If you can remember how much you've drunk in an evening, you either weren't drunk, or you're a light-weight..
I hope my mum doesn't read this post.
But she probably will.
Her and the gestapo.
Mums get everwhere.
But at the same time, they're generally kind minded, and looking out or their little offspring.
And I as a junior manchild, (if my mum is reading) I love my mum.
(But at the moment I resent my boss's friends for getting me quite so drunk last night, which has overspilled into this evening.)

Just visited a great blog by a very witty fella who draws very very well, and wanted to leave a comment on the blog, but for some reason, Blogger (damn Blogger) wouldn't let me. For some reason, Blogger doesn't like my comments, or, in many cases, doesn't like my pictures either. Well that's no good, anyone can see that.
So, here's my comment. I copied and pasted it, and I think you'll agree, that it is a very fine example of a comment. Perhaps, even one of the best. I'm so very brilliant:

I liked Berlin when I went, but the whole experience was rather spoilt by the fact that German schoolkids (exchange trip, y'see) are a bunch of arses. The best part of the trip was expertly slide-tackling some German dude on tarmac (my bleeding knees didn't thank me for that) leaping up like Jackie Chan, long-passing to the only fella we had up-field, who neatly slotted the ball past the keeper to win the match. The German dude was on the floor, hurt, but with no ill feelings because it was a mighty fine tackle (from behind, between his legs mid stride - I had so much momentum after covering half the pitch to get there, that I slid in fast and long, took the ball, knocked his standing leg with my trailing leg, carried on sliding, knees on the tarmac like cheese on a grater, he fell, unable to protect his face because his hands were too far from his head at the moment of falling, my momentum was amazing, and I Neo-Matrixed up onto my feet), I was a blood-kneed hero, Danny Potter had scored the only goal of his life, England had beaten Germany (although I wach Italy rather than England), and basically, I had won the day!
Thank Gods for "Last Goal Wins".
I'm brilliant.
And I can spell.

Hello there - this is my first post in ages and ages (I've been concentrating on my http://pinkbeard.blogspot.com ). It's just a little post today.

It's a poem from a dream I had last night. I've no idea whether it's been written down by anyone before, or whether my brain thought it up whilst in sleep, or even the context in which it appeared in my dream. I think I was saying it to someone, because I'm a big romantic soppy workshy fop, but I really can't remember.

Here it is:

m

"Vers mes reves, ma couer, la mer et le ciel,

Toujours il y a seulement trois choses:

Moi, toi, et rien..."

m

Yes, it's in French (not sure how good the grammar is, but heigh-ho). Basically it means:

m

"Across my dreams, my heart, the sea and the sky,

There's always only three things:

Me, you, and nothing..."

m

If I did think it up without any outside influences, I'm AMAZING.

Actually, sod the 'if', I am AMAZING anyway. I'm great!

If you'd like to send me money or treasure, please feel free.

Hi there sportsfans,
just writing to say that I'm having a little trouble (ie it's impossible) to post pictures on my blog at the moment, but I'll re-start my ramblings again ASAP.

Right. Hello there everyone.

It's just about to go 10pm, and I'm sat at home, with the internet not working. I'm supposed to be hard at work sending out emails to local newspapers & radio stations about my dyeing thing. But the internet's not working, so I can't. So, I'm typing this up, so I can post it tomorrow. Basically I've been working the phones today (really for much less time than I should have...), and thinking up ideas for the posters that are going to spring-up all over Twickenham & Richmond, hopefully.

I've also made a fantastic pirate head-scarf today, and I'm going to get some fabric paint (maybe tomorrow before work) so I can paint a big skull & crossbones on the front.

I'm listening to the Adam & Joe Coca-Cola podcast at the moment, which plays music from as-yet-unsigned bands. This podcast has various 'music-experts' appearing, to rave about their favourite unsigned tunes, before playing them, with a little bit of the usual Adam & Joe humourous comments thrown in for good measure. And these 'music-experts' really do rave on - really bigging up these bands, and saying how great and amazing, and totally new and wow they are. And basically each time a song starts, I think, "Hmm. Yeah. Not my thing. NEXT!" I don't really think these bands should be signed, I'm afraid (no offence to the guys, because they're OBVIOUSLY reading this - I mean, man, who isn't? Anyone who's Anyone reads this blog). But then again, I don't work in the music industry, and I certainly don't think that I'm particularly au-fait with the kids.

Definitely haven't descended to their depths yet.

Actually, as the most qualified 'music-expert' currently in the room, I'll give you my recommendations for songs to illegally download, if you can find them - songs that I'm listening to a lot at the moment...

