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Interesting item in the news this morning. Apparently some 38 year old knicker sniffer has been targeting schoolgirls wearing Ugg Boots and has been labelled an ‘Ugg Boot Fetishist.’

This is, of course, impossible. A sexual fetish is the last thing seen and claimed (as a substitute) by a young boy before he realises his mother hasn’t a penis. This revolting creature is 38 and the Ugg boot, after much argument, didn’t become an established as the ‘Ugg’ brand until 1978 which means it’s impossible for him to have seen an Ugg Boot before he was 7, some 3 years after sexual fetish window has closed!! Idiots!

Had a pleasant evening with Red, Frank and his missus in the local pub garden. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave my current dwelling but that garden in the summer does have a certain charm to it I suppose. The day preceding the drink was fucking vile but the hour lost with Swineshead and that NC character during the podcast was rather jolly. The results of our nonsense will be available on WWM later today, you can subscribe too, link right and all that.

Before the Friday list, a tune and a sincere wish your weekends are as splendid as mine, I’ll leave you with this. Johanna Ganthaler, a pensioner from Bolzano-Bozen province, had been on holiday in Brazil with her husband Kurt and missed Air France Flight 447 after turning up late at Rio de Janeiro airport on May 31. All 228 people aboard lost their lives after the plane crashed into the Atlantic four hours into its flight to Paris.

The ANSA news agency reported that the couple had managed to pick up a flight from Rio the following day. It said that Ms Ganthaler died when their car veered across a road in Kufstein, Austria, and swerved into an oncoming truck. Her husband was seriously injured.
Anyone seen Final Destination? Sleep tight Mr.Ganthaler…

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Papa Roach Lifeline NE 1
29 Depeche Mode Wrong 20 13
28 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 24 10
27 All-American Rejects I Wanna NE 1
26 Kings Of Leon Notion NE 1
25 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 17 8
24 Linkin Park New Divide 28 2
23 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 16 10
22 La Roux Bulletproof 23 3
21 Freemasons ft S Ellis Bextor Heartbreak etc 25 2
20 Depeche Mode Peace NE 1
19 Kasabian Fire 11 7
18 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 13 9
17 Scott Matthews Fractured 18 3
16 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 26 2
15 Gallows London Is The Reason NE 1
14 Absent Elk Sun And Water 9 5
13 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 7 8
12 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 10 3
11 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 12 4
10 Shinedown Second Chance 15 3
9 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 6 6
8 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 19 2
7 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 5 5
6 Placebo For What It’s Worth 4 6
5 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 8 4
4 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 2 9
3 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 14 2
2 Blue October Dirt Room 3 3
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 4

For the first time in yonks I rode from sarf Landan to the East End. It’s a dead simple journey -Wandsworth, Vauxhall, Elephant and Castle, London Bridge, City, Shoreditch, Hackney- 5 miles as the crow flies and in theory 20 mins. But the fucking traffic is horrific and the road from E & C to and through the City is gridlock requiring much filtering and stop/starting.

I’ve also discovered that the Black Bitch doesn’t like it at all, she gets all hot and flustered, the oil warning light flickers at tickover which isn’t good. Add this to a collection of minor niggles that require attention, but bearing in mind she’s still in very good order, it’s time for her and I to split up. When the sale of my gaff is completed we’re going to have to go our separate ways, a thought that makes me feel rather sick. If you’re interested feel free to mail me, I’d rather it went to someone I sort of know, however tenuous the link.

I arrived at IC’s in victorious spirit after seeing off a few fellow bikers (the journey had taken 45 mins.) I changed and we went out immediately to meet Ellen in the boozer we’d taken a late lunch in on Sunday. We sat outside in the cool evening drinking wine sensibly and, aware work was due the following day, returned home by 10pm.

This morning I was up and out by 8. IC cycled off in one direction and I shot off in another. As I approached the City I caught up with IC (she can shortcut the journey, I can’t) and we had a race through the traffic, which was virtually at a stand still. I can confirm it’s faster to cycle through Broadgate than it is to motorcycle. This explains the vast hoards of cyclists, most of whom have a good idea of what they’re doing but the cunts that don’t are fucking unbelievable. One far arsed bint (clearly not a regular of the Derailleur) managed to prevent dozens of vehicles passage on account of not understanding what a green filter means. I gave her a mouthful, of course.

Once clear of London Bridge things started to improve, more motorcycles appeared and within minutes a competition of speed and prowess got underway. I think this fact alone is an incentive for a new generation of city bikers. Boris Johnston should instigate a campaign simply sloganed ‘it’s a fucking race, ace,’ featuring a picture of me doing a one handed jump over a frigging bus, or something. I arrived at work after much shouting and gesturing though shaking with exhilaration. It’s been many years since I despatched for a living and I’d forgotten what frustrating fun it all is. I’d better get used to it too as soon this will be a regular commute, just not on the BB, sadly.

Before we get stuck in I’d like to note a comment made by OWAICTT on yesterdays grief. In this ‘mind your head’ society of ours the TT is regarded by many as fucking idiotic, and every year it claims human components as riders push themselves to the absolute limit. Sadly one of OWAICTT mates is now in a coma but before this brings home and reinforces the ‘stupidity’ of motorcycles I’d like to point out that unadulterated joy and the pursuit of dreams can come at a price. I’d like to wish the chap and his family and friends all the very best. Money down, if he makes a full recovery, he (and they) will be back next year.

The little bellpress who made an offer on my gaff has fucked-off out of it, but my wily agent suspected he might be a wind-up merchant and continued showing my place to other potential buyers. On Monday I was informed that someone has matched the offer, is good to go and to reinforce this I took a bona fide call from my solicitors yesterday to get the wheels in motion. Despite the full weight of the hassle of moving and all that goes with it, not to mention looking for a place to live, I’m finally free.

I dread Wednesday, because I know I have to publish the list o’ Wednesday (when I remember.) What horrors await? Before I go, the Isle of Man circuit from the POV of the rider who still hold the lap record. It’s utterly terrifying/beautiful.

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This post is late on account of waking up on my stomach with my back locked like a bank vault.

This hasn’t happened for a while, I was somewhat peeved to find myself in this position as things with the spine and I have been quite good of late. After using blue language for a while (things like ‘fucking cunt’ and ‘arghhhhh fuck’) I manoeuvred myself orchestrially (in the dark, I’ve magnificent day-killing blinds) and got onto the floor. Once settled I did these little stomach tensions until a few clicks heralded the beginning of the dogs-tongue-disc back into situation. Half an hour or so later I was able to reach the Aspirin and, following the usual panic attack when I take anything, things began to stabilise. It’s not 100% of course but I can at least move without screaming, a bonus for the office in which I’m currently installed.

