Cacique Noches

A Story. This is just a story.

2008-11-07T08:43:00.000-08:00

A plump, ripe, breast.
Just take a moment, only a moment, to appreciate such a wondrous sight.
And before I go any further, I'd like to point out that I'm not thinking of one that appears marinated in a white wine sauce with a compliment of sauteed potatoes.
No. Nothing like that.
Right now I'm looking at a left breast, hidden behind a black singlet.
That same singlet is held together by thread.
My mind takes me on a journey where I am physically able to unravel each and every stitch, and suddenly the singlet falls to one side, and out pops this beautiful, bare, boob.
The left one.
What happens next is anyones guess.
Maybe I help her to put it back in, maybe I chance a quick squeeze, maybe, maybe,but wait. What's this?
SLAP!
It hits me like a flick on the balls.

Fifteen. She's only fifteen.

But she looks eighteen. Those three years make a hell of a difference, legality, personality, musical tastes........................
Musical tastes.
Mind wandering time again.
Fuck, what would she listen to?
Shite, probably. Spanish shite at that. Two years here and nothing decent to listen to.
Maybe I'm not listening to the right radio station.
Maybe I'm not looking in the right places.
Maybe.....
Fifteen.
Christ.
Born in nineteen ninety three.
Fuck, I feel old.

"Excuse me, but you help me with this??"
It takes me a moment to realise that this is a question, and that it requires me to offer a response.
I continue to stare.
"Sir, I want help with this."
"Yes. Sorry, sorry, what's......what's up....?
Time to get into the role.
And it is a role.
A role in which I didn't prepare for, in fact it's almost like opening night, and everyone else has their lines, but I was told to stand there and wing it. Improvise.
Improvise.
Fuck.
I've been doing that for three months now.

I stand up. The initial thought is one of dread.
What's she going to ask? Do I know the answer?
What am I doing here?
Whose idea was it to be an English teacher anyway?

Exhibition in Edinburgh

2008-09-02T13:25:00.000-07:00

Below are some of the images that will be on display in the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh from the 27th of October 2008. The exhibition runs for six weeks so feel free to pop in and purchase a limited edition print!
God loves a trier.

La Isla de Santa Clara

2008-09-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

Storm Vientos

2008-09-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

The Fall of San Sebastian

2008-09-02T13:17:00.001-07:00

When all is said and done...

2008-02-29T15:26:00.000-08:00

Top 5 Break up Songs.
(Nick Horby does not own the rights to this, it's been happening for years, even before Top of the Pops.)
1.Roddy Frame - Over You
2.The Beatles - For No One
3.Paul Simon - 50 Ways to leave your Lover
4.Foo Fighters - Walking After You
5.John Lennon - Jealous Guy

There now follows a short compendium of snippets from the above songs....

Make a new plan Stan/you wait up, she goes out/if you walk out on me/I didn't mean to hurt you/heard you were out in SW3/there must be 50 ways to leave your lover/I was trying to catch your eye/tonight I'm tangled in my blanket of clouds/there must be times when all the things she said filled your head/you said I'd get over you.

As you may have guessed I'm now single, fucked off, hurt and crying for redemption.
So I have come up with (trumpet crescendo) my eleven, yes eleven (it's louder than ten).............................................
STEPS OF RECOVERY (underlined)

1. Denial - to pretend that fuck all is wrong, the relationship is in tatters, but to you everything is hunkydory.
2. Ignorance - you pause, and stop pretending, denial turns into full blown ignorance, hunkydory becomes a close friend.
3. Moment of Clarity - you understand the problems and symptoms - WARNING - this only lasts up to a maximum of one month.
4. Acceptance Part 1 - begins with the realisation of the break up. This is also known as ' the amicable acceptance'.
5. Self Pity - everything you see and hear relates to you. Beware of overly sentimental films, music or books.
6. Anger/Refusal - a very dangerous position to find oneself in. Cue the regurgitation of past faults and fuck ups.
7. Acceptance Part 2 - you now find yourself realising that there is no way back (to her).
8. HATE - the most potent of all. Anything to do with the EX is now spouted from your inner hatred gene. This can last for years, depending upon how you have dealt with the last 7 stages.
9. Drought - depends on your ability with the opposite sex. A drought can last for hours or years.
10. The Move On - you start to notice more fish in the perverbial sea and life doesn't seem all that fucking bad, smiles appear on the faces of what would have been total cunts, lamposts shine, oranges land in front of you, complete strangers ask what time it is, and Liverpool win the Premiership. Films, music and books take on a different meaning and you are able to participate in 'the move on'..
11. Greener Pastures - new girl, new life, new outlook upon it. Until that is, you find yourself coming face to face with stage 1, then repeat.

