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Ah bien, less to drink tonight. Either my liver has found god or I am finally discovering some sense in my old age. The occasion was (as if the French need an occasion to be sociable) the birthday of a great man, Vincent. For the ladies in the audience shall I just say that he’s tall, muscular, ruggedly good looking, French and sings beautifully? For everyone else, on the day that a good friend here was being buried he was the man that didn’t go to the funeral so that he could landscape an entire garden which hitherto had been not much more than a building site so that the people at the funeral could come back afterwards and have a proper wake outdoors. Literally a weeks work for 10 men done by one in a few hours out of love. Top guy.

So let me take you around the table tonight. We have in no particular order; Falou who designs and builds yachts for Michael Schumacher among others and is a very gracious and funny man, Nellee, his lovely wife who remembers every time I am here that I am a vegetarian who doesn’t like tomatoes and cooks something separate and special for me, even managing to come up with something delicious when she doesn’t know that I will be abusing her hospitality in advance. Incredible. Sitting by them with a cigar in his hand and a big grin and a joke on his lips is Jean Mas, the man who went to bed at 3 am this morning after drinking the same as me yesterday x 2 and still managed to get up at 6 am to build houses for people under the blazing sun. Across the table is Vincent’s cousin who looks a little like him only a little older and more gay, he bought the designer t-shirt to the party and an easy conversation and a rapier wit. Next to him is Vincent’s grandmother who monopolises me and tells me that her husband was a Corsican and rude like I am, with a twinkle in her eye and a big wet kiss for the end of the evening. Oooh young man! Next, Vincent’s 2 brothers who I can never remember the names of, both moodily good looking for the ladies, but a little young for the ladies I know, except in their dreams. Then one of the boys girlfriends who was very cute, and if I was 15 years or so younger and less trust-worthy than I am, might have had to tell me politely to go away, while her boyfriend tried not to punch me. Then there’s me, bathing in the glow of being with these fantastic people, and failing to speak French properly, because again, with a 3 month break, I’ve forgotten all the words. But do they care? Hell no. They treat me like family and not the Mike Leigh version of family that we English do so well but like proper people who have no barriers. Do you think anyone would mind if I moved in? Please?

So after all that unpleasantness in Barcelona, I had the chore of going to St Mandrier Sur Mer in the Sunny south of France again. Honestly, I do occasionally feel a little guilty for inflicting this life of mine on you. Really, I do. The feeling doesn’t last long though and is usually replaced by “smug”.

Caught the early train from Barcelona after an abortive attempt to do the same thing 1 day earlier. Forgot to reset the time on my phone which I was using as an alarm clock so when it went off at 7 am, it was already 8 am in Spain. Bugger. So I had to spend another day in sun-drenched, mellow Barcelona wandering to bars and looking at great architecture. Again, look how tough my life is. Feel free to punch me next time you see me.

24 hours late for the train, I went up to the ticket counter to be told that all the tickets for my train were sold. Doh! Do I really have to suffer another day of hedonistic pleasure on the Costa Brava? The answer was “no” as 2 very nice young American girls were at the counter next to mine cancelling their tickets for the very same train. Thanks girls! Ain’t there one damn song that can make me break down and cry? And thank you to the patron Saint of inept travellers.

I settled down for the 6 hour trip to Toulon courtesy of RENFE the Spanish national rail company. Unfortunately I got surrounded by a bunch of teenage, republican, Harvard student, American girls with Eurorail passes. They were not very nice and proceeded to blah on about politics and the state of the world in a way that it would be charitable to call ill-informed. Thanks to the patron saint of people surrounded by teenage Nazis on a train, Saint Ipod, the problem was soon solved and I gazed out of the window to the soundtrack of the new Saint Etienne album Tales From Turnpike House, (Gorgeous and inspired and the 3rd saint in this entry) as we whizzed through the Pyrenees (quite knobbly, smirk) and then on through the lush Southern French countryside framed with snow capped mountains on my left and the Mediterranean glittering in a very sparkly and blue way under the warm May sun on my right for most of the journey.

A snow capped mountain behind the French countryside quite lidderully yesterday…

Off at Toulon and a saunter through the city under a quite weighty rucksack down to the boat for St Mandrier. A coffee on a terrace by the harbour as I waited for this boat to arrive…

A trip across Toulon bay past the big aircraft carriers (cool!) cool spray on my face under warm sun, and I lick my lips and get a taste of sweet coffee mixed with sea salt, mmmmmmm…and then another wander up from St Mandrier harbour up to the road they call Corniche D’Or to where I was going to stay. Except when I got there and knocked on the door, there was no answer. Bugger, the messages I left on their ansaphone saying when I was going to arrive haven’t been listened to. I’ll just call them on my mobile. Balls! My piece of crap Motorola phone is out of batteries (a state that it spends most of its working life in, having an average battery life of 1 minute).

