gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

Fucking Nat West. Since the blackmail incident when I was a student -I told the manager that, unless he gave me £50, now, I wouldn’t pay my student loan into my account the following week, of course he gave me the £50 after suggesting he could actually call the police as I was technically blackmailing him…I invited him to do that also but reminded him that it’d just be easier if he gave me the £50 fucking quid and not have to deal with the hassle of trying to reclaim the funds, which I assured him I wouldn’t pay, and he’d have to go through all the legal tooing and froing of taking an impoverished and possibly criminal student to court for the sake of a few pounds- they’ve been quite good.

Essentially I picked up the wrong chequebook to pay a credit card bill. I use a cheque once a month for this purpose and it just so happened I accidentally picked up the chequebook for an account I never, ever use. Of course, there are no funds in it so they charge me £38 fucking green queens for it’s being bounced. Thirty-Eight! I am contesting this fee on the basis that, as I never use the account and the same amount of money goes to the same source every fucking month they are responsible of alerting me when strange activity occurs in the account I never fucking use, they have a duty of care for fraudulent behaviour so someone would’ve noticed that, suddenly, an amount of money, the same fucking amount of money paid every cunting fucking month from the account I always use to the same source, but from a dormant account, was a bit ‘odd’.

They then said they’d call me after I initially complained, they didn’t, I just get a standard letter informing me they’d tried to call me, which is an out and out lie. I’ve been in the office for the past 2 days and my staff were alerted to the fact I was expecting a call, and they’d looked into the matter, the matter I’d not even fucking explained yet, and that they were charging me Thirty Eight fucking quid.

Here is transcript of the conversation. (Please note recipient of this call had a Yorkshire accent, this in itself is divisive as it’s reckoned that this particular regional accent is regarded as the most ‘friendly’. I agree actually. I digress)

“Good Morning Na…”
“Manager, now please”
“Can I as…”
“Piqued, *insert account number here*. Manager. Now”
*silence*
“Hello, Mr…”
“You the Manager?”
“No, sir, I’m the …”
“Manager please…”
“The Manager is…”
“…dead, is he? Unless he is I want him on the phone, now”
“There is no need for that sort…”
“Yes there fucking is, you charging me…”
*click. brrrrrrrrrr*

I can’t be fucked to call back, I’ll write a stinking letter and attempt blackmail again, they make enough money from me as it is, I’ve no intention of paying the fee, if I have to transfer funds to a new bank I’ll ensure that I’ll leave them £38 in arrears and they can take it up with the beak.

Right, the Friday list and a chewn (sort of, watch it to the end, makes me feel a certain degree of warmth for the English bobby) and a desire that you have splendid weekends.

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Fuck cycling in this morning, the sky looks like an old ladies hair. No bicycle, you stay in, me and black bitch are going together, yeah… fuck you.

After a strangely busy and not entirely wasted day in the office, I peddled home like a cunt and hung out in my flat for a while -pottering like the old lady under the hair I just mentioned- prior to getting on the tube and alighting at London Bridge.

I strolled through the city to a hostelry to meet IC. She’s been summoned there by her ex-work colleagues to send her off with gifts and heartfelt thanks as I nattered cheerily to her past and supped a remarkably well-kept pint of IPA.

After some fond farewells we took the bus to a pizza place on Columbia Road. We’d been there before and I may have already extolled its virtues. The pizzas are discreetly reckoned to be the best in London and I heartily concur, they are fucking enormous, spanning well over a foot in diameter, and idiotically tasty. I opted for the Quattro Stagioni, which was so fucking brilliant I’ll never, ever order any other sort of pizza in this eatery again, ever, the base is hand thrown and the topping fresher than a nippers piddle. I ate most of it with my eyeballs rolling about their sockets in sheer ecstasy, IC had something else, it doesn’t matter what, it wasn’t Quattro Stagioni.

I don’t want this illustrious pile of tish and fipsy to resort to some sort of pseudo political commentary following on from my Cameron rant yesterday but a quick word on the fucking Pope. This really got my goat (ironically eh Satanists)

Less than a week ago Pope Nazi the Thirdreich apologised for decades of sexual abuse of children by priests. He counted this with a genius oxymoron by declaring that paedophilia was “incompatible” with being a priest. If it’s that “incompatible” why are so many Catholic priests fiddling with kids you fucking twit.

In today’s news its been reported that the Pope has attacked popular culture and consumerism. Apparently it’s not good to smoke or drink as it damages the fabric of society and he goes on to condone TV entertainment thus: “could anyone standing face to face with people who actually do suffer violence and sexual exploitation explain that these tragedies, portrayed in virtual form, are considered merely entertainment?” Were all these abusing priests watching TV and smoking and drinking then? I don’t think so…

For decades (make that hundreds) of years the Catholic priests have been sexually abusing children, hundred and thousands of them. This is a fact. Abusing children is just about as low as a human being can sink, it’s made even worse by the fact that the priest has taken advantage of his benevolent position as a supposed protector and defender of the weak and vulnerable and used it to commit an act in direct opposition of his intended purpose. This is unadulterated evil.

Watching fucking TV, having a tab and a pint isn’t, you prick.

No drink, no drugs, last night was more boring than a beige stapler –actually, if you were to actually manufacture beige staplers and market them in the right circles they’d probably be quite cool, so that metaphor probably failed. The fact remains intact.

