The Green, Green Grass of Time Travel?

‘I never look back, I look forward.’

‘I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter, but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.’

For the keenly observant among you, above you’ll notice two quotes. One I included because I think it’s total lying crap, and the other because it’s intelligent in a way I think most of us can appreciate. No prizes for guessing which is the lying crap one... I never look back, I look forward. Jesus. I might as well rename this blog highlystrungcliché.blogspot.com if I’m going to spend much more time on it. As an inspirational quote, it’s about as much use as a male sex organ to a lesbian; then again, the author of said cliché is more famous for spanking balls around than philosophising. Steffi Graf, Plato you ain’t. If there was no point in looking backwards, why is the study of history so prevalent in our society? Maybe I’m being a bit harsh to Steffi; she probably only said it to get some dozy tennis reporter off her back, but nonetheless, it all seems a bit daft.

I think there’s a great deal of benefit to be found in looking backwards; it doesn’t necessarily have to be happy reflection that pays dividends. After all, looking through photo albums of your dodgy dress sense and even dodgier hairstyle ten years ago is only good for a rueful laugh (note to self, still need to destroy those short shorts and the Action Man pyjamas). The occasional glance back to happier, carefree times can result in a very brief, though very tangible emotional high. More often than not, however, you realise that your life then wasn’t the utopia you imagine it to be. There were still problems to overcome, alarm clocks to wake you up in the dark winter months, sarcastic eegits of everyday life you had to put up with, then as well as now. It’s the challenge of life itself. The grass isn’t always greener; in fact, it rarely is. Thus, I can empathise with the second quote from above. After that initial moment of joy when I look back at old photos, letters, etc., it’s easy to be overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Was I happier then? Would I rather hop in a time machine backwards, chug a Peter Pan potion and live in a state of endless childhood ease? Course not. I can now grow an impressive fundamentalist-esque beard. I have the ability to stay up past 9 p.m. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. I no longer wet the bed, unless it’s a Wednesday. I can even drink beer. (Admittedly, I could have done that ten years ago, but alcoholic ten year olds are generally frowned upon in our society, unless you’re going to see Jeremy Kyle/Vile.) Perhaps growing into an adult is like paying into a savings account: it’s a lot of effing hard work and you get out less than you put in, but sometimes you get some tasty interest.

So, when I look back on some of the ‘sad times’, it does indeed bring me laughter. Making a knapsack out of a towel, aged five, and pretending to run away forever as my mum tried to stifle her giggling. (I returned within thirty seconds, FYI, for I had forgotten my Teddy.) Being gutted, cos I’d ran out of empty Kleenex boxes  to put on my feet, so I could slide around the living room floor like an ice skater (the Winter Olympics were on and, in my defence, I was and remain an only child)... All of these things, which seemed so terribly important and distressing at the time, now make me think I was a right little rotter. And it’s funny. I opened an old book three days ago, only to find a bookmark of the Queen my junior school gave me in 2000. I’d ripped off one of her maj’s ears and given her a moustache. And, rather bizarrely, spots like a Dalmatian. So, Steffi, if you never want to look back, do go ahead. But I sure hope you’re telling porkies, because there’s a great deal of fun to be had.

(In case you were wondering, the second quote which I like was by Cat Stevens. Or, as he’s otherwise known now, Yusuf Islam. I wonder if it was looking back on his laughter, or his tears that made him change his religion?)

Who knows? Ciao for now. x

News of the World/of the Dirty Dogs That Run It...

So, power to the people is well and truly alive. Or so we are led to believe; the News of the World will be churning out its last issue this Sunday after the recent phone-hacking debacle that’s ruined its already dodgy reputation. It’s not the first time the NOTW, and its owner News International, have been involved in such claims; in 2007 it was the royal family that were hacked and, after a criminal trial, a private investigator and the paper’s royal editor were both jailed. Now, when it was people as rich and powerful as the royals being hacked, the general public didn’t mind quite as much. Perhaps it’s jealousy, or the fact that we don’t empathise with the rich and famous as, for the majority of us, our lives are too dissimilar. So, listening into Charles and Camilla having some cheeky phone sex? Why the devil not. Snooping on her majesty Liz II as she orders an extra large stuffed crust from Pizza Hut? Well, if there’s nowt better to do. Obviously I’m taking the piss when I’m talking about our queen ordering from Pizza Hut (she’s obviously more of a Domino’s kinda’ gal)... But on a serious note, although there was a successful public enquiry that resulted in jail time for two people, the crisis never threatened to engulf the entire newspaper, did it? Lots of negative headlines and a promise to clean up their act... And what good did it do? Was the investigation worth all of the countless man hours and resources invested in it? Basically, did it bloody work?

After some rushed research on Yahoo! Answers, it seems unexpectedly that it was Aristotle (in ancient Greek mind), who originally uttered the phrase ‘you get out what you put in’. And looking at News Intl.’s current sitch, they must have put in the ingredients for an almighty shit sandwich, because that’s what Rupert Murdoch, the founder and company chairman, is tucking into right now. And it seems that he’s only taken his first tentative bite into said shit sandwich; the crusts are a long way off. Several arrests are imminent. There’s ample room for this to escalate even further. It could even become a crap-filled ciabatta, or worse still, a poo pancake. (Okay, enough with the faeces related bakery gags.) However, very gravely, the public enquiry has failed and, as a result, two hundred people working at the paper are now unemployed. The cynic within me thinks that Murdoch will wait for the dust to settle, before reemploying most of the NOTW journalists in a brand new Sunday newspaper with a different editorship team, fresh values, a renewed promise to strive for fit and proper journalism, etc. etc. Basically, the same effing paper but with a snazzy new title and a lot of very anxious business execs with their tails between their legs in the background, hoping Mr. Murdoch doesn’t sack them.

This has been suggested by several public figures and, when you look at the statistics, it’s hard to disagree with them. The NOTW was a successful format and the nation’s most popular Sunday paper; why would Rupert the Sneaky Bear want to sacrifice such a profit-spinning venture? As to whether he could pull it off I’m not so sure; the British public are fickle at times, yes, but they don’t forget it when you’re accused of hacking into a murdered teenager’s mobile phone solely for a story. Rebekah Brooks, the CEO of News Intl. and editor of the NOTW at the time the hacking supposedly happened, surely has to go, despite Murdoch refusing her offer of resigning. Big Davey Cameron has said publicly he’d have accepted her resignation. It seems that Murdoch has sacrificed 200 employees, as well as a hugely successful newspaper dating back to 1843, merely to save a Mick Hucknall lookalike who is clearly lying through her teeth. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he’s her bitch. Maybe he’s just quite fond of her.

All I know is that the shit sandwich Rupert is tucking into can’t be tasty; and the question is, for how long can he, as well as the rest of the News International hierarchy, tolerate the stench?

Ciao folks. x



Cocaine and A Gardener Shagging Breakfast

Inappropriate comments at equally inappropriate moments; the scourge of newsreaders everywhere. The stuff of nightmares for Jon Snow, the type of incidents that leave Adam Boulton waking up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat. For the gag reels on political panel shows a la Have I Got News For You and people with an awkward sense of humour like myself, however, it’s simply comedy gold.

So it was that, at breakfast time this morning, I almost choked on my Cheerios. When mechanical newsreaders let out high-pitched yelps, losing their robotic smiles, it appeals to the inner anarchist within you. Or at least, within me. The status quo is rocked; the powers that be are made to look foolish and helpless. It’s all the sweeter when the source of their downfall is a middle-aged, seemingly innocent woman with a sensible haircut and a very middle-class accent. Viva la revolucion! Most of you have probably come across the following recent news story, but for those of you that haven’t, I’ll give you a quick lowdown.