1.) "Light enough to travel" - the Be Good Tanyas

2.) "Just Another Sunday" - the Blasters

3.) "Ai du" - Ali Farka Toure & Ry Cooder

4.) "Respect Yourself" - the Staple Singers

5.) "Bad Side of the Moon" - Bo Diddley

6.) "Nouveau Riff" - Vivian Stanshall

7.) "Going to Vietnam" - Big Amos

8.) "Strange Tongues" - Vivian Stanshall

9.) "Oh I Wept" - Free

10.) "Climbing to the Moon" - Eels

So what are you waiting for? Get out there & get downloading! You should probably download some Screaming Jay Hawkins too, just for good measure, because he's a good kid. And see if you can find "Invocation" by the Incredible String Band, because I heard it on on-line radio, and haven't been able to find it since - it's extraordinary. On a slightly different note, I found a band on the internet called "Psychedeliasmith", which I thought was hilarious. Check them out too. Other things you should be looking at are the Adam & Joe XFM podcasts, and (on youtube.com) the ridiculous R Kelly's stupid "Trapped in the Closet" R&B/soap opera, which is quite the most giggle-worthy thing I've seen for a long time.

I love the idea that one afternoon, R Kelly turns up at R-Kelly Studios, where he runs his operations from, and he goes into the big board-room where he summons all his creative staff when he wants something done. (Usually, they're training in the next rooms, dressed in black jumpsuits, and doing kung-fu & exploding things). But in he walks, and he leans against the big chair that means 'I'm R Kelly - your boss'. And he looks down along the table at his minions, and he bellows "I'm a mother-fuckin' THESBIAN, I need something new. A new angle." And one of his creative team mutters "But... but how? You're not even a lady". And there's muffled giggles, but R Kelly doesn't notice, because he's FURIOUS, man, and he takes out his gun.

"I want something new! I want it now! My record sales are down! No-ones taking me seriously! I'll be back in seven days, and if you haven't made something new, then your arses are toast man! I'll feed you to my mother-fuckin' gorilla!" (Because he's R Kelly, a big man, and he owns a gorilla).

So he leaves the room, and the creative staff all cluster round. They have to produce something good, or they'll be fired and then fed to an ape. And then one of them says, "We've got to create something really shit, but pretend it's really important". Because really, they all hate him and think he's a wanker. And they've also realised that he's a fucking idiot too.

So, without even waiting for the week to pass, they call him up about four minutes later, and they say "Hey, Mr Kelly, we've got it! Come over & we'll discuss it."So, R Kelly comes back, and he's pulled out his pistol, just in case it's a trap. And they say, "Hey Mr Kelly, we've got a tune, and we've got a concept. It's an R&B opera!" And R Kelly just can't believe it, he's stunned and gobsmacked.

"A mother-fuckin' what?" he says, "But that's bullshit, man! I don't sing opera."

"No no, Mr Kelly, you won't be singing opera, it's like a soap opera. But all sung hippetty-hoppetty. And you commentate all the action, and sing all the characters parts!" (Because his creative people are lazy, and haven't really thought it through, they just want a shit idea to make him look like a twat). Another chimes in,

"The Who did it... They did "Tommy". And it made them lots of money."

"The mother-fuckin' who?" yells R Kelly.

"Yes. The mother-fuckin' Who."

"And it made lots of money? Hmm. But I got loads of money. And anyway, I don't care about money no more. I'm a thesbian."

"Well we've written it all about ordinary people leading extraordinary lives. It's something people can really relate to, something important. A zeitgeist of our times. People will look back in years to come and say, "Yes. That's what life was really like". It'll be a huge thing, and lots of people will think that you're really clever to have come up with the idea..."

R Kelly strokes his chin and ponders. "They'll think it was my idea?"

"We'll make sure of it - we certainly don't want anyone to think it was us."

"And they'll think I'm clever? Like, intelligent? A social commentator?"

"Yes boss. You can even do a commentary to show the people really what you were thinking". So R Kelly buys the idea. Spends tons of money to pay his creative people for their shit idea, and their tune which took them Fifty Seconds to think up, and then just repeat and repeat. The songs are recorded, the filming is finished, and R Kelly is thrilled to bits, bless his little cotton socks. And meanwhile, his creative team are running to the bank, pissing themselves with laughter for such a shit idea, and how much of a ridiculous fool that they've made R Kelly into. I'm not sure if that is actually what happened, but I'd like to think that it is.

But the man... is a Midget.

Midget.

Midget.

