‘What Difference a Day Makes,’ to quote the eponymously titled words of this beautiful song by G.G Allin. Yesterday IC and I learnt that the bastards are giving us the mortgage to buy our gaff, which is somewhat of a relief. Though it’s not over until the ink’s dry, of course… At about the same time this news landed in my shell-like ear my estate agent emailed me to let me know someone was making advances with regard to buying my ex-pit in sarf landan, but the less said about that the better… I don’t wish to tempt fate. Not that in believe in such bollocks. Sort of ‘not,’ anyway.
It’s not been a bad week though, we had a quiet Monday (we’ve been watching this Danish cop series called The Killing, it’s addictive and free to see on the i-player) and Tuesday met up with Patti in the local for a quick drink before returning home to more of The Killing. Wednesday I met up with my bro in the usual pub in Angel, the burger we had made more than 3 pints impossible so we popped back to his gaff for a shot of Scotch, watched the ‘bond session’ Alan Partridge and I went off home at 9-ish. I didn’t actually get back until 11 because I stopped off at my local where many friendly faces were happy to insist I stayed for one more, which I only did twice.
After hearing yesterday’s marvellous news I met up with Frank for a beer, it’d been a while so we had one in a pub by The Eye before stopping off at a decent curry house by the station and ramming our respective heads with lamb. You wouldn’t expect such a splendid curry to come from opposite Waterloo station but it’s actually very good. I saw Frank off at 9 and made it home with a bottle of fizzy shit to celebrate our good news.
Short one today, I’ve got to pop into town for a bloody meeting. I’ll leave you with Gerry’s chart and tune. Have good weekends.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 26/02/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Frankie & The Heartstrings Hunger 27 5 23
29 Eric Prydz Niton (The Reason) 28 2 28
28 Architects Learn To Live 20 6 14
27 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness NE 1 27
26 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 18 15 1
25 Yuck Holing Out NE 1 25
24 Pulled Apart By Horses I Punched A Lion In The Throat NE 1 24
23 Beady Eye The Roller 17 6 13
22 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 14 12 1
21 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 25 4 21
20 Miles Kane Come Closer 29 2 20
19 Neon Trees Animal 19 5 19
18 Elbow Neat Little Rows 23 3 18
17 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 11 8 4
16 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa NE 1 16
15 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 10 10 2
14 Glasvegas The World Is Yours 21 2 14
13 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 8 6 7
12 Brother Darling Buds Of May 15 4 12
11 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 13 3 11
10 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 12 5 10
9 REM Uberlin 16 2 9
8 Chase And Status Blind Faith 5 9 4
7 White Lies Bigger Than Us 4 12 1
6 Mona Teenager 9 4 6
5 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 6 4 5
4 Hurts Sunday 7 4 4
3 Band Of Horses Dilly 3 5 3
2 Chapel Club Surfacing 2 6 2
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 1 7 1
IC and I are in the thick of it, to coin a phrase unrelated to the television programme of the same name. The house buying lark is in its final stages with nothing confirmed 100% one way or the other, the wedding planning has hit a bit of a peak throwing up a whole load of stuff I’d not even thought about and it seems some tool is interested in buying my flat in that miserable corner of South London where everyone’s a loser, baby.
In the midst of this thickness we’re sort of managing to maintain our marbles. Being under such pressure, irrespective of the potential of a positive outcome (which could be argued makes it worse –actually I’d argue that), doesn’t make for a comfortable existence, chuck in the fact that business is nonexistent, the bank balance isn’t balanced and I cut the end off my right nipple when I dropped the razor shaving Friday morning, then you can see that things have been better. Surely you can see that.
With these things bearing down, Friday afternoon turned to evening in an almost sinister manner. I’d spent most of the day at home trying to work and it didn’t feel like the weekend was ‘pon me and even if it was, deserved. I met my bro in a boozer in Hackney at 7, we were later joined by IC, SH, JRME and Siegfried for a few beers and a civilised catch-up. I’d not met the latter pair but it was jolly nice to put faces in places of comments on this there internet
After a few, Bro, IC and I went home, I managed to have a row with the pair of them then we went to bed, not all together you’ll understand, that’d be horrific and possibly illegal.
I got up late Saturday and the afternoon consisted of paperwork relating to the above. At 6-ish IC and I donned some nice togs and went to Angel in search of the French Cafe we’d booked. It was cold and miserable outside but the Bistro warm, inviting, despite the staff who clearly fucking hated us both. We shared a starter and I chose a braised pork shank with sauerkraut for my main, IC had the sea bass. After the initial visual disappointment of my main (it looked like something off Cannibal Holocaust) I have to say it was nothing short of excellent, one of those fellows (and it may have been for all I know, we were in French gaff) that got better as it went on. I could’ve drunk the sauce outta of a tea-cup, in fact I even asked for extra bread with which to mop it up. I was looked at as if I’d just fallen out of a tramps nose.
We were home by 11, so we stayed up and watched a few movies with a glass or two of vino until we could no longer see straight. There was no doubt, we both needed that.
Sunday: Strangely, the hangover I’d been expecting hadn’t materialised. We set off to Brick Lane early afternoon to search for our stolen bicycles, it was cold and wet so many of the cunts selling had either packed up already or didn’t bother showing in the first place.
On the way home we popped into a few shops for dinner stuff then onto a pub on Mare Street to see Mary and Paul for a quick snifter. The weekend concluded with a nut roast, roast spuds with tomato and onion, roasted of course, and The Deerhunter which was really, really hilarious. Ahahahha.
On Sunday my niece was christened. Due to the fact my folks live miles away from my current location they insisted that IC my bro and I pop over Saturday evening so we’d be ready to go early Sunday, they’d even buy dinner, they said.
IC and managed to get the train by the skin of our prosthetics, my bro, who’d been waiting for us at Waterloo, wasn’t best pleased. We trundled down South to Surrey and took the lugubrious walk to my folks before being driven off to a fucking Cafe Rouge, formally a boozer that I used to score drugs from.
We had a nice evening despite the so so grub. Our fellow diners were a funny lot though, a revolting pissed woman tearing a strip off her inebriated husband was the highlight for me, especially when he went outside to tinkle in the car park as he cursed the air when we left.
After a weird’s nights sleep in my old bedroom we woke with the prospect of church pushing us down into our bedclothes, nonetheless, for the sake of family, I found myself in said institution aged about 10 with all these old bods I’d not seen in a fucking generation doing that, ‘oooh, haven’t you grown’ sort of thing. It was all rather disturbing.
The service plodded on for most of the morning, on the plus side my niece’s head didn’t melt when it came to the ecumenical dunking and my older niece told the priest that ‘eating too much makes you sick’ during the hands-on sermon about the feeding of the five thousand (gawd) and we finished off with Jerusalem (which has more to do with English patriotism than ‘God’) a song which I genuinely like because I’m a big William Blake fan. You heard me.
But none of this justified the excruciating boredom I was subject to and the utter drivel that I had to put up with for hours. The reward came in the form of a party at my sister’s gaff half an hour away. The table groaned with the sort of British finger food that causes the rest of Europe to run gagging in the opposite direction, but precisely the sort of tucker I couldn’t wait to stick down my neck. Egg and cress, mustard and onion, cheese and pickle sandwiches, pork pies, meat pastries, cheese twists, pizza bread, crisps, nuts and loads and loads of beer/wine.
My sisters gaff was packed with family, friends and neighbours, all engaging in a most delightful way as toddlers yelled, burped and occasionally, whacked each other with toys that lay scattered about the place like Helmand mines. By the time I left early evening I was stuffed, pissed and little stoned courtesy of a generous neighbour. We took the fucking train back to Hackney and spent the evening gently allowing ourselves to worry about the week ahead.
Speaking of, it’s been a funny old week, not necessarily in the ‘ha ha’ sense, in fact -for the most part- it’s been largely humourless, despite much getting done as it were. I managed to get some work done on Johnston with dad on Monday; it looks right nice with its new short chrome pipes, but we still have clutch issues. Cunts!