Heidi Withers is a bride to be; her fiancé’s stepmother sends her an abusive e-mail. In it, she accuses her future daughter-in-law of staying in bed too late, being vulgar and drawing attention to herself and, even more bizarrely, of traumatising and depressing the family dog with her rude behaviour. She also accused her stepson’s fiancé of being an ideal candidate for the Ladette To Lady television series. All pretty harsh stuff; apparently, the seemingly innocent woman interviewed on BBC Breakfast agreed. Throwing her hands into the air, she shouted ‘it’s not as if the young girl is snorting cocaine in the living room and shagging the gardener’. Cue an awkward silence, a stammering newsreader and a reminder that sometimes it’s more enjoyable when life doesn’t go too smoothly.

Some newsreader gaffes stick long in the memory whilst others fade into obscurity, albeit with a chuckle or two. The following are either screw ups I remembered myself, or found when randomly trawling through the internet; may God bless the invention of Google. You lucky sods even get the video link to enjoy the awkwardness all over again. Over and out; have a wonderful weekend petals. x

1.       A Sky News journalist who couldn’t decide between saying ‘seal hunt’, or ‘seal cull’, before managing to combine the two by dropping the ‘c-bomb’ live on air. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsIuT-Pdi70

2.       This guy’s name is Chuck Storm. So he already sounds like the offspring of a crap superhero and a 70s pornstar. He got what he deserved. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y1q32AeMvM

3.       When newsreaders say BREAKING NEWS, it’s usually anything but; here, however, it’s quite apt. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUjbQUp9SR8&NR=1

4.       I guess he meant to say ‘keep plucking that chicken’. That makes even less sense than what Ernie Arnastos, American newsreader, accidentally did say. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss8LDBNcsWc&feature=related

Fellatio Lopez? WHAT

If my mother was a Wimbledon umpire, she’d be the Jade Goody (too soon?) of tennis officials; it’d be hilarious, yes, but the players would end up aiming aces directly at her face.

“So what’s the name of this guy Murray might be playing in the quarter final then... Fellatio, right?”

Are you having an effing laugh? I glance over, a bit distressed, equally amused, waiting for her to crack a smile. Was that a little joke on Janice’s part, referring to this professional tennis player as a blowjob? This, surely, must be the pinnacle of his global career.

“Fishano?” I could end this torture now, but it’s just too damn funny as she reels off another gaffe. Rifling through the paper, she eventually finds out it’s Feliciano, turns a shade of crimson, and the matter is most definitely closed. My madre is often a clever woman, but Spanish first names clearly aren’t her strong suit. Manuel becomes Manure, Esteban becomes Oestrogen, and the whole thing is a massive screw up.

Then again, some of these players don’t exactly make it easy; I found a junior in the Boys’ Singles and Doubles with a wonderfully eccentric name. Aslan Karatsev. Yep, read it and rejoice; this curly haired Russian cherub has been named after a lion in a kid’s book. A very heroic lion, that may be, but a fictional big cat nonetheless.

Completely unrelated, but...

I walked out of the house yesterday morning, blinking in the morning sunshine and already sweating like a newborn piglet, when suddenly an introspective fashion drama occurred. I was wearing a Beatles t-shirt.

Now, I do like the Beatles, don’t get me wrong, yet only with a passing interest like most casual fans. Strawberry Fields Forever, Help, Can’t Buy Me Love, Something, amongst others are up there. And yet, can I be considered enough of a fan to warrant waltzing around, declaring my loyalty for them on a t-shirt? It seems a tad fraudulent; I wasn’t there in the Cavern Club at the start of their careers, I didn’t witness Beatlemania, I didn’t scream my ass off at any of their concerts. And then, I see a teenage girl, of about 14ish, flicking her hair in the air like she just don’t care y’all, wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Fake tanned to the hilt with some Pat Butcher earrings on, I don’t think she even knows who Mick Jagger is.

The Beatles related guilt quickly receded.

J Au revoir. x

British Booze Hounds- Anyone For Tennis?

What, you may ask, is the greatest distraction for a young man sitting at home as he attempts to plan a trip to Asia whilst writing something worth publishing?

Is it the internet? Music? The Jeremy Kyle Show? An endless supply of chocolate biscuits as he piles on some mighty bingo wings? Cheap porno (if you’re that way inclined; frankly, I think it’s revolting)... Hehe.

None of these perfectly acceptable answers; it’s tennis. Plain old tennis, the sport played by Russian women built like cage fighters and an angry Scot who has all of Britain hooked, as he moans and mumbles his way through another tedious press conference. What is it about Wimbledon that so transfixes me, as well as millions of other British people who most of the time couldn’t give a rat’s arse about double faults and break points? Patriotism is the easy answer and, let’s face it, probably the correct one; any excuse to dust off the Union Jack flag in the garage and stuff your face with scones is always welcome. Additionally, the Brits love an excuse for a booze up in the hazy afternoon sunshine and, weather permitting, Wimbledon supplies us with a two week window to do so, during the height of summer. Considering we’re a country with some of the worst alcohol related statistics in Europe, the world, the universe, this must be taken into consideration. What more could a borderline alcoholic, sun-deprived, success-starved nation like us want? Nowt, quite frankly. Asides from the England footie team winning a World Cup Final 10-0 against Germany at Wembley Stadium, I can’t think of any other sporting occasion which comes close.

Such was my urgency to rush back to the BBC coverage, with Sue Barker the (almost) silver fox showing a little too much leg whilst Tim Henman definitely tries to suppress a semi, that I neglected my household duties. The point of drying the dishes is in the name: drying. Not shoving them back in the cupboards and wondering why everything is soggy when you come back later to cook dinner. Blaming it on a fictional hole in the roof just doesn’t cut the mustard really, not with my hawkeyed mother. It’s quite strange, being back at home and suddenly domesticated, after spending three years working every hour of the day and having almost total independence. I don’t yet find helping out at home emasculating in the slightest; however, I do draw the line at feather dusting.

Tomorrow I’ll be venturing on my third tandem biking session with Chris Blackabee, which I’m glad to say is rapidly becoming a regular fixture; not sure if I fancy doing it in the Saharan heat we’re experiencing today. I may actually melt into the saddle otherwise. But hey ho, at least I’m fortunate enough to even see where we’re going, so I’ll look on the bright side and keep you posted on our next adventure. Assuming we don’t plough into an oncoming lorry (fingers crossed). Tapping away at a laptop in a full body cast might be tricky.

Game, set and match. G x

Coalition vs. Dalek: Round One

Another day, another barrage of coalition bashing; as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, it’s just one of those things which is becoming ever-present on an almost daily basis in our political society. What with the government u-turns on a range of subjects, such as them claiming not to raise VAT whilst doing so from 17.5% to 20%, as well as the more recent decision to scrap 50% sentencing reductions for criminals who admit their guilt early on, you can’t blame the electorate for getting cheesed off. Personally, I view the coalition’s ability to compromise and evolve their policies as quite admirable, progressive even, as long as it’s not done too regularly. Otherwise, the government will indeed begin to look very foolish; however, it’s a revelation to have someone in charge, a la Cameron, who can be so publically honest about policy mistakes that have been made.

I bring up the so called ‘coalition bashing’ because, when flicking through the news reel this morning, I came across some eccentric comments from the former Dr. Who writer Russell T. Davies. Mr. Davies referred to both Clegg and Cameron as ‘savage and evil people underneath it all’; some compliment, coming from a man who used to write about Cybermen and Daleks for his day job. Furthermore, the Conservative Party is ‘lethal as a laser’ in his opinion; now I don’t know about you, but when I look at Boris Johnson, ‘lethal as a laser’ isn’t the phrase that comes to mind. When Boris is stammering his way through another ballsed up speech with his hair sticking up a jaunty angle, he looks more like a naughty schoolboy than some evil killing machine. He’s not Hannibal Lecter, he’s more like Cruella De Vil in a Savile Row suit.

