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