Fortunately, the next door neighbours saw me sweating under my baggage and since I have been happily drunk with them many times, invited me to sit on their patio and drink Pastis. You know the Divine Comedy song Charmed Life? I must be building up for a run of incredibly bad luck soon. I’ll go to bed until it’s over.

Later my friend Jean who hadn’t heard my messages turned up and we got slowly drunk and then went for a pizza and some Rosé in a nice restaurant where a friendly waiter, noting my slightly less than perfect Provencal accent, decided I must drink some local liqueur that he must give me for free. Nice man. Thanks.

Back after that for some mellow old jazz on the stereo and a couple of whisky’s to finish the day (and my head) off.

Up the next day at the crack of 1 pm having slept through any head unpleasantness that I should have incurred from last night and a shower, then a saunter into the village for some breakfast at this bar…

With this view from my harbour-side table…

Then off to the deserted beach for a bit of a read under the sun and to watch the boats go by…

Working is overrated…

Oooops again… ah waddyagonnado huh? Sure I could make up excuses but why should I demean both you and myself with hollow falsehoods? The reality is that it just don’t feel right writing this when I’m in Epsom. Don’t ask me why. Oh go on then. Ask me. You wanna know? Well it’s like this…

Nah, I’m not gonna tell ya.

So where are we now? Lets slide back in to it gently shall we? It might be a tight squeeze given my new winter ahem… “coverage”. I think with 3 months of constant -12 degree temperatures my body went into Inuit survival mode. Not only did I gain poundsssssssssssss, I also had a strange desire to cut a hole in some pack ice and club seals over the head. Eskimo questions and I’ll tell you no lies… he he. No, that IS funny.

So I’m working off my fat by marching around Barcelona looking at pretty amazing Gaudi-designed things like this…

And this…

And this…

Gaudi is good. People in Barcelona are good for paying him good money to make every good building he designed look like something out of a (good) fairytale. Breathtaking. And inhale…. (see point 3 below)

This is the oldest squat in Barcelona, Occupy And Resist, for those of you who’s Spanish is worse than mine. That really can’t be many of you given that my Spanish is based around knowing 4 Spanish words and then mixing in some French and a smattering of Italian and then topping it all off with a really, really crap Manuel off Fawlty Towers accent. That’s my recipe for Spanish language cake. And it tastes rubbish. I think the people of Barcelona must be very clever though as they understand what I’m on about. Anyway, that squat…

Just to prove that it’s a fairytale city, they have small fairies on rollerblades along the sea front. Who could ask for anything more?

Reasons Barcelona is good?

1. Gaudi everywhere.

2. It is full of cool little bars that serve beer (Cerveza, Spanish word I know 1.) and lots of great snacks (Tapas, Spanish word I know 2.)

3. They have legalised Marijuana for personal use. Even though it’s ages (more than 10 years fergawdsake!) since I smoked any, I still think it’s silly to make it illegal. People here smoke openly on the street and guess whether there is (a.) a violent undercurrent to the city at night, or if (b.) everyone’s very mellow and relaxed? *

4. They built a huge beach (Playa, Spanish word I know 3.) all the way along the sea front for the ’92 Olympics. Wassup playa?

5. It costs roughly 2p to get there from London.

6. The people who live there are all without exception lovely. (possibly because of reason 3.)

7. I could go on.

8. But I won’t.

9. Goodbye (Adios, Spanish word I know 4.)

*Correct answer is b. by the way.

This is a bird in a box…

How did a bird get in a box? Here’s a clue…

So off we go to…

Last night, Neill and I got drunk like this…

I think that’s all…

So it finally stops being cold in Ann Arbor and Spring is here. If Autumn is Fall shouldn’t Spring be Rise? So it finally stops being cold in Ann Arbor and Rise is here and suddenly everything goes from cold and miserable to nicely warm and the place is full of café’s overflowing on to pavements and pretty flowers. No slow drift towards Rise for this place. One day it’s grotty and grey, the next it’s sunshiny and sublime. That’s Rise in Ann Arbor.

And what happens when it finally gets nice? I have to leave that’s what. My three months visa is up for the second time and it’s time for that emotionally charged trip to the airport again. Possibly not as emotional as it was for the people in the six or seven cars involved in the huge pile up that held me up on the interstate though. I’m guessing their day was worse. The guy driving this truck gets my prize for literalism in naming a company. Well done him for learning two words.

Got to the airport late to be informed that I couldn’t get my nice window seat I like. Damn, should have done that online check in thingummy. Also got told that my plane was full of car reps who’d been to the annual motor show in Detroit. A Plane full of car reps. That should be a joyous eight hours.