On Valentine’s evening Patti popped over to our gaff to cook us fresh rabbit, which was jolly nice of her bearing in mind the day and all that. I’d gone to enormous trouble to make roasted potatoes which we ate with the fucking rabbit. Why on earth we’re not eating more of this creature is beyond me, it’s vermin for crying out loud, the buggers eat crops, and once they’ve established a colony they’ll continue to breed like, er, people from Hull. On top of it all they’re delicious, lean and tasty, and there is no reason for them to be so pricey at all. COME ON ENGLAND!
Pardon.
Anyway, apart from nearly getting into a fist fight over the identity of the senator character in Godfather 2 in the boozer on Wednesday, there is nothing more to say… I could moan if you want? No?
Have good weekends. Why it’s Gerry’s chart and a choon. Now get out, I need to take a shit.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Motorhead Get Back In Line 19 8 8
29 Miles Kane Come Closer NE 1 29
28 Eric Prydz Niton (The Reason) NE 1 28
27 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger 24 4 23
26 Black Keys Tighten Up 21 4 18
25 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 27 3 25
24 Noah And The Whale L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N 16 3 16
23 Elbow Neat Little Rows 30 2 23
22 Martin Solveig ft dragonette Hello 18 6 12
21 Glasvegas The World Is Yours NE 1 21
20 Architects Learn To Live 14 5 14
19 Neon Trees Animal 26 4 19
18 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 12 14 1
17 Beady Eye The Roller 13 5 13
16 REM Uberlin NE 1 16
15 Brother Darling Buds Of May 20 3 15
14 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 10 11 1
13 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 23 2 13
12 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 17 4 12
11 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 8 7 4
10 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 6 9 2
9 Mona Teenager 11 3 9
8 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 7 5 7
7 Hurts Sunday 9 3 7
6 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 15 2 6
5 Chase And Status Blind Faith 4 8 4
4 White Lies Bigger Than Us 2 11 1
3 Band Of Horses Dilly 5 4 3
2 Chapel Club Surfacing 3 5 2
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 1 6 1
It’s been a busy few days; in short, IC and I are up to our eyes in mortgage-based paperwork and the whole nuptial-organisation lark. It’s all rather stressful so we’ve been allowing ourselves time to relax, at times a little too pedantically.
Take Friday, we’d planned a quiet one after a quick visit to the local. But on the way we bumped into Ted who suggested we might like to nip quickly to his for a pre-pub drink. This turned out to be a rather generous helping of Scotches over the course of an hour as IC sipped wine concernedly, by the time we arrived at the pub I was acutely aware of being too-arseholed-early which wasn’t aided by the lack of food in my stomach. This matter was further exacerbated by the huge quantity of patrons in that evening, the ones I didn’t know were introduced to me by Ted who was doing a better job of remaining coherent, despite his having drunk more than me.
Before IC took me off home it had been noted by a couple of friends that I was foolscap white and I distinctly remember doing a bit of sick in mouth after resting my head on a black fellows shoulder and informing him I was ‘having a whitey.’ Go me.
Oddly I wasn’t too hungover Saturday, this may have had something with 12 hours sleep and a relatively early evening, indeed, by the time IC and I hit Broadway Market to investigate the dubious cycles sold at the end of London Fields I was in fine fettle.
We hooked up with Patti, Mary and her bro, Ben and thought it rude to not meet Ann in the local for a swift half, like. Turns out Ben and I have tastes in music, shortly I’ll post a couple of links to his site, and we nattered over a pair of beers until IC and I were forced back home to prepare for the evening and the gist of the weekend as it were.
If you’re going to bother, this contains spoilers of sorts (but in my opinion the whole fucking affair is one big spoiler)
I can’t turn a corner, a page, without seeing in-my-face eulogies to the re-made ‘True Grit.’
Apart from the cinematography which is acceptable in parts, I thought the film was fucking awful and I’m struggling to see what has inspired so many screaming, squealing raptures of delight.
I don’t normally enter into this sort of territory (Watch with Mothers is your man for that sort of business) but I’m in a state of confusion over this. On the one hand I’m more than used to luck-pushing quotes from ‘critics’ (‘It’s the best film ever made in the history of the whole world in his hands’) before learning said critic is Dave Squires from Packaging Digest. But this is different; the new True-Grit posters have renowned critics almost pissed with admiration.
For a kick off every word uttered by Jeff Bridges was as intelligible as Italian politics and the character played by Jason Bourne was more pointless than a Halifax advert. We went from one boring scene to another over a period of what felt like week but it was towards the end that I found myself pointing at the screen with my silently flapping jaw trying to work out if I was watching a Coen Brothers Film or a home-grown effort made as an afterthought by Channel 5.
The scene at the end where the snotty-nosed lead falls unconvincingly down the massive, yet unseen, fucking chasm (right by her) following a poorly-timed / executed recoil from a shotgun, only to land by a dead body, a dead body with snakes (!!) looked like the mental exposition of a daydreaming 10-year-old. And then it just sort of ended, very unsatisfactorily I hasten to add.
What the fucking nora is going on here?
I’ll post normally tomorrow, I just needed to get this off my chest and hope that someone agrees.
I’ve been pike-ill most of the week, nothing approaching fatal, just a cold. This state of affairs has had two main effects, one, I’ve been working more sporadically than usual and two, it served to remind me that I’ve no recollection where the fucking idiot phrase ‘man-flu’ came from.
A few years ago this phrase was never in use was it? I certainly don’t remember it when I was in my 20’s (though I don’t recall much from that decade if I’m honest, less so, my 30’s. And if I’m to be perfectly frank about it I’m not beginning my 40’s in the spirit of abstinence… I digress). These days you could be suffering from final-stage convulsions of Spanish Flu and some bloody female will simply chuckle it off as ‘man-flu’ whilst giving off that ‘oh you men!’ look (the one that features fucking periods and the prospect/reality of childbirth) as you lie there trying not to hack up your toenails. I wonder how many men have actually died because of this ridiculous coupling of words. Think about it.
‘Darling, I don’t feel so good.’
‘You lazy wanker!’
‘Honestly, love, I feel really unwell, Christ I think I’m having a heat att…’
‘Get off the floor you CUNT! It’s just M… F…’
‘Gurgle.’
There see.
So in addition to this cold, my work is bloody awful at the moment and to stick the knife in, twist it around and jiggle it about, some cunt has nicked my new bicycle.
This may seem incredulous to some readers as only this week I was bemoaning the theft of IC’s and eulogising the one I’d bought for a song. To use a word that doesn’t spring readily from my lexical choice, I’m ‘gutted,’ but perhaps more than this, I feel shocked and violated. Quite honestly, I stood stock still for a good 15 seconds staring at the space where my bike once stood in sheer disbelief. If it wasn’t for the fact they’d left the front wheel (and pinched the front wheel off my old mountain bike that sat untouched) I could’ve convinced myself it never existed. When I did accept what had happened it felt like some had groped my front bottom then laughed in my face. Then I became very cross indeed, I was even inspired to shout out a very rude word into the fucking air.
I’ll stop talking about this before I smash the flat to pieces. Yes, have good weekends. Gerry’s chart and tune follow.
Bye.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 12/02/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Elbow Neat Little Rows NE 1 30
29 The Naked And Famous Young Blood 27 2 27
28 Nero Me And You 17 7 12
27 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 30 2 27
26 Neon Trees Animal RE 3 26
25 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 14 7 11
24 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger 23 3 23
23 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man NE 1 23
22 Funeral Party Finale 13 6 8
21 Black Keys Tighten Up 18 3 18
20 Brother Darling Buds Of May 25 2 20
19 Motorhead Get Back In Line 10 7 8
18 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 12 5 12
17 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 26 3 17
16 Noah And The Whale L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N 22 2 16
15 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down NE 1 15
14 Architects Learn To Live 15 4 14
13 Beady Eye The Roller 16 4 13
12 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 8 13 1
11 Mona Teenager 21 2 11
10 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 6 10 1
9 Hurts Sunday 19 2 9
8 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 5 6 4
7 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 7 4 7
6 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 3 8 2
5 Band Of Horses Dilly 9 3 5
4 Chase And Status Blind Faith 4 7 4
3 Chapel Club Surfacing 11 4 3
2 White Lies Bigger Than Us 1 10 1
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 2 5 1
I met Neil mid fry-up in the cafe by Hackney Central, I had a quick tea and off we went. After suffering the single decker bus and DLR ride all the miserable way to the ExCel centre we arrived just in time for the show Neil had bought tickets for. I have to say, I was filled with trepidation, justifiably so in the case of the low-rent presenters and the ‘Fuel Girls’ -tarty fire-eaters ineffectively gyrating to rock music (for fucks sake, why are people that ride motorcycles assumed to be cock-tugging retards) but all this forgivable for some of the bike displays and the chance to see genuine hero’s of mine dicking about on trail bikes (I’ll spare you the details).