I had a pleasant evening after a fractious day at work; despite being exhausted I nipped up to Soho to meet Breeks, Rozsz and Nails for a few pints and a chinwag. The conversation was surprisingly bawdy for a trio of ladies; indeed, I’ve heard more refined banter from blessed dockers. That Rozsz in particular would make the fucking merchant navy blush with her carry-on.

Anyway, short one as well as late; I’ve got shit to do. Oh, don’t forget, all week is TT week, check the highlights at 9pm on ITV4.

On a Monday there is only one reason why one would come into work, it’s very straightforward when you strip everything away. Coffee.

Fortunately, the boss likes the stuff too so we’ve a half decent machine. And that’s it really. My single eternal motivation for coming into work, dangled in front of me like the proverbial carrot on a stick as I rise, dress, bus, tube, walk and finally cycle. Christ.

Obviously Monday never helps when one has had a blistering weekend. Thinking back to last Friday from my perch it’s as if I was on a different planet. It got underway when I arrived at IC’s in Hackney at 7.30 after a non-day in the office; Mary cut my hair in the kitchen, which is the last word in separating the self from the working week and presenting the new incarnation to the weekend to be.

We three had a few sharpeners and made our way over to Orlando’s gaff containing a dozen ready-to-go types stuck into wine and such-like. As a group we took the bus to Angel and made our way to our destination, a club -dark, dry-ice- and settled in.

It’s only since I met IC that I’ve been ‘clubbing’ again. I like to avoid the word ‘clubbing’ as it implies vast rooms of cunts moving like defibrillated zombies to the vacuous mono-beat-offing of some artless gitprong fiddling with knobs. This is a tad unfair as some DJ’s do possess genuine talent, it’s just the majority of them are under the misapprehension they’re musicians and contain ego’s that vastly outweigh an ability to nick someone’s song and slap it over the sound of industrial demolition.

The clubs I used to frequent were dark and a bit scary, only made comfortable by the use of intoxicants and a poker face. Fortunately, the place I’d arrived in reminded me of being 20 again, though I’m not, and neither were most of the guests. The first band came on at midnight, they were called S.C.U.M and I liked them in an instant. They reminded me of a young Bauhaus/Jesus and Mary Chain and I took it on myself to try and help them out in ways I’m not entitled to discuss here. Indeed, they were far more impressive than Nitzer Ebb, the headline act that finally took to the stage at 2am.

I have to say I was less than impressed by their audience too. ‘Fucking rude’ is the phrase that springs to mind. I’ve seen some of the most unpleasant death metal and punk bands on the planet, I can’t recall an instance when, carrying drinks, I’ve had people refuse point blank to move out of my way… I walked from the back of Hammersmith Empire to the front when I last saw Slayer with two pints last year. I didn’t spill a drop! On Friday 2 glasses of whisky and coke were reduced to a couple of melting ice cubes in an inch of tan liquid.

Can’t moan that much though, IC and I had a splendid night, despite the crowd, and it was fun to bump into members of our group as we meandered about the place. By 4 or so we were done, we took the bus back home on the top deck sprawled in splendid isolation. I’m fairly sure we had a final nip of the good stuff before crawling into bed at dawn… I certainly recall the following lunchtime when I woke with a cheese grater skull.

IC and I ate breakfast and headed off to a tattoo shop in Shoreditch via Broadway Market in order for IC to get a piercing changed. We walked miles in a state of comatose, floating about the place like dandelion clocks until finally arriving at the venue exhausted. After a standoff with the owner (rude fat bastard he was) the deed was done and we took the bus home to recuperate from the ordeal. Almost as soon as we had settled we were off again to Hampstead to meet some friends in pub that had employed one of our pals -Dave.

We sat outside tentatively drinking wine. A behemoth panic attack gripped me as the hangover handed itself over to a fresh supply of booze rendering me silent for about 20 mins. It passed and I was free, back to indulge in my Saturday night with friends and a rather neat Cote de Rhone. Suddenly the evening accelerated and almost as soon we’d settled we were off to catch the final train to Hackney Central, it was if we were home in an instant. Foolishly IC and I decided to stay up for a little while longer. It was dawn when we finally decided we were done.

IC woke me on Sunday just before the Grand Prix, I nipped out to get a paper and some provisions and got back minutes before the start of what transpired to be a dull but positive race. It heralded the beginning of a lovely, lazy and, sensibly, alcohol free Sunday. The latter fact is even more remarkable when you consider we ate ‘British Tapas’ (little home made fish fingers and fishcakes, hand cut chips and wee venison burgers) in a pub at 5-ish with nout but Virgin Mary’s.

We watched TV and Barton Fink, a lesser-known yet brilliant offing from the Coen Brothers, and flopped about as if made from rubber. Marvellous.

I’m gonna grab a third cup of coffee, I’ll leave you with some S.C.U.M…

I’ve a malaise. Sort of alcohol derived. I didn’t even drink that much. This is what happens you see; you let your guard down for one day, just one, and before you know it you’re out of practice. I knew I should’ve drunk on Wednesday. Now look at what’s happened.

The reason for my current situation is based on Den’s book launch last night. I was both delighted and horrified to discover I’d been extensively quoted, delighted to have been quoted and spoken about in such pleasant terms, horrified to discover that a cornucopia of motorcycle gangs are probably discussing how much they can get for our respective kidneys.

After relieving myself of the responsibility of giving a shit via the drink, a lovely evening plodded merrily along with a whole host of friends from here and there. I hope I made a tit out of myself at least once.

I was home in time to watch the rub-outs enter the Big Brother pad and then I accidentally watched all of The Machinist, despite having seen it a few times I was saving it for IC and I, and hit bed.

I’ve a sizable weekend of course. Nitzer Ebb are playing tonight in the middle of a late-night party and various invites and opportunities to fuck ourselves up have been paraded about like this weekends D-Day celebrations… check me out, topical similes.

God I feel like shit.

Chart, tune, thanks.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hollywood Undead Undead 21 8
29 Hockey Learn To Lose 30 2
28 Linkin Park New Divide NE 1
27 The Maccabees Love You Better 18 6
26 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends NE 1
25 Freemasons ft Sophie Ellis Bextor Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer NE 1
24 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 19 9
23 La Roux Bulletproof 29 2
22 The Horrors Who Can Say 16 5
21 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 17 4
20 Depeche Mode Wrong 14 12
19 Baddies Holler For My Holiday NE 1
18 Scott Matthews Fractured 24 2
17 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 12 7
16 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 11 9
15 Shinedown Second Chance 25 2
14 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll NE 1
13 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 8 8
12 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 15 3
11 Kasabian Fire 6 6
10 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 20 2
9 Absent Elk Sun And Water 7 4
8 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 10 3
7 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 7
6 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 5 5
5 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 9 4
4 Placebo For What It’s Worth 2 5
3 Blue October Dirt Room 13 2
2 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 8
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 3 3

Silly me, I was so carried away with yesterdays rant that I completely forgot about the frankly vile Wednesday List… stand by.