Making it worse was that I cycled in and out of work so by the time I began to eat broccoli in the evening I felt like Tim Henman or Sebastian Coe, a sport-cunt frankly. My woes were exacerbated when, through sheer boredom, I decided to adjust my beloved face furniture and nicked off half a bugger grip, subsequent adjustment resulted in my having no bugger grips, chin strap or underlip stamp, just a huge potato with sad brown eyes blinking back at me.

Despite looking and feeling like David Cameron the desire to neck a bottle of wine, drop a dove and smoke myself into Dylan I managed to switch on my PC and wank it all away. Then I had a glass of water and watched TV.

My only small saviour in all of this was tobacco. David Bowie once said that quitting smoking is harder than giving up smack, never having had to give up smack (despite trying it once by accident) I can only imagine how hard it is to give up smack, as quitting the tabs seems insurmountable. Last night roll ups became more than just ‘something I do’ and transmogrified into ‘treat’ status.

I’ve a deadline hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles and I need to get on but I’ve the most excellent reward lined up for myself this evening in the form of IC, dinner and sweet, sweet Horse, I mean, wine.

Oh Speaking of David Cameron, you fucking racist tit-witted cunt, for Christ sake, dear reader, New Labour may be a bumbling arsehole but to make genuine racist comments such as the filth that spewed from the mouth of that over privileged abortion must render them as wholly unelectable? We may be having a 1970’s economy but to resort to the awful days of 1970’s racism is beyond the fucking pail. In my opinion he should be arrested and charged for inciting racial hatred, such comments can lead directly to fucking riots. Mark my words, the Tories get into power and you’ll see the rivers of blood Enoch Powell predicted, not for the reasons he cited but for the attitude that wrote the speech.

On the way to the pub last night I saw Cunt and his ‘family’. I think he’s feeding off his emaciated partner, she now resembles a skeleton with hair and he’s looking all chubby and shit. The fucking wanker.

He was carrying bags of shopping (mainly pizza boxes and beer the fucking prick) and informed me that he’d been shopping as if I was incapable of identifying Sainsbury’s carrier bags bulging with mainly pizza boxes and beer, and then said ‘we’re food lovers’. No, you’re not a ‘food lover’ you bloated lazy parasite; you’re an insipid worthless cough, a blood clot, a fucking disease that could only benefit humanity with its demise. You eat shit, you love shit, you fucking shit.

I had a quick drink with Frank and slouched home wondering what delights would erupt from under my feet when I returned home. The usual depressing noise levels of GTO 4 (daddy bought the fucking tool a PS3, he deserves it, right kids) as I tried to watch a programme on The Qur’an, which was superb I hasten to add. At 10 I was treated to a barbaric combination of toneless shouting and what sounded like broken church bells being hit with a piano as his kid screamed it’s head off in the next room. I took myself off into the kitchen and opened my heart to the possibility of some sort of divine being that could snuff out the existence of human poo poo.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in reasonable cheer, cycled in today which was actually rather ‘pleasentish’, busy at work but beyond care and about to eat some fresh sandwiches of my own doing. And I have a bag of Quavers.

And a gun.

Manna from heaven

I cycled into work this morning. I’ve not done that since last autumn and it came as somewhat as a shock to my fragile system. As I type this I’m shaking, I feel nauseous and I think I’ve become gay.

When I left the flat this morning I ignored the fact that I had a black bitch with a fat engine happy to whisk me about space in effortless joy and opted for the velocipede, which requires undivided physical exertion. It’s a Monday, I don’t want this on a fucking Monday but as it was sunny and bright and I’d completely run out of excuses as to why I shouldn’t cycle I reluctantly bumped the bike down the stairs and wobbled off to work buoyed on by my desire to stave off the icy hand of premature death.

The council have been fucking about with the towpath; I was actually amazed I arrived here without seeing a limb sticking out of bin liner. The once pretty hedgerows and shrubs have been razed to the ground and replaced by stinking weeds and tarmac. I peddled on relentlessly knowing my goal would be a boiling hot office and the feeling that I might faint or be sick.

I was returning from a jolly lovely weekend. I met IC in a boozer in Shoreditch following the misery of the working week and, despite the rain, ambled cheerfully about the East End, initially to visit a gallery, and then to indulge in some delicious Vietnamese fare with lashings of wine.

After sleeping like the dead on Saturday we visited a splendid café for brunch followed by Dalston market, which is more vibrant than a multicoloured vibrator, and not without a hint of stale female secretions about it to boot, where I procured a small non-stick, frying for under 3 quid. The decision to go to Camden market is steeped in controversy, it was rammed full of young cunts but despite this I managed to score a black t-shirt shirt before we cramped back to the flat on the tube for a lightening wash and scrub up.

Tem minutes later we were back on the (over ground) tube with James headed slowly towards Shepherds Bush, we three had a date. With Rock.

Gee was already waiting for us outside The Stinging Nettle pub when we arrived after a long shite journey and we happily slurped beers and Barcardi’s in the warm evening sunshine until it was time for our appointment. With Rock.

The Shepherds Bush Empire was already heaving when we eventually entered. It was actually quite simple getting booze and making it to the bogs but the throngs hindered our progress to a decent spot in which to view the band. The Fields of The Nephilim were playing 2 sold out concerts in 2 consecutive evenings, cheerlessly riding high on the wave of nostalgia-rock they’d split the gigs into ‘old’ and ‘new’ which was a tad misleading. Despite not really being loud enough they did an okay set, it was let down by the opening half and gradually improved as they went on highlighting magnificently twice.