The afternoon unfurled perfectly, Neil and I rushed from stand to bike to bar like children skiving from school pausing only for a long chat to a very nice Triumph dealer from Romford about the headlamps on the new Speed Triple. In our travels, disturbingly, Neil and I found ourselves lusting over a Harley (we both agreed it must be our age) but I’d have given it all up for a matt black Ducati 848. Between us I reckon we sat on every single post 500cc bike there, by the time we left my bum was raw.
Neil and I made the awful journey back to Hackney; we collected his two dogs from his flat, walked them over London Fields and went to the pub. Earlier in the day some cunt had nicked IC’s brand new bicycle, she joined us with her anger and upset contained, Neil’s better half arrived shortly after and we had a splendid evening together.
Saturday started late, after a cup of tea I popped out to pick up a bicycle I’d bought off one of IC’s ex-housemates who’d gone to Oz a few months earlier. The bike was originally going for £500 but after a few months of no-takers he’d put it down to £100. Ironically I’d agree to buy it a few minutes before hearing IC had her nicked.
Both tyres were flat but I wasn’t fussed, the bike is stunning, black aluminium frame, low profile tyres, drop bars… and it’s lighter than a quaver. After bringing it back I de-bolted-on goodies it and gave a it a quick clean, then IC and I headed off to Stoke Newington to visit a possible venue for our London Nup bash.
The boozer was tucked away off the High Street but worth the 30 minute walk there, in addition to it being just about right in most aspects I found myself sat between a Sex Pistols poster and two photos of Barry Sheene which I took to be a sign of fate. IC and I had some wine and I ordered a cheeseburger which further encouraged my expectations, it was one of the best I’ve ever had.
We were reluctant to leave but due to evening plans we sensibly took ourselves off home where we prepared for the evening ahead. We set off before 7 to get the bus and train to Lewisham; it took an age, so much so we were 30 mins late. This wasn’t too much of an issue as Mark was still making the curry we’d been promised so we had a quick tour of the house and settled down with Roz and Andy and a few drinks. Quite a few actually, punctuated by Bison Grass vodka which is both delicious and lethal.
We sat down to eat at around 10. It was worth the wait; apparently Mark had been making the curry for most of the day and it was perfectly obvious that this was his field of expertise. Put it this way, you’d generously tip for stuff like this in an upmarket Balti house, it was excellent. All in all Saturday had been a good day for food when I think about it.
By the time we’d finished I was a bit pissed, l so much so that when we left to catch the last train at 11.15 I actually fell arse over tit in Marks’s garden. In the end we didn’t get the train, a passing bus boasting a direct service to Shorditch took precedence but it was probably a mistake, took fucking ages, I’ve no idea what time we got home but I do remember waking up on the sofa at 4am feeling a little out of sorts.
Sunday began at lunchtime; we met some friends at a cafe off Broadway market after I’d dropped of my bike to get the tyres sorted. It was the same shop that had built IC’s bike and they’d already heard what had happened. They offered to help by putting details of the bike in an email to other shops in the area, then suggested we go to Brick Lane to see if it was amongst the dodgy bike dealers in some of the backstreets.
IC had already reported the theft to the cops so we were advised to call them if we saw it, apparently there are loads of undercover plod in the area so they’d virtually be on site if we called. However, I was also prepared to retrieve it myself. Scenarios of what might happen played on my mind to the point I found myself strutting about the East End like I just done 6 months for GBH.
Of course we didn’t see it, despite a good possibility that it had/would/might be there. We grabbed a bagel each from the 24 hour bakery and headed home in a biblical gale. We were joined shortly after by my bro and watched a few Come Dine’s With me in between conversation, then at 7.30 I headed out to meet Gerry for a few late weekend drinks.
Jolly nice it was too, we had more time than usual and managed to adequately catch up with all of our recent comings and goings. It was during our conversation I learnt about Gary Moore, I stifled a mild sob and we toasted him. So, playing us out today is the late Mr. Moore with the sorely missed Phil Lynott. What a bummer.
My day started, more or less, in the gym yesterday morning. I’ve ditched the fucking cross trainer in favour of the running machine, thing. Of course I don’t actually run on the bastard, my back hasn’t got any better, I simply discovered that if I walk fast at a gradient I achieve a lot more than I did on the former instrument of torture. Anyway, later on an Asian lady fell off the tall pull-up machine and landed on her head a foot away as I was in the middle of doing some arm curls. I reckon it must’ve really, really hurt. She was still there when I left with her eyeballs banging together. Ironic really, you go with the intention of shedding a few calories and leave with your head hanging off.
I made it into work in the pm, which was about as much fun as Ebola, and then things got rather more interesting at 5-ish. After taking a packed train from Wimbledon to Vauxhall I took the tube to Brixton, alighted among the throngs and hit the street. The allocated boozer for meeting my bro and Ned was no more than a pile of rubble, so I was reluctantly forced into the Wetherspoons effort across the road.
Jesus, this place. It was already half full of piss-pots, some yelling, some slumped over tables but more importantly the beer was 2.20 a pint and in excellent condition. I managed to find a seat near the back by a swollen-faced she-wino and an ancient old man with an Arsenal tee and a trilby hat. I read the Standard sipping my pint of Abbott as the place filled-up with dubious Brixton characters of every persuasion. My bro arrived just as the pint was done and we began again together. By the end of these the place was heaving, I nipped outside to tout my bro’s spare ticket (managed to get an impressive 16 quid for it by doing the old ‘nah’ / walk off routine) and worked my way back in, collecting a couple of beers in the process. I have to say this, despite the state of some of the people in there, everyone was polite -people moved out your way, let you through etc- and even p’s and q’s were minded. On top of all this the staff were excellent too (and beer was 2.20 a pint, good beer too).
Ned joined us about half an hour before we were due to set off, en route we dropped by Nando’s for a sharpener and some sort of chicken burger thing, and hit The Academy just as The Band came on stage. First thing I noticed was the audience, they were incredibly young, sixth-form young, and there were a high proportion of girls, idiot ones that did that pointy-up finger dancing (as they sang tunelessly along to the song with their giggling fucking Hampshire mates)to the point I had to move away. As for The Band, they were sublime, in places almost tear-inducing so and they played a more-than decent set, yes, in places it flopped a bit, it didn’t start amazingly for one, but the highlights more than compensated for the lowish ones.
By the time the gig ended I was a tad squiffy, Ned and I got the tube back to Vauxhall, leaving my bro to carry on to Islington (which is what I should’ve done) and then realised we didn’t know where the busstop was, and that it was 11.30. We tried to get into the big gay pub on the corner but they wouldn’t let us in (probably a good thing in hindsight) so we settled for a couple of cans of Holsten from a corner shop and ambled toward Elephant and Castle (stick it up your arsehole). It took a while for the bus to show when we got there, but we were okay just chatting about shit.
On the bus to Liverpool Street we sat at the front. London looked so beautiful and Ned, due back to Oz soon, was eulogising over our fair capital -that was before I fell off my seat when the bus turned a sharp left.
I got the last train back to Hackney Downs with my ears filled with Slayer, and arrived home into the arms of IC who was as pissed as I.