I spent a good deal of last evening making the 4th WWM (there is a link to right so you may subsribe) podcast due to be broadcast this very afternoon. Swineshead and I will be discussing Big Brother. I think I come across like a bit of a misogynist and that friends is completely the opposite of my polemic.

After SH and I had finished, and I’d dozily managed to get the required files sent over to him and I’d located them on my own PC (he was very patient with me, to be honest my equivalent to finding computer files is a monkey angrily pulling apart his poo to locate bananas) IC turned up all hot and sweaty from cycling right across London. I am out of puff before I reach the end of my fucking road and she cycled fro London Bridge to Tooting! Fit as fuck she is. Hurrah!

We had a jolly booze-free evening of nut roast and a movie, Night at The Museum, which is bloody awful yet for some odd reason I enjoyed it immensely.

Before the disgusting list read the comments on this… Type ‘tracy emin taboo evening standard’ into Google, hit the first link and read the comments…

…and enjoy a spot of Wilco at the end for the purposes of recovery.

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The government had been holding my Bitches Black arse for 5 days, sat at my desk before lunch on Tuesday lunchtime, I was going to crack, I could feel lunacy in my throat.

Why hadn’t they called?

I grabbed the phone and called the captors of my dark dreams. ‘When?!’ I cried after an agent picked up, ‘WHEN?!’

‘All ready for you Mr. P.’

I didn’t bother to enquire why the fuck they’d not called me. I slammed the receiver back into the cradle, sweating with delight.

I had to wait a few hours before I could get her. The bill for her stay was more than I’d anticipated but I was so happy to have her back in my charge I almost didn’t care (though looking through my bank balance this morning I fucking do, of course.)

It’s not all-good news either; more stuff needs doing to her throwing into doubt a planned sojourn with a mate. But for the short time, she’s back under me, and I’m going to ride her, hard.

I’d have been happy to have taken her out for spin last night but had planned to meet Swineshead and Tim in a boozer off Oxford Street. We three wound up at The Intrepid Fox drinking and listening to Rock and smoking cigs out the front and shit. It was a hot evening and I wasn’t relishing the sweaty tube journey back South… it was bound to be crowded. In hindsight I wish it had been.

We said our farewells and I boarded the tube at Tottenham Court Road. As is customary, I sat in the front carriage, stuffed in my headphones and waited for the whole nastiness to pass. Two minutes into the journey the huge lady in front of me leant forwards and said something. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was addressing me or not as her eyes were at ten to two, I then noticed that the ‘ten’ was looking directly at me.

I pulled put my ‘phones and she repeated her question, which was ‘is the next stop Stockwell?’ We were about 7 stops from Stockwell and the train was due to terminate at Kennington where we’d be ushered across the platform to wait for connection. I explained this but it was quite clear that the recipient of my information wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I’d sort of already gleaned this, in addition to the question and the searchlight eyes she was eating the fluff off her trousers.

At Kennington I explained we had to get off. A LU guard had been notified that a person with a mental disability was alighting at the station and was there to assist her. To my horror he was shrugged off by the lady who informed the guard that ‘he was helping me,’ and nodded in my pissed direction.

Fuck.

The LU guard glanced at me and told the lady there would be someone waiting for her at Stockwell, and to make sure she got in the first carriage. I found myself taking her to the opposite platform and waiting with her for the train to arrive.

Of course, the first carriage was stuffed full. We stood in the middle of the crowd as the lady spontaneously began to supply me with information about her. She was headed for Norwood, her mother was dead and her boyfriend (?) didn’t hold her in bed… I attempted to make small talk in return that had to be conducted at an attention-grabbing ‘audible’ as the Lady was also a bit mutt n’ jeff. Luckily the entire carriage stopped talking and stared at me as if sizing me up for Crimewatch.

After what seemed like a fucking year we stopped at Stockwell. I looked hungrily out for the LU guard who was supposed to be waiting. Of course the cunt wasn’t there so I had to get off with the Lady. I looked up and down an empty platform turning back in time to notice that the train driver had popped his head out the cabin, he saw us and gave me a broad grin, upped his thumb and fucked off.

Fuck, again.

I had no choice. I took the Lady to the barriers, another guard offered assistance but like the first was he was ushered away and I was cited as her primary carer. The Lady needed to take the number 2 bus to Norwood, already out the station I figured I might as well see this through so I walked her to the busstop on the opposite side of the road. I had to take care as the Lady was prone to wandering about, she nearly had us both under the wheels of a passing 345.

At the busstop more small talk was conducted under the noses of a posse of hooded young me who felt that sucking their teeth at me was the best way of aiding my act of fucking charity. I was full term in needing to piss; ‘I’d be happily home by now,’ I sighed to myself.

After 20 minutes (and another year) the bus finally arrived. Just before I helped her board (she wasn’t physically disabled I hasten to add, just enormous) the Lady told me she didn’t have any money for the ride. Great. I let everyone board ahead of her then shoved her on and told the driver she didn’t have any money. The driver looked at her, then me, then her again,’ Come on mate…’ I said. I didn’t mean to sound exasperated.

He gestured her on. I then asked him to tell her when to get off at Norwood. He looked angry which in turn enraged me. ‘Who are you?’ he enquiring curtly. ‘Oh me, just fucking helping out, you gonna tell this lady when to get off?’ He looked at me as if I’d just ordered him to cuddle her after sex. I’d had enough. I didn’t wait for his reply… I turned and addressed the bus, ‘Can someone tell this lady when to get off at Norwood?!’ someone piped up at the back. I screamed back a ‘Cheers!’

I said goodbye to the Lady who thanked me by name, which surprised me somewhat. I got off the bus, dived behind the nearest dumpster and pissed like a horse.

This is quite beautiful…

I’m fucking riddled with hay fever. I shouldn’t complain, I will though.

I could take antihistamine but I refuse. Stuff is weird and has an odd effect on me, aside from drowsiness it makes me feel like I’ve been wiped with a blotter, mildly spiked, the state of confusion has in the past triggered panic attacks and I’d rather do a line of grass pollen and rub cat dander into my eyes than have one of them. I also discovered my dad had a similar reaction when taking antihistamine as it did to that old chap at work after taking ibuprofen, which sounds the death knell for me and that stuff forever. Both of ‘em.