You poor fuck.

Playing pool with yer burd.

2007-12-01T16:31:00.000-08:00

I have a piece of advice for young lovers, especially the ones that are experiencing the first date syndrome. Lads, do not take them to the pool hall. Lassies, do not go to the pool hall with them.

I had the privilege last night of watching two car crash dates, both involving the pool hall.
I was pishing myself watching couple number one, it went like this...... the lad sets the balls up, they toss a coin, the lad wins. He chalks his cue, takes position to break. Bang! Two balls go down, he smiles, re-chalks. Thump, thump, bang, bang, take that ya fucker. Doesn't even look at her, his eyes are squarely on the game, he wants to beat this bitch, and he will. Fucking right. Look at that double he just pulled off. There is fire dancing in his eyes, thwammo(long pot), oh perfect, she's struggling to comprehend the situation she is now in, in fact the poor cow hasn't even had a chance at getting near the table. He winks at her, she sort of grins, maybe wondering what the fuck is going on. His positioning is perfect, has been for the whole game, nothing can stop him. Now he's on the black, takes a deep breath. Twaaang! Oh, you fucked that shot pal. I smile. He is well pissed off, mutters something in Spanish and waves her on with a nonchalant gesture. This poor, little lass meekly comes to the table. It's obvious she hasn't a clue, it's in her eyes, they're crying out for help, maybe for a wee bit of guidance. I want to shout 'at least show her how to hold the fucking cue you nonce!', but he's bigger than me and looks like he could do some serious damage.
She does one of those girl type attempts, you know the one, like when girls try to catch a ball or throw something that isn't a shoe at your head. The attempt is piss poor. My autistic dead cat could've done better. That's unfair, my autistic dead cat was quite a shark with autistic dead dogs, but that's another story.
He pats her on the shoulder, chalks his cue, and thamm, the black goes down.
I was half expecting him to run around the table with his top over his head, or that he would run up to her and spit in her face and call her a cunt.
But that didn't happen.
Something much more surprising did.
He pointed his thumb at the bar, and off she went to get the round in.
I have a feeling this relationship will blossom.
Another table.
I watch this couple for two minutes, two minutes was all I needed, before I felt sick.
The balls are set, he breaks. Not a bad break.
She pots a ball, he is all smiles, condescending like. She screws the next shot.
He comes to the table, there are three easy balls, and he deliberately fucks up.
Deliberately. What a fanny.
She knows this, and this happens for the next two shots.
Please mate, stop this pretence, no matter how much you want a blow job, this is not the way to go about it.
You are looking weak and above all else, shit at pool.
Then it got me thinking, why take your girlfriend to this place, unless she can play the fucking game? What do you gain from looking like a soft sack of shit? Or a hard nut?
Don't take your girl to pool halls, unless they can play the game.
There is a reason why there is mens' tennis and womens' tennis and a separate tour for men and women when it comes to golf, and any other sport that you care to mention. Men are better at it.
Apart from curling, but that is just sweeping floors, so I can understand why women tend to be a bit better than blokes at sweeping an ice floor.
I'm not sexist, bbbuuuuuttttttt it's pretty fucking obvious, there is a difference when it comes to sport.
Professionals don't mix, so why do we bother?
To have fun? There are hundreds of other ways to have fun, but please not with with sport. It only serves two types; the arse and the ponce.

Time to go, my wench is calling.
I have a feeling I'm in trouble.

Driving. Part one.

2007-11-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

What happens to normal, sensible, law-abiding people when they get behind the wheel of a car?
They turn into arseholes. Dangerous arseholes.