Have good weekends, I’m off to the Motorcycle Show now. Enjoy Gerry’s chart and tune after.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 05/02/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me NE 1 30
29 Adele Rolling In The Deep 24 7 9
28 Courteeners Scratch Your Name Across My Lips 18 12 2
27 The Naked And Famous Young Blood NE 1 27
26 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 28 2 26
25 Brother Darling Buds Of May NE 1 25
24 Mona Trouble On The Way 13 9 4
23 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger 29 2 23
22 Noah And The Whale L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N NE 1 22
21 Mona Teenager NE 1 21
20 Pendulum Crush 15 5 15
19 Hurts Sunday NE 1 19
18 Black Keys Tighten Up 23 2 18
17 Nero Me And You 12 6 12
16 Beady Eye The Roller 21 3 16
15 Architects Learn To Live 17 3 15
14 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 11 6 11
13 Funeral Party Finale 9 5 8
12 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 16 4 12
11 Chapel Club Surfacing 14 3 11
10 Motorhead Get Back In Line 8 6 8
9 Band Of Horses Dilly 19 2 9
8 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 5 12 1
7 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 10 3 7
6 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 3 9 1
5 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 4 5 4
4 Chase And Status Blind Faith 7 6 4
3 TheWombats Jump Into The Fog 2 7 2
2 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 6 4 2
1 White Lies Bigger Than Us 1 9 1
This morning, after hauling my frazzled arse from the bedclothes, I managed to summon enough mettle in order to leave the flat and head fucking south to my place of work.
I’d just missed my train to Liverpool Street and the one after was late, though empty, so at least I could sit down and fume in peace. I kicked my way through the concourse at the station, crashed through the barriers and walked down the escalator to the platform. Notice I walked. I no more understand the cunts that stand on escalators than I do nipper-fiddling. You heard me.
Instead of the usual minute wait I had to stand on the platform for a full 5 minutes, by which time the place became increasingly crowded, and, in short, undid all the reasons why I was travelling post-rush hour in the first fucking instance.
The train rolled up like the 10.30 to Treblinka, windows blackened with an amorphous amalgam of bodies. When the doors beeped open a few limbs and trunks untangled themselves from the black mass within and slipped into the increasing throb about me.
When certain no more creatures would emerge from this oily human mass I boarded the train, and squeezed myself into an area the size of small calf, and there I remained, deformed, until the next stop where I was due to alight.
The train slowed and stopped, the doors opened to the tune of ‘please allow passengers off the train before boarding’ as usual. The few of us due to exit uncoiled ourselves and made for the doors, as I was about to get off this small rat-faced man stepped on the train, right in front of me.
Without thinking a single thought I leant forward and gently placed an open hand onto his chest and pushed him firmly enough to cause him to move away from me, off the train, onto the platform and back into the waiting throngs. As I did this I repeated the mantra, ‘please allow passengers off the train before boarding’ whilst maintaining a firm, fixed gaze. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds, I didn’t wait around to continue the conversation, smaller (older, and a little shocked) he may have been but this doesn’t necessarily guarantee you won’t get a decent hiding after a person has had a chance to gather thoughts… but the titters behind suggested I was in the clear.
Incidentally, I’ve noticed lately that when a train is due to arrive it’s announced, ‘your train will arrive in x minutes to so and so.’
Your train? My train?! What the screaming fuck is that all about?
So much has changed since Fridays last post you wouldn’t bel… What?! Sorry…
Fucking nothing has changed apart from a shooting pain up my arm when I get an email or when the phone rings. Despite assurances we’d have a surveyor over today to value the flat, we’ve not heard shit from the mortgage broker since he mentioned it last week. If we had given the broker any money I shouldn’t wonder he’d be living it up off the coast of Norfolk at our expense all drugged up on posh glue. Christ it makes me fucking sick.
All this moving business has been talking its toll on IC and I if I’m perfectly honest -and do remember we’re supposed to be planning some sort of nuptial ritual in addition to all this head-under-a-roof crap. By the time we met one another at a local boozer on Friday each was cheerfully prepared to brain the other on sight, we’d done a good job of winding each other up all day and I’d not helped matters by being late from work on account of some dildo liberating themselves all over the front of the 6.50 to Cheltenham.
But being the good sports that we are we easily resolved the issues before they’d a chance to get a grip and 30 minutes later we were the best of friends again. Dreadful thing stress, it manages to take a relatively straight forward issue and twist it into the prospect of prison- hospital rape.
Despite this we had a good weekend, after the pub on Friday we bravely carried on at home, on Saturday we went into central London to see if my preferred silversmith would be able to fix me and IC up with rings, like. I am delighted to say that we’d sorted this matter out in under 15 minutes giving us more time in the pub on the way home –but only after IC had spent 12 quid on a fucking lovely piece of veal on the way there.
We were joined by Mary for dinner at 8-ish, she was a little late on account of having broken the little key off in the bicycle lock she’d attached round her waist after cycling home. The lock was the same length as a belt and she’d been unable to get it off, so she arrived with the lock still trapped round her waist which tickled us no end. IC managed to convince Mary to wriggle it off over her shoulders, I must admit, it looked impossible, but after a ten frantic (and hilarious minutes) it finally lifted off.
IC doesn’t eat meat yet the veal and sauce she made was fucking amazing, I roasted some potatoes, onions and tomato to go with it and we had Mary’s banofee pie afterwards which I’m still digesting as I speak to you in word form.
Apart from a brief visit to the pub and a spot of food we spent the day watching films on Sunday. The tension of the week ahead began to creep back in by the evening but we managed to keep it at bay sorta.
Not so now, though.
On top of everything I’ve just heard that my ex-council (the one I’ve not even set foot in in over a year and a half) reckon I owe them council tax and my company think I owe them money for a pension scheme I thought I was paying.
CUNTS!
And this video is fucking annoying too, great song mind.
On Wednesday IC and I met the mortgage broker in a bespoke fasthotlunch eatery for office types. Spurning the speedy pasta dishes and virtually-instant hot sandwiches we three sat down for coffee in our stark, plastic surroundings and went through the relative paperwork.
The broker, wider than The Grand Canyon, was a friendly cheery type. He came highly recommended via a friend of IC’s and within minutes we had a deal pretty much nailed down. After more positive banter I could feel the weight evaporating off our shoulders as if hot breath on a cold January morn, say.
That evening, with knitted brow and the first drink since Sunday, I got to work scanning the necessary documents and sending them over to the broker for the morning. It took me about 2 hours to sort, when done I began to relax a bit, but not that much.
During work yesterday a few more mortgage-related questions arose and were dealt with pretty much on the spot. All was going rather well until a solicitor called and quoted me the wrong figure for the purchase of the intended gaff, it was wrong by about -70k. Turned out that I’d fucked up when filling out a form, instead of giving the purchase price for the intended flat I’d given the purchase price of my shit-hole in Sarf Landan.
I immediately informed the broker who seemed a little disappointed by this revelation but reassured me that it’d be okay anyway, though I wasn’t entirely convinced.
Without putting too fine a point on things I’m sat here with my guts in knots trying not to chew off my fucking knuckles with a hangover, of course.
Chart, (fucking lovely (sorry about the bloody advert)) choon, Help.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Hurts Stay 23 15 1
29 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger NE 1 29
28 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy NE 1 28
27 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 17 7 5
26 Neon Trees Animal 30 2 26
25 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 18 8 6
24 Adele Rolling In The Deep 24 6 9
23 Black Keys Tighten Up NE 1 23
22 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 14 9 5
21 Beady Eye The Roller 29 2 21
20 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 15 6 15
19 Band Of Horses Dilly NE 1 19
18 Courteeners Scratch Your Name Across My Lips 10 11 2
17 Architects Learn To Live 22 2 17
16 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 19 3 16
15 Pendulum Crush 16 4 15
14 Chapel Club Surfacing 20 2 14
13 Mona Trouble On The Way 7 8 4
12 Nero Me And You 12 5 12
11 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 11 5 11
10 PJ Harvey The Words ThatMaketh Murder 26 2 10
9 Funeral Party Finale 8 4 8
8 Motorhead Get Back In Line 9 5 8
7 Chase And Status Blind Faith 6 5 6
6 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 13 3 6
5 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 3 11 1
4 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 5 4 4
3 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 2 8 1
2 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 4 6 2
1 White Lies Bigger Than Us 1 8 1
IC’s return a couple of weeks ago coincided with a vicious week at work, in which I was forced into going to my workplace more regularly than anticipated after I declared myself self-employed last year. It’s fucking dreadful, Johnston just isn’t up to the job of going through the city (all the stop/starting plays havoc with his little clutch) so I’ve been a-forced onto la transport publique.