On a less serious note, I stumbled downstairs this morning to be greeted with a leaflet screwed up by the kettle; I assumed it was some crap new cheapo kebab house opening around the corner. Doner meat sold by the rasher for 10p a slice and whatnot, which I must admit, would appeal when highly sozzled. Yet, always being inquisitive/terribly nosy, I de-crumpled it to reveal its secrets. ‘Pilkington Replacement Services’ it read; now, I originally found this the other day. I didn’t realise many people owned a Karl Pilkington (of Ricky Gervais podcasts fame); also, I didn’t know that you could even replace your out of date Karl if it became faulty or troublesome. Is this the new mail order phenomenon that has somehow passed me by? First Thai brides, now this? Sadly, I don’t actually possess my very own Karl but, if any of you reading this do, please remember: a Pilkington isn’t just for Christmas- its’ for life, too.

Have a good day possums, au revoir. x

Boldly/Blindly Going Where No Man Has Gone Before...

If we took a holiday... Took some time to celebrate...

I’m somewhere in the region of Leigh-On-Sea, skidding down a double-parked street and braking like my life depends on it. Sorry, excuse me, I’m still getting used to this; like our lives depend on it.

Just one day out of life... It would beee... It would be so niiice!

Tandem bicycles, I fear, aren’t meant to slow down quickly. The pedals are spinning, I’m losing our balance, and I’ve/we’ve only got twenty yards to come to a halt before a busy main road. A couple of fat chavs express their anger at having to wobble out of our path; then they see that the guy on the bike with me is wearing a luminous vest with the words ‘Blind Athlete’ etched onto it. That shuts them up pretty quickly. All the while, my sightless bike buddy continues to giggle and sing Madonna like he’s having the time of his life, which perhaps he is, despite him being very switched on and knowing we must be going way too fast. The guy’s name is Chris Blackabee and he’s training to do a triathlon. Today, I’m his guide and confidante; we both pedal, but I have the added responsibility of the handlebars, keeping track of our route, braking, changing gears, signalling, as well as generally ensuring we survive. It’s quite a tall order, to say the least.

Now, at this point, you might be wondering several things. Such as: did they manage to brake in time before they reached the main road and became roadkill (I sure hope that’s a rhetorical question, considering I’m writing this). Also, how difficult is it to ride a tandem for 55 miles, safely, whilst ensuring you remain fully focused? Very difficult, but I’ll get to that in a little while. Thirdly, how in the hell did I get into doing this crazy experiment on Father’s Day? Well, a little while ago I came across an article in the Romford Recorder that didn’t relate to toddler gun crime in Dagenham or a rabid parrot eating pensioners in Aveley, which made a pleasant change. A guy called Chris Blackabee, blind since birth, was requesting training partners, who were willing to help him on a long distance run or tandem bike ride; experienced cyclists were strongly advised, of which group I am most definitely NOT a member. The last time I rode a bike was when Amy Winehouse hadn’t even heard of heroin, Tiger Woods was a faithful family man and Tony Blair was still boss in No. 10. Nevertheless, I like a challenge and, after a couple of cancelled meetings, we finally managed to get together yesterday for an Upminster to Southend (and back) bike ride with the local cycling club. Despite extreme chaffing and sore buttocks this morning, I loved (almost) every minute of it.

Any man who worked in the city for twenty years, has travelled the world, is undertaking a triathlon in his 40s aaand buys me a coffee from Costa is definitely on my Christmas card list. Considering Chris has done this without the benefit of sight since birth is breathtaking; add in the fact that he has a keen sense of humour and a real thirst for life, and he’s pretty damn inspirational. Though he cannot sing at all, but we’ll forgive him for that. Anyway, enough of me sucking up to him, I’m beginning to feel queasy.

The bike ride itself was difficult; even the lead cyclist said so, considering we took on two endless hills within the first hour and encountered heavy traffic later in the afternoon. We had to be precise with our movements, often working with little space and damp, slippery conditions. Luckily Chris and I struck up some decent ways to communicate, speaking almost incessantly about changing gears, when to pedal and lay off the gas etc., as well as just generally having a decent chat. The guy doesn’t let anything get him down; when we were swerving impatient drivers on another of the countless roundabouts we went on, he’d just carry on talking about anything and everything. His Belgian girlfriend, his love of curry (a passion we undoubtedly share), how he thinks British Airways are absolutely pony... He’s a completely normal bloke, with one obvious difference, and another more subtle exception. The obvious difference is, well, obvious. However, more subtly, he’s exceptional because Chris doesn’t allow himself to become lazy like most people as they grow older, and he never gives up on achieving whatever goal that’s just out of reach. I very much look forward to meeting him again; hell, if he wants to pelt down a slippery hill whilst murdering Madonna’s back catalogue, I’ll be up for that too.

As it’s time to say goodbye, we shake hands and talk about our experiences that day; we both enjoyed it, we’re both a bit knackered, and we’re both eager to have another go soon. As I’m leaving, he shouts out ‘see you soon George’; turning around to say the same, I notice a cheeky grin stretching across his face.

God, how I like someone with a sick sense of humour.

Over and out, G x

Bad Ass'

Bear Grylls, Ray Mears, Michael Palin, David Attenborough, Ranulph Fiennes and Bruch Parry; they all have two things in common.

Firstly, they’re all widely respected T.V. personalities specialising in nature and the outdoor ways of life.

Secondly, they’re all absolute pussies compared to me when it comes to dealing with amphibian corpses.

Grylls may have climbed Everest and Mears might know his way around a forest or two, but have they ever had to use an old spatula to scrape up a frog’s innards from the front patio? I think not.

Where has this sudden desire to dispose of slippery roadkill come from? It’s simply not me; the thought of a small spider scurrying around my feet is usually enough to send me schizo. Am I finally growing up into, dare I say it, a ‘man’? Or am I just becoming more bad ass’ as the years wear on; by my 30^th birthday will I be dwelling in a cave and hunting bison with my bare hands? This is, as you will agree, a distinct possibility.

HOLD IT, hold it right there; I may be getting ahead of myself. I’m not quite Dog the Bounty Hunter yet, considering I’m sitting here watching This Morning and eating cake, whilst simultaneously trying to be constructive. So far, this is a work in progress, which is much, much more of a distinct possibility than me maturing into a normal human being of some denomination.

Talking of manliness, a report released recently by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology suggests that, contrary to popular belief, men are usually the first in a relationship to say the three big words (‘I love you’, not ‘cook me dinner’ or ‘I hate housework’ you bunch of dirty chauvinists).  Is this, in most cases, a genuine outburst, do most men mean what they say in this respect? Are we moving away from the rugged examples set by Mr. Grylls and co.?

I’m not quite certain, and it’s difficult to judge this unless on an individual case by case basis; generalising would be useless. However, one thing is for certain: scraping up a frog’s deflated carcass doesn’t make me any more of a man. Especially when you continue to enjoy watching Sex and the City on a bi-weekly basis with copies of Heat magazine collecting around your ankles...

Much love,

G

Rule Britannia, Britannia Rule... Err... Not Much?

David Cameron has come in for some flak in recent months, that’s for sure. The fresh-faced originality of the coalition government, an unusual system for our country despite it being frequently used in the rest of European politics, has gradually been viewed with more and more suspicion. Nick Clegg has put on a lot of timber and become wholly unpopular within his own party after the Lib Dems’ popularity nosedived; I guess the difficulty of maintaining your party’s interests whilst being the P.M.’s whipping boy would make you comfort eat into oblivion. No one likes me anymore you say? Darling, another bar of Galaxy please. Cameron has been accused of sexism in the House of Commons and backtracking on key policy areas. It all seems a long way off from when they were cracking jokes in the No. 10 garden in front of journalists during the early days of the ‘Brokeback Coalition’.

But what is this I read in the paper? Cameron putting pressure on the International Olympic Committee to revoke around 1,000 tickets for London 2012 which were being gifted to the Libyan government... Despite the I.O.C.’s political independence, they’ve decided that considering the current unrest in Libya, giving their govt. fatcats V.I.P. boxes and champagne receptions would be a tad inappropriate. Here here.