A car is in front of you? Fuck 'em, get past them, how dare they be in front of you, and as you pass them, stare at them, stare at them long and hard, so long and hard in fact that you forget to look ahead of you, where your eyes are meant to be you cock! Ohhh that was close, you nearly drove into a pregnant mother with a baby in a pram. How does this ruler of the road deal with a near death?
Honks his horn!!
Brilliant, you should win the championship with that move you fucking idiot, how brave, how cool.

What do you do if you're on a one way street, and need to buy some bread, or fancy a cup of coffee and a fag?
Just stop. That's right, just stop. Get out of your car and go off and do whatever the fuck you have to do, as long as you leave your hazard lights on you'll be sweet.
Or if your on a normal street and need to park and there's no spaces? You've guessed haven't you?
Just stop.
Double park, get out of your car and go shopping for half an hour you selfish bastard. Don't think about the poor cunt that is stuck, waiting on you to come back from your little jaunt, behind his wheel, honking his horn, pissing off everybody who lives within hearing-a-honk distance.
And when you do come back after half an hour and see how irate and fucked off the poor prick who has been playing symphonies with his car horn is..........
Well, just shrug. Shrug and maybe give a little inane grin, that will help. In fact that makes everything rosy, that takes away the feeling of pure hate that has been boiling inside for half an hour, it also gives me back the half an hour I've wasted and lost, never to see returned again.
Many things can be done in half an hour, like invading a small country, having an orgasm 30 times, listening to one song from a live Led Zeppelin album, and saying 'thanks very much you bug-eyed bitch' 450 times.
You're an arse, a rat of a person, a self centered stain on society but don't worry, you are not alone.
There are legions of you.
All fighting for the one cause. The main aim.
Yourself.
To be continued.........

It all kicked off........

2007-10-17T16:10:00.000-07:00

As you can see from the photos below, San Sebastian is a world of contrasts. A month ago we had the film festival, complete with Richard Gere, Samuel L Jackson and a wee stunner called Demi Moore. A month before that there was the jazz festival, which included a stunning array of jazz greats(?).
I'm not going to get into the jazz greats that washed up upon these shores, or just ended up washed up.
(Going to leave that sentence alone, bit of a mess up there).
Anyway, there is a wee problem that continues to return to these parts.
On the one hand, there is the image that the tourist board want you to see, beautiful city, great food, cultural, all pretty obvious.
Then there is this pish. But this pish is in the blood. In the psyche.
And you know what?
It's only down to 5% of the Basque psyche.
80% couldn't give a shit, 15% support a separation from Spain but are willing to work it out through dialogue and the rest resort to being a bunch of fucks.
What do you want?
One month it's alright to be international. Part of the union. Hanging out with the gang. Waving the flags. Then you let this 5% turn you into being a cliquish bunch of (I'm struggling for the word, but all I can think of is twats).
5%. A minority.
Why do these petty bourgeoisie fancy dans get away with it? Lads that have got too much time on their hands, so called socialists, communists, and anarchists?
Because the minority tend to make the only noise, it might not be the right noise, but it's the only noise. You know what I mean?
It's the same assortment of eejits that phone in and complain about the fact that someone said " fuck" on the radio, or the time when Janet Jackson showed a perfectly beautiful boob on TV. The majority couldn't give a shit, they enjoy the word fuck, and they loved Janets' smooth, pert breast.
The majority are normal, hard-working folk. Folk, with too much day-to-day crap to deal with. Crap called life.
The minority should get another hobby......................
I'm going to leave this hanging, I would like a response or an alternative viewpoint, but I have a feeling that I aint going to get either.

Whey hey

2007-10-17T15:28:00.000-07:00

It's got nothing to do with you........

2007-10-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry love but it's nothing to do with you. It's me. I think we have grown apart. I feel that we have nothing in common. I've ignored you. You are better off without me. It's time to move on. We should just be friends. Ha ha haaaaaaaaaa you slags. I'm back.
I have ignored you, you are better off without me, moving on is only a feeling of time, we are in love with the common people, love can never tear us apart and there is a house in New Orleans.
There you go.

Van Der Graf

2007-07-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-26T12:24:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-13T17:00:00.001-07:00

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

2007-07-13T16:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

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?