Football and Scandal

This summer, Italian football awoke to yet another scandal. Basically, for the last few years, there has been an illegal system right across the League, to arrange which referees and officials are assigned to matches. Whether in competitive games or friendlies, team officials were telephoning the referees association to make sure certain referees officiated their team's matches. The story finally broke after phone-taps were released in which Luciano Moggi, one of the Juventus board of directors, was heard arranging with the head of the Referees Association, as to who should officiate a match. As the story deepened, many many other teams were implicated. Juventus, Fiorentina, Milan, Lazio, and Inter being the biggest names involved, but it was a system right across the League. But, but, but, after the inquests and court cases, no evidence has ever emerged that a single referee has been bribed or paid off for throwing a match. The fact that teams were booking referees for FRIENDLIES, and that often, even after securing their prefered referee for a game, they'd still have bad decisions against them - goals disallowed, bad calls on offsides, games lost. Just as you'd have in an ordinary football match.
The clubs insist that they were only arranging for certain referees, because they wanted to make sure that the best, most respected referees were there to make sure that games were officiated in the most fair way, so no bad decisions could be made, so that their multi-million pound flair-players weren't beaten-up on the sly when an inexperienced referee was officiating.
Whilst I have no authority to say whether that is true or not, arrangements between clubs and the referees association should never have taken place. But the truth is, that it did.
Italy is a country plagued by stories of corruption - whether true or fabricated. It is a country that loves scandal, and loves conspiracy theories even more. So when a story breaks, it breaks big. Due to the nature of people, when you're an outsider looking at another country, your vision is always blurred by outdated stereotype. I think that Italy is a country that non-Italians like to look at and think "I'd like a house in Tuscany. The football's tactical. The food is great. The architecture is beautiful. It's a country so full of history. The people are so charming", but at the same time, they'll think "Italians are all so corrupt, they'd sell their grandmothers, can't trust them. Diving, fouling, greasy-haired..." and so on. In many ways, Italy is a country that outsiders love to hate (even to the extent of totally ignoring the problems that they imagine in Italy which are right on their own doorsteps. Corruption is rife everywhere, even in England's green and pleasant, and English footballers dive and foul as much as anyone else). For a proud Italian, these misconceptions, stereotypes, and inherent racist senitments are hard to bear. Italians want to prove to the world that they are a society who aren't governed by corruption (even if Berlusconi is voted in with rather alarming regularity!) So when a 'foreigner' looks at stories that emerge in Italy, they think corruption, the mafia, and they leap to the conclusion that the country is rife with unstoppable corruption on every level. Italy is a country that has to live with this image, and hates this image. So when a story of scandal breaks, Italian authorities act hard and harsh. Teams implicated in the 'Calciopoli' scandal would be punished.Whilst Inter managed to slime their way out of the story early on, Juventus, Milan, Lazio and Fiorentina were all told that they'd be fucked royally.

Due to various tribunals, fines and docked-points were imposed, and the final outcome was that Milan would keep their Champions League place, and be docked eight points - a costly slap on the wrists. Lazio and Fiorentina lost their chances to play in Europe, and were handed 11 and 19 point penalties respectively. Fiorentina are effectively battling from relegation as a result, which is hugely unfair. And Juventus, my little mountain team, were stripped of two league titles, demoted to Serie B for the first time in their history, and docked 17 points for the season. So even after 3 wins and 1 draw in the first 4 games of the season, we're still bottom of the table with -7 points. Whilst uncertainty dogged the summer campaign seasons of Milan, Lazio and Fiorentina, who were unable to effectively reinforce and strengthen their squads, there was a crisis in Turin. Players wanted to leave, and were told they had to stay, to honour their contracts. Other players - heroes like Del Piero, Nedved and Buffon, said they'd stay, regardless. But the majority of players left for sunnier climes. Ibrahimovic, Vieira, Thuram, Emerson all left for Spanish sides or Inter. What hurt most of all was seeing Zambrotta leave for Barcelona, and even worse was seeing the world's greatest defender, Cannavaro, depart for Real Madrid for a paltry £5million.And meanwhile, the Scudetto badge, the mark of the Italian champions, was stripped off Juve shirts, and handed to Inter (who'd only finished third). Inter's spin-doctors immediately declared it the "Scudetto of Honesty", which is a joke, frankly. For years, Inter have been fielding players on false passports, and are a really shady organisation. Their owner, Massimo Moratti, is an oil tycoon, pouring millions on players each summer to try to buy the Scudetto, each year succeeding in buying a team of whingeing primadonnas who are incapable of winning a serious competition. So with Calciopoli raging, Inter began to rub their hands. With their opponents unable to commit to the activity of summer purchases, Inter plundered Europe. In particular, pecking over the not-yet dead body of Juventus, snapping up Vieira and Ibrahimovic in their vulture beaks. Fabio Grosso, Italy's World Cup winning left-back, arrived swiftly, with no-one else able to produce counter-offers.