As I may or may not have mentioned it’s not as time consuming as it was before I began using the overground from Hackney Downs, it’s just labour intensive, expensive and in part, enough to inspire bum-shedding terror. In order, 5 different trains (overland, tube, tube, overland, tube) about 10 quid there and back and the central line from Liverpool street to Bank is more overcrowded than a Hajj chod bin. This part of the journey is more harrowing than thought of seeing Susan Boyle’s perineum. One has to quite literally key oneself into what spaces that exist between commuters shoulders and hips, once there breathing becomes theoretical. It’s so bad, in fact, I’d rather be flying with Ryanair, at least they’ve got wine and mini chedders.
But not even this is the worst part of public transportation. Allow me to indulge you. I’m going to anyway.
You may be aware that the whole of the network system involves bespoke flooring surfaces, whether it be that highly polished granite stuff at Waterloo, Liverpool Street etc., or that bizarre (shiny) thick linoleum stuff in tube and (most) overground trains. When dry it works like a floor, but the merest splash of rainwater, or piss, vomit, and it’s like walking on ballbearings. A few years I watched a bloke in a suit slip on the floor at Wimbledon and trip over the ‘Caution. Slippery Surface!’ sign they erect to prevent litigation. Obviously I laughed and pointed because he looked like a fucking tool, but that was before one of my vertebrae in my lower back decided to burst. Anyway, so long as he was hurt.
Not so funny when it happens to oneself. I don’t need to fall base over apex, just the slip/prevention act will see my spine snap out of shape like an MP’s whip. Over the past few years I’ve grown accustom to walking about the transport system as if coming home from a night underneath Uncle Monty, but I wasn’t expecting the sole of my trusty Converse to open up at the front and bite the corner of the stair I was about the place under my foot at Hackney Downs.
I lurched forward at the angle of a slash mark and managed to bring the delayed foot onto the following stair which only served to retain my unsustainable angle. I managed a couple more stairs before they ran out, at which point I was propelled at great speed into an oncoming wall. Since then I’ve been hobbling about the place like a geriatric with peeled ginger up his arse and my wrist feels a bit, well, broken.
Still, it’s not all bad, at least we’re not about to be chucked out on our respective ears a couple of months before we get married, eh.
That bank holiday evening pretty much set the precedence of the week IC was away.
Tuesday was blander than a nuns knicker drawer, so on Wednesday I met up with my bro again and we repeated the Monday’s excesses, though this time without eating a kebab horizontally. Thursday was spent in splendid (hungover) isolation but on Friday I caught up with Mr. Dodo who was in town for a couple of nights.
Unfortunately the only convenient place in which to meet was Surbiton, a place too close to my folks with mixed memories of days past. Like most small towns, Surbiton retains a sense of artificial-nostalgia, its non-progressive, it grasps onto the past unwilling to let it go in case something awful happens to it. Like multiculturalism, god forbid.
Save the new odd shop and minus the occasional building it remains as if locked in the 1970’s, or 60’s or fucking 30’s for all I know, or care. Within this stale dynamic the people also seem unchanged; as always, a palpable sense of sexual frustration and the real possibility of random violence prevails. You may not believe me if I were tell you that there is more of a chance of an unprovoked kicking in Surbiton than in somewhere like Dalston, but really, there is.
The only good thing about the place was a boozer called The Southhampton by the station, it was a bikers (with small ‘b’) pub and had the occasional live rock band. The Southhampton used to be a hotel and once upon a time my granddad managed it, but that’s a different story and not one for here. Of course they got rid of it, I’d already skipped town when they did, and turned it into something completely nondescript. I passed by it on my way to the chosen venue for our meeting without evening noticing.
Dodo and I arranged to meet in the Wetherspoons, the fact this was the best choice says more about Surbiton than the above ever could. In fairness though, it’s a large attractive building with a homely interior containing a range of tasty and very moderately priced beers, but it’s still a Wetherspoons. It still has Wetherspoons men in it, all fat, all bald, all soul-grindingly lonely. All white.
I watched them for a while waiting for Dodo to arrive. One man per table, all silent, all drinking, all staring out the rain-lashed window. Occasionally one would go outside for a fag (Mayfair) all the while nervously glancing indoors at his solitary pint like a greasy, grubby Meerkat. By the time Dodo arrived I was considering cutting my throat with a shard from my empty glass.
Despite all this, we had a splendid evening, we took a long, steady while to catch up and cheerfully recalled past days in this minor part of South London. After we parted I rolled back to town feeling cheered by seeing an old mate, the knowledge IC was home the following day and that every second that past the further away I was from That Place.
Since then things have been tickety-boo, or rather they were. Honestly, I’d just being saying to IC last Sunday how I thought we’d finally settled into our gaff when I get a phone call from the landlord on the Monday serving us notice. With reference to my last post this is as about as convenient as first-date Diarrhea and I’ve no idea what the fuck we’re going to do. In addition to this I also learnt my ex-council reckon I owe them £1000, and believe it or not, due to one thing and another, they’ve a leg to stand on, apparently.
Chart, tune, mah…
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Neon Trees Animal NE 1 30
29 Beady Eye The Roller NE 1 29
28 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 22 7 14
27 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 20 10 1
26 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder NE 1 26
25 Fenech Soler Demons 29 2 25
24 Adele Rolling In The Deep 16 5 9
23 Hurts Stay 18 14 1
22 Architects Learn To Live NE 1 22
21 My Chemical Romance Sing 15 7 11
20 Chapel Club Surfacing NE 1 20
19 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 26 2 19
18 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 13 7 6
17 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 8 6 5
16 Pendulum Crush 23 3 16
15 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 19 5 15
14 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 9 8 5
13 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 24 2 13
12 Nero Me And You 17 4 12
11 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 12 4 11
10 Courteeners Scratch Your Name Across My Lips 5 10 2
9 Motorhead Get Back In Line 11 4 9
8 Funeral Party Finale 14 3 8
7 Mona Trouble On The Way 4 7 4
6 Chase And Status Blind Faith 7 4 6
5 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 10 3 5
4 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 6 5 4
3 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 3 10 1
2 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 1 7 1
1 White Lies Bigger Than Us 2 7 1
All these bloody priests (actually, they’ve all been rather nice, not one of them has tried to touch me downstairs) and the simple fact that ‘Piqued’’Priests’ don’t really sit that happily side by side, has sort of given the game away. A few knew already, a few guessed… I’m making an honest woman of IC in May before she gets deported.
Of course that’s not true; one of the Priests did try and grab my balls.
So far we’ve got a reception venue (it’s the place we had lunch on my birthday as it happens) and a church in which to do the whole ‘I do’ bit. I’d have been happy with Hackney Town Hall but IC’s family wouldn’t have been too impressed, unimpressed in a horses- head- in- the- bed way, so I thought I’d pop my post-theist sensibilities aside and take the Catholic thing on the chin (anyway it’s not as if there will be any divine retribution and besides, I quite like the church idea, it’s tradition innit).
Outside of wedding stuff, since returning from Italy, things have been rather busy. We were home late on the 28th and did a second Christmas with my family on the 29th (very nice, there were no arsehole uncles and I could understand everyone). The 30th was a quiet day with IC, we had dinner in the evening, and then New Years Eve was on us. Instead of watching London skies catch fire from the balcony we made a weak decision to meet up with some pals, first to Paul’s gaff nearby which was perfectly fine, then off to some pop-up club under a dismal arch in Bethnal Green.
In fairness it was okay, I knew most of the people there, it wasn’t too packed but we weren’t really in the mood. There was also the small matter of the availability of wine.
I can do beer, of course, but it has an unfortunate side effect (apart from making me fart). It may have become apparent over the years that one thing I excel at is drinking. But way before I opened my bowels to the few bods that read this, I undertook the decision to cut down on beer in favour of wine.
These days if I drink more than 5 pints of beer, my legs get all pissed, whilst I can be okay from the waist up, below, I’m moving around like Julian Assange. This meant that by midnight I was scooting all over the place like possessed wheelchair but my head remained relatively sober. IC and danced a bit, made our way round the club to say hello to our pals but by 2.30 I was actually in danger of falling over, a good time to call it a night and get the night bus home, farting. Of course, once there we stayed up a little while longer successfully ballsing up New Years Day in the bargain but we were okay in the evening for a few rounds of Shithead with my brother.
On Sunday IC, Mary, Patti and I went to Shoreditch to investigate a few sales, I bought a shirt but my heart wasn’t in it. IC was due to bugger off to Malaysia in the wee hours and I was already mourning her absence. We had a final drink in a cocktail lounge that evening and at 3am she was bloody gone.
