Things I’ve seen

The Rite – Anthony Hopkins et al. A staggeringly poor attempt at an exorcist creation story. Clunky writing, bad acting and another Hopkins/Lector death rattle – avoid.

Day 2: Another Day in Paradise

23rd Feb 10

No need for an alarm clock here, the acoustics of  Casa de La Familia mean that every pin drop reverberates around the building, essentially making us the worlds largest tuning fork. Needless to say I was woken a little early this morning.

Yesterday was spent in solitude, under cover  to avoid not the glaring rays of the apparently UV high sun, but the incessant emptying of Gods bowels – the rain. The rest of the family disappeared for a trip to see the awe inducing island favourite – Albino Crabs! These pigmentally challenged critters draw crowds from across the island who gawp in wonder at the fact that they are, well, white. Splendid. I opted for a quiet afternoon to research what may be seen and done on the island and found that in fact the bleached crabs were the greatest thing on show and I had made a huge error therefore in not going….

We ventured out today to the wonderful new Marina that has been erected in the harbour, where I was delighted to see that they have paid homage to the finer areas of Blackpool and Skegness in dizzyingly exact detail, with all the culinary delights found at both of these destinations mirrored here also. In all seriousness though it was a gloriously sunny day, and I did feel more than a little cheered and may have found myself really rather enjoying myself. The sun also  gave me ample opportunity to display my not dissimilar pigmental problem that I share with the aforementioned crabs to any person unfortunate enough to walk past and spot me in the pool.

I suppose what saddens me most about Lanzarote is that the only drawing card is the weather, nothing more. There is not a single thing here that cannot be acquired or in fact witnessed at any decent off licence or Abra Kebabra at 4 in the morning in England. To say that I do not understand the draw would be disingenuous, it is blindingly bloody obvious what makes it so popular, but it’s just a little depressing.

Sitting down to enjoy my holiday.

Ah, the transcendent beauty of the Canary Islands. Lanzarote is to glorious summer holidays what vomit is to food. Beset on all sides by seas of rain-cloud grey volcanic rock, the scenery is a joy to behold, best seen from the boot of a rust wrapped mini-van.

On arrival in this most deplorable of destinations we were immediately made aware of the fact that our presence had reduced the average age of the island by 12.2 years. The coffin dodging nearly deads take this place en masse in a sort of octogenarian invasion.

A miasma hangs over the place, perhaps as a result of the expiring groups of antiques tottering around in the their hanging, varnish engrained body suits. I am at a loss as to how Lanzarote is so revered by the fervent crowds of teens and 20-somethings who hang to the rocks to enjoy a lust and alcohol fuelled sojourn. My only explanation for it is that they unite in consternation as to why exactly they have come here on disembarking from the sardine tin that brought them here and head straight to the nearest providing of mind altering substances in the misguided hope that a light other than that reaped from the cloud covered sun may be shone onto their currently dismal circumstance.

I have been here for just over 24 hours…more to come

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, and oddly, I’m ok about that.

The yuletide experience was, until a few days ago, looking a dour and dreary prospect. But, roll in the advent calendar and suddenly I’m all bells, whoops and whistles. How is it that a daily pocket of chocolate is able to transform not only me, but a considerable percentage of our island nation, and no doubt the world, into giggling children?

Nostalgia is obviously at the forefront of this feeling, and drives the majority of our enjoyment of this Pagan..oh, I mean Christian, festival. It can’t, let’s be utterly honest with ourselves, be entirely rooted in the sitting around, drinking excessively whilst gorging yourself with just one more of those pig in blankets, waiting for that off hand remark from your innebriated and ill tempered relative to spark a furious debate/argument and then the inevitable tears and drama as said family member apologises and later drunkenly makes acerbic remarks about ruining everyones Christmas whilst grinning to themselves. Although, if I’m honest, that’s probably one of my highlights.

Perhaps it’s in the exchange of presents. The giving of gifts is always going to spark good will amongst men, women and hermaphrodites. Again, though, is that really it?