Since Calciopoli, being a Juventus fan has been a difficult business - conversations in the pub turn into me defending my club, pointing out that it was a much wider system, pointing out that the FIGC (Italian FA) needed scapegoats, and we were it, and reiterating time and time again that Juventus were the strongest team in both those two seasons, and each season won the league Fair and Square on the pitch. We didn't need any help at all.

But on the other hand, I've proudly been a Juventus fan since Calciopoli. That feeling of injustice, the awful day when Gianluca Pessotto jumped from his office window at Juventus HQ. The pride in seeing seven Juventus players on the pitch in the World Cup Final. And the new open-ness about the club. Being a Juve fan at the moment, is very much like being in a fantasy novel, or even in the film, the Lion King! The rightful heir banished to another realm, whilst his evil uncle sits on the trone. But the heir isn't going to be away for long. Just long enough to build himself up, recoup and grow, and then he'll be back to take what is rightfully his.

But it's also a strange time in that, looking at the Juve team photo, I can't recognise half of the team. Youth players have been drafted back, and this season's team is exciting to support. With a new manager, new directors, a new stadium, and in a new league, it's a very exciting time to be a Juve fan. But I can't wait to get back to Serie A and bang a few heads.

And how about 'honest' Inter? What about their oily tycoon? Well, this week, it emerges that during the last few seasons, they've been paying for referees to be tailed by private investigators, and tapping phones. There have even been claims of Inter approaching referees to blackmail them. So, the FIGC are investigating at the moment.

And it looks like Inter's 'Scudetto of Honesty' - the only scudetto that they've 'won' since 1989 - will be stripped.

Which is fantastic news.

They may even be docked points for this season, which is even better news. In my opinion, the current Inter aren't going to win anything this season, and won't do for a long long time. Especially when we're back in A.
FORZA JUVENTUS!

Sir Viv.

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Hello again!
Today, I'm just posting a little something new - the lyrics to an obscure song (and rare to find), by my hero Vivian Stanshall. Most people probably only know him for his days with the Bonzo Dog Band in the 1960s, but he was so much more. A song-writer, singer, multi-instrumentalist, playwright, poet, author, comedian and performer. He is, to me, one of the greatest Englishmen to have ever lived. He died on March 5th 1995. He'd fallen asleep, dropped his cigarette into his beard, and then asphixiated before the house burnt down around him. I can't attach the file, I'm afraid, but I did try!

the Future.

If I had the confidence,
The courage or the common-sense,
The hutzpah or some happiness,
Then I could face the future.
If I could find a kindred spirit,
Wouldn't mind a friend to share it,
I'm the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
All that's second best in me
Is crying out for sympathy,
A nagging insecurity
Is begging me - don't try.
If there were an easier way,
A magic I could try,
Or someone else to do this thing for me,
Then fear must say its prayers...
Tonight.

IMPORTANT NEWS!

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Two pieces of important news for you today, Sportsfans.
These two breaking stories are on vastly differing subjects. The first is Charity & Depression, and the second is Football and Scandal - which actually I've had to cut & paste to another post, so actually, only one breaking story, and the other is something you'll have to search for... Are your appetites sufficiently whetted? Yes? Well pull up a chair, settle back, pour yourself a beer, relax, and I'll begin.
Just like Jackanory, and his cousin, John Dory...
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1.) Charity and Depression.
About 3 months ago, I stopped shaving. Usually I'm crisp, clean shaven, short haired, and look the very model of a modern British citizen. But after 3 months of ignoring my razor, I now look like a freakish beardy - which is what I suppose I now am. The reason I've not been shaving, is because I intend to dye all this mass of hair magenta. Yup. The whole beard, all the hair. Magenta. I think my hair-mass weighs about four kilos now, so I will look quite a shocking sight. But this act of shameless dyeing is for a purpose, not just a change of looks. I'm dyeing it for charity - for Primhe, a charity which deals in primary healthcare for people with mental disabilities & Depression. Depression affects so many people (you probably don't need to look further than a family member, the man who you see at the train station each morning, your best friend, the lady at Tesco, the man next to you at the bar...), all trying to deal with things in their own way. Whilst depression is ultimately something that individuals have to sort out themselves, Primhe is there for people at every stage along the way. I've been wanting to help Prime for quite a while - initially it was to provide some of my cartoons for Primhe leaflets & publications, but I feel that by dyeing all my hair so that I look like Animal from the Muppets, is a much more public way of helping out. I really hope to advertise what I'm doing, to highlight that Primhe is there. So many people don't think that there are people out there to help them.
Even if I can't raise much money, if I can raise awareness, that would be great. After Stephen Fry's recent TV programme, and the amount of feedback from the press in its wake, Depression is really in people's minds at the moment (if you excuse the pun), and I really think (and hope) that people are starting to think of Depression as a real and tangible thing - a problem that many many people have to live with, and not an some affliction to excuse people's tantrums. Obviously, there are some people who don't understand, but as long as there are TV programmes, and charities out there, being loud & open about things, then that is a good thing. If anyone wants to find out more, please visit the Primhe website at www.primhe.org (which is just about to be updated), or send me an email - also if you'd like to sponsor me, then do get in touch. Just leave a comment with your email address, and I'll get back to you.