We arrived home with fast food and snacks and spent the remainder of the evening playing music whilst James flew his son’s mini helicopter about my flat; at 2-ish we were all done and crept to bed sated.

James left before lunch on Sunday. IC and I ate kippers for breakfast/lunch and, following the Moto GP, readied ourselves for a sunny motorcycle ride. For a good hour she and I tore up the Surrey countryside arriving sweating on Box Hill for a cup of tea and fag. We zipped home via my parents for more tea and fags and after dumping the bike and kit nipped over the road for a jar.

We ate grilled marinated king prawns and salad for our tea, it was ridiculously good for something that was healthy and relatively simple to prepare and rounded the evening off watching Vertigo which was a bit like the gig in metaphorical terms.

Still not sure if I’m going to be sick.

I still want one of these…

I’m really sorry, up to my pills in it again. Enough time to cut and paste the Friday list which I’ve no time to edit and to wish you all delicious weekends.

(something weird with WordPress at the mo, there is usually 3 times this many in the list and my stats have gone down the pan in a way that suggestes they’ve changed something…)

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It’s been like Blade Runner down here for the past few days, permanent fucking rain but without flying vehicles, video posters of oriental girls taking drugs and Harrison Ford, actually… no, definitely without Harrison Ford.

Work is stultifying dull but also immensely pressured in a sort of casual disinterested way, like someone nonchalantly chatting to you about the state of the economy whilst gently rubbing a 6 inch bread knife over the top of your penis. Obviously this intensifies somewhat when the boss calls and demands an update on something I’ve been unable to update, I’m then forced to blabber virtually incoherent excuses that I punctuate with moronic optimism until he goes away sated by confusion. It’s fucking horrid, really.

Last night was clement but dull. I selected the way of abstinence, it’s been a week, and I gorged myself on the corned beef hash n’ veg delight which, I’ve concluded, is heavier than Stonehenge. I think I’ll take a short break from it for fear of having to be winched onto the loo by a Sea King Helicopter.

Before settling down to gawp at the box I found myself in full domestic trance making my own sandwiches for today’s lunch. The action took place under the spell of Front Row on Radio 4 and judging by the package I had to carry from the fridge to my rucksack this morning I may have over done it. It’s the size of a human head.

Oh, watched Saw 4 last night, it’s relentless crap but I was being held down to the sofa by my swollen guts and made it to the end. I was going to write a review of it on WWM but it would be a pointless exercise, I absorbed none of it and despite my sobriety can’t even be arsed to bother remembering what actually happened.

This is ace.

Well there goes summer then, it’s been pissing it down solidly since the wee hours, It’s still doing it now, the selfish bastard.

Yesterday was dull; despite being exhausted I worked hard after putting up the self-referential wallowings… but to no avail. It’s deader in here than Rod Hull. The boss is on holiday in Portugal, he may was well be in Glasgow on the brink of being beaten up and raped for all the good it’s doing him, he’s on the phone every 5 minutes checking up on progress, I can virtually hear the veins throbbing in his neck as he relentlessly discovers that business is about as healthy Bhopal.

I staggered home ravaged and sorted my flat out; it felt odd being in there, like someone else’s place or at best, a familiar hotel suite. I’ve been spending so much time in the East End lately, feeling all the better for it I hasten to add, that my part of London doesn’t really give me that kick anymore, not that it did in the first place actually.

At 7-ish Lana came over. I’d not seen her in an age as she lives in Switzerland with her husband who is in the porn business, not in a cock way I hasten to add. We walked off to get a curry in a little eatery down the road. Aside from the pub and the tube this place is the only thing going for my area, why did I buy there, why?

Anyway, the food in this gaff is always marvellous; it’s south Indian so it doesn’t feel like you’re eating chilli lava that will blow your gristle through the porcelain the following day. We conversed about our comings and goings over supper and a bottle of Kingfisher then popped back to the flat for a quick smoke before Lana departed into the night.

I watched the last Criminal Justice which I reviewed on WWM (link à)and had a gin and tonic trying to remain awake. I’m looking forward to doing fuck all tonight I really am, I’m going to make a fucking pile of corned beef hash n’ veg and spend the night watching TV in my pants, clutching my belly and burping. And farting if I get a look in.

Oh, thank god, the boss is on the phone.

Did some more stand up last night. It would seem that the first one did go fucking well as this wasn’t as smooth. Audience right in my face, mic a bit too quiet (for me anyway) and, to be honest, not really given enough notice to shoehorn new material into an already fledgling act. I learnt fucking loads though and the headliner who I won’t namedrop was extremely complimentary. He, incidentally, was superb. Nothing nasty or shouty, just a funny decent chap with stunning delivery and splendid material.

I was given notice of my second gig on Thursday afternoon; the information fell into my inbox like a peanut studded turd. This cast a watery glow on my splendid weekend, it didn’t ruin it by any means, it just meant that every so often ones stomach would revolve, by Sunday evening it was most certainly at the forefront of my thoughts and the yester day evaporated into the concerns of the evening.