The week that followed was predictable enough, though I wasn’t expecting the cock-up that was Bank Holiday Monday. I’d arranged to go to an autojumble with dad in Newbury so I boarded Johnston, who took fucking ages to kick start, and then promptly ran out of petrol before I’d made it to the A3.
I walked to the nearest petrol station (about 30 mins away) bought a can, filled it, trudged back to the bike, filled that, discarded the 10 quid can and carried on to my folks in the freezing wind. After arriving at realising my new exhaust pipes didn’t bloody fit we set off in the car for the hour and half journey to Newbury race course. As we arrived it began to snow and what stands there were began to pack up, but only after we’d paid a tenner to get in. It was even worse inside, a few lousy bikes, one of them a Yamaha TDM (which is about as classic as a Jim Davidson joke) and stands selling ‘I’m with idiot’ tees. Diabolical, we had chicken pasty and fucked off home. Needless to say, that evening I got paralytic with my brother, I deserved it.
The church was very beautiful. But as IC and I weren’t there as mere mortal sightseers I couldn’t help feel a tad anxious, I’ve heard some very distasteful things about these Catholics and I wasn’t overly happy being guided to some sort of inner sanctum after our entering via heavy studded doors, doors that faced the vast glittering alter. The alter of sacrifice. Shit….
We entered a crepuscular chapel-sized room lined with walnut panelling on which hung violent, moody, antique paintings featuring celestial trauma; all close to being masterpieces in their own right, just not quite. Our silent pilots invited us to sit at a large oak table under the pained gaze of a 15 foot high sculpture of Jesus getting knacked on the cross at Golgotha, now this piece was very nice indeed, I wonder if I could sneak it out…
The doors at the farther end of the room creaked open and a priest stood black in the doorway, candle light flickered from behind, he approached, he looked like a short, fat Count Dracula but more pissed off. Christ, my garlic…
Malevolently eyeing IC and I up and down as he arrived at the table I considered making a break for the holy water in the font… but it was too late. The priest sat down, down his arse went. Down towards the depths of hell.
Nice bloke as it turned out, we chatted a while then left for home and roasted rabbit and polenta, knackered by the day we took ourselves off to our (bloody respective) beds quite early and slept like the dead. (But just before I fell asleep it occurred to me that it was 21 years since I was 21. I was a little bit sick in my mouth then I fell asleep.)
On the penultimate day we drove towards the mountains to visit IC’s uncle (not the non-related fart from Christmas) but her late dad’s brother who I like, I hasten to add. He lives with his missus and son who has a young family of his own. His kids, bar one 7 year old, and his wife were off visiting other relatives so it was just the 7 of us.
IC’s Uncle, aunt and son (and his wife as it happens) are all doctors; they run a pharmacy which is sort of attached to the side of their house. The pharmacy shut at 1pm so we all went off to a local restaurant for lunch. It was highly recommended I had the tagliatelle with ragu for primo and duck for secondo. It was, of course, ridiculously good, and I managed to get a few (local) wines in to boot.
A few hours later we arrived back at their house, sated, and it was here I recalled, to my joy, they all smoke. The men favour pipes while Auntie smokes cocktail fags. After a period of conversation and a few smokes, IC’s uncle walked me to the drinks cabinet and invited me to help myself, smashing bloke, and his brandy was smoother than a fairies tights an’ all. Magnifico.
Last part of this balls next week then its business as usual, as it were. Here, take Gerry’s chart and a tune before fucking Vevo (who the fuck are they? I though youtube was free) disallow it.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 15/01/11
NO ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 24 11 5
29 Fenech Soler Demons NE 1 29
28 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 26 8 6
27 Paramore Playing God 20 8 9
26 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello NE 1 26
25 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 22 7 10
24 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know NE 1 24
23 Pendulum Crush 27 2 23
22 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 18 6 14
21 Beady Eye Bring The Light 17 7 5
20 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 12 9 1
19 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 21 4 19
18 Hurts Stay 14 13 1
17 Nero Me And You 25 3 17
16 Adele Rolling In The Deep 10 4 9
15 My Chemical Romance Sing 11 6 11
14 Funeral Party Finale 19 2 14
13 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 8 6 6
12 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 15 3 12
11 Motorhead Get Back In Line 16 3 11
10 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 23 2 10
9 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 6 7 5
8 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 5 5 5
7 Chase And Status Blind Faith 13 3 7
6 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 9 4 6
5 The Courteeners Scratch Your Name Upon My Lips 4 9 2
4 Mona Trouble On The Way 7 6 4
3 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 2 9 1
2 White Lies Bigger Than Us 3 6 2
1 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 1 6 1
My day of birth got into gear with a splendid breakfast of parmesan and Ranchers (a savoury snack a lot like Frazzles but hardier, they’re excellent) and IC and I set off by car to the Lake of Garda and the venue for my birthday lunch, sort of.
It was drizzling when we arrived yet this did nothing to diminish the splendour of the desired location, the 13th century castle -almost a fairytale cliché- presided over medieval streets and buildings as the lake enthusiastically chewed the sea walls.
We took in the town; sublime doesn’t really do it justice (despite the damp atmosphere) and walked to the restaurant where we were booked for lunch at 1pm. On entering I knew I was out of my depth. The bright interior was lined with a pedantic designer distress that echoed a refined nautical polemic, within this, tables suffocated under rippling white- crisp linen that seemed to elevate the filigree silver perched atop. It was right fucking nice. Almost, but not too much.
We were greeted by three immaculate waiters; one took our coats whilst the remaining two directed us to our table by the window facing the blue grey water and distant snow-topped mountains. In unison they seated us and pulled in our chairs. If it wasn’t for the manager appearing with a beatific smile that I almost believed genuine I would’ve screamed the ‘f’ word and run out using the plural version of the ‘c’ one. That and the fact that all we were about to eat and drink would be free of any charges.
The manager was actually disarmingly likeable; he didn’t seem at all full of himself, despite his 3 Michelin stars, and he was very helpful in deciding what we might like to eat as most of the menu contained stuff I’ve ever heard about on BBC4. A wine list the size of a cathedral bible was bought over for a laugh (the cellar had bottles worth over 2 fucking grand) and we were offered a selection of different mineral waters. Really.
I’m positive the wine the manager chose for us was their common or garden house red yet it was sensational. Food arrived and was ceremoniously presented by two waiters who removed each cloche at the exact same time, it felt almost absurd (bearing in mind I was dressed like The Ramones) but what was revealed soon put pay to any of that nonsense. The food was frankly unbelievable, it should’ve been a £100 a pop yet we were eating gratis.
In all we had five courses, including two sweets. I’m not going to sit here and describe everything we had due to time constraints but let me put it like this, it was simply one of the best meals I’ve had. Actually if it wasn’t for the meal I had on my birthday last year it’d be numero one.
Each course came with its own wine so by the end of it I was feeling rather jolly (though IC had to take it a little easier as she was driving). The meal concluded with a torte containing a firework gushing silver, the plate bore my name written in chocolate and wishing me a happy birthday. Before we left I rather sheepishly asked the manager if he’d like me correct some of the English in the English menu. To say he was delighted is something of an understatement, in fact he was so grateful he insisted IC and I stay as long as we wished with unlimited Cognac as his guest.
But we couldn’t stay too long as we had an appointment with a priest, in a cloak, in a church.
The flight wasn’t too bad. I’m much better with this air/tube deal that I used to be, I’ve learnt that in-flight drinking and eating isn’t just essential, it’s a religion.
It was mid afternoon when we landed at Milan, we took the coach to Brescia and IC’s mum picked us up and took us back home. After washing up and a splendid supper of pasta (quite unusual this as it’s more common for Italians to eat this stuff at lunch) ham and fennel, IC and I decided it would be rude if we didn’t go out and greet some old pals, in a bar, like.
It’s worth noting that booze in Italy is far superior to the sorts of things on offer over here, except the beer and scotch of course. Italian beer is like fizzy petrol and regarding the latter it’s Chivas Regal (Scottish pus) or nout. The wine and liqueurs though, that’s another game entirely, and it’s remarkably cheap as you’re very likely to be drinking a tipple made locally. But the pressure to imbibe furiously is curiously (for me anyway) absent, for a kick off at nearly every bar you enter food will be available -half the time it’s complimentary- and because these places generally stay open until after 1am you can take your time, pace yourself (kinda.)