If I’m to be perfectly honest I hate taking medication, even aspirin. It’s the thought of reacting badly to it that keeps me from jumping into the kitchen cabinet if I so much as hiccup. This is quite odd because I’m more than happy to pour toxins into my fat liver and fumigate my lungs with deadly gasses that, according the latest news on fag packets, will give me cock-rot. If fact, until quite recently, I was even happier to stuff my nose, lungs, stomach and any other available orifice, with immediately fatal narcotics.

Sadly the paranoia surrounding over-the-counter oral medication has led to my cessation of street thrills. I’ve even virtually quite dope, something unimaginable to my 20-year-old self. These days I’m quite content to knack myself with nice taxable drugs, arguably the more dangerous cache of available narcotics, street or otherwise. Go me.

Anyway, the old guy at work is back on his perch in the office as if nothing has happened, only the dried pool of blood by his desk serves as a testament to his mishap. The fucking government are still holding my Black Bitch captive. It’s been five days already. Five. Between you and me I’m worried sick.

Dreadful/hilarious video, I should imagine most will feel the same about the pop song that goes with it.

It was just after lunch on Friday when a colleague of mine let out a single cough and fell off his chair with a loud ‘FLOMP.’ A girl screamed his name and I stood up and looked over my desk expecting the worst. ‘I’ve been here before,’ I said to myself as I rose to my feet. The awful slow-motion of something you don’t want to accept dawning on you like a bad LSD trip.

My colleague was on his side, unconscious, with blood appearing out of his mouth. I arrived at him at the same time as Bert and we set to work arranging him according to medical protocol as calls were made for an ambulance. The rest of the office gathered in a crescent of shock and horror fearing the worst. I have to say, I wasn’t overly optimistic. The fallen man was in his mid 60’s, a heavy smoker and not adverse to a drink or too, lately he’d been seen by specialist for blood tests.

Far from lucid he was at least conscious and the blood by his mouth was from a cut in his lip caused by the fall, I was momentarily relieved until he informed me that he was tingling all over, particularly in his arm. I tried to remember the resuscitation technique I’d been taught almost a year previously, 1 thousand, 2 thousand… fuck, what was it? I covered his mid region over with my jacket in case he gave way. I’d remembered that part at least.

Within minutes the ambulance had arrived and he was checked out and taken to hospital where he remained until later on that evening before being discharged. The cause of his collapse was Ibuprofen; he’d taken them before, plenty of times and with no ill effect. But this time it’d caused his blood sugar level to drop like broken lift rendering him unconscious. Apparently, ‘this can happen.’ You have been warned. I fucking well was.

It was bloody hot all weekend, and Friday was no exception. I thought the worse place to be would be the tube, it wasn’t pleasant but in comparison to the fucking bus… It came close to be as stifling as flying, an airless rotisserie creeping through a shimmering London, I visualised myself tapping weakly on the glass panting like a hot dog before melting down the stairs. I got off and walked the rest of the way to the restaurant and arrived a little late. IC and ICS were already waiting for me, Mary joined us and we set about ordering tons of Vietnamese dishes from the extensive menu. It’s bloody cheap this place and fucking tasty to boot. We four spent a good while ensuring we’d be puffing all the way to the bar across the road, quick drink and I set off for the long journey back South.

My Black Bitch was still being held captive by government agents so I was forced to take more public transport, this time overland rail, to visit my folks in Greater London. My bro and his missus had just returned from a short tour of Peru and Columbia and an impromptu family gathering was arranged. In addition to ma and pa, my sis, bro-in-law and niece were in attendance, the latter now recovered from screaming the place down whenever when she sees me, in fact we get on pretty good these days

The highlight of my bros trip for me is when an old dear broke her wrists and an ankle falling over on Machu Picchu and when he shit hisself on a coach in Bogotá and had to take off his boxers in the loo whilst not getting all shit over his legs. The scene closes with him trying to pock his cacky cacks down the loo.

The afternoon went fast and I took the fucking train back to town and another awful bus ride to the East End. IC, ICS and I then went off to get some pizza at my favourite Pizza eatery in that London. Despite it being a hot, clear evening the place was strangely quiet which suited us very well.

Again, I had to go back South afterwards. There was no room at the IC Inn so I found myself on the hell express at midnight trundling under the city with lobster coloured piss pots all snogging and flirting with each other, quite awful it was.

Like a fucking tennis ball I was flung back to the East on Sunday afternoon following breakfast and the Moto GP. I met IC and ICS in London Fields after abandoning the bus in favour of life via air. It was so mercilessly hot I even bought some fucking flip flops which are the most uncomfortable thing I’ve encountered since I got some sand under my fosh in Boggle Hole when I was 6.

The final meal of the weekend took place in a restaurant near Dalston. I was already bloated before I went in, the heat causing gasses in my internals organs to expand so I stuffed my bloody face for the sake of it, a start of mussels, pork belly for my belly and even a pudding, I can’t remember the last time I had pudding. Plum Tart with Gingerbread ice cream. Ace.

I’m not saying anything by the way…

I got the call from the garage at about the time I was getting dick-twitch at the thought of swinging my leg over the Black One and burning off the shiny skin of fresh, black, sticky rubber. It’s somewhat of a ritual when we have a new rear tyre, before I get her onto the fast bits, I hold her front brake, give her some berries and deploy the clutch, slowly, until her arse lights up, white smoke, noise… stop. Then off we fuck, free again.

The ‘phone call forced me into my office chair as if being given terrible news about a genital carcinogen, The Black Bitch had failed, she’d failed. Failed.

I’ve had her for 10 years and this had never happened, yes, we’d some close shaves but nothing like an outright ‘the government prevents me from giving her back to you (ha ha ha, you cunt).’ An additional exchange of monies in lieu of a bloody brake cylinder and some sort of labour intensive fussing with her headlights, her pert, firm headlights, was mentioned. This was going to cost me what I could ill afford at present. Fucking great.

As I thump this shit out I await an update on progress, if the brake cylinder doesn’t arrive today it may not be until early next week when we see each other, a prospect too awful to bear, especially with what’s planned for the weekend, or not as the case may now be.

