Van Der Graf

I have just this minute returned from a concert. Wait I'll need to start with something else, my head is swimming with thoughts because of something I've just witnessed. A musical car crash springs to mind. But wait, an overview first.
San Sebastian is in the throes of a Jazz festival, world famous apparently, and it happens every year. I will go into more detail after this weekend, a few friends are coming up from Madrid and all should be sweet, free concerts on the beach, some well known acts playing around town. Stop. I need to get back to what just occurred. Has anybody heard of Van Der Graf?
You see, the name rang a bell, somewhere in the back of my mind it struck a note (probably off key), and there should have been fucking alarm bells ringing. You know the beginning of Back to the Future when Marty goes to the Doc's house and a hundred alarms start ringing....well that warning would've been appreciated. At this point I would like to inform you all that the tickets were free, and I went along to an absolute cracker of a venue with a Spanish friend of mine, who I might add has an eclectic taste in music.
I've digressed.
Van Der Graf.
A poor man's Pink Floyd? Let say they are. Then this poor man has been broke even before he could walk, this poor man has come from a long line of beggars, Tiny Tim's family don't even have a look in.
I'm taking that back, Pink Floyd shouldn't be compared to these amateurs. Amateur Night, but for €53.
We get into the venue, get our seats, have a look around, lovely surroundings. The lights dim, three older chaps come onto the stage, applause. Then they start tuning their instruments, this goes on for about eight minutes. Applause.
It was a fucking song.
Oh come on Octavius, take into account these three things:
1. It's a jazz festival.
2. Some jazz is experimental.
3. Expanding your musical knowledge is a good thing.
This wasn't jazz, experimental or a good thing. I sat there going through countless emotions, mainly confusion. I also felt ill at certain points, there was also moments when I had to control laughter, which I don't do very often but I was in the eye of the needle here people, surrounded by fans. No, fanatics. There is no other word for them, unless they were in my boat and whose captain had veered dangerously off course.
I lasted fifty minutes, which is a hell of a long time to sit listening to something that you are not enjoying, I wasn't sure what to do because I have never walked out during a concert before. After the first two songs I started looking around. First at my fellow concert goers, then towards the salir signs.
Halfway through a compendium of notes (I refuse to call them songs) I decided to make a break for it and head to the bar, and being the polite, well brought up chap that I am, I thought it would be best to wait until the end of the song.
What a fucking mistake that turned out to be. Fifteen minutes, could've been ten, but my brain had packed in by that stage.
Managed to escape at the tail end of a barrage of wailing from the vocalist.
Van Der Graf. A bunch of self indulgent art students from the 60's gone horribly wrong. Noise with no meaning, rhythm with no beat. A man made disaster unleashed upon the ears.
Listen lads do us all a favour and stay in yer bedroom or garage or wherever the fuck it is that you conjure up this piss poor attempt at music.
I'm all for eclectic musical styles, anyone that knows me, can vouch for me, but this was beyond the realms of enjoyment.
A thought continues to flash before my mind.
These cunts get paid.

Mmmmm

Quick observation that never occured to me before: female surfers are extremely sexy. Could it be the wet look or am I developing a rubber fetish?

Spanish TV

I've started to watch some more TV, the first few months that I was here the only thing I watched was football, now I watch anything to help me along with my Spanish. It's the usual collection of pish, the occasional highlight and a heap of imported crap. It can also be quite brutal, like showing some unforgiving footage from last fortnights San Fermin of foreign drunks getting a bulls horn up their arse.
X-Factor, Big Brother, Survivor and Fame Academy seem to continually be on and when one finishes another similar brand of pish will begin. These are then accompanied by late night shows talking about this brand of pish. In there lies irony?
Nothing new really, Britain has the same.
Then there are the daytime shows. Spain might not have tabloid newspapers but they sure as hell have tabloid TV. Afternoons on most of the public TV channels are awash with celebrity gossip, celebrity being used with inverted commas. Exclusive! begins every show, some startled footballers missus/bird/bit on the side, being followed by a reporter and cameraman whilst she is out shopping or I've noticed quite frequently getting into or out of a car. This is spliced with grainy out of focus footage of some bloke snogging some bird, and back in the studio an army of experts will discuss this quite extraordinary behaviour. Sensationalist? Pointless?
The dullest, most infantile, banal TV for easily amused, brain dead slaves.
Now for the hypocrite in me to come to the surface of the TV viewer swamp.
There is a quiz show called "Money Money" (Mon-Fri 8pm channel Cuatro). I'm not going to go into the details of how the show works, that isn't important, what is however are the twelve or so stunning, scantily clad dancing girls (there are three blokes for any women watching) that perform a little boogie each time they are asked to reveal a question.
Quality! They also dance before the ad breaks and go hell for leather at the end of the show. Most satisfying.
Dull, infantile and banal?
No, the questions make it educational.
I rest my case.