I spent the weekend in Hackney with IC, it was completely relaxed and, like my fucking gig, unrehearsed. Serendipity, well, contained within a simple format of sorts. Dinner on Friday with IC, lunch with Swineshead and his missus on Saturday… despite the food hovering below the ‘adequate’ bar and abstinence all round it was much fun and drinks in the evening with friends, one of whom is inked by the same fellow what done my arm, yeah, heralded the end of the ‘oh it’s not for ages’ phase of the impending stand up.

Sunday was a little tougher, the ‘oh it’s not until tomorrow’ motto was weakly lauded about my frazzled cortex, the nerves were beginning to poke through. IC and I took a lovely walk by the Thames from London Bridge to The Hayward Gallery to see Psycho Buildings which was largely an expensive disappointment. In the future The Hayward can fuck off actually; in all the years I’ve been going there I’ve never seen anything truly memorable except vast receipts for not much.

We walked back through some sort of lively Brazilian Festival and saw that bloke from ‘how to look good naked’ sucking so heavily on a cigarette the air before him was curved. I passed on the spontaneous urge to show him my goods and IC and I walked back in the drizzle/sunshine combo to the bus stop and took the 55 to a pub we know of in Shorditch. The evening wound down in front of The Mist (jolly good actually) which helped to take my mind off what occurred last night, sort of…

…Don’t get me wrong; I got quite a few laughs. Just don’t think the crucifixion and cancer gags didn’t hit home.

On to the next.

…Nothing from me today apart from this, I’m busy and, well, I’ve something going down yeah

Quick Piqued today for similar reasons as outlined yesterday…

Look, don’t get the wrong end of the stick, things are fine over here… Actually, I’ve not been this good in fucking ages. It’s just the whole making-money-to-live side of this has become a little more pertinent and in addition to that some other non-work related stuff has come up that requires my attention, but it’s all good though. SO CHILL THE FUCK OUT OKAY.

There may be a P on Monday as much as there may not. Secondly, I may have a mild hangover, thirdly, I need a shit.

Just had a shit.

I spent the entire day ‘working from home’, actually ‘working from home’ not in the euphemistic sense which implies spending the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head, no. I actually fucking worked. I suppose in a way it’s enlightened self interest, admittedly the PC’s weren’t firing on all cylinders in the office so working from home wasn’t really an option, but to have a marginally successful day working from home thereby proving to the boss I wasn’t spending the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head means I may be able to ‘work from home’ more often, perhaps even giving me the chance, should I want it, to spend the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head. And having thunderous shits without upsetting the bosses wife.

Before I leave for the weekend, which looks dead exciting by the way, I have to quickly mention Cunt. Firstly he’s played the same song, I mean the exact same song over and over and over and over and over and over again for the last 3 days, admittedly, it’s not that loud, but I can hear it, over and over, that’s night right is it? It’s not is it?

Secondly, his kid and emaciated partner are here. I never hear her, ever, but I hear the kid crying and last night in the kitchen I heard Cunt deal with the crying kid. Kid was crying, Cunt loudly went BWOOHAAAA HA at it, really loudly, so the kid really starts screaming and I heard him thump off to another room. That’s not right? Is it me?

Finally, last night I was the grim witness to the sounds of him fucking. Again, no word from here, just him really making a big song and dance about having a fuck with someone who is clearly ill. On what I presume was ejaculation he actually went ‘woo-hoo’ and he continued to go ‘woo-hoo’ at 15 second intervals for the next 5 minutes.

Did I tell you he reads The Mirror by the way?

There cannot be a God.

Isn’t Guy Ritchie a tit.

Computers computers everywhere and not a face to smash…

Work, as of late, has been insufferable. Not content to with the gnawing happenings of a of a recession, yesterday the entire fucking system at work fell onto its arse and began rolling about on the proverbial cyber floor like Stephen Hawkings having a fit. I could get email but access to the internet was firmly and flatly denied causing me to lose my customary Fonz-like cool with anyone who so much as dared look at me. I decided it was best for everyone if I took myself off home and crawled into a corner with my coat over my head and whine softly until it all went away.

As a subsequence I’m working from home, not in the euphemistic sense of wanking my helmet red-raw but, aside from this woefully short entry, in the actual sense of having to use my telephone to call clients and shit. Despite the situation in the office and in the greater economy of the world, I’ve still deadlines to fulfil.

As a direct result of this Piqued is to become less regular. 3 or 4 times a week now instead of 5, this is purely down to workloads both in and out of the office. On Monday next week, for example, I’m doing something unmentionable again. I need to prepare.

I do have time to mention this, I notice that the oil companies are being invited to Iraq to divvy up the vast oil fields that both Blair and Bush said didn’t exist (or were impossible to access) 5 years ago. No one even bothers to bring up the whole weapons of mass destruction excuse anymore, Saddam and his cronies have been executed, Dr. David Kelly bumped off so we’re not subject to anymore objection from them and the US have terra firma right next to Iran who, sooner or later, they’ll invade. Five years ago I said this would happen, and you know what, everyone I spoke to agreed. This act of western criminality is so ridiculously transparent it actually beggars belief, why on earth the good thinking people of the west aren’t up in arms about it is beyond me…

…Oh hang on, we still like cheap foreign holidays, quality transport links, our white goods and TV’s. Unless we all go and live in the woods and snare our own food that is cooked over a sustainable source of burnable fuel we’re part of the problem, hypocrisy is so very passé isn’t it. As my old man always said to me, essentially ‘we’ are the government and to those ends we are in some way, whether you like it or not, responsible.