People are monkeys, attracted to each other by pheromones and looks. I attract pairs of human female monkeys in air terminals who like to talk absolute crap incessantly at the top of their voices twelve inches from my ears.

Monkey 1 – There was a crash on the road I was taking so I phoned the airport to tell them I was going to be late.
Monkey 2 – That’s good.

That version of the conversation I could have handled. The version which involved saying that over and over again in slightly different ways for 30 minutes was just a little too much for me. She wasn’t late. Ahhh Iphoto with total sound blocking properties…. mmmmm….. God I get crabby when I’m waiting for a plane.

Being a British Airways flight, there were people with far worse teeth than I’m used to seeing waiting with me for it. I’m in danger of becoming a tooth fascist like a proper American. I have also noticed that I no longer feel the need to mock American fast food advertising. Before I would shout at the TV something along the lines of “No wonder you’re all so bloody fat!” Now I laugh with it and my body wobbles along. Must get my teeth polished when I’m at home.

Then I’m on a plane full of car salesmen. The last bastion of the moustache, short sleeved shirts with breast pockets containing pens, all still wearing their name tags from the show. Except for the woman allocated the seat next to me who mutters and sighs when she has to move all her luggage off of my seat so I can sit on it and then proceeds to do the same thing every time I change channels on my tiny TV in the seat in front of me. Or move an inch. Or breathe. For the next eight hours. Oh, fate is kind.

“See them jeans back there all queer wiv ver flairs and the rips? Look at me. White T-shirt and Levi’s an’ I’m still standin’.” Ah must be back in Epsom…

You remember I had an Ipod? Big 30 gig number that I loved (even if they did release the 40 gig the week after I got mine on purpose which I have nearly forgiven them for (they being Apple in case you hadn’t guessed)). I haven’t got it anymore. It’s a very sad thing. That little rectangular white and silver box of cuteness has served me well over the last 2 years and I am forever indebted to those who nearly bought it for me as a leaving present from ORC (but accidentally bought me something that was neither white nor an iPod). Fortunately I said thank you politely and made sure I had the receipt before taking their slight judgemental lapse back to the dark cave of poor quality electronic goods that it came from for a refund and splurging the cash on a lovely Apple glory box.

Back to today. Still with me? Good OK. I no longer have the iPod that I’ve been banging on about.

One good side of it is that it has gone to a good home. When you love something you don’t want to worry about it’s future as it goes out to make it’s own way in the world.

A little better than that is that I got given money for it. That’s a good thing. Nice to know that what you spent your money on 2 years ago hasn’t become worthless.

What is only slightly better, no I tell a lie, what is air-punchingly, manic-grin-inducingly, babble-makingly better is that I took delivery today of a 60 gig iPhoto. What’s an iPhoto? Oh come on, pay attention to the world outside will ya? There’s the future happening outside your window while you’re defluffing your bellybutton you know. An iPhoto for those of you still putting your shirts through a mangle at the weekend is an iPod with a colour screen, double the battery life, and room for 15,000 songs on it. That is a VERY good thing and I am temporarily in the position that I CAN fit my music collection on it. This will probably last about a week before I have it rammed to the headphone socket with tunes and am once again making heartbreakingly tough decisions about what to leave off it when I walk the 3 minutes to the shops. (What if I suddenly want to listen to my album of Elephants playing large instruments while I’m buying milk? Think I’m joking? Oh Ye of Little Faith! Can I suggest you buy it? It’s actually pretty good.)

Anyway. Yes. That’s good.

Other good things? Well one of them is the movie Sin City.

Don’t believe any of the reviews that go on about how it’s not good. Those reviewers are liars and should be killed with long Samurai swords. I saw it the other night and grinned from ear to ear all the way through it. It looks incredible. Mickey Rourke completely rocks in it and shit, isn’t it about time he was back in films again? I mean for how long does Hollywood have to punish a great actor for going off the rails? Bloody puritans. Bruce Willis is also good but the film is the star of the film if you see what I mean. You don’t? Well go see it. It is fantastic. (Actually, don’t go see it if you don’t like seeing a dog hungrily tearing flesh from the bloody leg stumps of a man who’s just had all his limbs amputated. You won’t like it. Don’t think I know anyone like that though.)

Anything else to report?

Well I played poker with a Dakota Indian last night again. I can now say that I’ve done that twice. You better find a poker playing Dakota Indian pretty quickly if you’re going to keep up.