Now, the hidden patriot within me wants to imagine that our Dave had a big role to play in this. However, I can’t really imagine him riding into the I.O.C. headquarters on a steed, draped in a British flag and a suit of armour, barking out verses of RUUULE BRITTANIA, can you? Now that WOULD be fun; and we know Boris Johnson would probs do it just for sh*$s and giggles, but I guess that’s why he’s not our Prime Minister... Yet.

Yet something all seems highly irrelevant about the whole issue, despite Dave’s forthright intervention, if that is the case. Many ordinary Londoners and Britons who missed out on tickets won’t get a look in with any of these additional 1,000 places. Would it not be refreshing if these were gifted to the public? Yet, the issue is one for the I.O.C., not our P.M., and they’ll decide who deserves to have the spare tickets. Which, inevitably, will mean that some lucky smartarse from Barclays or B.P. will be watching Usain Bolt kick ass’ with a big fat cigar and a trackside seat. When the Mayor of London, even BORIS, can’t secure a ticket for himself, what chance do we have?

Cest la vie, life goes on, and I’m not that fussed anyway. Some of the track events would be great to see, but I don’t really fancy standing outside in the rain watching some nameless foreign ‘athlete’ winning the gold medal in Archery.

But for once, just once, it’d be nice if those 1,000 tickets did go to the public; I may not want to watch the synchronised swimming, but there’s bound to be some daft eegit out there who does, and good luck to them. They’ll appreciate it a hell of a lot more than a trail of big business hangers on, I expect.

Rant outtt, G. x

What A Pile of Old Merde

Gare Du Nord Eurostar terminal, le gai Paris, some time ago; my girlfriend Emily is queuing in some monster line at a ticket machine so that we can bumble around Paris on ze metro like aimless fools when a taxi would guarantee a much smoother passage. We’re not visiting Disneyland Paris until tomorrow but this queue already looks a million times longer than the one for The Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster could ever be. Deciding to chance my arm in another queue, I dart over to the other machine twenty or so yards away; yet suddenly, a suntanned little dwarf/young boy of about ten years old stands in my path. With puppy dog eyes staring up at me, he garbles something in French; tears are in his eyes, and I’m flummoxed. What to say? What to do? Shall I lob a Euro coin at his feet and flee in the chaos or attempt to engage the skinny, impoverished looking scamp? There’s an air of the Oliver Twist, Dickensian ruffian about him. Just as I prepare to carry on walking, he spews out some surprisingly accurate English.

“Will you donate to my charity?” He’s very polite; polite to the extent of being persuasive, may I add, and he happens to withdraw a clipboard from behind his back. A page of signatures and e-mail addresses, as well as noted donations, stares undeniably up at me. I repeat: the lovable little chap has a clipboard at his disposal. That settles it, this must be official; he continues to briefly explain what the charity is for (putting homeless Parisian children into care), and as he really begins to get into his stride, flashing a cheeky grin and gaining in confidence, a shout from some way off seems to petrify him. We both dart our eyes towards the source of the commotion in unison. Suddenly, I feel complicit with this mysterious stranger in whatever it is that’s aroused his fear. As a uniformed, overly podgy French traffic cop wobbles his way over, I turn my head to the spot where, moments before, the young chappie had been coercing me to donate. Yep, you guessed it: gone. Vamos, au revoir, into thin air like a kid version of Harry Houdini.

And then I realise, shaken out of my daze by the panting cop; how stupid could I be? A tatty looking child with darting eyes and a desperate air about him collecting for charity? Without any official documentation or clothing, just a poxy clipboard with a few scribbled names he’d thought of that morning? I thanked my chubby saviour, then moved on, a smidge furious at myself, and a hell of a lot more cautious and watchful for the rest of the trip.

I mention this tale because, upon scanning the news reel this morning, my attention was brought to the comments made by Claude Gueant, French Interior Minister. Apparently, Monsieur Gueant claims that 80% of ALL street crime in Paris is perpetrated by the children of Romanian immigrants. My experience was brought back into sharp focus; vindication flooded through my veins, and yet... And yet... No. I felt more self disgust at this fleeting thought than when I was angry at myself for almost falling into that little street urchin’s trap. One (almost) relevant experience simply doesn’t make a sweeping statistic like that correct or acceptable. Especially considering the French government’s troubled recent history with ethnic minorities in the region of their capital. My memory is brought back to 2005, and the Bosquets riots on the outskirts of the city. A poor, crime-ridden area, the violent uprising there marred the French bid for the 2012 Olympics and, according to some, was a great help in ensuring the U.K. captured the games. Regardless, the occupants of the Bosquets estate claimed neglect of their community, which was and still is primarily of an African expatriate denomination, as well as a corrupt police force who regularly bothered innocent black youths for no valid reason. The incident was hushed under the carpet as quickly as possible by the then French Interior Minister (a certain Nicolas Sarkozy), yet this type of uprising is rife in France and never quite goes away. Rather, it’s an underlying problem that bubbles under the surface until a spark ignites, and the issue returns to the wider public consciousness.

So next time I’m feeling a bit smarmy and relieved by reading the comments of a biased French politician with an arguably malicious agenda, I’m going to shout ‘SACRE BLEU’ at the top of my lungs, and slap myself silly.

It’s been a while, but I’m glad to be back; G. x

It´s the Final Countdown

And now... The end is near... And so I face... The final curtain...

Perhaps it should indeed be Mr. Sinatra´s particularly fitting lyrics that I´m singing, but I don´t want to jinx anything just yet or tempt fate, so I shan´t. This type of superstitious mentality is very unlike me; what can I say, maybe the pilgrimage is finally bringing out the inner religioso within me in the nick of time. Or maybe I´d rather carry on singing early Beatles tunes and a cheesy 80s mental back catalogue second to none... Note to self: don´t use the pretence of discovering God as an opportunity to hum along to ´Karma Chameleon´; if there is a God after all, he/she/it might not like such blasphemy (unless they enjoy Culture Club of course, which I haven´t factored into my considerations).

Whilst on the subject of fate, on the eve of completing the pilgrimage to Santiago, I wonder whether I was always destined to finish ´The Way´ without ever experiencing any heightened sense of spirituality. So many walkers, cyclists and donkey riders (yes, there are a few), speak glowingly of how they´ve felt a growing sensation of peace within themselves; of an inner contentedness brought about by the methodical nature of progressing through the pilgrimage. One, even, of how his soul felt cleansed. And he meant it quite literally. Without getting into the contentious area of whether or not the human soul actually exists, I find myself irrepairably separated from these people on occasion; fortunately, for brief moments at most. It´s as though an invisible line, of faith, has been crossed; is there any going back from this? Can such vastly different people with opposing views and experiences share a common ground on a mutual experience, irrespective of which direction they´re looking at it from? If the Camino has taught me anything at all, then the answer is yes; although if I´m truthful, it´s only reinforced this notion rather than actually instigated it. I´ll share a bottle of red and a loaf of bread whilst talking about blisters and hiking boots with anyone, regardless of whether they believe in Jesus Christ, Allah, hocus pocus, green martians or the cult of Charles Manson. Willingly, I´ll even discuss the topic of religion and occasionally pretend I´m a devout mormon. Perhaps that means I don´t possess a soul? Or perhaps I just have a mischievous sense of humour?