No Youtube again I’m afraid, I can’t be pissed to explain why.

Piqued has informed me that I should inform you that his computer network is dead and that normal service will be resumed tomorrow. Thankyou and goodbye.

It’s fucking hot already; it’s still early but already I have persps on my goddamn face. This doesn’t bode well. I like warm and sunny but I don’t like oven baked. No, Sir. I don’t like it.

I was forced onto a tube last night in order to meet Harry, that was fucking hot too. And I couldn’t sleep properly because I was fucking hot…

Harry and I sat outside a pub in Fitzrovia, it was a quiet place predominantly ‘local’ with a few chirpy cockney middle-aged types in Fred Perry-esque garb, apples and pearing it over Guinness and Fosters. The atmosphere was congenial and downbeat inside but outside cool and sexy because that’s where Harry and I were sitting. Do you dig?

We sipped and chatted for a while, Harry whose knee is still fucked has to fly to Kiev for 10 days today, I told him excitedly of Bernard Matthews Chicken version and we then probably discussed Asian ‘Flu with our brows furrowed with concern.

I arrived home in the twilight and took my first bath in 10 days. The new tattoos have prevented me from any sort of submergence in water and since then I’ve had to contort myself in all sorts of absurd ways in which to clean my clackers and freckle until I resemble a less buff version of the Laocoon (the shower acts as the serpent, it does work). When I got out of the bath I had to have a separate shower to get rid of the bath water off my glistening skin and penis, in fact it wasn’t so much of ‘a bath’ more of ‘a broth’.

As I promised in yesterday’s entry, I did make Squ-Ash again last night though I omitted the butter in favour of bloody fairy-ducky sunflower oil. Big mistake, it just doesn’t work as well but of course we’re already at lofty gastric heights here so I didn’t exactly lose any sleep over it… Actually I did. By the time I’d returned home, faffed about, bathed, prepared and cooked the food it was gone ten. I’d also made rather a lot, enough for a family I should think and I ate the bloody lot, enraptured.

When I did go to bed an hour or so later this stuff was sitting in my belly like fried cement, it seemed to be pulling me into the mattress and I could feel my heart pounding in my neck as the delicious proteins and carbs decided that now was a good time to charge into my system and boost my sorry bottom into action despite the fact I was fucking well lying down trying to sleep and I was really fucking hot.

It was dreadful; I’m well versed in not eating too late precisely because these sorts of things can happen and being virtually sober I had no help whatsoever from sweet intoxicants to counter the awful desire to leap out of my pit and cycle round the block for 4 hours. Instead I read for a bit. It was fucking hot, incidentally.

The computers at work are being all tossy, so no youtube clip today. Soz, I’m fucking hot over here.

Oh, it’s Urban Woo’s birthday to day (link right) go to her how and praise her like you should d d d d d d d d d d d

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my intention was to ride my bicycle into work this morning but as I was passing my crash helmet, jacket and gloves on the landing all of a sudden I was under them, the more I weakly waved them off the more they clung to me and they forced me downstairs without my bicycle. ‘Help, help!’ I sort of didn’t say and I landed hard on my black bitch -but upright and comfortably- and before I had a chance to stop myself from pressing ‘start’ with a chuckle I was racing to work with a grin feeling a bit annoyed at myself for about a second.

On my way home on Friday, following my shift of shite, I stopped off at the Sainsbury where that bloke got slapped to death a few weeks back and made some random though essential purchases. It was weird being at the supermarket on a boiling hot Friday evening and arriving in the underground car park on the bike, the fucking noise caused a small child to burst into tears and run behind it’s mother so it wasn’t an entirely wasted effort. Back at home I cooked a new recipe for IC and I, invented in my head over the course of the day, a sort of spinach and seafood pie in a mustard sauce with mashed potato lid, it was bloody lovely but I think next time I’ll use puff pastry and white fish… either way IC thought it was sensational, she probably used that very word actually. Maybe…

After fresh kippers for breakfast (one of the best I’ve had) IC and I went for a walk in the sunshine. My new tattoos made their debut after the last of the scabs flaked off when applying the cream in the morning and we wandered through a sort of ‘hippie’ (but not really) market and through some pathways flanked by boiling natural greenery, trees shrubs and shit. I’m ashamed to admit that despite having such bucolic joys on my doorstep I’d never ventured on the 2 mile wander to a National Trust property set in beautiful landscaped grounds that comprised of vast trees, pretty flower gardens and glittering streams in which children paddled and dogs leapt. It was quite lovely. After some refreshments and a loll we headed back in time to adjust to the arrival of Jamie.

At seven we three were headed to the local, we managed to get the last bench in the beer garden but our quiet evening drink was compromised by some baseball hat sporting bloodclot who insisted on Djaying the garden to death with wank dance toss. We bumped into Frank and his missus from up the road and then we were a 5 strong drinking team. The bastard on the decks cleared up and went indoors and we enjoyed the rest of the warm evening as the orange faded to blue in civilised chat. James, who was late as usual, replaced Frank and his missus at 10 and we 4 dribbled back to the flat stopping to pick up some snacks for the occasion. Things a tad hazy from this moment on but I recall laughing a lot and thinking, ‘fuck, it’s 4am’.