AN UNUSUAL MORNING

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"Hello! And how did you find yourself this morning?"
"Well I just rolled back the sheets, and there I was."
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I had a very strange morning yesterday, on the way to work... First of all, as I was walking for Superdrug (that's a pharmacy, not a bad place, for all you American readers (as if I have any American readers, as if. Probably no-one is reading this apart from me, and the mentally challenged), where you can buy shampoo and vibrators), and all of a sudden, a pushchair appeared from NO-WHERE, pushed by some freaky tink of nature. This woman was the Queen of the Gypsies, wearing assorted sports-wear, and with her hair pulled back so tight, that her eyes were nothing but white. Anyway, so, alarmed, I leapt out of the way, and shouted "Slow down lady, there's a BABY in your battering ram!".
And she SNARLED at me. She actually snarled. Snarled! I've never been snarled at, apart from my dog, when she's play-acting. But this Princess of Gyppos snarled. It was terrifying.
So, I continued along my way, and I spotted Lil, the ex-landlady of the pub where I used to work. "Hello Lil!" I said. And she looked at me as if I was a terrorist bomber, who she'd just caught taking a shit in her bread-bin.
"I don't know you." she said.
"Yes, you do Lil, it's Chris!" I replied, rather stunned. And then I remembered my beard.
But, dear weirdo reader, this isn't some lady that I served a drink to just once. This is a lady who I served drinks to, most nights for 5 years, over the holiday periods where I was back from university/GAP year. I was invited to her husband's funeral, for God's sake! But she didn't recognise me.
"I didn't always used to have the beard, Lil." I added.
"I don't know you." she repeated, and headed off on her old, crusty way.
Anyway, so, two enemies made in one afternoon.
Then, as I was walked on, I spotted a nice Muslim lady walking towards me. There were about one million men walking in the same direction as me, all wearing watches on their short-sleeved arms, and she didn't ask any of them what time it was. But then she saw me (and my beard), and she asked me the time. I think it was the beard. She was comfortable in the beard, as if it was a warm and cosy home. Maybe a mosque away from mosques. And I felt priveleged. I really did.
So whilst I may have terrified, and then been blanked by an old woman, and made an enemy of the Gypsy Nation, I've found a friend in Islam. And when it comes to Holy War, I think I know who the best ally is...
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[Chris would like to add, to those who take me too seriously, that I'm just being silly here. It's true events, folks, but I don't mean anything by it. Seriously, I don't actually believe in anything.
God? - No.
Jaffa Cakes? - No.
Wasps? - No.
But when it comes to the crunch, the Islamic faith vs. Chavvy Gypsies would be an easy bet to make.]

PIZZA

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Possibly best to read my previous post before this, so you can see the seamless segue (sp?) that I'd planned in my grotesque furniture.
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For the discerning restaurant goer and food critique, eating out can be a tricky and confusing situation. Most noticeably of course, when you're half-cut, it's nearly midnight, and you need pizza. Well, discerning restaurant goers and food critiques alike, fear not, and behold!

For there is a dark and rarely-visited area of Old London Town called Twickenham. And in Twickenham, the only place to go for takeaway pizza is Village Pizza. It's got to be Village.
They currently have a two-for-one price deal, if you collect, which is great!
I can recommend the "Scarecrow" pizza, which has chopped tomato, garlic, onion and ground beef (ask for no beef, but with tandoori chicken instead), and the one which has chicken, mixed peppers, sweetcorn and mushroom.

