100 Things I Love (Part 6)

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26. I love not having or owning children.

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It was a choice I made early. The world doesn’t need another Half Of ME. 

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Oddly, people always asume it was a choice and not the consequence of something else. 

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Do what?


I have never been asked about my fertility. I’ll never know the answer.

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So, I’m only responsible for myself and everything I say and do to the entire world.


27. I love shopping alphabetically. Food shopping can get dull.

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So this week I am only buying things that start with the letter A.

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You can lose weight on some letters. 


I also do it by packaging. Next week only tins, mnnn. 

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Tins! Yes!


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Oh Jesus


28. I love having my head scratched. 

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Fingernails comb my brain stems into flowing streams of enlightened consciousness. 

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I think pets are onto something.


 
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Don’t


29. I love Custard. Not to eat, you crazy fools. I like playing with it. You get a bowl of the powder then add small amounts of water until is a very thick mud. Then you scoop some out and squeeze it. It magically turns into a solid. Then as you let it go it returns to a liquid, you can have hours of stoner fun.

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Try it in wanky restaurants. 


30. I love looking for things to put in the Trash on my computer.

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After a good forage I hit the empty Trash button and I feel as if I have lifted a small burden from the world’s digital shoulders.

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Despite billions of dollars being spent to create English language versions of computer operating shitstems we still have American Trash instead of English Rubbish. 

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Shovel this down your gullet you plonker

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All the World’s a Stage …


  1. … And all the men and women merely players;

    They have their exits and their entrances …

… and many of them are destined to watch on from the Restricted View seats, or are paid poorly as butt doubles for Noel Edmonds and the like, Thanks Shakey.

Carnival or “Carnaval” is happening in Cadiz as I write this. Why the F#%% am I telling you this? Well, last year my wife and I were parodied for 20 mins by a mind bending performance of men dressed as us, flesh curdling stuff. To add an element of LSD 'ism I joined them when they played all the bars in town over the weekend. I thought I was one of them.

Here is a minute of the opening few verses with subtitles, thanks for video and translation by Clare Lloyd.

Here's a selection of disturbing images. I was confused, even days later. Reality is stronger than any drug.

I am the one with the bottle, or am I?

 

 

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.
 

 

Dali Straits?

Did Salvador Dali fly over The Gibraltar Strait in a dream balloon to conceive his painting of The Persistence of Memory? Observe my fellow observers the similarity of the melting Dali self portrait on the sand and then cast your observations to the arial view of The Rock that is Gibralter. Day by day I have come to consider Dali less a Surrealist and more a Realist.

Did Dali simply copy future postcards?

You decide

 

How To Avoid Being Hacked

2 pints of lager and an axe please Mr Bartender

These fine gentlemen seemed to be enjoying an afternoon's work free imbibementainment without recourse to wanton violence. So I had a brief manly chat with them about their very pointy axe and made a furtive exit to the nearest other bar.

 

Hair By Fellini Anyone?

Again in Jerez De La Frontera. This word denotes Hairdresser/Cutter/Etc. A splendid bit of Font-Work'age. Fellini immediately sprang to my Tio Pepe soaked mind and my imagination was seized by what follicular creations might be gestating in this Hair Prison.

It may not be right up the same Font Strasse after all, but it did never the less evoke this image in my bloodshot mind's eye.