bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Archive for 2008
ogm!!!1 teh animation!!111
Friday, December 19th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
I am over tired at the moment, and I know this because I happened upon the opening sequence of Bagpuss the other day and very nearly burst into tears. Bagpuss is a genuinely warm and lovely programme, although I was always a bit worried about the sepia photards of Emily that appear at the beginning, as she looked to my undeveloped mind like the ghost of a dead child. I also loved Pipkins, which featured a mental rabbit called Hartley the Hare, who looks like Basil Brush would do if he had been in the Happy Mondays. He was a wreck, and in a permanent state of decline but I loved him, like Emily loved Bagpuss. I once got very upset when I noticed that the Pipkins van had a dent in the rear door, having to be calmed down by my Auntie Beryl.
[You should do 'read more' now, and at the end I have put links to
both Bagpuss and Hartley the Hare, largely for the benefit of foreign
types who are unfamiliar with the English tradition of posh and/or gay
children's television characters. I draw particular attention to the
first link 0:58 - 1:47, in which Hartley claims to have 'beautiful
ears', a 'glorious nose' and 'wildly exciting eyes'.]
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ogm!!11! teh west yard!!1
Friday, December 5th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
When not at Camden, I can often be
found drifting around NW1, NW5, N19, or E’s 1-9 like something out of a
novel by Dickens, a painting by Lowry or advert by St Mungo’s Shelter
for the London Homeless. Like any Englishman, I consider it my
birthright to nip into various hostelries of my acquintance and have a swift half with the friends,
associates, petty criminals, and general violence enthusiasts who
comprise my social circle. I have no capacity for alcohol whatsoever,
as previously discussed here on September 4th, which makes me all the more impressed
with a simple drinking game common among ladies in London in the
1730s, which any ladies reading this in contemporary times might want
to make a note of for the forthcoming Christmas season. The rules are
like this: 1) Find two friends – this game is traditionally for three
players. For authenticity, they should be called Molly or Meg or
Eliza, have few teeth, raucous cackling laughs and probably work as
competitively-priced prostitutes. 2) Drink gin. 3) Carry on
drinking gin until two of you are dead. 4) The last lady alive is the
winner. Say what you like, it knocks the shit of vodka shots, pretending to be happy, crying yourself to sleep, and being sick in your hair for a girls night out.
(You’d be better off clicking ‘read more’ at this point)
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reluctant facebook group
Saturday, November 15th, 2008
Yes we are now all over youre Facebook’s. Like, we are writing the Facebook group page on one tab, while writing this on the other, as we are quite excited, so yes don’t expect it to look very lovely till Monday, when the weekend is over and we do the thing properly with photards and such.
The Facebook group is called the ‘publicgriefjunkie reluctant facebook group’ and at the moment there is only us in it. Hopefully that’ll change but I wouldn’t bet on it.
Paul and All at publicgriefjunkie
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ogm!!11!!1 teh joint effort’’s!!11
Thursday, November 13th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers.
Those of you familiar with the far end of the Stables Market at Camden – where, as you might recall, we had a little shop for a while – will know that venturing up the cobbled ramp in the dark and the rain is bleak, depressing, and like accidentally wandering onto the set of Bladerunner, or between the pages of George Orwell’s dystopian classic ‘It’s 1984!’
I popped up there the other Sunday to see what was what, as I’d quite like to get our old shop back, for a lot of the newer stuff we’ve been mucking about with all year. There’s a tarot reader in it these days, which yes, we didn’t see coming. Otherwise, things are pretty much as they were. Steve Veedubs still has the shop next door, for which I paved the way by lying to the former occupant that the market was being demolished. Steve, who once drank a great quantity of his own urine, initially by mistake, is an excellent and trusted friend of the House of Griefjunkie. If, instead of writing Baloo as a lovely old clearly gay bear, Walt Disney had portrayed him as an enthusiastically flatulent ex engineer who is so gadget obsessed that he would buy a dog turd if you put a microchip in it, it would pretty much be Steve.