An Apology

Apologies to any American friends that I may have after the last post, but as always all it takes is one meeting with one dickhead, plus the consumption of Rum to ruin preconceptions and exaggerate caricatures.

American Indian Summer

Summer has arrived big style and how do I know this? Well the glorious weather for one, the crowded beaches complete with topless ladies, the increased prices on drinking outside and the invasion of Americans by force. This isn't going to be a rant with helpings of American bashing, I quite welcome them in smaller doses, especially the women after hearing that they are well practised in the art of blow jobs. In fact I don't have much against them, except their brilliant white teeth, nasally accents and their fucked foreign policy. Also the fact that wherever you are you can hear them, in the street, the bar, the supermarket or the bogs (that's toilets to you non Scottish people). They have no volume control, no subtlety, no discretion.
It's almost as if they want anybody in close proximity to know what they're talking about be it the price of cheese or the fact that their beaches are bigger and better, which they may well be, but can you stop fucking shouting about it, every other fucker on the bus does not need to know these frivolous thoughts. Oh aye and American football is rugby with pads, baseball is cricket without the maths, and maths is not math, it's a fucking abbreviation of mathematics. So come up with some original sports and don't say basketball because that was invented by a Canadian and stop fucking around with the English language, there is no such thing as American English, you don't hear of Scottish English, or Australian English, it's just English, the English language. So have a sit down and take a good long hard look at yourselves, and just because your great, great, great grandfather shagged an Irish prostitute, does not make you Irish. " Oh I'm eighth Scotch and a quarter Irish". Shut the fuck up you muppet. Just pack it in, all this pretence and posturing, you're an American, like I'm Scottish. My father may be Irish but I am Scottish, you don't hear me going on about the fucking Normans or Picts. You're an experiment gone wrong and you're going to ruin this fucking oasis that we've been given you selfish fucks. And another thing, we get taught to look at an atlas, so when you feel like explaining what coast New York is on, guess what, I fucking know already.


This is in no way a rant, merely a conversation with Jim.

Gypsy Hunting

Begging Gypsy's I have become a stalker of, and the reason is this: I spotted one complete with limp and crutch (most of the male Gypsy's own a limp and a crutch) with his hand out mumbling for money. (I don't have to do this, Her Majesty's Government pays me monthly into my bank account). So for about a month I continued to see the same Gypo whenever I left the house and not always begging in the same spot. He always asked me for money, at least I think it was only money, and I carried on with one of my three routines depending on my mood. Sympathetic; put on sad smile, put hands in pockets, proceed to shrug shoulders, walk away. Indignant; quick glance, obtain eye contact, look away in disgust, walk away. Mischievous; on walking towards said beggar, slow down on approach, stop, put hand into back pocket, take out wallet, remove 20 euro note and put note into front pocket, replace wallet, walk away whistling.

Last week I saw my Gypo friend running without the aid of a crutch, needless to say the limp had disappeared, I was in awe. Maybe he had an operation or some bizarre human trait that stopped the limp when he ran. Amazing. Or so I thought, yesterday his limp and crutch returned, along with the mumbled request for my hard earned cash. (Tongue firmly in cheek with the last few words).

So now I've been tailing Gypo women, maybe they aren't prone to deceiving me like this. Their normal garb is a headscarf, six layers of clothing ending with a cardigan or a ski jacket, and a shopping trolley. And it's this shopping trolley which has me perplexed. I have no idea why they cart it around, it could be what the crutch limp combo is to the men, or for that matter what is inside it. Give me a month or so and I'll have an answer.

Diana

Barcelona is full of mad, fucked up people. Just look at Diana here. Diana is a guy who looks like Howard Stern and could be pregnant. He/she hangs around cafes by the beach, bumming cigarettes off of unsuspecting coffee drinkers.
I was fascinated by this walking case file, and I was pissed off I didn't get a photo of his/her back. It was covered in spots of blood and "DIANA HE" was written with a black marker on the inside of the white top. I could've sat and talked to he/she for hours, I wanted to follow Diana but my girlfriend wouldn't let me. Maybe she was jealous?