I wasn´t always destined to complete this journey without invoking a ´hidden spirituality´, though it was quite likely from the start. However, I´m all the better for it in my opinion and, quite frankly, I went into this somewhat obliviously yet with an open mind at least. Anyway, why does one necessarily have to learn or discover anything fundamental on this sort of venture? Surely, it´s equally if not more important merely to enjoy yourself along the path. Nevertheless, what I do depart from Spain with, asides from an exhausted waddle, back pain and a lack of plasters, is a hatful of unique memories. People, places, situations. Ranging from the large to the small; gigantic cities to the obscurest pattern on a snail shell; the wise words of an aged German lawyer on travelling the length and breadth of India, to the daft and alarming starjumps routine illustrated by a group of French cyclists. I´ve been involved first hand at some stages, talking, doing and generally trying to ingratiate myself towards situations one would usually avoid. Immediately, I can remember knocking back and forth ideas on literature and my favourite modern authors with the most intense American guy I´ve ever met... Brian could have beaten a blind person in a staring contest, that´s how passionately he would keep eye contact with you. Within moments, I´d been disarmed  and struck dumb as he began to regale tales of serving in Vietnam during the 1970s. I´ve been shocked, exhausted, then enlivened, before being consequently exhausted again, not to mention a million and one other emotions experienced at one time or another.

So, as I prepare to face the final curtain, I glance back fondly into the past three weeks over my rucksacked shoulder to discover myself smiling. Pleased with my progress, grateful for the journey, and forever amused at just how weirdly some people walk.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Adios España. Hello to the temporary and fleeting comfort of normality.

Friday, My 13th Day, Unlucky For Some

Two weeks tomorrow since I set off from good old Blighty to confront the big bad world of a long distance pilgrimage; time to reflect, perhaps?

So far, let´s see what automatically pops to mind. A philosophising Frenchman, check. A gang of sheep veering towards me like angry bulls trying to pierce a matador, check. Cold showers, a cyclist almost falling down the face of a mountain, a Norwegian pensioner sunbathing topless in a communal garden with schoolkids playing football next to her, and enough slices of chorizo to feed the entire Spanish army, not to mention other countless events I either can´t recall, or have intentionally forgotten for the aid of my sanity. CHECK, SI.

Yet yesterday was the first time I was even slightly touched by anything, and it was at the most unexpected moment with a deeply simple gesture. An old Spanish chap, hunchbacked over a cane, was hobbling around the hostel garden with a bag of cherries he´d just picked from his own tree. He didn´t want any money, or sexual favours; rather, it was a charitable gesture with absolutely nothing in store for him. The cynical side of my personality expects he popped to the Aldi round the corner and bought the fruit at a discount because it was going off, though that´s just pessimism speaking.

Though perhaps the highlight of yesterday evening was an evidently terrified Korean kid hiding under a garden table. What sort of rogue beast could render him so weak, you may ask... It was the smallest dog I´ve ever seen in my life; now obviously, as I´m not exactly a fan of pooches myself, I´m hardly in a position to criticise. But still, this thing made a butterfly look like a great white shark. I presume his timidity is due to the fact he´s more accustomed to seeing canines served on a plate, medium rare, with apples in their mouths.

Running out of time so will update further soon, till then, adios and other generic Spanish farewells I don´t know how to say.

Ciao x

Adam (I mean, Charles) & The Ants

It´s either a snake wearing a wig or some alien lifeform, like a crap low-budget remake of Predator. Or a caterpillar, to be exact; the Spanish creepy crawlies never fail to astound.

The thought of this toupeed soon to be butterfly flew into my head because of a very interesting Frenchman I met the other night; not only that, a Parisian too. As expected, he exuded an effortless cool with his ´va va voom´ accent and neatly manicured beard, though it was his unusual analogy of the human race that´s made me ponder his words for several days now.

We are all, according to Charles, ´inherently tuned to work like ze ants´. (Apologies for the appalling French colloquialism, but it really is necessary.)

It was 10:30 p.m. on a crisp evening in Hornillos Del Camino, a small village some distance away now. Lights out was half an hour prior, but we´d accidentally managed to stage a mini rebellion in the corner of the kitchen by staying up with hot chocolate and random chatter; that´s about as rebellious as it gets on a Christian pilgrimage, let´s face it.

As everyone is almost nocturnal in these hostels/albergues as they´re known in sunny Spain, some daft eegits rising at 4 a.m. to start their walking, we had to keep our voices to a harsh whisper. Yet nonetheless, Chaz´s passion was evident.

´You zee, when we club together to work as a teeeem, individuality disappears; POOOOF.´

Don´t be alarmed, he wasn´t shouting an inflammatory homosexual term at me. Rather, he blew some imaginary object out of the crook of his palm and looked around the room mysteriously, eyes wide and mouth half open. At this point, I assumed one of three things:

1. He´s on drugs.
2. He can see dead people/ants.
3. He enjoys bringing a touch of dramatisation to proceedings.

We´ll opt for option 3. But why Charles, I can hear you asking bemusedly, why are pilgrims and the human race in itself like ants?

´When I do zee dishes after deener, you help me. When I run out of water on ze road, another stranger gives me zeir drink. We are achieving something great through small acts of unityyy.´

By this time the hot chocolate was making me woozy so I nodded in agreement till he buggered off. However, a very interesting/deluded/puzzling man.

In other news, the weather forecast for Spain continues as follows: a hurricane of pollen giving me the worst hayfever of my life, and strong spells of ruby red sunburn to the backs of my ears. It looks like I have two lumps of beetroot on each side of my head, so won´t be making that mistake again!

I have nooo idea of what´s going on in the news, asides from Man. Utd signing that Espanola goalie; nice to see the one thing I heard was integral to current global events... Hoping beyond hope that the Queen hasn´t been revealed as an evil fembot operated by a Nazi lizard, and that Essex hasn´t been ravaged by a plague of giant guinea pigs.

Till next time, G x

Noah and the Ark and Death From Above

It soars towards me, wings moving majestically, as if it was in slow motion...

I freeze, squinting through my lairy sunglasses, getting ready to flinch as it swoops down upon me...

And then off it goes, into the distance and up the mountain. The first and, hopefully, last time I think an eagle is about to eat me for its lunch. All this mountain trekking is making me skinny and it could have probably swallowed me whole.

The last few days each provide their own distinctive memories, some a bit unsettling a la death from the sky mentioned above; others unexpectedly amusing, like the following.

As I walked up another taxing hill towards the peak of an obscure Spanish village, the thought of piping hot coffee and a chorizo baguette was about the only thing keeping my legs moving. All of a sudden, a slight tremor in the distance. Think Jurassic Park when the glass of water starts to wobble and you´re getting there; what with the recent quake in Spain, I assumed perhaps that lightning had struck twice. Then a distant sound, surely an animal, gradually increasing in strength as the seconds passed; animal? Or animals? Try herd. Try an army. Of goats.

Not to mention two donkeys bringing up the rear, as well as two hunting dogs; the moustachioed shepherd gave me a sly little nod and a ´buen dia´ as he waltzed past like a modern day Noah of the Ark. Some of the baby lambs came up to my rucksack and started to lick it (knew I shouldn´t have left the biscuits in the front pouch); they looked unbelievably sweet. Tasty, even, but as the cafe was only five minutes away I thought it a bit inappropriate to tear into a live animal, despite my extreme hunger. Besides, the donkeys looked lethal.

Burgos, Spain´s former capital city during the middle ages, was a tad disappointing; if I wanted to walk into a city of high rise blocks of flats and crap graffiti, then I would have caught the c2c into Limehouse. Nevertheless, the most beautiful aspect of Burgos was its beautiful greenery and huge public park at the border of the city as you leave it; a tad unfortunate, really, that the best aspect of the city only reveals itself upon your departure. I can´t wait to reach Leon in the next couple of days, which I´m told is stunning; fingers and sore toes crossed that it lives up to its billing.

Aches and pains are beginning to set in, but overall I´m handling them okay; nowt that a bit of Vaseline can´t cure. 41 km today and 38 km the day before, so progress is coming along nicely, though there´s a blister on my foot the size of a basketball; inevitable really. Luckily I was distracted from the pain earlier when a fly as big as a pigeon settled on my face. This has probably been the most significant problem thus far, unexpectedly and ludicrously: the flies. They just don´t leave you alone! Perhaps they´re attempting to lay eggs in my beard, God knows it dense enough to protect the foetal pests.