(You’ll need to click ‘Read more’, and now is an ideal time)
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ogm!!111! its teh germans!!111
Friday, October 31st, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
I was on the quiet carriage of a train the other day, reading the Downing Street Years – which, incidentally, is the most grown up thing you can do – when a slight mishearing of a tannoy announcement lead me to believe that there was a Nazi trolley service passing through. The phrase ‘at seat’ (which to my relief was what the trolley service turned out to be) when uttered in a lumbering and neanderthal northern accent sounds like ‘Natzee’, as opposed to the correct and melodious southern ‘Nartsie’, and the announcer was from somewhere in the north. Bolton, Sheffield, I dunno. Somewhere.
In any case, I would probably have have been in the clear, racially speaking, if it had come to checking documents and bloodlines, as I am descended from at least six generations of undiluted total fucking idiot, employed in Chatham Dockyard in Kent, or the Port of London, in London. My grandmother walked to Chatham from Whitechapel, where she is from, to get work, met my grandfather there and married him on the basis that he ‘had a nice hat’. Their courtship was romantic, and involved lots of walks in Victoria Park in Mile End, during one of which they adopted a stray dog called Mickey. They also named all their subsequent dogs Mickey, and many of them enjoyed far more success and prosperity than any of their human descendants.
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ogm!!1! teh street entertainer’’s!1
Thursday, October 9th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers,
Yeah I dunno if you remember a couple of years ago, there used to be this hunchy bloke with child legs who used to play Nowhereman all day on a sort of metal harp in the cobbled yard at Camden, right next to the pizza place. The mentally insufficient warbling Beatles classics is just the sort of thing to sharpen your apetite right up, so the pizza people must have been well chuffed. Incidentally, scandal fans will be interested to learn that all the loose change he used to get from suddenly not that hungry passers by was spent on a well known local prostitute and crystal meth afficianado, in what must have been very bleak sexual congress indeed.
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ogm!!11! teh bleary idiot’’s!11!
Thursday, September 25th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
Yeah, one of our celebrity customers is none other than telly chefess Nigella Lawson, who, as I am fond of pointing out, has two legs but, incredibly, three thighs. I was watching a show of hers the other day where she was going on about visiting some fish market in Portugal and being ‘enchanted’ by all the traders singing and such as they dragged the mornings’ catch up to their stalls.
It prompted me to consider how enchanted she would be in the East Yard of Camden Lock at 7 am, with a bunch of not-getting-any-younger idiots blearily shouting at each other to fuck off. Usually mingling with this are the horribly juicy range of noises produced by Sammy the Orange hockling up phlegm, which sounds like a racehorse being throttled and is audible as far away as Belsize Park. I must drop Lawson an invite to pop down and see how peckish she feels after listening to twenty minutes of that, while having to contend with Dave trying to put his cock in her coffee for a laugh.
Dave did in fact tell me the other day that he wanted to fight women, which was an extraordinary thing to say next to a vegetarian tea shop, and also that he was going to get a stun gun and apply it to people in the market at random, which to be fair would be a proper larf. I think this may be a symptom of the escalating prank situation in the East Yard which has latterly seen a spirited if ultimately vain attempt to attach Christian to a trolley with bungee cords and a load of our storage boxes, which are fortunately waterproof and bouyant, being floated out onto the canal.
In response to this last item, I purchased an A4 pad, drew a big cock with all spunk coming out of it on every page, and carefully placed one into each of the bags on Dave’s stall in the West Yard. It’ll be like the golden tickets in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I am going to try and cover his East Yard and Oxford Arms stalls too in the run up to Christmas, and await a load of ‘Yeah I bought a bag from you last week and took it out to a job interview, whereupon I discovered that there was a sheet of paper inside that had a cock with all spunk coming out drawn on it’-style complaints or, perhaps even more effective although sadly non-viewable, would be ‘Mummy, why has Santa drawn a big cock with all spunk coming out of it on this sheet of paper?’ In short, if you are buying bags from Camden Market over the rest of the year, make sure you check for sheets of paper inside that have big cocks with all spunk coming out drawn on them.
Incidentally, some of you may possibly – although thb I doubt it – be wondering where Joe is at the moment. I’ll tell you. He’s recruiting charity muggers in Bristol. Yeah whatever, we need to scrape funds together innit.