Tis been a while

2007-06-23T17:01:00.000-07:00

Hola
It has been a while, but an emergency has arisen and I only noticed that said emergency when I was dancing with my cat. Yes repeat the last line, dancing with my cat. He is a good dancer but that isn't the problem, can you guess what it is yet?
Fellow amigos, and the fact that I have very few over here. In fact I can count them on one wrist, it's a strange old world. Here I am in a cracking city with a girl that I love, I'm not working and I have time to do the things that I want, but, and here is the crunch, I need fellow amigos to do nothing with. Oh you poor bastard I hear you cry, but imagine winning the lottery and having nobody to spend the money with, allow me to transgress. Tonight myself and Silvia ( me novia ) went out with a bunch of her friends, all sweet, fine and dandy. Followed them to bars, spoke in Spanish (pidgin or otherwise ) but still able to converse, and then it hit me. I have fuck all in common with these people, even if I was fluent in Spanish, the chat is all down to memories and old times, which is exactly what these people were on about, and no matter what I knew or what I didn't, it would've made no difference. All I wanted was someone to go ¨remember that time you spewed ( that is the corrrect spelling, I just looked it up ) all over such and such a bar¨. That makes a difference, it's a point of reference, we can all say¨fuck yeah that was blah blah¨. Well tonight I needed a Big John or a Cormac or a Rick or a Jamie just to butt in and help the conversation flow.
So it hit me, no matter how many times I get pissed with Silvias friends, it just aint going to be the same, until I get my own group of pals. How fucking hard is that?
Piece of pish.
Is it fuck.
Even when I do speak the same language I still find it difficult, there are so many barriers to gauge with new ¨friends¨. Some fuckwit once said¨ no one can have too many¨. What a pile of steaming horseshit. That statement only meant something when you were at school and it was a popularity contest, well it aint. A friend, in my opinion, is someone you can say absolutely anything to, or absolutely nothing to, and if you have more than five then you are either exteremly lucky, or a liar.
Ah baws, maybe it's the Jim kicking in, or maybe I need to have a boogie.
The cat may report on the dance moves.

NO ANIMAL WAS HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG

Mad Dogs and Spanishmen

2007-05-12T13:11:00.000-07:00

I used to love dogs but that has all changed since moving here and there is one reason why. This reason may sound strange, as if I have only just noticed this attribute, which in a funny way I have. Dogs bark. Amazing I know.
Bear with me because I know you know they bark, and I knew it too but I never took any notice of them doing this until I came to San Sebastian.
Every morning Jose leaves his house at eight thirty to take his dog for a walk, lets call his dog Puta. Jose is in his seventies, his wife died four years ago due to complications with a car and a set of faulty traffic lights. Jose loves his dog, it was a good replacement for his wife, and he enjoys taking Puta down to the beach, throwing a stick a metre into the air and watching Puta walk and pick it up.
I have nothing wrong with this scene, it´s good for the old guy, having a companion, a bit of exercise. It´s all good.
At about nine Jose leaves the beach and with Puta they walk to a little cafe just opposite my flat. Problem is, Puta, god bless him, has to be tied up outside. Now Jose, being retired, has many hours to while away, knocking back coffees and chatting to his mates, completely ignoring the fact that his dog is making a god almighty noise in Calle Ronda. Not for five or so minutes but for an agonizing hour and a half. A constant bark followed by a yelp. Bark, yelp, bark, yelp.
This could be avoided in two ways, three in fact, but the third one is cruel and I could get into trouble.
First, I could get out of bed before Jose and Puta get to the cafe. This is not the point of this blog, if was about getting out of bed in the morning then yeah I´d get stuck into myself, but this affects more people than me alone. The second and I think a more reasonable option would be for Jose to take his dog for a walk, not take the dog for a stroll then tie the fucker outside the boozer for an hour or so and disturbing everybodys peace. It´s a fucking joke if you ask me. The dog is obviously not having a good time, so why don´t you, Jose, take the dog for a walk, dump it at the house then leave and do what the fuck you want, that way, there will be no disturbing anybody, not just the guy lying in bed halfway through a terrific dream.
Then there is the bastard next door.
I won´t go into it as much but this dog, which is neglected by its owners for the best part of the day (weekends included), loves nothing more than to whine, whine like a soft, pampered, bitch which it is.
These dogs are related because they are nothing more than expensive accessories gone wrong, a fashion statement which went out years ago. Everybody seems to have one, although I don´t think everybody has thought through what it takes to have one. Leaving them tied up or alone in the house isn´t the way.
Get a cat, they practically take care of themselves.