My cousin is eight years old, and will be present for much of the holiday, and will be joining us for a good old christmas booze up. The entire process of the day becomes focussed on her and in entertaining her. Which makes the day for everyone. Otherwise what is there to do, but sit around making remarks, looking to get a rise from your nearest and dearest?

This has lost track a little, but what I’m fundamentally getting at in a heavy handed way is that:

We grin, smile and cheer for a festival that has no religious connotations to most of us. We celebrate nostalgically for childhood memories, whilst attempting to instil in the younger members of the family what you think they should be enjoying over the season, whilst attempting to detach their faces from their nintendo ds’. But, why bother as in twenty years time they will see the fallacy of the whole thing and will feel much as you do.

Every year I get a little more like this, and every year as December draws closer I feel a little more disillusioned with the whole affair, becoming more vitriolic in fireside discourse. Then on the first of December, I go downstairs pick up my advent calendar, excited and giddy and yet again it all makes sense, in that it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to, this is one of those times, when there doesn’t have to be justification, there is no need for meaning, why have a bash at the church or at family members? In my mind, the weather is, unless it snows or doesn’t incessantly rain, crap and so christmas serves a wonderful pupose – it breaks up the weather and we get an excuse for some indulgent eating and drinking.

Merry, merry Christmas. x

Jogged into action

Nearly let this one get away from me. It’s been a while since I added anything to this, but finally perhaps I have something that warrants inclusion.

I was arrested just over two weeks ago. For drink driving.

We’re not talking the ‘barely able to speak, let alone walk’ sort of drunk, but the maybe I shouldn’t have had that last one, or in fact perhaps a bit of supper would have been a good idea variety. An absolutely idiotic bit of misjudgement on my part, and in all honesty something I am more than happy to pay the piper for.

What makes this worthy of writing about is not the action itself, which I reiterate was stupid, irresponsible and many other words pertaining to my lack of judgement re the incident, but my treatment on the night in question.

There is a glamour some attach to ‘spending a night in a cell’ that is quite frankly ill founded. You do not meet some crack head who tells you his life story, and actually turns out to be a great guy, or a prostitute with a litter of mal adjusted children trying to make good by them, and you most certainly do not meet a caring and decent(and I use the word decent with it’s fullest meaning) police force.

The arresting officer was not blessed with an over abundance of grey matter, and his partner in (solving) crime looked abashed throughout the whole affair, understandably, as I was ushered to my abode for the night.

I will make it clear at this juncture that I am a relatively mild mannered soul who is very very slow to anger. There is however a rather swift route to raising the rage however, which I was not aware of before, and that is an overbearing, patronising, police person.

Being spoken to like a five year old may be a neccesity when dealing with certain members of society, in fact scratch that I don’t think it ever necessary, unless of course the criminal in question is indeed five. Yet, this was how I was spoken to throughout the ordeal.

A defintion I found regarding ‘police’.
Regulation and control of the affairs of a community, especially with respect to maintenance of order, law, health, morals, safety, and other matters affecting the public welfare.

Public welfare? At what point did I stop being part of the public? Was it before or after they put me in a cell that was the same temperature as outside, or perhaps just before they (finally) gave me something to cover myself from the cold which resembled a tramps jockstrap? Perhaps it was being told after a half an hour waiting for a glass of water, that there were plenty of people needed seeing to and I could wait?

As I have said I am not quick to anger, but arriving at a police station, that closely resembled a blue and white striped porta-loo, patronised and poked around for five hours then unceremoniously dumped onto the street does not to remotely suggest a close dove tailing with the definition quoted previously regarding the police force and their supposed purpose.

This has sadly taken on something of a rant and I was hoping it would be a little more coherent, having said that it should make clear just how angry the whole thing made me. Oh, and the woman who took my finger prints so closely resembled the michelin man that were she to get involved in a chase at street level the fugitive would have time to lay the pavement before him, cement and all, and still get away.