So I shall consol myself with the guts of Gerry’s chart, a tune from therein and consol myself with altruism in the form of a fervent desire that your weekends are merry. Now piss off and leave me alone.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hockey Learn To Lose NE 1
29 La Roux Bulletproof NE 1
28 You Me At Six Finders Keepers 29 2
27 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 24 14
26 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 19 6
25 Shinedown Second Chance NE 1
24 Scott Matthews Fractured NE 1
23 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 17 10
22 Passion Pit The Reeling 27 2
21 Hollywood Undead Undead 15 7
20 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal NE 1
19 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 14 8
18 The Maccabees Love You Better 13 5
17 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 20 3
16 The Horrors Who Can Say 12 4
15 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 22 2
14 Depeche Mode Wrong 8 11
13 Blue October Dirt Room NE 1
12 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 9 6
11 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 6 8
10 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 18 2
9 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 16 3
8 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 3 7
7 Absent Elk Sun And Water 10 3
6 Kasabian Fire 5 5
5 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 7 4
4 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 6
3 The Gossip Heavy Cross 11 3
2 Placebo For What It’s Worth 2 4
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 7

I’m worried sick. My Black Bitch is having her MOT as we speak. She so didn’t want me to leave her with that nasty rough man who probably has his hands all over her… I told her, I said, ‘it’s okay Black Bitch, daddy will be back to get you later,’ she was very brave but I could tell she was upset.

We were particularly worried about what she was wearing, a flirty dirty loud pipe which is guaranteed to wind up the nasty man, but she didn’t have anything else to put on as the original pipe is now living with a new family near the seaside on the South Coast. I should’ve never got rid of her, needless to say, she never writes.

In addition to the MOT the Black Bitch needs some surgery on her arse, her current arse isn’t as rubbery as it should be so I’ve head to get her a new one. I’m dreading a phone call in case something has happened to her…

Short one today as I’m busy, I’ll leave you with this gem from a newish young hardcore outfit that have been eating my ears over the past few days. Don’t let the fact that they are a side project from that bloke from My Chemical Romance put you off, this is great stuff.

Chosen a lighter one for you, thank me later.

…actually, have this one too, a little more frenetic… no need to thank me now.

The bank holiday weekend revolved around foodtigo and began in a local curry house with IC, sis and bro-law. I’ve finally sussed this place and we selected a combination of dishes that doffed caps and tipped winks to one another whilst churning guts and burning gobs. Fucking lovely it was, I awaited the following days ablutions with a sort of perverse trepidation but it was pain-free and okay. Bah.

IC has discovered Skype. It’s not so much the free-phone part it’s the whole webcam aspect of it. If you’re away from your immediate family Skype is completely wonderful… if you’re trying to read the paper -or, more pertinently, trying to check your emails- Skype is the technological equivalent of a relative occupying the stall. But like everything there is an upside. As a consequence of Skypeing I’ve discovered the Guardian ‘quick’ crossword.

I’m not good at crosswords and The Guardian ‘quick’ crossword isn’t, according to some, a very good crossword. For one thing, it’s not fucking quick and I’ve yet to finish one of the bastards but there is something quite beautiful about an answer materialising in your frazzled brains. It also seems to have a sort of pseudo addictive quality. I can see it being of use in the future when I have to exchange the cigs and nightcaps for something a little healthier. What I’m saying is that Skype has actually saved my life.

Saturday evening, IC and I took the train to uber Sarf Landan to meet up with James and his missus for some dinner. James has always been a bloody good cook. As kids he and I used to experiment with food when our parents were out doing business for The Lord. In fact, it was James and I that invented the fully deep-fried breakfast –almost. We were in the process of its happening when we discovered that attempting to deep fry eggs results in an inferno. Our experiments were sadly curtailed by our being separated unless under supervision by an adult. Bastards.

We had a starter of stuffed mushrooms, lovely little fellows they were, and for main a Tuscan bean salad and tuna meatballs in a ragu which actually tasted like it could’ve come from last weeks trip to Italy. There was so much Cava knocking about I can barely recall the steamed pudding which preceded the Amaretto… IC and I waddled happily back home in a stuffed, pissed, fug.

Needless to say Sunday took a while to get off the ground. We went for breakfast at lunchtime to a French place in Clapham that was bustling outside with diners. The weather was fucking hot, too hot for outside (as far as I was concerned) and I was secretly pleased there was no space on the pavement. Sitting inside enjoying not-as-good-as-I’ve-had, but still tasty Eggs Benedict, the hangover began to disappear without the sun beating down on my head.

We took the tube back to East London stopping by Tesco on the way to get some provisions (booze) for the planned Barbeque. It was now as hot as it had been in Venice, I wasn’t sure if I was entirely comfortable in the heat and considered buying a hat, which suggested that I might be getting sunstroke.

The chap hosting the Barbeque, Oscar, lives round the corner from IC and Mary and has access to a vast roof garden offering a beautiful panoramic view of London. By default it also offers a swirling 360-degree view of the roads and gardens hundreds of feet below.

I suffer from idiot’s vertigo, that is, a completely paralysing fear of heights and an irrational desire to leap into the void. Before IC and I had breakfast we watched Man on a Wire, which I sort of enjoyed with my arsehole nibbling at my underwear. In addition to the paralysing/jump paradox my minds-eye had decided that it would imagine tightropes spanning from the roof garden to adjacent building in the distance and asking me what the fuck I’d do about it. Being more of a projected situation my brain went into spasm as it considered actually walking off the building and over the treetops and towers to reach my destination. It was sporadically awful.

The roof began to fill with guests, maybe twenty or so, some I knew, some not. Oscar and Mary had home-made the sausages from scratch and they were delicious, other guests had brought along various treats and it was lots of fun up there overseeing a warm and sunny London eating and drinking, until I remembered that I was high up with an inviting descent all round and what would it be like to tightrope-walk towards the East India Docks… I can’t even tightrope-walk… and so on. Every so often I’d look below to check I wasn’t going to jump, twice I scared the muck out my back thinking ‘just go…’ Be nice to see the world from a different POV without all this grief, on the rare occasion that did happen it was sublime.

Back on terra firmer, IC and I met up with Jen and Andy in a little park by IC’s gaff to see off the evening. It stayed warm until dusk which seemed to be endless… after we returned home, buoyed on by a bank holiday Monday, we stayed up for a while longer until sleep forced us to retire.

Monday lunchtime, IC, Mary and I spurned pots and pans and went off to eat at the pub round the corner. We had ‘english tapas’ fresh fish fingers and fishcakes, a terrine, a little pot of roast beef shin, fat n’ chubby chips and took ourselves off to Broadway market for coffee. We bumped into a rather dazed Oscar who invited us to the roof for another barbeque later that afternoon; despite myself I was happy at the prospect of considering death for a few more hours hanging over East London with my bum twitching like a shell-shocked sapper. I bought some sea Bream and Bass from a humourless fishmonger and we went home to get ready, it was then we heard about Lucky. The barbeque was a little subdued, it rained for a bit and IC and I weren’t really feeling that sociable. We managed to extract some amusement from proceedings then went home to watch movies and just be a bit quiet. Such is life so it is.

So, the Wednesday list, what horrors in spelling await!