If you're feeling particularly adventurous, try taking a slice of each, and layering them up, like a pizza sandwich - Mmmmmmmm!
These pizzas should come with a warning though - the next morning you will be struck down, cursed for the whole day, with the world's most disgusting farts imaginable. Truly, truly foul. The stench that will trumpet out of your bumpipe would make a skunk gag, and will make your bottom cry.
On no account should you attempt to Dutch-oven yourself, as you will die - of that there is no doubt.
So! Give it a go! Village Pizza! The best in Twickenham, but, for god's sake, buy some Fabreze for the morning after.

SMOOSH

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Hello tout le monde.
I'm back again - I've just spent the day frantically prettying up the shop, because Sky News came to film! They interviewed my boss, whilst I hid in the background. I was hiding behind the counter, eating Jelly Babies and trying not to sneeze.
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In other news, I've decided that my new favourite band for the next twenty seconds is going to be "SMOOSH". I went to see Eels at the Astoria earlier this year. The gig was probably the best I will ever see, as they were spiffing. Smoosh opened for them, and they were very good, especially seeing as the two girls who make up Smoosh have the combined age of twelve. I've just been illegally downloading some tracks of theirs, and they're pretty cool - a nice thing to have around for the time that it's there. Like a pizza.

GOA
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I spent around three weeks in Goa, spending a few days on the beach, and then moving to another. I didn't work my way from North to South, but dotted about the place, which meant rather hectic bus journeys, but I think it was possibly the most fun way to do it. Initially I was travelling around Goa with two girls from Chicago, who I'd met in Bombay. I'd just finished my lunch, in Leopold's on Colaba Causeway, and got talking with them. I found out that they were intending to travel down to Goa on the same day that I'd planned to, and we agreed to travel together. India being India, not everything went that smoothly, as I couldn't get a train ticket.
I managed to get a bus down to Goa though, and (feeling rather ill) ended up on a rather nasty touristy beach. After a couple of days, we met up at Arambol - a fantastic beach up in the North, with a very traveller-y atmosphere. I stayed at a little beach-hut community called Tarzania, where I met some fantastic people. Travelling around Goa was really great - very relaxing whilst at the beach, and very different to the rest of India that I've seen. I travelled with the two girls from Chicago for around ten days or so, before they decided to move on to Pondicherry - Sophie and Marie-Laure were great fun to travel with, and wonderful company. I decided to spend a few more days in Panjim before hitting the beaches again. Panjim feels a little like home, I have to say. I think the Goan in me started to take root there a bit - helped by the hospitality of my relatives Aires & Julianna who live there, Godinho's restaurant, and the Top Gear Pub!

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The North end of Arambol beach.

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Gravestones at St. Augustine’s Cathedral.

St Augustine’s is my favourite place in Goa, if not in the whole of India. It is a vast, sprawling ruin, seemingly not visited by many travellers or tourists. Spending sunset there is simply magic, and whenever I’m in Goa in the future, I will make sure I’m there for sunset again.

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Sophie (L) and Marie-Laure (R) at St. Augustine’s. There is only one security guard there, so within minutes of arriving, we were able to scramble all over the place, and have a really good explore.

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Part of the Tower of St. Augustine’s is all that is left standing.

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A view through the ruins to the tower or St. Augustine’s.

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Sunset at St. Augustine’s.

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Early morning at Benaulim beach. No tourists for miles….

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A dilapidated building in Panjim.

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Although the buildings are look rather worse-for-wear, the streets of Panjim are remarkably clean. I think this building is a few doors down from Godinho's - a great place to go for Crab Xacuti, or spicy stuffed fish!

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Beach huts further South – possibly at Paololem.

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Spices at Mapusa Market.

Here's a little poem about my friend Leo:
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"Travels at haste,
Cycles at speed,
On his bicycle,
Made out of tweed."

Adventurers

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My latest project that I have set myself is to create some characters. I've recently started drawing again, but want to draw in an entirely different style. Before, I was using my scribbles as a form of exorcism & diary keeping - a way to express everything from my daily routine, to unusual things that happened around me, to my fears and worries. It was all rather unhealthy really - I ended up dwelling on my concerns for too long, and my drawing became rather introspective. But, my new project is actually creative - the plan is to design a series of characters, and create 'character sheets' for each one. I've thought up a scenario in which these characters can exist: it is the end of the Second World War, and across Europe and North Africa, Allied soldiers are starting to realise that with the end of war will come an end to their jobs. With the prospect of being demobbed, and returning to the shattered cities of Old Europe, a small group of servicemen and women desert, and team up in North Africa, forming a group of mercenaries. Basically, the group are dashing around the desert sands in search of plundered Nazi gold. Trying to avoid the armies that they've deserted from, and clashing with German deserters & desert people who are also in search of the loot.

