Greetings my dears,
Being back in the UK, means that for the first time this year I had the seat wettingly exciting pleasure of watching the second greatest televisual events of all time over the weekend - namely the Strictly Come Dancing semi finals and the X-Factor Final (which was cynically spread over two nights, nominally to increase the tension and more realistically to push ITV's viewing figures into the stratosphere two nights on the trot).
For the uninitiated (those people who face the grim reality of having to talk to other people, outside their houses, away from the sweet nectar of the tellybox on a weekend - the fools) Strictly Come Chancing is a semi-celebrity sparkle fest where squads of whimpering nano celebs wiggle, gesticulate, thrust, twirl or have nervous breakdowns on the dancefloor.
A panel of specially selected judges then weighs up their efforts against each other to decide who the 'tallest Pygmy in the village' is that week, followed by a telephone vote by the general public who decide who stays to moonwalk another day and who has to return to a life of being berated by their evil publicist and are next seen cleaning up pigs guts on 'Celebrity Offal Sweeper' on channel Five.
The X-Factor is a similar campathon, but this time, hopeless, absent eyed members of the 'general public' are part of the action. A rigorous selection process whittles about a trillion hapless Brits, with notions that they can be successful singers but who's conceits are approximately twelve hundred miles above their ability level, into 10 slightly less abysmal finalists.
Each week the public gets to act out big game hunter fantasies and pick them off one at a time as the contestant with the least votes is booted off the show and cast immediately outside the warm confines of the X-Factor studio and back into the real world (that they probably never inhabited in the first place) to pursue their dreams of showing Simon Cowell that 'they don't care what he thinks, I'm going to be a star'. Lucky for them that McDonald's awards stars for the best cowcircle flippers so their dreams needn't die with his scathing report.
Actually, it's easy to scoff at those that dream of making the big time, but I can't help thinking that Cowell and co regard these desperate caterwaulers who sing for their love a bit like a heartless banker might inspect his fifth prostitute of the night; "Come on, put some effort into it. Can you dance too? That's it. Dance for me.... mmmm I love it when you let me tread on your dreams. Mmmm. Now get out."
Both of these Saturday night programs have enormous ratings that each channel build their schedules around like deckchairs round the dog turds on a windswept beach, and the format is pretty similar; come out, do your turn, a judge ranks you, the public votes you off, the contestant cries, they go home, they hit the kids, everyone's happy. Well, everyone apart from the kids.
What struck me with Strictly Come Dancing is how the definition of the 'winner' seems to change all the time. One might expect that the people who display the most dedication and skill and therefore, perform the best dance routine would be expected to win the most votes and sashay effortlessly forwards to dominant victory.
That doesn't happen in practice though as the public have routinely voted in droves for the pudgy chested, cheese headed, but totally likable BBC sports presenter (Chris Hollins) who once again won despite his clenched fists and furious, constipated expression resembling, not so much dancing, as him attempting to launch a metaphysical assault on rhythm itself.
The notion that his celebrity status holds some sway over the public holds little water. In 'Strictly' the celebrity status of the contestants is nominal as their ranks seem to be made up of cheery faced newsmen looking to show they have 'another side' to them other than reading an autocue, dough stomached retired sportsmen and daytime soap recognition whores. In fact the odd big star who's publicist went away on holiday long enough for the BBC to sign them up (Martina Hingis and Joe Calzaghe, I suppose), rarely do any better than the 'filler' celebs that are swept up from digital TV or Hollyoaks.
In reality, the celebrity element is there just to add a bit of flavor to the contest and to at least give the BBC some hope that when a camera and microphone are shoved in front of their astonished faces, they might have something more constructive to say than grunting 'hello mum'.
What seems to count in the contest is the hard work, dedication of the people involved and the character they display when things don't exactly work out for them on the dancefloor and they end up scuttling about on all fours like a drunk crab searching for a contact lens in a jelly mountain.
On the other side, this weekend the X-Factor was contested by Key-hole Kate wearing a lions mane, Daniel Beddingfield's cheeky alter-ego and a piece of wood with a pair of joke shop plastic red lips nailed to it. However, I can't argue that the three of them can't sing, so perhaps the actual talent of the contestants does count for something where the X-holes are concerned.
Perhaps that's the problem with X-Factor. The one thing it has revealed to people is that any idiot can hold a note. The contests pretensions of actually identifying then creating a lasting superstar out of the contestants is surely scuppered by the fact that they had to come find them at all. Sure, you can belt out a tune, but the drive and the skill (and luck) of a Prince or Madonna or Michael Jackson meant that their singing talent wasn't all they relied upon.