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It is with great sadness that I have to announce the death of Lucky, IC’s seemingly insane Dalmatian but in truth a splendid old fellow who chose devotion and loyalty over a broader congeniality to the public at large.

Lucky had a long and happy life and I’m chuffed to bits I got to meet him before he shuffled off this mortal coil. I’m even happier that I can remember him with all my balls.

Business will be resumed as normal tomorrow, in the meantime I’m going to go back to last week and read all about our adventures… Joking aside, Mille Miglia, Rialto Bridge, even IC’s mums lasagne, my overriding memory of my spring trip to North Italy will be when Lucky shit hisself in the back of IC’s car.

Goodnight, sir.

News, I’ve sold my fucking flat. And in the nick of time too.

Last night, Cunt, the embodiment of a genetic experiment gone completely wrong, was found to be alive. This in itself is a disaster of seismic proportions. Even the suppressants of his masturbatory proclivities, to wit, emaciated mother of his hairy spawn (in particular the latter) were no more to be seen or heard.

Previously the sounds downstairs, whilst achingly irritating, were partially (though not always) contained by the fact the hairy one had to sleep (on occasion.) Without the policeman of infant-sleep the deranged bachelor noises have resumed with aplomb. Slamming doors, yelling, ‘singing, ’ git-music played at O2 levels and the unmistakable sounds of a person bringing himself to climax with a knurled stupid fist are back with vengeance.

Despite my securing a buyer for my miserable-by-default dwelling, I now have to wait under these disgusting circumstances. I just hope I get out before my mind does.

The past few days back in Blighty have been largely uneventful, work has shrivelled up like a Octogenarian teat but my evenings saved with the odd pint with Frank and visit to IC’s gaff in the East End, a part of London I shall shortly be residing in full time, I can’t wait and I mean that almost physically.

There’s been some interesting stuff in the news over the past few days, blood boiling stuff that I’ll briefly touch upon for fear of blowing up, a 30 year sentence for smuggling a bit of sniff into the country a day before some Cockmuck convicted of 25 counts of rape on his own children had his reduced to 14… *speechless* …The catholic church literally getting away with child abuse on a massive, massive scale, not one conviction, and today it’s come to light that some of the girls were so heavily sedated by their ‘carers’ that their children have been born disabled! Beat that!

But it’s not all been doom and gloom, far from it… Erm…

ANYWAY. It’s Friday, Gerry’s chart featuring Woody Allen on guitar! A Piqued exclusive. It’s going to be a hot sunny bank holiday weekend in London so I’ll be out and about as usual, drinking, eating fine food and drinking. Have fun! Death to my neighbour!

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Madina Lake Never Take Us Alive 20 5
29 You Me At Six Finders Keepers NE 1
28 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 21 9
27 Passion Pit The Reeling NE 1
26 Fightstar Mercury Summer 18 10
25 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 17 8
24 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 22 13
23 Morrissey Something Is Squeezing…….. 23 3
22 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army NE 1
21 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 14 8
20 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 28 2
19 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 15 5
18 Enter Shikari Juggernauts NE 1
17 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 11 9
16 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 24 2
15 Hollywood Undead Undead 10 6
14 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 8 7
13 The Maccabees Love You Better 13 4
12 The Horrors Who Can Say 16 3
11 The Gossip Heavy Cross NE 1
10 Absent Elk Sun And Water 19 2
9 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 12 5
8 Depeche Mode Wrong 5 10
7 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 9 3
6 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 3 7
5 Kasabian Fire 6 4
4 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 5
3 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 2 6
2 Placebo For What It’s Worth 7 3
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 6

The journey back from Venice wasn’t as pleasant as the one there. In order to save £10 Euros we foolishly opted for the 2.5-hour journey back to Brescia. This in itself wasn’t the issue, we had books, I-walk-pods, imaginations etc., but the carriage, a hot and steaming pipe of fart with a sealed fucking window and, god help us, young cunts who’d just discovered nu-metal, was.

As soon as I got on the train I knew we were in for a journey only partially more pleasant than the 3.55 to Dachau. As we sought seats we passed a rubber-faced moron with close-cropped burgundy hair, his lower lip wet from a primeval form of amused noises as he entertained himself by twisting the arm of a pig-faced female as she shrieked like a banshee at the inflicted pain. This disgusting tableau was being overseen by a nonentity hanger-on and a white bloke with a beard and dreadlocks, the most accursed look for a Caucasian guaranteeing his being a tit.

They weren’t playing loud music, worse, they were sharing headphones and ‘singing’ along whilst shamelessly baring teeth and pointing at each other without any care of how they were being perceived before resuming the wrestling/mating routine. But worse, worse than the sound of the corncrake she-pig with a voice that could melt concrete, was they were ‘singing along’ to songs I used to enjoy back in the day, utterly killing any future pleasure I may have had when I happened upon them in a moment of drunken music frenzy. I had a good mind to ruddy well tell them to jolly well pipe down, I can tell you.

We arrived home exasperated and ate supper, again, the meal memory is lost, killed by my loathing of the passengers and the delights that followed.

The Mille Miglia were due to return to Brescia from Rome, it was estimated the winner would arrive at about 10pm so we drove to the centre of the city and joined the hoards lining the street. It was a warm evening and the atmosphere palpable, families were out, couples, groups of well dressed young men and women, and us 3, me with my little MM flag that ICS had nabbed off a brolly dolly type and a glass of spritzer that IC had bought for me. A Type 41 Bugatti went passed and blipped the throttle right by me, oh fucking joy! Then another, then an old Aston, A Bentley which inspired me to roar ’well done chaps!’ as Englishly as I could muster. We stayed there for an hour as these gorgeous antique-racing cars zipped and plipped past us, I was deliriously happy, choked, even.

We closed the evening in a nearby bar, I sipped my final negroni and we went home to sleep the day off, a perfect one only sullied by the twats on the train and in the grand scheme of things, even that wasn’t really an issue.

Sunday morning IC, ICS, their mum and I went to visit a kindly relative, we chatted briefly about the week’s events and then set off to church. Sort of. IC snr went off to mass and we 3 popped to a different church, lit a candle and left to enjoy the sunshine outside a nearby café. In Italy Catholicism is alive and well, most people go to mass on Sunday, including, much to my amusement, young Italian stallion types in souped up Beemers and Mercs in Fred Perry shirts and Armani slacks.

We all met back at the apartment for lunch, the last meal before we had to leave for Blighty. Lasagne, home made and out of this world. Perfetto. After saying goodbye to Lucky (I was truly sad at having to leave him behind) ICS and her mum drove us to the airport, we said our farewells and that was it. All of that experience, joy, wonder, excitement reduced to boarding fucking Rynair. The only bonus was that IC and I got a 3-seat block to ourselves so we could stretch out a bit.

