Month: May 2005

possibly a little drunk when I wrote all that last night! No offence intended to any of the family or friends that I might have managed to piss off. Love ya all really!

XXXX

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.