I woke feeling tired at 11, James gave a husky farewell and I made scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for IC and I. We vetoed the intended bike ride due to my blunt state and we and lay about the flat watching Peep Show and shit on DVD feeling sore but perfectly relaxed enjoying Sunday for what it was intended.

IC had to go mid afternoon to meet up with some pals and I did some of this and fell asleep for an hour or too before being summoned by Frank for a pair of lazy ales. My evening ended with the invention of yet another dish, this one an unmitigated success that I’ve decided to call ‘Squ-ash’ as it’s a mix of bubble and squeak and corned beef hash, dead simple to make. Boil shredded savoy cabbage and new potatoes, drain, crush with a fork, season well and add some chicken stock and half a can of corned beef. Fry the lot in butter until crispy, it’s so good I couldn’t balance the plate on my engorged lap in front of Top Gear. Actually, I may even have it again tonight.

Erm, I love this song *runs away*

The fucking BBC have done it again, after promising me a weekend of furious dark rain they’ve suddenly decided that it’s going to be hotter and sunnier than Darfur. I mean what is the point?! There I am struggling to pay their licence fee, a vast proportion of which is donated to their weather department, which is obviously being spent on fairy cakes, balloons and days out to Chessington World of Adventures. They are taking the piss! (And clowns probably).

I would’ve been failing in my duty if I didn’t rant about Wimbledon fortnight last year, I’m about to do it again so hold tight.

It’s bad enough living and working near Wimbledon. It’s one of the most dreadful Towns I’ve ever had the misfortune to spare any change in. It’s sterile bland vacuous dull miserable boring obtuse fallacious drab and dreary, it’s like dying on the toilet after being abandoned by everyone and everything you ever loved and your putrefying remains not being found for weeks.

Occasionally I’m forced to under take a mission there, an actually briefed and planned organised mission to procure an item of desire cleanly and swiftly as possible. In yesterdays instance it was some new pants, we’ll come back to those later. After pootling into vector sw19 h.e.l.l I parked up and made my way through the voluminous mass of wankers that like tennis. Not content to make itself the home to a squad of tedious semi-criminal alcoholics, for some reason Wimbledon thinks it’s a good idea to then invite in a herd of really fucking weird thousand-yard-stare (a good proportion infirm and disabled) Tennis fans, a sport more disheartening than prison showers.

For two solid weeks, in addition to the 3 wheelchair bound beggars (one of which seems to lose a limb every time I see her) the whole street is criss-crossed with walking sticks tapping on ponderous pavements, it begs the question why? Is it some sort of exercise in perversion, a bondage kink, I may not being able to walk but I’m bloody happy to sit all day long on the baking hot sun and watch young people leap up and down for fucking hours pointlessly passing a ball to each other. It’s like watching porn without a penis, or if you’re a lady reading this, having your fundament filled with cement.

Back to the pants briefly (da boom boom tish) since when did a pair, one pair of fucking pants cost over £20?? Yes, one can buy a pack of 300 pants for 4 and half p from TK Mart or whatever but they’re about as effective as Dairylea cheese slices. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground, it’s either walk about with your pills jangling about in rizla thin polyester before one or both fall out or spend the money and cosset your vast manhood in luxury cotton designer splendour which will last longer than your children’s children I should imagine.

Today’s video is hilarious, in places knowingly so, still be in doubt that this sort of shit really didn’t go down well in the 80’s in terms of the moral majority. This band invented a genre, read all about it http://music.guardian.co.uk/rock/story/0,,2287472,00.html
then watch the vid and have gorgeous weekends after suffering the list o’ fried.

Do these things to please me.

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Just before 7 yesterday evening I popped into the warm summer evening ideally dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I say ‘ideally’ because at the moment I have to keep the tattoos covered, they’re going through the scabby stage and they look all scabby, so I was forced to endure a fucking cardigan following my running out of long sleeved clean shirts as I’m having to wear those at work for the same reason that last night I was wearing a cardigan. Anyway I was hot.

I met IC at the local and we were joined by one her friends and his missus. The friend had been born in Zimbabwe, ah ha, I thought and instantly we talked about Zimbabwe with our mouths! It was ace!

Anyway, on the hot topic of Zimbabwe, I see that finally Nelson Mandela has opened his overrated cake hole on the staggering situation in his neighbouring country that employs a systematic system of murder, rape and torture in order to ‘win’ votes leaving thousands dead and dying as the entire nation slides into abject poverty and cannibalistic starvation… Mugabe will think twice now after Nelson’s scathing attack on the unbelievably disgraceful situation in the formerly named Rhodesia (I didn’t think anything could make Ian Smith seem alright) that’s right ‘failure of leadership’ will haunt the fascist dictator and all round fucking cunt to the grave. Why, along with that and the jaw dropping revelation that the Queen has withdrawn his honorary knighthood and the fall over backwards suggestion that the UK should revoke his visa I’m sure Robert is already stood teary eyed on his bucket ready to dispatch his sorry self to never never land.

This morning, following a gentle evening of conversation and sophisticated dining, I was up with the dawn chorus enjoy the dulcet tones of the radio 4 team as I went about my daily ablutions and having a bloody big shit. Esther Rantzen was talking about how it was a good thing that adults who worked with children were ‘checked out’ following two examples when unchecked adults had raped minors, been convicted, released after serving time, then been given jobs working with kids and done the same thing again.