Of course, London was overcast and cold when we landed, we took the miserable Stanstead Express back Liverpool Street and the bus home. By the time we arrived it was almost 8. Work tomorrow. Great…

…so we cracked open the duty frees and got pissed.

Service back to normal tomorrow.

I went Italy when I was in my early 20’s, James was studying in Padua, I was studying Art at Camberwell so nipping over and seeing a few paintings, fresco’s, churches and shit, and getting blindly inebriated, made pure 100% sense. With nipples on it.

Needless to say, not being in family surroundings the first time round, I learnt a few things about the day-to-day comings and goings of the everyday Italian. For a kick off, lunch isn’t a sandwich at a desk; most Italians shut up shop for a few hours and go the family home for a proper sit down meal (traditionally pasta.) You can even drink wine without everyone staring at you like you’re about to ask for change. It’s fucking ace!

IC’s mum is a bloody good cook, the pork based ragu type thing we ate for lunch after Lucky’s ‘accident’ was buonissima! Despite the weather still being a bit shitty, following eating we three went out for a walk to see some of the finer points of Brescia. It’s a beautiful city, overseen by a 13th century castle with plenty of awe-inspiring churches and chapels (medieval, Renaissance, Baroque and contemporary) stuffed full of appropriate goodies, including a few significant frescos and panels. Whilst meandering I took on pistachio ice cream which was so good I nearly died on the spot. We visited the achingly gorgeous church where IC’s parents married, all the while IC happily translated conversations between her mum and I. Despite my contempt for Catholicism I love their accessories, I monitored my comments and focussed on the latter aspect.

Late afternoon IC’s mum went off to get some provisions and IC and I met up with ICS, we went out and had Apperativo before saffron Risotto at home overseen by a reformed Lucky, he was like a different dog, he even obeyed commands and took scooby snacks off me leaving my hand un-mangled flush with digits.

Out again after supper for cocktails. To the English ear this sounds downright elitist, but it’s normal for Italians. It’s much cheaper to drink over there and after discovering Negroni (Gin, Vermouth and Campari) I was able to get nicely toasted in comfortable surroundings and still have change for some tabs. IC, ICS and I were back in the same bar we’d visited the previous evening (IC knew the bloke that owned it and I was very happy in there) and were joined by some friends who joined in with the spirit of things. At some point I got into Sambucca. I should imagine we went home because I woke up once again half hanging out the little bed in the apartment.

It was an early start to Saturday, espresso, shower and out. The weather was fucking glorious, hot and sunny, a bit too much of the former actually but I wasn’t complaining, though I just did then a bit. We took the train to Venice that hummed in air-conditioned happiness through lush green countryside and some of the cities and towns I’d visited with James some two decades earlier. That hit home quite hard that did. What happened in between? I was probably pissed.

Indeed, James and I had managed to get to Venice too, but this in no way diminished the sheer jaw dangling joy on exiting the station to see an entire city with all its roads replaced by rivers and canals. I’m not going to bother to describe it (just go, you can fly there directly) and of all the places I’ve been to it remains the most beautiful, sublime, so much so it’s virtually otherworldly. We walked in the heat, over bridges, through passages, into piazzas, lazily heading for St. Marks.

We ate pizza and drank wine in a pretty little square outside one of Venice’s hundreds of trattorias and osterias, it was fucking, fucking ace of spades. We finally found St. Marks bustling with tourists, pigeons and stalls selling relative tat -Venice sailor hats, masks, glass curiosities, fridge magnets of little gondolas… and then went to Harry’s Bar after securing our tickets for the taxi-boat back to the station.

It wasn’t as civilised as I remember when I went with James, for a start it was full of bloody rich Americans who were playing their usual tiresome game of treating the place like they owned it while self consciously doing the whole, ‘yeah, so we’re in Venice,’ thing. The relative ease of getting to Harry’s Bar with IC doesn’t do justice to the greater personal significance of being there with her. It was, without going into any detail at all, a milestone of sorts. Even if I was charged almost £40 cunting Euros for a pair of whisky sours.

Final part tomorrow you’ll be relieved to hear

The evening of the first day, outside the bar… it started to rain, not like English rain, this was like crowbars. So bad was it we had to borrow a brolly in order to get home. This Ondine turn of events didn’t bode at all well, I wasn’t even clear of my first day in Italy and already it was pissing down. This wasn’t meant to happen, it was May for fucks sake, in Italy.

I woke up the following morning mildly confused. I was alone in a single bed, well, half in a single bed, half out. The door opened and IC appeared with an espresso and Lucky almost vertical behind her in the shape of an angry star. I got up, fast.

IC and I went out for breakfast; the weather was brooding but clement, sort of ‘English summer’ it might rain a bit. It rained a bit. I had brioche with custard which was fucking lush. For all I knew it was my last meal as the task to follow could result in me being torn into bacon rashers.

Lucky likes to scratch at doors, perhaps more ‘claw’ at doors as he tries in vain to get to the petrified eyes of whatever is scurrying away yonder. Every door in IC’s mothers apartment, and there are many, bear testament to the frantic attentions of Lucky, and this was the reason we had to take him to the vet to have his nails clipped for the love of god.

ICS was at work so it was down to IC and I to undertake this task unaided. This was bad news, bad news made devastating news when IC informed me that Lucky didn’t do cars. Of course, being a dog, as soon as the lead was attached and (more pertinently) the muzzle fitted, he figured something was very wrong and responded accordingly. But instead of attempting to bark the place down he got a bit upset, whining and going all rigid and shit. He was proper scared, and I’m convinced he thought he was being taken to place where he’d suffer the doggy fate of being hanged by the neck until dead. I actually started to feel sorry for the poor old bugger.

By the time we got to the car Lucky had decided 100% he wasn’t going anywhere which meant that IC had to physically scoop him up and drop him into the boot space and poke him into position with an arm and a foot so he didn’t get caught in the slamming hatchback.

Initially I sat in the front but Lucky was in such a state I decided to sit in the back and reach over and stroke the poor sod. He looked utterly petrified and was shaking like a Motorhead bass cab. I figured that when that muzzle came off I’d just get on a plane but for now I felt duty bound to help out a fellow male under extreme duress. I patted him firmly and spoke to him like this ‘aruh, arf,’ he was fucking terrified, I mean proper First World War trench stuff…so much so, he shit hisself.

I should imagine that many of you haven’t experienced a dog excreting half a dozen eggs in a confined space. I’ve been a fucking nurse and I have to say, the smell from this rivalled the arc of horror emanating from the old dear who fired off her colostomy bag after a cancer inspired ‘tummy upset.’ It was sensationally dreadful. The smell rendered me speechless, IC drove the rest of the (merciful god) short journey with her head lolling out the window like a dead frog. By the time we arrived my eyes were watering so much I could barely see.

