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….

Laos Travel Feature/Story

Stepping outside, warm wet air greets me. I pat myself down and head towards the myriad of shops lining the dust covered centre of Luang Prabang.

As I meander my way through the rabbit warren of tarpaulin covered stalls otherworldly smells leap out at me. Fizzing out of pans deftly juggled by an assortment of faces, men and women, old and young. Occasionally an open flame sends a portion of tarpaulin squirming away, causing black pungent clouds to intermingle with the food for a fleeting moment.

Laos, my tattered guidebook tells me, was under French control until it gained independence in 1954. As such a discernible footprint has been left. The architectural imprint is immediately evident, looking up the eaves of some buildings would not be out of place in central Paris. The influence I had not expected however, lies stretched out before me on a corner stall.

My nostrils flared immediately on recognising a smell that was most certainly not oriental in origin. A croissant. And not even one, at least a dozen. I half expected to look up into the smiling, jovial face of Jean the touring French market stall owner I had met in Newcastle last year. Instead however, the stall owner fits the same description as most of the others present, and uses much the same sales technique; arms flailing as if drowning, with a ‘whatever you look at I will point and shout at’ method of clinching the deal. Having spent two months on local fare, from the ever present catfish to even more exotic delicacies such as scorpion and snake, the offer of a taste of the west appears too good to miss. M/F

I sit down on a dirty pink, miniature, rickety plastic chair, that reminds me of those you’d see in a children’s tea party set. Having done my best not to fall off I gesture towards the assorted multi coloured fruit juices hanging in plastic bags from the stall. They vary in hue from a fluorescent green to a psychedelic orange and could double up as face paints for the Full Moon Party on Koh Pha Ngan. I settle for the lime green concoction, which appears to be the end result of a plethora of fruits being blended up with a healthy dose of coconut milk into a sickly sweet purée. The only fruit I can put name to is the infamous Durian, which A Clockwork Orange author Anthony Burgess fondly described as tasting like ’sweet raspberry blancmange, in a lavatory’. In fact the smell is held with such disdain that in some parts of Asia it’s been made illegal to take it onto public transport. Thankfully I rather enjoy the strange mix of flavours, which I am just settling into when the stall owner flings over a few pastries that had I not known otherwise would have sworn had travelled almost as far as I had.

It’s a strange feeling, sitting in a café on the other side of the planet from France, eating something so familiar. Having said that it appears the recipe has undergone some treatment over the years. The soggy lump of dough I am wrestling with is not quite the same as the croissant I’m used to. Aesthetically speaking it’s much the same but on closer inspection it is a little closer to Pillsbury Dough straight from the tin. I am now using the glow in the dark gloop in a bag to drown out the chewy mouthfuls of uncooked pastry, whilst doing my British best to ensure the stall owner that I am enjoying myself. So much for a welcome reprieve and a taste of home.

I manage to stomach the rest of the ‘croissant’ and gratefully decline any more. I stand to pay, dislodging the child’s chair from my behind, and manage to convey through the international language of mime that I thoroughly enjoyed his food but that I could in no way have any more.

Stepping away from the stall I drift into the almost sedentary mass of people made up for the most part of locals, but interspersed with the occasional, wide eyed fellow tourist. The crowds of Laos adopt a leisurely attitude to shopping that is far removed from the frenetic break-neck style ever present in Thailand. As such hours can be whiled away sauntering amongst the smells, sounds and sights on offer, making for an almost peaceful experience that even the most averse shopper will find relaxing. M/F

It is for this reason that nearly two hours have drifted incongruously by. I have, as the bags hanging from my shoulders demonstrate, been successfully sold a number of items; a few of them, looking now, against my better judgement. Regardless, I have regained my appetite following my forgettable breakfast and make a beeline for a part-restaurant, part-shack that is heaving with locals quaffing down Beer Laos and shovelling fat chewy noodles whilst enjoying frenzied conversation.

Cat fish. Not a winner on any menu I have ever been given back in England. However Luang Prabang holds it in reverence. It is treated with the same care as Salmon in Scotland, Pike Perch in Germany and Sturgeon on the Caspian. Clothed in banana leaf, it being hard not to be served a banana leaf floored meal here, it comes in all shapes and sizes.

I order the fish special and a beer. Taking the condensation covered latter from the young lady behind the counter I point at a table in the heart of the throng. Wandering over to the table I resign myself to the fact that my erstwhile optimism for a change in diet was ill conceived. The fact of the matter being that the catfish in Laos is, quite consistently, stunning.

A few bits I’ve written – Bill Bailey, Tinselworm. What do you think?

The tedium of the American elections exist in my mind purely to indulge those who love standing, rapturous in applause, tears streaming from their eyes with a look of devout worship on their faces. Bill Baileys run at the Gielgud may not have received quite the same levels of publicity, and certainly won’t have garnered the vast budget as the President elects rise to power has required, but on the grounds that standing is good, applause is even better, and every tear leaves you a few steps closer to the Oval Office – I’m inclined to believe that they may have appointed the wrong man.

Standing ovations are as a rule loathed in this country. However the self deprecating ‘part troll’ Bill Bailey had people jumping from their seats to salute his sometimes surreal but consistently brilliant set, Tinselworm. His jokes are topical but not typical, giving the ‘credit crunchers’, those currently using the credit crunch as the main reason for living, a deserved bash over the head bringing not only laughs but appreciative looks from the audience. And as always the theme of music, or more specifically the Popes doorbell.

During the finale he displayed his vast talent playing an array of instruments culminating in a guitar jam that left the ‘hippie’ sweating profusely but looking rather pleased with himself, and rightly so. As he wandered to the back of the stage to replace the guitar in its stand the cacophony of applause began to die down and in the lull a cry of ‘not bad’ flew from the audience. It struck exactly on the tone of the evening. The man was right, Bill Bailey in his understated ‘beardy weirdy’ way is exactly that ‘not bad’, in fact he’s a genius.

The British Presidential Candidate for better or worse does his campaigning behind closed doors. The standing ovation he received was not out of necessity as the American format dictates but an honest representation of an appreciative, awe struck group of supporters. He’s got my vote.

First forays into the world of ‘blogs’!

I’ve been telling myself for a while that this needs doing, a little daunting, let’s hope somebody actually reads this.