Oh yeah, and Thursday I’m coming back to the UK for a bit. That’s happening too. I’m really looking forward to seeing all of you. I assume you’ll all be at the airport when I land right? Yeah, sure you will.

x

This might take any geeky young 30-something-type fellas, or perhaps even ladies, back to a strange early eighties way of killing time. Bet some of you did this… Of course I didn’t. I was far too cool… ahem…

May contain more biological language than some would care for…

Ever hear of the Minuteman Project which is currently actively patrolling the US-Mexican Border? The idea is that concerned civilians are asked to come from anywhere in the US to assist the legitimate border patrols in stopping illegal immigrants. They need to have a valid drivers license to prove that they are who they say are.

How much of a good idea would you say this is?

What kind of people would you say would volunteer?

Oh, and as you so rightly, dear…

On Sunday night I played poker with a Dakota Indian. Bet you can’t say that.

I have had complaints from people who have sent me pictures of dogs that I show favouritism in my choice of hound to post on the website so here’s a small selection of recent entries… well two. If you have a picture of a dog that you’d like to send me then feel free, I’ll post any that you send. We’re sorry we can’t return any of your paintings but there is a prize for those that are shown.

Jake,a 3 month old from Sussex cites his interests as tearing up architects drawings and upsetting old dogs, “cos, like, they’re just trying to hold me back man… it’s SOO unfair”

Pup who is ironically much older than a pup cites her interests as jumping in swollen rivers, taking overdoses of Neurofen and the complete works of Sylvia Plath. “You don’t understand me or my music” she was heard to bark grumpily from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a pair of dark glasses.

One of the best dogs, Sammie is no more and is now bouncing around happily while the Pope throws sticks for her in a field full of rabbits. Bye bye Sammie.

The Pope is apparently back to his singing career as evidenced by this Ann Arbor record shop window display…

…While his earthly believers continue to compete for the “most distasteful ad of the year award 2005”

And Gail Ann Dorsey is continuing to avoid allowing me to see her live by playing in places just after I leave them…

If you are sick of reading this then here’s your opportunity to blow it up.

Alternatively you could just read what I’ve been up to, vote in the shiny new poll over there on the right (Where? Over there and up a bit. Got it?), look at some pictures I took for you and enjoy the little animated gif over there on the right (Where? Over there and over the poll. Got it? That’s sitting in a car in Chicago that is). God I spoil you.

So a big drive to Chicago for the second time in my life. Talking of big things that drive to Chicago, here’s some… ever seen Duel?

So what was I doing in Chicago? Seeing Bloc Party at the Metro is what. The pictures aren’t great cos they were taken with a phone camera but hey, I never said I was John McMurtrie did I?

People stick things on their car roofs in Chicago. Honestly everyone does it…

First a nice hotel surprise. All clean and spacious and like there was no one else staying there. The last one I stayed at in Chicago was kinda sucky in that “make the reception area look really nice and once you’ve got the person in, show them to their dirty rabbit hutch of a room” way. Fortunately I managed to get stunningly drunk that time and not really experience the room but I hate it when people are just trying to get your money.

Second, a bad restaurant experience, “Take a seat at the bar and someone will seat you in a few minutes”, “Oh you mean that bar where there are no seats so I have to stand in the way of all those waiters trying to get past me with food?” then upstairs to the table and then the waiter brings something that was definitely not what I asked for, then sulked, and then took ages to bring something else. C’mon guy, I got a show to go to here… No tip for you then. God I hate it when people are just trying to get your money.

Then on to the Metro to see Bloc Party.

First on were The Ponys who were good in a mod/ new wave kinda way. Actually maybe they weren’t as mod as I was remembering and it was just the singers suit and the way he moved a bit like Paul Weller in his Jam days that was mod. And now I come to think of it they weren’t the first band on either but I didn’t see the first band cos of the waiter in the restaurant. Maybe they weren’t called The Ponys either? And maybe Ponys looks like a Welsh word if you look at it too many times? Anyway they were pretty good.

Bloc Party were ace. Guitarist Russell throwing guitar boy poses not seen since Richey Edwards jumped off the bridge. Singer Kele doing his little side to side dance while singing alarmingly well. Drummer unassumingly adjusting his glasses between songs and then playing that clipped, sharp beat that he does and the bassist, well, playing bass. What would you expect him to do? Shit, I’m not a reviewer, I’m an elephant. Why don’t you go and see them? They’re very, very good.

What else? Oh yeah, this.

Ok, I love you, bye bye.

Little Asian boy: Mommy, is it true that the world is run by giants who plug it in and make it spin?
Mom: Where did you hear that?
Little Asian boy: I made it up.

That made me laugh out loud and the rest of the sites worth a regular look too. Sew hears sum pikchers 4 yew.

A hairy dog (my mum took this one, it’s a dog called Murphy that her dogs are in love with)…

And here’s some train tracks…