On The Lamb

 

For those of you that don’t know, or care, or likely both: On the lam means “running away”

Don’t ask why, as nobody knows

 

On my way home from a late session at a bar I saw in the distance what looked like … what I thought to be an indescribable thing. Was it a dead dog? A drunken reveller in fancy dress? As I teetered nervously towards the thing it became abundantly clear. 

Wolf?

A pair of exceptionally stoned teenage boys I had passed earlier shuffled down towards the scene. As they approached I gestured up at the dark sky indicating the possible journey this object may have taken to arrive here. We looked at the stars for a fleeting moment … then instead of getting out their phones to film it, they began stroking it affectionately.

 

It was far too heavy for us to lift so we all went our separate ways, not the Sheep though. 

 Baaaahhhh Humbug

 The next day at the Nativity it was back in place. It looked like it had a bit of a night of it but was at least at work on time. All’s well that ends …

 

 But then on Monday I noticed the absence again

 

 

Then by Tuesday matters had taken a turn for the worse

 

Fear and loathing in a Manger 

 Then on Wednesday I saw this article

 

The above idea seems more like an anti-vax campaign, the implication being: Only Sheep Follow Rules. I do hope the poor thing makes it back eventually or I’ll have nothing more to say on the matter

Spring Sprung Sprong

 

The balcony has just exploded … with flowers. Tonight the sweet, enchanting, sensual fragrance of Nicotiana wafts lightly on the gentle warm breeze, bewitching the interiors of this Dream Palace, and all that. It is bloody marvelous. I’ve ordered more seeds, nurturing hope, for us all. 

 

Third Week From The Sun

 

3rd Week of lockdown ginger. It has rained for most of it, so it would have been pretty quiet out there anyway.

 

Here I am on the roof in the rain waving at the other end … and of this, some sunny day.

 

A sobering thought

 

 

Photographs by Matteo Delred

https://matteodelred.com

 

I’ve been an alcoholic for 37 years and I am pleased to announce that as of today I haven’t touched a drop for nearly 20 minutes. 

 
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Flamenco

Apologies to you my dear reader for the hiatus. I accidentally became the producer of a Flamenco album in Jerez De La Frontera. I am currently mixing it for release on 12th August. Gypsies you say? It has been a bit mental. Here are some photos. Starting of course with me.

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Oi! Pirate! Didn’t You Kill My Dinner?

At the Ferria, the week before last, there was a bullfight. This week dead bull was on sale in the food market. So I bought some and made Toro à la Bourguignonne

The pirate who killed my dinner was this man who reminds me of Shane MacGowan.

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José Padilla 

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Shane MacGowan 1980’s

 
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 Shane more recently

Pirate of the bullring: Juan José Padilla Juan José Padilla, 43, was born in Jerez de la Frontera in Andalucia and always aspired to be a bullfighter. He took on his first bull when he was 21 and soon earned the nickname, the Pirate.

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In October 2011 he was gored by a bull in Zaragoza and almost died from his injuries. The bulls horn went through his skull, he suffered multiple skull and jaw fractures. He ended up with loss of hearing, facial paralysis and was blind in his left eye. But he refused to retire and five months later returned to the bullring with an eyepatch. Fans coined the nickname The Pirate. In May 2012 he survived serious injury when a bull threw him into the air in Madrid.  Then in October last year he was gored again in the same eye socket by a bull in Zaragoza. 

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Then, recently his glass eye flew out when he was gored by a bull in Valencia. 

Eye Eye Capitan! 

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