That evening we met up with Massimo and Fabio, the usual bout of non-comprehensible banter kicked off as I desperately tried to keep up with the conversation with the aid of IC. Despite this I was quite happy sitting there letting it, and the wine, soak in. After an hour or so I’d decided that I definitely liked these blokes and in particular, Fabio and his jumper. I mentioned this to IC, who mentioned it to the owner of said dark-red cashmere attire. Without a word the jumper was lifted off his person and placed in my hands. ‘Buone Natale,’ he said with a wink. I was dead chuffed. I’m wearing it as I type this crap.
We stayed until 3 drinking with Gavino after Massimo and Fabio left, it was an excellent evening all told, but took its toll on Christmas Eve morning when visiting the local Supermarket. It’s worth noting that Italian Supermarkets are far less commonplace than they are in the UK, shops there are more likely to be sole-trade product-specific -grocers, tobacconist, newsagent, butchers etc.- so the supermarkets they do have are markets with the emphasis on ‘super.’ I bloody love them.
In addition to being vast most of the produce is fresh, and in the case of the one in Brescia, stocked with a ton of locally produced items, from the cured meats, cheeses, to the wines and liqueurs with huge stocks of fresh meat and fish. For greedy buggers like me they’re a slice of heaven, and they’re so much easier on the wallet to boot.
We returned for lunch with the dongle to use on the PC IC had brought over from London and Skyped IC’s sisters in a snowy New York as we digested fresh fried fish. I read a while (‘The Atheists Guide to Christmas’ which had to have the jacket removed on account of the word ‘atheist.’ IC’s mum cant understand a word of English (you could say ‘fucking cunt’ to her face and she’d be none the wiser) but IC said that word would be translatable, and wouldn’t go down well in the Catholic household) and then she and I went out again to grab the last dregs of the Christmas shopping.
Before we went home for risotto at 9 we stopped for Apperativo, then it was time to go to Mass, the part of the holiday I was dreading for fairly obvious reasons. Christ, it was stultifying dull. To make matters worse all the bars had shut early so after mass we were forced to go home. After IC’s mum had popped off we played chess and enjoyed a few stolen glasses of obscure liquor from the drinks cabinet.
I was up mid morning on Christmas day, I took a bath and we headed off to IC’s Aunts place for lunch, a sprawling split level mansion in the hills. IC’s Aunt is IC’s mum’s sister; her short-arsed uncle isn’t a blood relative. He’s a very successful, angry little man who speaks to his wife like she’s the Ebola virus. When it first happened a few minutes after our arrival I thought he was joking, sadly he wasn’t. He was also tight on the booze, but the food that arrived for lunch was sensational. I must’ve eaten Old MacDonald’s Farm in the space of an hour.
There were 15 of us for lunch and despite uncle fester (and the lack of vino) it was a presentable afternoon, aside from the food the highlight for me was IC’s 92-year-old blind great auntie announcing she was pissed. What booze there was got necked by her Elphick-style.
We got back home and played a few board games and squeezed in a few glasses of wine before heading out to the favoured bar where we settled in with a few mates. It was a lovely evening, at some point I turned 42 and a load of fizzy stuff appeared, cheerfully smashed IC and I walked home with a balloon that had appeared in my hand.
Tune in to continue these barely recalled holiday ramblings, but first, why not peruse Gerry’s chart and take in a song after, it’s a stunner an’ all.
Good weekends all. Now fuck off.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 08/01/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 25 12 2
29 Kings Of Leon Pyro 27 7 14
28 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 21 8 11
27 Pendulum Crush NE 1 27
26 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 19 7 6
25 Nero Me And You 30 2 25
24 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 17 10 5
23 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex NE 1 23
22 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 16 6 10
21 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 23 3 21
20 Paramore Playing God 13 7 9
19 Funeral Party Finale NE 1 19
18 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 14 5 14
17 Beady Eye Bring The Light 10 6 5
16 Motorhead Get Back In Line 24 2 16
15 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 22 2 15
14 Hurts Stay 12 12 1
13 Chase And Status Blind Faith 20 2 13
12 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 8 8 1
11 My Chemical Romance Sing 15 5 11
10 Adele Rolling In The Deep 9 3 9
9 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 18 3 9
8 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 6 5 6
7 Mona Trouble On The Way 11 5 7
6 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 5 6 5
5 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 7 4 5
4 The Courteeners Scratch Your Name Upon My Lips 4 8 2
3 White Lies Bigger Than Us 3 5 3
2 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 1 8 1
1 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 2 5 1
I would’ve posted sooner but I was out with my bro Monday evening and we said goodbye to the holidays a little bit too severely. I did, however, make it into work Tuesday. Due to the massive increase in fares I may have to get another job to pay for my getting to and from the office whilst Johnston is resting.
So, where were we? I left you on the 17th of December on the eve of my holidays about to meet Jamie and to see pop-combo The Hawkwinds in Kentish Town. As it turned out, they were superb, but the journey getting to the venue from the station was diabolical. The recent snow had turned to ice, it was like trying to walking on ball-bearings and I came very close -on at least a three occasions- to planting my fucking teeth in the pavement. Before Jamie and I parted post-gig for our respective homes we got a brief chance to see Hoaxwind performing a set of classic ‘Wind tunes in a pub adjacent to the Forum. In many respects they were just as good as what we’d seen earlier, if not a bit better.
I wasn’t too bad Saturday, I got up at 10-ish and IC and I went for a walk in the snow, following this we busied ourselves with packing for the Sunday am flight to Italy, a bit of TV, food, before popping to the boozer in Angel to say goodbye to a handful of friends before we left. The snow was coming down hard again; as it was covering the ice and making the going a little easier I was able to negate the potentially negative consequences of our flying later…
We’d decided not to sleep; the cab was due at 3am so we maintained a steady dribble of wine until it showed up. We trundled to the airport through a barely recognisable landscape, it was like fucking Narnia but without all the Christian sensibilities. By the time we arrived at the airport I was barely awake, this changed somewhat when we discovered most of the UK were there too.
We’d checked the fucking Ryanair website before we departed and everything seemed fine, we discovered this wasn’t the case on arrival as none of the boards had any information on them. IC and I decided to Alan Whicker it (he famously said that the key to travelling is to ensure you are always as comfortable as possible) with a nice sit down by the bar and some wine. It was all very civilised until, an hour or so later, all the boards lit up with ‘cancelled’ and the place erupted into shouts, screams and sobbing.
The atmosphere began to get a tad ugly, scuffles broke out and all of a sudden armed police were wandering about the place like schoolyard bullies. The Ryanair desk remained close, not one person came out to say anything, in the end I asked an armed officer what he thought was the best option. ‘Go home , son,’ he said, despite being barely 25.
Before we left IC and I helped an Italian family to find accommodation, then, both of us arseholed and knackered, we came back home. The sun was well and truly up by the time we crashed, when we woke on Monday afternoon my whole spatial perspective was shot and I still can’t quite recall what occurred between this time and Tuesday lunchtime. I do know we spent that afternoon watching movies, both of us still feeling a bit weird, before meeting my bro in the evening for an impromptu pint.
Wednesday was much the same as Tuesday. As we were due to be in Italy we hadn’t planned anything so we just hung out. Actually, it was fucking nice not to have to do anything with all the pressures of work fading behind us. We went out for dinner that night to pave the way for Thursday, at lunchtime we were due back at Stansted for another pop at getting off.
More of this saga tomorrow, I leave you with Gerry’s final chart of 2010 and a tune from innit, innit.
THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 01/01/11
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Nero Me And You NE 1 30
29 IsobelCampbell&MarkLaneganYouWon’tLetMeDownAgain 21 7 9
28 Corey Taylor X-MA$ 20 3 20
27 Kings Of Leon Pyro 22 6 14
26 The Drums Me And The Moon 24 3 24
25 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 19 11 2
24 Motorhead Get Back In Line NE 1 24
23 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 28 2 23
22 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane NE 1 22
21 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 17 7 11
20 Chase And Status Blind Faith NE 1 20
19 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 16 6 6
18 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 26 2 18
17 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 11 9 5
16 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 14 5 10
15 My Chemical Romance Sing 23 4 15
14 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 18 4 14
13 Paramore Playing God 9 6 9
12 Hurts Stay 8 11 1
11 Mona Trouble On The Way 13 4 11
10 Beady Eye Bring The Light 6 5 5
9 Adele Rolling In The Deep 15 2 9
8 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 3 7 1
7 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 12 3 7
6 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 7 4 6
5 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 10 5 5
4 The Courteeners Scratch Your Name Upon My Lips 4 7 2
3 White Lies Bigger Than Us 5 4 3
2 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 2 4 2
1 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 1 7 1
As implied, the past couple of days have been rather heavy. I saw Rosh on Wednesday at a posh boozer in Holland Park –posh enough to host Victoria Wood who was drinking (vodka and ginger beer) with what I assume was her agent- and got fucked. At some point bread-based fare was consumed in between the bottles of house-red and gales of laughter, which was handy for the dreadful trip home.
It was about 10.30 when I arrived at my local. This wasn’t on the cards but IC had texted me to say that one of our pals had invited us there for birthday drinks, as she was engaged with her office Christmas party I thought I’d go, foolishly.
As it turned out IC was a day early, but Anton was there anyway so I figured I’d stick around until midnight to get the greetings in early… I arrived home before 1am fucking arseholed and got stuck into some music. At around 3am rolled in, she was in a worse state than me… in fact I was quite terrified for the journey she’d just taken. After that all becomes a bit hazy.
As you can imagine the hangover yesterday was rather intense but I muddled through, I got some work done, saw Swineshead for a cuppa, cleaned the flat and did a spot of shopping for the evening’s knees-up at 9.
Oscar had invited a few friends over to his for a festive cheese and wine party, but first we nipped to the local to see Anton. I had to ask him if he’d been home since our last meeting as he was sat in the exact same spot. We had one with him and made the brief 5-minute journey to the party.
On entering Oscars flat the smell of cheese was enough to snap back the head. A bunch of our gothy mates were crowded round a large table groaning with a vast and varied selection of cheese and, as it happens, wine. We got stuck into the comestibles and social wotnots like professionals and a superb evening unfurled like a spring Crocus, though a somewhat more pungent version.
In many respects this was our last London hurrah before New Years Eve and we took full advantage of the occasion. Oddly I didn’t feel too bad when I got up this morning, this may have been down to the cheese that made itself know to me a couple of hours ago when I nearly smashed the bog in the office. It was like giving birth to Mike Tyson’s neck.
I’m off to see Hawkwind tonight with Jamie and on Saturday we pack, attend an appointment (you’ll know what/why soonish) meet my bro, then a few friends for drinks before a quiet dinner at a favourite restaurant and at 3am in the fucking morning we set off for Stanstead to catch the flight to Italy…
So allow me to wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I’ll be back on here before the 7th to tell what happened.
Here’s Gerry’s chart and a festive smash-up. Be good.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Vampire Weekend Run NE 1 30
29 Grinderman Worm Tamer 21 6 10
28 The Drums Me And The Moon NE 1 28
27 The View Sunday 19 5 14
26 My Chemical Romance Sing 26 2 26
25 Corey Taylor X-MA$ NE 1 25
24 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 15 11 3
23 Apocalyptica ftBrent Smith Not Strong Enough 18 5 18
22 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 27 2 22
21 Hurts AllIWant For Christmas Is NewYear’sDay NE 1 21
20 The National Terrible Love 13 6 13
19 Mona Trouble On The Way 26 2 19
18 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 10 7 3
17 Kings Of Leon Pyro 14 4 14
16 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 16 2 16
15 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 22 3 15
14 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 8 9 2
13 IsobelCampbell&MarkLaneganYouWon’tLetMeDownAgain 95 9
12 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 11 5 11
11 Paramore Playing God 16 4 11
10 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 12 3 10
9 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 6 4 6
8 White Lies Bigger Than Us 17 2 8
7 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 20 2 7
6 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 5 7 5
5 Beady Eye Bring The Light 7 3 5
4 Hurts Stay 4 9 1
3 The Courteeners Scratch My Name Upon Your Lips2 5 2
2 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 3 5 2
1 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 1 5 1
This is the second to last post this year; I’m off to Italy this weekend and not back until the end of the month. Then I’ve a succession of parties and bashes that will include post-Christmas hurrahs, New-Years-Eve cheers and at some fucking point, Birthday screaming.
It may come as no surprise -to my couple of regulars- that the ‘party’ aspect of the season has already begun in earnest. The weekend past was somewhat weighty, Friday kicked off with a rare visit from my Sis and Bro-in-low for a few glasses of pop and perhaps the odd smoke. But prior to that I made my way to an early gig with Mary to watch a mate fiddle about with electronic machinery in order to generate sound. It was excellent, both soporific and exhilarating and I could’ve easily spent the evening watching him but I had to leave to meet my guests.
Following a mad public-transport dash I’d managed to time their arrival perfectly, not being au fait with the East I’d arranged to meet them at a location in Hackney and they appeared just as I’d walked out the supermarket bearing many pizzas and snack-based eats. We put in a good one, my Bro joined us at 10-ish and way after IC, Sis n’ Bro-in-low had crashed, he and I remained up smoking and drinking the midnight oil.
This made the fry-up at lunchtime (-ish) in the local café the following day pretty much a dead certainty. We ate a load and my bro left IC and I to it and we slouched the afternoon off watching The Walking Dead.
We set off at 5 for the pub by Regents Canal in Angel and hooked up with Sue, Ned and my bro who wasn’t looking too clever. There was some sort of party going on downstairs, bunch of pissed cunts they were, that gradually rose to the main bar and made our quiet little drink almost impossible. By 8 we’d had enough, we said cheerio to our pals and IC and I met up with Mary prior to arriving at a club in Dalston where the latter was due on the decks at 1am.
As usual the place was reasonable quiet on arrival but an hour later, rammed. The atmosphere of the previous boozer had also arrived in the form of ‘cunts’ who set about annoying the odd punter, including me. A little fella, flanked by a much bigger one, poured beer over the back of my trousers during Mary’s set. It was clear when I turned to examine the source of this annoyance they were angling for a spot of bother, but fortunately I was surrounded by about ten pals who in unison turned to face the protagonists who then awkwardly shuffled off, never to be seen again.
Despite this rather mundane incident it was a splendid evening and very reasonable on the wallet, various bods bought me drinks and they appeared in rapid succession, by the time IC and I got home at 4-ish we were rather tipsy/fucking arseholed.
Sunday started after lunch, IC and I met Mary and Patti at The Flower Market on Columbia Road and we purchased a baby Christmas tree that we took to the pub by The Hackney Empire for mulled wine. The tree didn’t have any but we did.
Later in the afternoon we watched ‘Frozen,’ that was a lot better than I’d anticipated, actually it was jolly good, then IC and I met Gerry (him of the chart) on Old Street in the evening for a few Christmas drinks, which was jolly nice indeed.
We had the Monday off, ostensibly to undertake a few horrific hours Christmas gift purchasing on Oxford Street. IC and I went our separate ways on arrival so we could indulge in private shopping. When I say ‘private shopping’ I don’t mean it as going into ‘private shops’ which would involve dildos, dollies and the like (such as cuffs and poppers.)
It was fucking horrific as I’m sure you can imagine, millions of people all wandering aimlessly, though intently, in and out of shops dragged down by huge sharp-pointed bags that seemingly contained nothing. I was in this mess for over two hours and I only made one poultry acquisition. I’m not afraid to admit that I was feeling the effects of the previous pair of days and at any given point would have cheerfully barked up the ham and coleslaw sandwich I’d rushed down before we left.
By the time we’d finished it was dusk, we made our way home narrowly avoiding rush hour. We sorted ourselves out and went off to meet Mary at hers for dinner; she’d made some Moroccan dishes and they were all delicious, but the fish balls were particularly excellent, as was the raspberry and almond vodka we had for pudding.
On Tuesday I was forced into the fucking office for political reasons, it wasn’t a complete waste of time as I was in the vicinity to see Frank for a couple after work.
From here on in I’m fully booked until I set off. Join me on Friday for one last post this year.