Anyway. This weeks’ photos are: a) top inset – Dave and Steve contemplate a rainy Bank Holiday b) Early morning in the East Yard. This is our pitch without all the stuff on. In the background is Joseph the Pervert, who if you like being urinated on by fat gas mask wearing strangers at the Torture Garden, is quite a hot date c) Dave’s proper spiked West Yard stall. The passer by is unaware that each bag contains a sheet of paper which has a big cock with all spunk coming out drawn on it d) Exhausted Paul asleep on the stall on a Monday afternoon.
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ogm!111 hear’s to teh happy couple!111
Thursday, September 18th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
Being a Londoner I am suspicious of air that I can’t chew, I need to be mugged at least annually and if someone isn’t trying to blow me up I don’t feel loved. I was therefore on principle less than enthralled with having to trawl out to Gloucestershire, which could be on the moon for all I know, for Joe and Abby’s wedding. The ceremony itself – over which, let’s not forget, I was actually presiding – took place in the garden of Abby’s uncle’s house or something, and those of us who made up what was effectively the Away support for Joe had met in Bristol to await a minibus. Our progress was immediately hampered by having to hunt around for some girl who nobody actually knew and was known only by her description, which was ‘very fat’. This was further complicated by the fact that as the enormous woman in question was very sensitive about her size, no one was to make any reference at all to, I dunno, cake retention, placing armed guards around the wedding buffet, or cramming food into your face like a panicking hamster.
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ogm!11 i needlessly fought teh law!11
Thursday, September 4th, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
Yeah, considering I don’t like either honey or brandy, I was intrigued recently to find myself banging honey brandy shots off the bar at the Duke of Wellington public house, Toynbee Street London E1 at 3 in the morning with the rest of the Idiot Battalion making up Joe’s stag night. It was a shambolic crew by that point, as you can probably imagine, and I had reached the point where words seemed to be too large to get out of my mouth. I have a recollection of the best man raising a glass to the happy couple and falling over, exactly like the Statue of Liberty would do, and of Piers – Joe’s brother, with the title of ring-bearer on the day of the wedding itself, like some kind of hobbit or whatever – shouting at a jukebox.
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ogm!!!111! teh matrimony’s!!11
Saturday, August 23rd, 2008
Ahoy there, casual lovers
I decided to escape the confines of Griefjunkie Towers and go to a county fair the other day, which is how I came to be watching fourteen sullen labradors being led around a field in the pouring rain to, improbably, Solitary Sister by Seal. I had been particularly keen to see the display of working dogs in case they were going to pull accountancy skillz out, but they had nothing more remarkable than the ability to walk slowly in a big circle, although one of them was pulling a tiny cart that had nothing in it. I am a noted dogophile and tbh cant get enough of the hairy little fools, but it was proper raining so I left them to their unenthusiastic wanderings and took shelter in a Star Wars Role Players tent till it stopped. I also entered a tombola, but won fuck all.
This was time I could ill-afford however – although come on, it was a working dogs display – as this week has been largely taken up with the accelerating preparations for Joe’s wedding. Two bits of news here: a) there is only one legal bridesmaid and b) I am the vicar. I really am actually the vicar. They are getting the civil bit done first off, then everyone is trooping up a hill or something where what Joe and Abby regard as the actual ceremony is taking place, and I am very honoured to announce I have been asked to preside over it. Mental.
Wedding though innit, so it has to be above board, although it will be hard to resist deliberately getting the names wrong for a larf and such, despite being reliably informed that I will be lanced with a champagne flute by the bride if I do. You really want to say ‘Yeah if anyone knows of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony – apart from the obvious one that Joe is a shiftless fuckwit who can barely dress himself – please speak now’ but Abby would just go right off on one. I’ll probably conclude though by asking if anyone else fancies getting married while I’m there, or if there’s any christenings anyone needs to quickly get out of the way or whatever. It’s not every day you are temporarily ordained, seems a shame to waste it.
Today was very quiet at Camden, so Pikey Dave entertained us by showing us his orgasm face. It is horrible, and I can only hope he never shags me.
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