To sum up this most disjointed of rambles, I regret my actions entirely and made that clear to the officers on the night in question, I behaved well throughout the night and caused no hassle to them. They were rude, unhelpful, indifferent and disinterested and they are supposed to be providing a public service. I understand that I broke the law, but where does it say that for doing so I should be treated to a night on a baltic concrete slab? I’m sure this all seems very tame and that there are some pretty serious incidents of police brutality out there, I invite you to spill the beans in comment of this post below.

Rant over. Have a good night, and I implore you, do not drink and drive.

An ode to time spent alone….

Carl Jung said ‘Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain.’ And if it’s masturbating he’s talking about I would agree.

Working this summer for a family friend I encountered the company of a most interesting chap who was divulging the exploits of a mischievous friend of his, who is frankly an absolute genius.

At the age of 17 said individual found himself attracted to a girl living just across the street from him. During the summer she had a habit of sunbathing in her garden, much to his delight. He was however unable to watch this display from his bedroom due to the pesky presence of a few builders, who no doubt were taking their sweet time ‘plastering the walls’.

He, like all great thinkers, came up with a way around the problem.

When the builders were out for lunch the hero of our story made his way downstairs, in his hand the prize of his collection – a homemade machine designed to inflate and then deflate the item that most obviously separates men and women. Comprised of a piston, a cock ring and few other now patented technical devices he had created a machine that would, if put into production, instantaneously force Royal Mail posties to work double shifts to cope with delivery demand and instigate divorce proceedings the world over.

Arranging himself in the hallway, legs spread and ‘plugged in’, he reached to the snuff box that his grandfather had so thoughtfully left him for his inheritance and used it to lift the letterbox door, lodging it in the letterbox to hold it in place. Leaning forward he was delighted to find himself with an unobstructed view of the object of his desires in all her unfettered beauty…..

An hour later he received a phone call from some friends inviting him for a drink at the local pub. He had a reputation for being a serial soloist and so he checked himself thoroughly for ‘incriminating’ evidence before setting off. By the time he had walked to the pub he was feeling positively delighted with himself and not a little jaunty.

However on his arrival his friends appeared to have found something in his countenance that had them in hysterics. Passing his hand across his face he found, with dismay, that he had indeed appropriated something from his exploits – against his will.

In his excitement, kneeling, pressed against the front door he had failed to account for the screws that held the letterbox in place and had three marks set like the stars of Vyvan of the Young Ones. When questioned on this he had confessed to having felt something but that in the heat of the moment had overlooked it, and in fact enjoyed the pain a little. The marks were so deep set that he was in possession of his ‘scarring’ for a whole month, and having divulged the story to his friends was dubbed the Letterbox Rustler.

Flanders and Swann – Song of Patriotic Prejudice

Innocent until proven guilty – The meretricious affairs of the casual consience

Work in progress………….

Hilarious quotes – Samuel Johnson

‘The noblest prospect which a Scotsman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England.’

Tales from the Crypt

A close family member of mine works at an old peoples home and has over the past few days been witness to some frankly hilarious moments of senility/insanity from the glorious coffin-dodgers.

A call was received from the local police station, with whom the home is in close acquaintance, for the umpteenth time, reporting that a certain man had visited them yet again to report on wrong doings going on in the home.
It was revealed however that the ‘wrong doings’ were nothing to do with the actions of the carers but for the contents of the television.

He was in fact at the police station to report the popular soap Emmerdale for libel, slander etc. He is certain that they are cataloguing his live events for the viewing pleasure of the British public, and thus due some sort of compensation for having the tawdry details of his life spilled out.

The very same man has called the same police station to report his neighbours of fowl(foul) play. He is adamant that they have trained the local pigeons to defecate on his balcony, and from what I have heard we are talking in knee deep quantities. He has since been moved to alternate accomodation, this time away from any birds with Dam Busters fixations….