Light Sadle

As I walked out today I spotted this handsome beast. So I shot it. The shadow of the Street Lamp looks like a saddle does it not.

The shadow in the foreground is probably me dressed as a Klu Klux Klan photographer.


Death In The Afternoon

Everybody Dies. Some sooner than others. I went to the funeral of a friend yesterday. I will miss him. It was an incredible send off. I hope he would have been proud of us.

So here he is alive again, a few seconds in the life of a life well lived.

Celia turned 15 today

Celia was not singing in front of anybody, including her family this time last year. Now she is unstoppable. This rather poorly caught footage by me is her this week singing to the entire town for Semana Santa. A touching 2 mins, she cried at the end, she wasn't alone.


Sleeping Policeman?

On the way home I mistook these car seats for cops on a surveillance mission, then deduced that they had probably sneaked off down to the pub instead. Waiting for crime to happen is a bit of a bore around here.


A Minor Alteration (Brutal Tailoring in Andaluz)

It doesn't happen too often thankfully, given my propensity for frequenting bars of notoriety, that I get into an unresolvable disagreement with a fellow fool. Thus it was last Saturday that a gentlemanly disagreement compelled me to turn a chair over a chap of minimimilist logic. He left quickly.

I felt badly afterwards but felt much worse when a fellow patron of the bar pointed out the poorly executed alteration the fleeing fuck-wit had made to my jacket. I was however relieved that I managed retain some dignity; my silk pocket square stayed in place during the entire cuffufle.

I usually remove my hat before embarkation, as this usually signals to any fellow wrangler of my unhappy intentions, i.e. To instill a firm understanding of “The Gooobye Look.” He shall be hearing from my Tailor!


Mine’s a double

Mark Twain is often quoted lazily; “Truth is Stranger than Fiction”, well is it? A truth is after all another form of fiction, time tends to reveal and render known truths as poppycock: The world was flat, and that was a true.

Why am I talking this jibber jabber? Well this weekend I went to an Andalusian Carnaval. I had imbibed enough booze to ensure my total enjoyment of the endless incomprehensible monotonous songs. After twenty minutes I started to eye the exit, then something quite startling happened. On the large raised stage appeared a man dressed exacly like me, then on walked another, and another, and another. These bearded replicants then summoned from the wings a series of men dressed as my wife. They then burst into a song mixing truths with absurd fiction into a surrealist tapestry based on the scant knowledge they have garnered about our lives, like the Daily Mail does.

The audience of around two hundred people laughed all the way through, which might have been humiliating had I understood more than two of the words … our names. The lyrics to Carnival songs are sung at breakneck speed and are dense in layers of comedic reference to past Carnival songs and the “Goings On” in the town. I have the libretto, and am now studying it with a strong sense of trepidation.

None of these people are actually me or Catherine.

To be parodied by so many tremendously well oiled lunatics was a huge honour, I thought I was the only parody of myself. They were far better at me than me. As the Carnival stretched on over three days I decided to join them, the audience seldom noticed which one of us was truely me and which one was fiction, and by Sunday evening I was also having serious doubts.


I am the one on the right, I think.


Hole with a view

A small hole in my bricked-up bathroom window is far more compelling than a vast panacopian landscape window when seated on the throne. Looking out like this I wander to myself, is looking out like this still in the realm of the Peeping Tom? No puns please.


Citrus Mutant caught on camera

This Kettle Netted wayward fruit is not nearer the camera, it is Acually Bigger than the other Bully Boys. What is happening here? A Cuckoo Orange? The flattened fruit on the wall are the subject an advertisement photograph featuring a similarly larger orange or peach or something or other, now go and do something else more interesting. I am.


Suicide is painless

Here we can see the naturally self-impailed fruits of Andalusia. These are indeed bitter fruits, not hanging from Poplar trees but dropped for dead from the Street Orange, they are not of the sweet kind. These bastards are are used like lemons, or as a substitute for an ailing car battery. There is no intended reference to any suicides in this post relating to Members of The House Of Conmens or any dead members of the 1980's pop group INXS. Perhaps there now is.


An Unnatural Alliance

Apologies to anybody who gives a shit about what I post, but I have not had much desire to use the internet in the last few months due probably to enjoying a more visceral and less virtual life. No disrespect to WWW intended.

This rather poor photograph details a strange incident a week or so ago when I found myself accidentally managing a Tribute to Manchester United Football Team in Spain, makes a welcome change from another Fink Ployd, Ned Zeplin or Arcade Monkeys.

I am sporting what I consider to be respectable atirment for the position. I can be seen swigging from a bottle of budget flavoured rum I retrived from the icup they are holding. My training of the team and tactical methods were brutal and basically involved group Cruz Campo Lager drinking before and during the match, but forboten alcohol post match. Thus the team Imbibed like Trojans, and of course we won. I loath football but always enjoy a good win.