mine for dinner. It’d been a splendid weekend even if I had been on the receiving end of the hairy eyeballs of a National Treasure. I accept I accidentally dropped my programme and put him off a nano second of some warbling dirge but what the arse is the point in turning round to give the offender evils and missing even more of the piffle? The fucking twit.

The ride to and from work and home is a fucking hoot. It takes about 45 mins and requires me to ride diagonally from one side of London to the other. Psychologically it’s broken up into 6 time trials, Hackney to Shoreditch, to London Bridge, to Elephant and Castle, to Vauxhall, to Wandsworth and then to work, with sector 2 and 3 being the most intense with a propensity to be the most enjoyable. It’s hard to explain to the uninitiated but something clicks in the brain when approaching a web of traffic, the idea is to clear the obstacles as quickly and effectively as possible and find clear road on which to accelerate to the next sector. Nothing else matter when one is in the zone, the single-most aim, therefore, is simple. It’s to win.

One has to attack the situation, one has to consider the stationary and shifting traffic ahead whilst paying attention to vehicles, such as fucking mopeds, bicycles, fellow riders etc., moving in the same direction behind and alongside the Black Bitch and her lunatic rider. It’s like a perpetually shifting puzzle punctuated by fast roundabouts and magnificent blast of unadulterated speed.

Of course, as already mentioned, when it’s too hot the BB isn’t happy, and I’ve yet to do the in the pissing rain too, but for now it’s more fun than wanking with a dead arm. I should imagine this enjoyment is made a little more profound by the limited time the Black Bitch and I have together. Sadly, I can now confirm that at the end of this month she’s being put out to seed. At the moment she’s in fine fettle but too much more of this and she be irreversibly injured.

In many respects today’s Piqued is a little eulogy to my bike. I’ve had her for over 10 years and at times, on the odd Sunday, she’s been able to completely turn my mood from that of a miserable dejected bastard into a state of fire-breathing joie de vivre (words don’t do justice as to how much this has meant to me in the past, and if you think this a little over sentimental, feel free to fuck off and read someone else’s blog.)

So, on Wednesday the 30th of September, she’ll be taken to my parents and wrapped up until I’m satisfied that her new owner will love and cherish her as I did and do.

Have good weekends all.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hockey Song Away NE 1
29 Enter Shikari No Sleep Tonight 21 6
28 You Me At Six Kiss And Tell NE 1
27 Dizzee Rascal Holiday 29 2
26 Preston Dressed To Kill 17 8
25 Friendly Fires Kiss Of Life 25 4
24 Jet She’s A Genius 19 5
23 Europe Last Look At Eden 18 4
22 The Big Pink Dominos 26 2
21 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 16 7
20 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… NE 1
19 The Used Blood On My Hands 20 4
18 The Gossip Love Long Distance 22 3
17 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 24 2
16 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 13 7
15 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 10 10
14 The Cribs Cheat On Me 14 5
13 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go 7 8
12 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 11 9
11 Editors Papillon NE 1
10 Gallows I Dread The Night 12 4
9 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 15 5
8 Pearl Jam The Fixer 9 5
7 Muse Uprising 5 6
6 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 4 6
5 Paramore Ignorance 6 4
4 The xx Crystallized 8 3
3 Ian Brown Stellify 3 3
2 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 2 4
1 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 1 8

There is a step as you enter the side entrance of Monument tube station. If you’re ever in the City and you think, ‘I’ll take the tube at Monument,’ please remember the first sentence. I wish someone had said ‘there is a step as you enter the side entrance of Monument tube station,’ to me before I entered this morning.

It should be apparent I was taking public transport to my place of fucking work this morning. I’m meeting my bro for a few pints later and it seemed like a good idea to not take the Black Bitch as riding about pissed is both illegal and unsafe which is irksome as drunk driving is bloody wonderful.

I’m extraordinarily happy in my new gaff. I’ve still to attend the boxes of CD’s/books et al but apart from that I’m pretty much done; my brain and soul settling slowly into my new environment. I enter my flat just down the alleyway via the locked iron gate (now clad in a reed screen that lends an air of intimacy to what lies beyond) and arrive in the garden (yellow shallow gravel as opposed to grass and a little shed that smells deliciously of creosote) and past the three pots of flowers wot I dun. Short flight of stairs past the kitchen window down to a fucking enormous yucca and next to a second iron gate that screens my front door, open both and you’re in the living room with the kitchen to the left and bedroom in front. I shit in the garden but if I feel like it there is a toilet and shower off the living space.

I have to say, it doesn’t get a huge amount of light but this mere tish and fipsy is more than compensated by the garden space. Indeed, it’s rather jolly to sit in the lounge with the door open to the outside world as Swineshead and his pal discovered when they visited early Tuesday evening for a pot of tea and spot of skunk.

Join me now as I list all the advantages to my new dwelling. One is a fib.

*The garden
*No Cunt
*Wonderful big kitchen with a fan oven that’s more effective than The Taliban
*A killer shower that would flatten Amy Winehouse’s Beehive in a nano second
*A heating system that supplies instant, endless hot water and warms flat in minutes
*Not having to put up with a fucking retard below me
*Peace and quiet, but with the personal option to not be either with impunity
*Wooden floors
*Clean white walls
*The perfume of my ex-neighbours fingers, ears, and genitals rotting in my plant pots

Last night IC popped downstairs for a spot of Apperativo and dinner as we nattered away over some banging choons on my beautifully set-up stereo, which I’d not used in an age. Bloody happy I am. Just the completion, motorcycle to deal with, the packing, shelving and TV to arrange and I’ll be as poised as the arrow tattoo on my arm.

Oh, I tripped over the fucking step at Monument this morning and fell arse over tit into the concourse.