And my hostal yesterday (Boadillas del Camino) had a swimming pool. As in a proper one, not a bird bath or a chunky bucket they put chlorine in; so in general, the accommodation is impressive, asides from the cold shower I took at Hermanillos del Camino t´other day; they made the bathroom facilities at Auschwitz look luxurious, put it that way.

However, currently holed up in a cosy bar in a typically retro, insanely pretty Spanish village. They´re almost all too charming to distinguish, but more to come on my favourites. Screw Thomson Holidays and the Costa del Crime, this is the real Spain!

Jorge x

Wednesday 17th May, Azofra

No. That simply cannot be. WHAAAT.

A shower? As in somewhere one cleans oneself? Are you nuts, it looks like a pig sty with a garden hose attached!

Naturally I didn´t say this to the smiling Spanish woman as she showed me around the ´hygiene´ facilities in the Azofra hostal... I nodded blandly, physically wincing about getting naked in that filthy hole. Seriously, they had better showers in Auschwitz. 

Never mind, there´s a little pub two minutes away that is harking my name... Drunk angels in heaven are playing the harp clumsily, tempting me in for a San Miguel. I reckon I can walk off a beer or seven tomorrow; considering I might go for a P.B., which will be a hell of a slog. Taxi anyone?

Yesterday afternoon I arrived in the central Spanish city of Logroño, infamous for its ancient bridge and beautiful church architecture; and I should know- after all, I slept in one. Now, I didn´t know quite what to expect when the only option available was kipping in a church. It´s a tad creepy, is it not? Casting aside the complementary communion wine and bread/out of date God biscuits, what else can make you comfortable and sleepy in a place where they conduct funerals? Will the crucifix statue of Jesus come alive in the night, like some warped religious Toy Story? I´m relieved to say that it was one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable evenings of my life.

Not only did I receive somewhere half comfy to kip; the shelter was free, as was a communal dinner and breakfast this morning. A huge group of utterly different people perched around makeshift tables in a back room, all united by one thing: the pilgrimage. El Camino. We ate, we drank, we prayed; bit awkward that was, considering I helped translate it into English without believing in a thing that was said. Still, I returned to my good old Catholic ways for one night only, however hypocritical and disagreeable that might be. The inner choir boy still burns brightly apparently.

31 km trekked today, pretty satisfactory though nothing outstanding. My former companion Dominic (not in a romantic way, jeez), who was mentioned on a previous blog, is staying in the same hostal again. An attempt at close to 40 km tomorrow has been vaguely mooted, but we´ll see if I wake up feeling like a champ or a little wiener before making a rash decision. I was also fortunate enough to walk with a Spanish chap this morning named Manuel, who unfortunately didn´t act resemble or act like his Fawlty Towers counterpart. Nevertheless, he was perhaps a much more interesting man because of it; this Manuel contracted Polio at a young age, yet hasn´t allowed his severely withered left arm to prevent him from walking the pilgrimage. Nor has it halted his ambition of becoming a professional photographer.

Once again, inspirational people by the bucketload. At this rate I´ll be walking with Batman and Mother Theresa by the weekend... Just a shame that all the flies are still as big as pigeons, the Spanish insects must survive on steroids. Oh, and a flying creature settled on my shoulder today; resembling an Apache helicopter with teeth, it was about the same size too... I will never become accustomed to these ridiculous insects.

Muchas gracias,

George x

Monday 16th May

As I write, I´m perched at a pay as you go computer in a German pilgrimage hostal; so I´d like to say I´ll keep this short and sweet, but let´s face it, that´s just not my style is it!

I covered 38 km on this fine Spanish day of faultless blue sky and omelette baguettes for luncheon; which, although sounds merely adequate is, believe me, bloody tricky when you´re lugging your belongings and the kitchen sink on your back. My spine is suffering somewhat but hell, it´s day 2 and the strain will take some getting used to. I can now empathise with Quasimodo at last, poor fecker. Another three weeks of this and I could be a lookalike for him.

Highlights for me, so far, include:

1. Believing I accidentally stumbled across a dead body in a plant growing tent; luckily I´m ignorant of the Spanish code for 999 (maybe the same?), because with close scrutiny it turned out to be a massive mutated carrot of some sorts... Unless that´s how corpses look when they´ve rotted in the sun.

2. Belting out some karaoke in what I assumed was a deserted field, top of my lungs and awfully out of tune, only to realise there was a Spanish farmer somewhere behind me, very much laughing at my rendition of ´Faith´by my namesake Mr. Michael. The dramatic air guitar finale probably didn´t help matters...

Yet overwhelmingly, what stands out most from the crowd was the company I shared yesterday in my hostel; there were three interesting and extremely friendly people, who I enjoyed having a long discussion with. Perhaps it was the glass/almost bottle of red wine I guzzled; however, everyone had a story to tell, and an interesting one at that on the hole. Jon, a pipe smoking giant and uber cool Dutchman, spoke of how he wished to take disadvantaged young people, often with an abusive and/or criminal past, along the mountain roads to give them a sense of accomplishment and freedom. Stephen was a French airline engineer who helped planes get into the sky and stay there; he spoke faultless English and told tales about sozzled pilots coming into land till the early hours. Finaly, Dominic, a 57 year old businessman just retired, spoke of how depression had forced him to re-evaluate his very existence. After already walking through half of France for the last five weeks, he still has almost 650 km to go. Journeying with him today, his company and insight helped get me through the arduous final stretch.

Speaking to such people only makes me more eager to try and achieve something this difficult, by making it to the end and being able to genuinely say: yer. Not bad going. Firstly I´ve got to make it there of course, but the journey is off to a good start.

Now, I have an ice cold cerveza in hand and a selection of manky blisters on both feet; though when you´re having this much fun, who cares?

Adios,

George

Saturday 14th of May (Hotel, Noche)

After a change of flight, then a three hour delay, which preceded missing a connecting flight (Iberia aren´t on my Crimbo card list at this moment in time FYI), succeeded by a delay in the replacement connection, I am at long last HERE in Pamplona. So, all in all, quite a smooth passage onto the beginning of my pilgrimage. That´s not to mention the flight attendant´s arse I accidentally nustled against; or some overzealous security guards. If I had to describe the experience in one word thus far, I´d opt for ´eventful´. Which is precisely what I wanted, so it´s optimism all the way; inevitably my conviction and enthusiasm will be tested, but let´s cross that bridge when I come to it!

I really wanted to immerse myself in an alien culture and a nomadic, rambling way of life, which hopefully I´ll be able to achieve. Regardless, I brought along a book by one of my favourite authors, the Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho; most will know the name in relation to ´The Alchemist´, his scarily successful tale of a young shepherd searching for true love, not to mention enlightenment. Naturally it does include an element of alchemy, but don´t let the thought of lunatics trying to transform urine into solid gold put you off; it´s a great read.

The book I´ve brought along with me is, quite appropriately, entitled ´The Pilgrimage´and, you´ve guessed it, details Coelho´s path along the route I´m taking too. Although some of it is slightly fictionalised/highly sensationalised depending on your opinion, one particular section suggests an intriguing proposition on humankind. Not only that; it´s quite unsettling too.

Take the following (abbreviated, thank God) passage:

´When the son of God descended to Earth, he brought love to us. But since people identified love with suffering and sacrifice, they felt obliged to crucify Jesus. Had they not done so, no one would have believed in the love that Jesus brought, since people were so used to suffering everyday with their own problems. Do you know what Barabbas means? Bar means son, and abba means father. When Pontius Pilate made the people choose, he actually gave them no choice. He presented them with one man who had been whipped and falling apart, and he presented them with another man who held his head high- Barabbas, the revolutionary. God knew that the people would put the weaker one to death so that he could prove his love. Regardless of which choice they made, it was the son of God who was going to be crucified.´

My interpretation of this is that the passage implies human beings too often love in a cruel, ironic way. That, because we are afraid inside, of the world, of each other and most crucially of ourselves, we reject and ridicule those people and things which love openly. In addition, that most of us will always ultimately love most that which we condemn: ´regardless of which choice they made, it was the son of God who was going to be crucified´. 