It may be a little cliched, but I'm not actually trying to write a book/film etc about it, just designing some characters. So, I've been doing a fair amount of reserach into equipment, uniforms, period hairstyles etc over the last week. The look and feel of the characters is based on a pulped collage of imagery from Victorian explorers & hunters, First & Second World War militaria, and 1950s guerillas in South America & the Middle East. It's not true to history, but I think that this way, it'll have a rich feeling, and allows me to be nice & flexible with what I can include. I'll post some of my sketches soon. But first...

To get into the feel of these characters, I had a bit of a rummage through my wardrobe, and found some bits & pieces that I thought looked as if they were from this period, and I took a few photos (which was a huge amount of fun, as I ran around being silly, and pretending it was research!) Here are a few of them!

Earlier this year, I was thinking about finding a proper 'grown-up' job. I just wanted to get some money & move out of my parents' place, and go travelling again. Frustration ensued. It's not that I don't like my job - I really enjoy working at Real Ale (visit us at www.realale.com !), but I thought maybe it was time to get a horrible job in an office. Anyway, here's an email which I wrote in late May:

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"Well my family won't be getting any of my millions (except for my millions of debts).
I shall fake my own death, and dissappear...

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But I'll be there for the wake, it'll be fantastic. I'm not sure if I've told you my plans for my funeral, but it will be the party of a lifetime. I'll put the "fun" into "funeral", and the "laughter" into "slaughter".

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(That is, if anyone else turns up.)

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I've been looking up jobs today on Reed.co.uk . How depressing. It seems that they all want all sorts of weird qualifications which I've never heard of, and the only ones that I think I can do are call centres or shoeshops (ugh! take your feet away from me, you unwashed hordes!), or they pay actually WORSE than the job I've got. I saw one job going at a radio station. "Great!" I thunk to myselfwards. But it turns out that I'd have to be able to speak Panjabi, and like Panjabi music, so that was straight out the window. Doesn't the world know about my dreams? Why aren't I being showered with wonderful job opportunities and glittering prospects? Yes, I know I'm nothing special, and don't deserve them as much as some other people might, but I want 'em anyway. I really don't want to be doing a dull job. I like the fact that when I meet an old friend who I havent seen for a while, and they say "I'm an accountant/trainee lawyer/office manager/PR person/marketing bod/recruitment consultant/etc, what do you do", and I mention the little matter of beer, and their little eyes light up, and conversation ensues. I like that. Rather than replying, "Yes? Me too" and conversation stagnates, just like our office-job lives.

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That's a bit of a bleak outlook, n'est pas? I think I should get resigned to living in the real world, getting a suit and a 9-5:30, going bald, hating my boss, sneering at the other idiots that I work with, complaining grumbling and griping at each 'bad day at the office', slowly sinking into bottle after bottle of wine after work, praying for bank-holiday weekends, taking clients to strip-clubs which I can't afford, but just have to go along with them because we need to open new accounts, going bald, skin turning greyer, hands dyed an off-black from photocopier ink, eyes strained and tightened because of 8 hours per-day infront of a computer screen, the death of whatever social life I may have, no prospects of travel except to see the Swindon branch, and maybe get promoted so I can move to Woking, fighting over who'll get the corner-office seeing as Jenkins died (suicide, poor fellow. Killed himself with a letter opener. In the corner office), An awful weeded wife shrieking at me each time I get back from work, because I haven't managed to pluck up the balls to ask the boss for a pay-rise, Little Timmy's teeth are coming through, and he won't stop screaming so wife-dearest bought him another cat, I hate cats, why couldn't he have been called Quixote, and had a puppy, and spent endless summers in the garden instead of driving me mad! Why did I marry HER? Why did I ever take this job? I'm going to go and steal a car, tie one end of a rope around my neck, the other around a tree, and floor the accellerator. That'll show 'em. Yes, that'll show 'em. Then who'll be laughing?

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Or I could stay at Real Ale for a while, and see where the beer lead me...

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Anyway,

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As always yours, blinkety blinkety etc, but forever myself,

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CT.

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(A painter has just arrived at my window, peering peeking in, whilst he paints my window frames. So I'm going to escape into the garden once more. I'm very bored of Reed.co.uk . I may go for a stroll to the newsagents and get myself a packet of Refreshers and maybe some Apple Jacks.)"