Eurovision song contest

2007-05-12T13:02:00.000-07:00

Pile of shite, but worth a deek due to the Russian entry, something about popping a cherry and eating pie, quality use of english.

Be careful what you wish for...

2007-04-28T04:41:00.000-07:00

San Sebastian. Friday afternoon, and yet another depressing, organized, demonstration by families of imprisoned ETA terrorists. I´m calling them terrorists and not freedom fighters because these people have killed innocent civilians and continually harass the populace of Spain with their out-dated ideal of some sort of Basque utopia, which would not survive in today's globalized world. There is nothing wrong with wanting to retain your own identity and customs, Scotland, for example, manages to do it without the need for violence. So tell me, what was the point of blowing up the car park at Madrid's Barajas airport which resulted in the murder of two Ecuadorians? Anger at immigration? The dislike of modern architecture? Fuck All. Nada. Zilch.
It was this demonstration which got me a tad annoyed and resulted in today's blog. I´m not overtly political, neither right nor left, so I can´t be labeled as biased, I´m just commenting on what I see, and what I saw on Friday was complete fucking hypocrisy. Do these people, with their banners and photos of their loved ones, who may be in prison but are still alive, stop and think of the two Ecuadorian lads? Where was their fucking parade? The demonstrators may have a gripe with the Spanish authorities, their sons and daughters being locked up in prisons outwith the Basque country, but that's a consequence of their actions and I reckon being stuck in a prison somewhere in the south of Spain without being able to see your relatives as often as you´d like is a bit better than getting blown apart for no reason.
Maybe it is time to end the charade.
The IRA used the same methods to gain similar goals, a united Ireland and an end to British rule, and look how that turned out, a ceasefire, proof of weapons decommissioning, and a slow drawn out effort to sit down and talk. If the deeply divided politicians of Northern Ireland have decided, albeit cautiously, to end the cycle of hate and distrust then surely anyone can. The remains of the IRA are basically gangsters, and this is the only outcome for ETA, in fact it´s how they act now, with an organisation populated with bigots and frightened little men scared of losing the power they gained with a bomb.
I could go on, but I´m getting well pissed off and I don´t normally get so heated about a subject but watching that demonstration, with it´s haunting music and solemn faces, got me riled.
Here´s a thought, let´s say ETA and their constantly increasing demands were granted. They settled with getting Navarra, and a small south western chunk of France, and became solely independent. They´d be fucked. Their citizens travel would be severely disrupted, without being a part of the Spanish constitution they effectively would be out of Europe which would mean no EU passport, and independence does not guarantee automatic entry back into the EU, which let´s face it a country that small would desperately need. Be careful what you wish for..... or maybe they want to put the region back 40 years because the idea certainly belongs in the past.

Help! I need a smoking ban

2007-04-17T02:59:00.000-07:00

One thing Spain has helped me to do, apart from drinking less and eating better food, is to start smoking in earnest again. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, my blazing comforter is there hanging between my lips. It´s not my fault, I know I´m weak but if I don´t see or smell it I don´t want it, and after a couple of cervezas the most natural companion is the camel, well camel lights. It doesn´t help either when the bartender has one sparked up and is serving you between draws, nor for that matter everyone else in the place, and the Spanish senoritas make smoking look dammed inviting. Older blokes still puffing away good style and looking all the more healthy for it, the older dears in their fur coats exhaling in style. I need a smoking ban, it worked for me in Edinburgh, I only really smoked at weekends, and having to get up and go outside for a fag cut down on the intake, but sitting in a poky wee bar here in San Sebastian, where all around you beautiful people puff away, the barman, handing you a beer, smiles as smoke escapes from his mouth, does not help me. It entices you, whispers in your ear, tickles the top of your mouth and before you know it there he is wafting poisonous fumes. He´s a bastard, he´s sick, twisted and he´s got me by the balls. I think I need to relax, I think I need a smoke.