Anyway, nuff nuff of all that. It´s late, Eurovision is on and I want to be mesmerised by cheeky Europop and Jedward´s crazy hair. Besides, there´s softcore pornography on the other channel for afters... Which is just as humorous and arousing.

Beunos noches, Jorge x

So Tired, Tired of Waiting...

I look hopefully up at the board... Half of a croissant nestled in my ever-growing hedge of a beard; every flight is on time except the Madrid one (a.k.a., mine); Something tells me catching a connection may be a tad trickier now.

Only a quick blog considering there are eleven minutes left on my internet access (working to a time frame isn't my preferred forte); lots of time to while away. Times su doku- DONE. Picking my nose- DONE. Solve the meaning of life- not done yet although, with the extensive two and a half hours delay, maybe I'll produce a solution by the time the plane arrives in Espana.

Sudden last minute alteration of route also readers. Decided that 1,000 km was a tad suicidal considering my inexperience and general pre-pilgrimage diet of curry and custard creams; cutting out a quarter of the journey to travel through the mountains in the middle of the country. So adios sea breeze, hello hiking through obscure desert villages. If I'm kidnapped don't worry about a mustering up a ransom, I'm sure I'll manage to escape somehow.

I'll be attempting to blog as regularly as possible, whenever the opportunity presents itself, so keep your eyes peeled to Twitter as I inevitably bombard cyberspace every ten seconds with updates! Your support and readership is very much appreciated; (yes yes, I'll stop being so vomitously grateful and cringeworthy now).

See you in three weeks (ish?)

George x

Vincent Van WHAT NOW

Naming short stories is a funny business; you expend all the time, effort and expertise you can muster into something which, if it wasn’t for you, would never exist. Undoubtedly, there’s something very creative about how scientists and mathematicians play around with various problems, sometimes discovering an ingenious solution. Rarely, if truth be told, considering even the greatest minds possess staunch ideas which, over time, are disproved. Think Galileo’s theory of tidal motion, or Einstein’s notion that the universe is static and can’t expand. In my opinion, nothing quite matches the absolute creativity required to produce something from nothing; writing illustrates this fundamentally.

Panacea? Should I really name it that? After all, it sounds like some sort of tropical S.T.D... I don’t want people reading the title to imagine it’s a tale of unsafe sex and Chlamydia. Nevertheless, I wrote it, my idea, no way Jose am I going to be forced into changing it. Even if I alienate potential readers because they think I’m some sort of infected sex fiend.

All this chatter of static universes and kinky diseases must, subconsciously speaking, be my method of distraction; probably, it’s a conscious idiosyncrasy. Tomorrow is the big day. The apocalypse, the day of reckoning, the first day of the rest of my life; *insert equally ponderous cliché here folks*. Almost packed, boarding passes printed off and, believe me, entirely aware of the magnitude of what I’m undertaking.

NAHHHT.

How can I predict who and what awaits me? Guidebooks, advice, maps, all pale in insignificance when you’re carrying a bucket-load of cereal bars and nipple lubricant on your aching back, into the Spanish sunset. I can’t fully identify my feelings at this moment of time; overwhelmingly, I feel a bit numb if truth be told. And I think that I’m a bit of a silly wanker for attempting it in the first place.

Braveness or stupidity? Fine line that one. As Vincent Van Gogh said (wish I could say I knew this off the top of my head like some smarmy genius, but yes it is Googled): ‘What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?’

Here here Vincey baby... Of course this is the bloke who chopped off his own ear, perhaps I should swerve his advice; or alternatively for you QI buffs out there, it might have been his nemesis Ganguin who did it, but let’s not procrastinate here...

Either way, it’s time to flee now; head torches and spare running shoes must be bought (last minute yes yesss). And some charred meat also awaits, God how I will eternally love BBQs.

I very much hope that said short story will be made available for public consumption, but that can wait for now; subtle niptucks here and there are the order of the day.

Farewell for now, G. x 

Night Night, Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite...

It comes to something when the premium pilgrim hostel in Pamplona, a brief respite for foolhardy travellers on the prestigious road to Santiago de Compostela, is overrun with an infestation of bedbugs.

Never fear folks, I’ve made alternative arrangements for the first night of my grand rambling adventure. Essentially, a Spanish equivalent of Travelodge, right next to the airport. Handy, yes; conducive to sleep? Naht so much, taking into account it’s placed on a busy motorway intersection. Nay mind, it’s cheap, hopefully cheerful and beats getting skin sucked by a bunch of parasitic little feckers. Who knows, there might not even be stale poo on the sheets. Maybe the shower will work. My fingers are most definitely crossed in dubious anticipation.

I’m attempting to break out of my natural snootiness over cheap accommodation and, undoubtedly, a near month long adventure through unchartered waters in a foreign country is a hell of a good place to start. Youth hostels and bedbug infestations here we come; the sense of exploration is starting to tingle, resonating somewhere, but I can’t quite fathom whereabouts yet. Is it in my mind? Laden with the realisation that I’m undertaking the most independent, potentially life-changing experience of my short existence thus far? Or perhaps it’s squeaking out from my butt cheeks, knowing that half of the time they’ll be perched on some Spanish rock in a dense, endless forest whilst I weep for my mummy and home comforts. Not sure yet. Whatever it is, I’m excited, inwardly focused whilst still delighted that I’m actually, doing, this.

Will I still possess the same never-say-die, at home with Mother Nature warrior spirit two weeks in? Let’s hope so. Maybe I will, if the bedbugs don’t get their microscopic teeth into my fleshy parts first. Relearning the language has been quite difficult, owing to the lacklustre effort I put into bothering with it. Now I’m stuck with a limited vocabulary of ‘que’, ‘dos cervezas por favor senor’, and ‘donde esta la biblioteca, senorita?’ Hardly the fundamental tools one wants when trying to ingratiate into a new culture. But, I guess, that’s one of the core reasons for setting out on this frankly mad trip in the first place. I want to be out of my comfort zone. I want to get into some mishaps. By mishaps I don’t mean get arrested by the Basque country police for resembling a snoring tramp (though that could be humorous), or getting airlifted to hospital with a broken back. But having to sleep on the beach a couple of nights, gathering my thoughts under a canopy of bright stars? Why not. Having to slay a wild vole before barbequing it for supper? Bring it on.

At least it’ll give me an excuse to get in touch with my basest, most early humanistic instincts. I haven’t washed for two months in anticipation and have taken to communicating in a simple, grunting form of linguistics. This shall serve me in good stead, si? In addition, I’m beginning to live off disposable food like cereal bars and chocolate for quick bursts of easily digestible energy. Fast food in its purest form, surely? Or, as is more likely, subtract the ‘s’ from ‘fast’, and that encapsulates my new diet.

The date looms.

Adios chicos y chicas.

Fun Loving Espanola Cannibals?

Today was my mother’s 50^th birthday; naturally, she’ll be positively thrilled that I’ve revealed her impending hobblefest into old age via the internet, as well as the inevitably Spartan-esque war with the menopause. How did I celebrate such a momentous milestone with her and my father? Breakfast in bed perhaps? Or why not a pretty bouquet of flowers delivered to our hotel room? (Tomorrow is our last day in sunny Tenerife you see petals.)

None of the above. I thought a more fitting tribute would be to accidentally infiltrate (almost) a secretive Spanish campsite. Never has jogging thrown up such enjoyable surprises! Beats Hornchurch Country Park’s soggy terrain any day if you ask me; perhaps my approaching Spanish pilgrimage will be quite the hoot after all.

Running in 30 degrees Celsius heat is something you never quite get accustomed to, I feel. Especially if you’re like me and can’t help sweating like a guilty rapist on trial; in addition, a map is always helpful/effing essential. Don’t forget sunblock if you’re a closet ginger like me (another item I foolishly swerved)... Bit of a plonker then. Nonetheless, it still made a pleasant change from laying like a corpse for hours on end by the pool, only to turn a nasty shade of lobster red.