OK, I've decided to add a new post - this is an email which I wrote on the 1st of June. It's nothing special, but I like it anyway.
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"Oh it's all so mind-numbingly DEPRESSING.
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All this jargon bullshit that they use to describe jobs - to try to glam them up & look interesting, (although they're not), to get people to apply. But my head just goes into a blurred haze & ignores all the words, until it gets to the required qualifications bit, and then I get even more depressed. The amount of stupid qualifications that you need for things nowadays...
And when I do finally go for an interview, I know I won't really want the job, and it's hard trying to pad out your interview patter if all you really mean is, "I want money, give me the stupid fucking job."
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I have every day this week off - no shifts available until Saturday. Most people would think that that's great. But not me. I'm stuck at home, broke, until my cheques clear, with the rhinocerous tyranny of my monstrous mother constantly looming. She's taken to waking me up at ungodly hours, which means that I've started taking a sleeping-bag to the bathroom for my morning routine, shutting the door, and having a sleep until its a civilised hour to rise and start the day. (I really am not a morning person at all, unless there's things to do which I either really have to do, or really want to do...) And then, through the day, its constant nagging, even if I'm actually doing something important, like applying for jobs. Previously, that would be a cue for me to leave the house for the day & do some writing or drawing (usually over a very long, slow pint or two) a mad old walk, and then home for a bite to eat in the evening. But I'm not drawing & writing ever again, so I don't know what to do when I escape on my days off. I can't just walk, that would be very strange (& the battery on my i-Pod only lasts half-an-hour, so it wouldn't be much fun tramping the streets all day). I need something to do, in walking distance, which doesn't cost much money. And isn't the job centre, that inner circle of Hell.
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I like the idea of False Ale - I'd be selling people the concept, the idea of beer, without actually selling them anything.
"Hello, Mr Thomas. I'd like to buy some beer to go with ham & pea soup. What would you suggest?"
"Nogue O Havre Stout. It has a lovely, smokey, piney flavour, with dark, roasty coffee notes and biscuit. Try to imagine that when you're eating. That'll be £5.50 please."
Money for advice, really. I could be a beer/meal adviser.
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How's your jobhunting going? Do Innocent make chocolate smoothies? Or is that technically actually a milkshake?
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If you're made redundant by Innocent, do they give you a golden milkshake?
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I'm thinking of having myself committed - if you think about it, it's the ideal life really. They do your laundry, and they cook. You're surrounded by interesting, likeminded people. You get a nice room with soft walls to lean against, even if the decor is rather minimalist. And you don't have to do anything! The only problems are rent, (I think you still have to pay for your upkeep), and the absence of beer. I think the absence of beer would send me past the point of no return. I would rename myself Raoul Spifame, and live the highlife in my little cell.
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Better than looking for a job.
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I think the best solution is to get outrageously pissed on bourbon, smoke a ridiculous amount of joints, get overly buzzy on strong espresso coffee, and forget about the whole job-hunting scene. Maybe we could meet up & do that at some point?
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For now, I'm leaping back into Reed, and Monster, and all the rest of that lot, for more torture, boredom, and then inevitable eventual cry of "bollocks", which will signal the start of another epic walk.
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I do hope all's well, and job opportunities are queued up around the block trying to get your attention, wearing pretty pink tutus and curtseying each time you pass.
The only job opportunity that's even glanced down my driveway only speaks Punjabi.
As always yours, but forever myself,
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Plunch.
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PS. I couldn't decide which crap joke to make about being made redundant by Innocent. Other alternatives included being given a golden handjob, but I thought that would be a little inappropriate."

WELCOME TO THE GROTESQUE FURNITURE OF MY MIND...

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Hello Sportsfans!

I decided it was about time that I became modern and cutting edge, and so here I am, chasing the zeitgeist. Basically, in my blog, I'm just going to be writing the odd little piece here and there, following the whimsy and trailing thoughts that occassionally creep from the dark shadows amongst the grotesque furniture of my mind.

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I'm also hoping to write a few little short stories (very short, and not really leading anywhere at all), and maybe a few little articles about things and people which interest me. I'll be re-visiting pieces that I've written in the past, and also old emails & letters which I like.

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And, of course, there will be photos, and occassional scribbles by me.

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But all that's to come! Today, I'm just getting the feel of how everything works, and so on. Inspiration must wait! It seems pretty straight-forward to use this blogging thing, so I'm not feeling like too much of a dinosaur. Although, I haven't yet worked out how to play around with how the blog will look - for example, I'd like to align my title a bit better (up at the top of the page) so that the word "mind" isn't all by itself on a separate line. Wow, this is a rivetting read... In my next post, I'll write about my latest project.