Astonishingly some prick was objecting to this on the basis of it being an invasion of civil liberties. Now don’t get me wrong here, when it comes to CL I’m right there but this wankers argument was so unbelievably nonsensical my nipsy snapped off a trog in fury spoiling my cathartic me and poo time.

You know what, it’s just not bloody fair.

5.45pm outside my house at volume, note ‘at volume’ in a whiney latent-aggressive bullying tone not without a hint of hatred, ironically…

“That was shit, shit, shit…If you really loved me, I mean really, really, really loved me… I mean, knew me, really knew ME, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t do that, if you really, really, really loved me, you wouldn’t DO THAT.”

Stood in his room with his windows open, like most of the street on a hot summers day, Piqued stood stock still in utter disbelief, surely he must know everyone can hear this? What is the purpose of humiliating the emaciated and clearly ill mother of your totally emotionless 3 year old (with pierced ears) in public? Then the penny dropped, of course! He’s the big man, not the breadwinner as such (Cunt hasn’t done a days work in 5 fucking years) but he can meet out justice when he’s been wronged, right? The big strong macho bullet-headed fuck. It’s his right, his fucking right to show the street who is the fucking man, who is in charge, in control… silly Piqued for not understanding immediately, surely he should’ve know by now.

Despite this and a rather clumsy day at work I still had enough energy to haul myself into Chelsea in order to meet a friend for dinner. The deal was simple, friend and I pose for pictures for some newspaper and we get to eat and drink f.o.c. We arrived at the venue on the Kings Road, a loud eatery swarming with awful Chelsea types that comprised largely of clean-cut men with tailored shirts (daringly tie-less) and random vacant blonde bloodsuckers all haw hawing over fucking huge platters of meat and claws.

We were led downstairs which was slightly more appealing than the surface and ushered to a table where a photographer was waiting patiently for his models to arrive. The large dining room was knowingly dingy with a styled ‘shack’ quality to it, Americana prevailed, the walls daubed with adverts for archaic hot sauces, bbq condiments and the boastings of the finest crabs/ribs/lobster/heart condition, a two-man band blared out Eagles-like covers reducing conversation to a less dignified yelling and the posing commenced.

We ordered all the food based on aesthetics, dishes that would give the place an identity when consigned to the printed page. I wasn’t expecting our shared starter to be a dish the size of a UFO, there was more food contained within than some poor starving bastard in Bangladesh would see in 7 lifetimes. It was a crammed cornucopia of meat, seafood, cheese, potato, fried stuff, more fried stuff all lolling over tortilla chips and prawn crackers, the latter tasted like they’d been cooked in 1978 but the rest of it was fucking lovely.

The process of eating was punctuated by yet more posing, a bucket of Budweiser’s arrived, more posing ensued, I was already sick full by the time 3 grown men had given up on the fucking starter, the giant dished was removed for all intents and purposes untouched.

Then came the main course. I really didn’t want any more food but it arrived anyway, like a nightmare. A crab the size of Robert Mugabe’s head was shoved under my nose, then came steaks, a lobster, massive shrimp tails that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Darryl Hannah, fries, peas, another bucket of Bud’s, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s no wonder the Americans are so fucking fat.

More posing, more eating, I didn’t like this anymore. My friend and I resigned to gout bravely consumed, our will to live diminishing with every swallow. Some arsehole ordered pudding, I think it was me, by now I was bumping my chin on the table to force my jaw to masticate, I’m sure I passed out a few times.

The pudding arrived, cinnamon apple waffles with proper vanilla ice cream. Oh no, not waffles. Like doughnuts and cheesecake, waffles are one of those foodstuffs I can eat until I fart blood. Insane with cholesterol, my shaking cutlery found it’s way into the heart of the food mountain and I scooped a giant fork full of matter into my gaping maw, my eyes rolling back in my cranium, sugar rush, sweet Christ what have I done.

Suddenly, I was on the bus, upstairs at the front. How had this happened? I checked my vitals, I wasn’t pissed just utterly overwhelmed by food, I could hear people behind, were they talking about me? I felt more paranoid than Tom Cruise.

I got off the bus early in an effort to walk some of this shit out of my guts before I hit the sack, by the time I arrived home I was so shattered I walked upstairs, undressed without so much as a by your leave and slept like death.

I still feel full now; I don’t think I’ll bother eating until July.

It’s something I’ve done before so I wasn’t nervous, a touch of trepidation perhaps? Not because of the inevitable discomfort but because of the positioning, it’s a little more obvious than the others… or is it?

Too late now I thought as I settled back in the dentist chair, I was given a nod, I responded similarly and it began.

Friday morning had been fucking awful, it was supposed to be a day off but after checking my work mails from the comfort of my lounge it was clear I’d have to deal with some matters there and then. Making things slightly worse was that I was mildly hungover. Following a day in the office in which I pulled a fucking rabbit out of a hat and saved a job I was working on I met up with my bro in Clapham for a giggle and pint. The warm tingle of having saved a portion of my bacon allowed me to indulge in a few more drinks as I settled back in my chair thinking later in the evening of what I’d achieved and what was to come on my now-confirmed day off.

After dealing with some shit from the office I took a shower, packed a bag with spare clothes and books and headed off to Kentish Town by tube arriving at my destination dead on 1pm. I was expected but my appointment was running a little late. No problem, I sat in the small shop reading with one ear on the banter yonder occasionally popping out for one last cigarette.