In comparison to the journey there the nail clipping part was a breeze. The vet calmed Lucky down and got on with it, at one point he was momentarily distracted by a fat cat having a blow dry in the adjacent room but the incident was sated by a firm word from IC. Lucky remained silent (boom boom)

We got back into the car and Lucky was released from his muzzle, sensing that he was to live another day he wasn’t too flustered on the way home and the predicted assault on my personage never got out of first gear, he and I had bonded somewhat and from there on in, Lucky and I became mates.

I was so chuffed I even let IC clean his shit up.

(more tomoz)

I’m not dead.

Wednesday evening, full of holiday cheer IC and I met up with some friends in the very same boozer I enjoyed the delights of my 40th. We said farewell to Claire who was leaving to start a new life in Catalonia and received some gifts from Dave who’d just come back from Tokyo. Booze happened.

When we got home we decided to see off the evening with a few more snifters, it was late, two-ish and too late for a proper sleep so we figured we’d sleep on the plane/train and take a quick nap before we set off to get to Stanstead and catch the 6am flight. After setting 3 alarms we dozed off.

At 7.30am the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land, at about the same time I woke IC up and informed her that the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land. Following a protracted series of expletives from the pair of us, and far too coarse for the readers of this gentile offal, we managed to get another flight for an additional £100 courtesy of Easy Jet leaving later that afternoon.

For fucks sake.

Lately I’ve been privy to the delights of flying the National Express coach of the sky that is Ryanair. The stewardesses come in two sizes, Hereford livestock and third-world rat, and the one steward I’ve had the misfortune to fly with looked like he was on day release from rape camp. Easy Jet, itself a marginally more pricey no-frills airline, is in a different class. I won’t say I had a good flight, such a thing is impossible, but with the aid of Viz, decent cabin crew and IC rubbing my neck and telling me that we wern’t going to die the journey passed relatively smoothly.

Milan was warm on landing but a bit overcast, we shot an espresso and took the train to Brescia where we were met by IC’s sister (ICS) who, after a death conquering Apperativo in a bar, took us to the family homestead. But before I was allowed in I had to get past Lucky, IC’s furious Dalmatian.

I’d been warned about Lucky, he doesn’t do strangers and there I was, a delicious meaty one on his property. My instructions were worryingly stark. Don’t look at him, don’t touch him and for fucks sakes don’t go lower than his eyeline or he’d have my throat off. Lucky was already barking from the balcony before we’d even got out of the car, as we approached the door I could hear this scratching and thumping as he attempted to claw towards my genitals. IC’s mum opened the door, a diminutive lady with a Hound of the Baskervilles leaping up behind her like he was on the end of a cattle prod and barking like the contents of hell on a Friday night bender. I nearly shit my pants, frankly.

I shuffled past IC’s mum offering Ciao’s as I went staring directly ahead as Lucky exploded about me and walked firmly towards the nearest room with a door. Outside I could hear fond greetings over seen by Lucky having a fucking fit. After a while and reassurances from IC that my sweetbreads were safe I ventured into Lucky’s space who polarised between going berserk and staring at me with a disconcerting growl.

We had supper with Cuju keeping a firm eye on me; occasionally he’d slam into my legs to remind me he was there. For all I knew he was green with pink spikes coming out of his arse as I still daren’t look at the bugger. When I did after about 30 mins I thought he was going to bark up his arsehole (I was so terrified I’ve even forgotten what we ate.)

IC’s mum doesn’t speak English; my Italian is less than rudimentary so IC was required to mediate. As predicted IC snr didn’t appreciate my tattoos or my beard but she seemed to like me enough. I was on my very bestest behaviour after all, largely because I didn’t fancy my chances with Zoltan if IC’s mum so much as furrowed her brow.

As is customary in Italy, we went out at about 10pm for a few drinks. The Mille Miglia, one of the reasons I’d gone to Brescia, was long gone due to the earlier faux-pas with the plane but I’d get another stab at seeing them when they came back -besides sipping Negroni in a pretty little bar a mile away from IC’s place I was just happy to have all my testicles.

We bumped into some of IC’s friends and spent the night chewing the fat. I was fortunate that both the blokes in question had a basic command of English, when they didn’t understand something I’d said, and IC wasn’t free to assist in translation, I raised my voice and pointed. It’s the English way after all.

More tomorrow.

What? Pardon? Someone say something about going off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy, tomorrow? Mmm? Oh, sorry, that’ll be me going off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy… I’ll be there tomorrow as a matter of fact. Did I mention this already? You know, that thing about the Mille Miglia and my having to leave at (Christ, 6am tomorrow morning –don’t think about that, or the flight. Joanna Lumely’s plastic arsehole, Joanna Lumley’s plastic arsehole, Joanna Lum… (happy now?))… it’s fairly pointless rubbing this in as you’ve probably never heard of Italy’s most famous road race. Basically, since 1927 a 1000 mile ‘race’ (it used to be a balls out race until a fatality in 1957) to Rome and back has begun and ended in the city of Brescia, which by coincidence is where IC and I are staying.

These days the Mille Miglia is a bit like the London to Brighton run but considerable bigger, faster and louder featuring only classic sports cars from 1927 to 1957, cars from the point of view of he-who-prefers-motorcycles are capable of turning even my underwear into filo pastry.

The short excursion includes a trip to Venice -when in Rome and all that, except I’m not going there, I’m going to Venice- and church on Sunday. You read that correct, for reasons I’m not gong to expand on I’m required to attend a real Catholic church service with real Catholics and everything… Jesus. Church.

The horrors of yesterday evaporated gradually during the pub quiz in Fitzrovia with Rosh, Merve, Anna and The Dr. We came a respectable third and would’ve won if fucking Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, hadn’t decided to evaporate out of my hippocampus. But fortunately Anna poured a whole glass of wine all over my nuts so at least I travelled back on the tube stinking like Geoffrey Bernard had barfed up over Oliver Reed.

So, no Piqued until next week. You may wish to consol yourselves by checking yesterdays podcast on Watch With Mothers featuring Swineshead and myself moaning about The Apprentice and Kent (link on right.) Or you may not. Should you be looking for someone to take over your radio stations breakfast slot or culture show then do listen and give me a call. I could do with a new challenge if I’m to be honest, especially just after watching a lunatic colleague smashing his phone into smithereens when the person he was trying to contact popped him through to voicemail.

So, the Wednesday list and a final choon before I say buon giorno as I’m off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned earlier about the Mille Miglia. In Brescia. Italia. CIAO.

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…Disgusting, I need something nice after that