After a tough but manageable hour of dodging oblivious tourists and climbing hill after hill of mountain road, I discovered a tricky yet climbable cliff to GODKNOWSWHERE. Although not exactly one of the Great Pyramids of Giza in its dimensions, to an inexperienced climber in fancy running shoes like myself it represented a worthwhile trek. So I put my manicured hands to the test, digging my nails into any ledge within reaching distance. The reddish, almost Martian rock sometimes turned to dust in my hands and, occasionally, some pesky little lizard would scare me sh&%less. On a ski slope my girlish screams may have caused an avalanche, yet here I felt safe and secure in the knowledge that no one could observe my spazzy climbing technique. After conquering this Spanish impersonation of Ayers Rock, I wandered around inquisitively for a bit. Innocently of course, though I still felt like a bit of a desert dogger.

And then a bizarre sight seizes my attention...

Below, far far below in the depths of a beautiful gap in the cliffs, flawless seawater laps at the jagged rocks. Perfectly natural indeed, you may propose. However, there are remnants of a campfire. Wooden shacks jut awkwardly out of gaps in the rock and the unwelcome sound of barking dogs seems to echo against the enclosing space. A homemade sign in Spanish stands wonkily at the edge of a path leading downwards; my grasp of the language remains sketchy but clearly the people housed below don’t want to be disturbed. Have I uncovered a Latino version of the Hills Have Eyes? Is this brief seaside adventure really worth the price of being enslaved by some sort of cannibalistic voodoo society? I ponder and stroke my sweaty beard. I only wanted to go jogging and top up my tan a smidge. Joining a cliff-side cult was definitely NOT on the agenda. Nor was being put on a spit and acting as a hog human roast for these mysterious travelling devils... Best turn back then.

An hour later... Ice cold San Miguel in hand, sea breeze lapping at my reddish chops. Should I have been less of a pussy and investigated the inevitably underwhelming ‘voodoo society’ below?

You bet. But I’d much rather be in a cosy cafe than on Jose the cannibal’s list of appetisers for lunch.

Adios amigos. x

Drama with Osama

Ding dong, Bin Laden’s dead, shot to the head, he’s just brown bread, DING DONG OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEEEAAAD.

Huzzah, and thank you. That brief musical diatribe is luckily the only one present in this blog (I’ll save the torture for another time).

A troubling recollection comes back to me from about two years ago, when several eminent tabloids ran the story that the founding father of Al Qaeda had been assassinated; obviously, this turned out to be a hoax and since then the mystery surrounding Bin Laden’s state of health has only deepened. However, with the advent of (seemingly) genuine photographic evidence earlier today, we might be able to vanquish the decade long question of: where is he? Probably getting gnawed at by a gang of ravenous sharks one assumes.

Let’s just hope it’s not in some pimped out cave on the Afghan-Pakistani border, supping on a non-alcoholic lager in a hot tub, laughing so hard his beard falls off at the T.V. coverage of his ‘death’. If he appears on the next series of the Arabic version of Cribs, it seems the Americans might have been telling porky pies. Hopefully though, it’s all bona fide and some of the families and friends of victims, so traumatised by Bin Laden’s atrocities, can seek solace in the fact he’s currently sinking agonisingly slowly to the bottom of the sea.

Very much looking forward to the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II by the way (premiere is still some way off on July 7^th sadly). If only to observe Daniel Radcliffe’s amusing attempts at ‘acting’ and Helena Bonham Carter’s continued interpretation of Bellatrix Lestrange. Or, as I like to call her, Amy Winehouse dressed up for a night on the town. Suddenly thought of HazPot because of the unusual necklace my girlfriend left round mine yesterday. I wouldn’t bet against it being a horcrux actually, because she seems to turn into an evil bitch whenever she wears the thing. (Only joking dear.)  

In other irrelevant news, finished a short story today although, if truth be told, it’s in fact a highly condensed book which currently lacks the legs to form itself into a fully fledged novel. Never mind, time to type it all up; very much wish I’d have paid attention during I.C.T. lessons at school now and learnt to type impossibly quickly. Googling images of nudey ladies as a gormless 14 year old suddenly seems a tad wasteful. I’ve already begun to indulge in an endless supply of double espressos to aid my efforts, which with hindsight could be construed as foolish. I’m shaking like a Parkinson’s sufferer on heat; I may leave this all till tomorrow.

In the meantime, a wee jog awaits me. BRING ON ESPANA.

Au revoir my French fancies. x

NOT A REEM DREAM

The ray of sunlight piercing through the curtains hits my weary eyes like a tonne of bricks.

What just happened?

I indulge my dormant limbs with an immense stretch, until I look like I’m genuinely having an epileptic fit.

Was that a dream, or did that genuinely just happen?

Wiping the sleep/dream spunk out of my eyes, I try to recollect whilst fondling my morning glory. (HAHA I joke, no morning glory for me, I do possess some decency. Besides, the erectile dysfunction prevents that.)

I just got into a lift going to hell with Lenny Henry because neither of us could pass a fitness test.  

So, in summary, this did not occur.

Nevertheless, the unexpected potency of some dreams, no matter how absurd they are, can confuse a sleepy mind into briefly believing they’re true. Oneirology, or the study of dreams (yes I did have to Google that ludicrous sounding word), has been a hot topic for centuries. I’m quite certain that humankind for some millennia has been puzzled frequently by their nightly imaginings, regardless of there being a word invented to represent the study of these strange things. Some dreams are, apparently, quite easily interpretable when they include precise elements or situations. A regular theme amongst those who dream is nakedness, as well as the mortification of realising people can see your saggy genitalia, third nipple or whatever may personally be put on show without the concealment and comfort of clothing. Often, ‘oneirologists’ relate this to feelings of shame and panic, whereby you may perhaps be hiding something and are afraid of people being able to see straight through you. The vast majority of us have at one time, perhaps more, experienced the sensation of flying in our dreams; however, the interpretation surely must be dependent not on the actual motion of flying, but the way one feels when doing so. If you’re struggling to stay off the ground, or encounter obstacles, then I assume that implies one must be avoiding certain issues or uncomfortable situations in everyday life. If you’re soaring above the clouds effortlessly, without a care in the world, then that therefore must suggest something totally dissimilar.

None of this takes into account the smorgasbord of dream theories, theorists, psychologists and other variables that contradict each other so ceaselessly. Despite or, perhaps because of, this uncertainty, the concept of dreaming retains an allure which never seems to dissipate at all.

Now, cutting the bull and back to the ‘unorthodox’ dreams which plagued/amused me last night.

Failing a fitness test in heaven and joining Lenny Henry in the depths of fiery hell.

As some of you probably know because I won’t shut the hell up about it, I’m intending to run fourteen marathons in as many days across northern Spain, in a little over two weeks. Recently, I’ve been a wuss and unable to train due to injury. This has made me anxious to a certain extent, and thus failing a fitness test in my deep subconscious doesn’t really surprise me. As for Lenny’s inclusion, God knows.

Getting in a taxi in Venice, before being offered three possible destinations: Alfred Molina’s house, Elton John’s mansion, or an image of three sheets of wobbly Perspex. When the cabbie asked me what the glass sheets were about, I said they were recycled Cybermen from Doctor Who because they were environmentally minded.

Yep, I don’t have a clue either.

Going on a fishing trip with a group of celebrity chefs including Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay and James Martin amongst others. When I accidentally lobbed the wobbly Italian Antonio Carluccio into the sea, he transformed into a pink swordfish, before attempting to stab me in the eyes with his long pointy nose sword (or a bill, to be correct).

Really, I’d like to have an oneirologist interpret that one.

Getting pursued by a red-haired, lesbian giantess in a German techno nightclub.

What can I say, my mum likes dance music.

BOOM BOOM ;).

Ciao for now. x