After a while I was called through, the design I’d been working on for weeks in practice but years in theory was handed over to the assistant and it was transferred into a purple stencil. My arm was shaved and prepared and the design was offered up and applied, after a few minutes deliberation as to its positioning the artist set to work.

There is something vaguely homoerotic about allowing another man to touch you in such personal and consequential manner, it’s a strangely gratifying experience knowing you’ve allowed this exchange of trust to take place, indeed, it’s the epitome of liberation. Despite the wholly tolerable ‘pain’ (it feels rather like a cocktail stick is being dragged over the surface of the skin) I enjoy the sensation of being tattooed, the endorphins kick in and make you feel whacked, one is furiously aware that this is as permanent as ones’ nose on ones’ face -which is rather exciting- and one feels fucking well hard to boot.

The artist and I chattered away, we joked, discussed his business… it’s good to know that the bloke inking you for life is a good sort, it’s not essential by the way, so long as he does what I want as far as I’m concerned they could have a thing about dogs’arseholes but it’s nicer that he didn’t. I don’t think. After he’d re-tattooed an older one I’d had done a few years back I was good to go, bound in cling film I set off into the street and made my way to Camden to have some quiet time in the The Worlds End to enjoy the post-inking buzz and reminisce on my new arm and wave in the weekend.

At 5.30 I met IC in London Bridge and we headed off to Hackney. Swineshead and his missus popped over and we spent a pleasant evening quaffing a few drinks and smokes. IC remarked that my film-wrapped arm looked like a fresh chicken in a supermarket which had me honking like a goose, possibly because I was higher than Jimi Hendrix.

Saturday began with breakfast, a wash down of the new tattoo which is healing well thanks for asking and a walk under the grey skies to pick up some bits and pieces before heading to the west end to the White Cube for the Chapman exhibition. Fucking Hell (discussed in wwm, link right…) is a masterpiece, instantly accessible and thoroughly entertaining. I’m not going to harp on about it save to say it’s a must see. Oddly Damien Hirst and Jay Joplin were in there too, the latter is the owner and one would’ve thought the former would’ve been privy to many a private view of the work. I can see why he may want to see it again; it’s too much to take in one visit.

The experience was profoundly exhausting and we headed back home, exhausted. A second wind breezed us back into the Eastend, we had a little drink in delightful place near Hoxton and nipped into a little pizzeria for dinner. A lovely evening unfurled with wines and fucking lovely food, best pizza I’ve had outside Italy, the bill was more reasonable than Ghandi and we walked back in the now balmy evening completely aware we’d survived the longest day with great big tits on it.

We managed to get up early enough on Sunday to walk through London Fields to Columbia Road. It was lovely day, windy without being fresh and very warm. The market was in full swing and we picked out way through the throngs popping into art galleries occasionally to be both dismayed and impressed by the works on display. After taking some time on Brick Lane to wander through the market and shove bagels into our faces we went back home for the sole purpose of watching the Moto GP which was rather dull actually. After eating some cold pizza from the previous evening (I wasn’t leaving anything behind I couldn’t finish. It was as good as it was hot, even better, maybe) we were out again by 5 to nip into a pub where a chap we know works (coincidentally we discovered that we were both using the same tattoo artist) to imbibe, dead gently, and off to one of IC’s ex flatmates house to visit some friends.

The gaff consisted of 3 Italian chaps, IC and the latter’s ex flatmate who is Spanish. They were watching the Italy vs Spain match. I’m not a fan of the football but it was impossible not to be caught up in the sheer passion of my Italian companions. Their language was utterly dreadful, I insisted on translations which at times had me weeping with laughter, it was a glorious combination of extreme blasphemy and rather complicated acts of sex to be performed on ones’ mother all delivered in a gorgeous lilting flow of sonic poetry. One of the chaps was 4th runner up in the best pizza in Italy competition last year and punctuated the banter with these fucking pizzas that nearly gave me a woody (actually, in hindsight these were the best pizzas I’ve had outside of Italy, or even inside. Fuck they were good).

We drunk delicious wines and smoked killer grass that made my speech go all funny and turned my quick visit to Tesco to get some more wine into a fucking adventure (security wouldn’t let me in initially, I was wearing a vest and burbling). Obviously the Italian contingent weren’t best pleased with the result but the Spanish element took her victory with quiet dignity. Five minutes after it was all forgotten, we left them all pushing more pizza into their faces chatting away like nothing had happened.

Monday wasn’t as fun. After watching a woman boot a rat into the air on Old Street tube station first thing in the morning I arrived into work to discover the boss had lined me up with training a complete and utter bellpress. The girl, all jolly hockey sticks and showjumping (in as much she looked like a fucking horse) was blessed with the mental capacity of a potted plant and was clear that after a good 5 minutes of repetition that the only way anything was going to get through that thick skull of hers would be the persistent and aggressive use of a ball peen hammer. After wasting an entire morning and discovering my MD had given someone some of my fucking business on my day off I finally managed to get some work done, in so far as I began to write this.

Pleasant evening with Frank in the boozer last night and a relaxed TV gawp followed with some homemade pizza, not the best I’ve had outside Italy I hasten to add.

Came in this morning and that new girl quit as she was leaving last night, glad I didn’t waste my time all fucking day yesterday then. For fucks sake.

George Carlin has died; watch this, it blows the obvious irony of the subject into the middle of next week.

technical, it’s that