They all seemed nice enough, but ruthlessly, the Key-hole Kate-alike, Stacey Solomon, was kicked out despite being probably the most friendly of the three. She had a sort of demented innocence about her as she chuckled into the camera, which was a lot more charming than Joe's bland homliness and Olly's blokey loungesinger confidence. However, the public decreed she didn't cut it and left it for the two boys to armwrestle over who elicited the most prepubescant screams in the second part of the final (the final final final) the following night.
Perhaps this all means that the celebrity version got it right. On the one hand, the X-Factor reduced the notion of skill into who can make the most teenage girls run up their parents phone bill. On the other side, Strictly resulted in a likable, but less skillful person getting his just deserts by trying as hard as the people around him but maintaining a personable attitude.
If there is a moral left after the pound coins are squeezed out of all this buffoonery, perhaps it's that despite the efforts of the machine to make us hateful naysayers dividing up the population into the 'haves' and 'have nots', competitions can still be won by deciding who is the best person and it can be entertaining enough to draw millions of people to enjoy it too.
Either way, it's got to be better than watching the snooker....
Loveyouall.xx
Monday, 14 December 2009
Sunday, 13 December 2009
USA Email Series 17: Tortured metaphors, the karate kid, big bird and the hide of a bloodhound
(First sent: 15th October 2009)
Hello you beautiful people,
I realise that as I have spent the last few days wound up (and then finally released) in Vegas like a monkey kept inside on a rainy day finally released among the tyres, that I have been neglecting you my dear reader. My idiocy is matched only by my durability and here I am to once again deliver musings stateside. Yes, you lucky folk, deprived for weeks of my witty, inane and irrelevant banter, you now find yourself feasting like wolverine at the flesh of yet more of my continual wittering.
And what a few days it has been. Finally leaving San Diego was a wrench. After all, the pleasures of dining from the 'free stuff' table (i.e. picking over the remnants of passing travellers forgotten nachos, like 16 year olds minesweeping beers at a wedding), scrubbing toilets like a deranged human pipe cleaner and being responsible for hostellers drunken antics on pub crawls that would make Solomon weep, has not been easy. To my friends in San Diego I say: hello, farewell and now bugger off.
The leaving party seemed never to end and eventually no one really remembered when it began (similar to baseball, only without the DVT and lingering thoughts that suicide really is a viable option) stretching as it did over the course of two days.
Wednesday saw the spectre of the famed 'Wednesday Night Pub Crawl' reappear like Jacob Marley to taunt me and then leave me as ashen faced as Scrooge. It also seemed to destroy my goodwill to all men as I descended from yet another mechanical bull, knocked a drink out of Australian Dan's hand, and proceed to go A over T right in the middle of the pub.
You'd think that by now I'd have realised that mechanical animals are best avoided, having nearly garroted myself in Tijuana. When the robot beasts are combined with beer, they cause a violent riding up of the jean gusset to such an extent that mummy Adams may have had to content herself with a third daughter. Either that or find me literally half the man I used to be. Hitler, eat your heart out (as in '...he's only got one ball' and not meaning that the spirit of Texas is somehow siphoned into the clockwork rodeo and succeeded in turning me into a stauncher right-winger than Aaron Lennon with half an Airfix kit).
The comedy did not end there. For, as I looked about me whilst sprawled on the floor I realised that I'd come over all Karate Kid and managed to 'sweep the leg' of Aliya, the girlfriend of said Aussie. I was all of a dither at first, somehow not comprehending the world... 'Oh, I thought I fell over, what are you doing here' was my initial thought until the glass shattered on my imagined success at keeping my feet and I finally realised I'd made a bigger tit of myself than Big Bird with a bucket of blue paint on Halloween.
I was deeply concerned for the well being of my fellow staff member so cruelly transformed from 'vertical' to 'horizontal'. So concerned, that when I finally stopped laughing for long enough, I did the decent thing and ejected myself from the pub to wait outside. The confused face of the bar staff member who was sent over to kick me out for my buffoonery (is that a real word?) when he saw me causally walk past him and straight out the door will live with me forever. He was almost sad: "Damn him, I wanted to do it".
Nethertheless, we persisted on with the night out and had an intellectual evening contemplating the great philosophers: Plato, Nietzsche, Partridge. Actually, it ended exactly as you'd expect, with tequilas all round and a kebab. But it was a philosophical kebab at that accompanied by some resolute and enlightening chat on the health benefits of kebab over 7/11 chicken (which is half beast, half guts).
The following evening was my true 'last night' but was a calmer affair where we caused not affray but dismay, as we took ourselves uptown to the outer reaches of San Diego and the Hillcrest district near the University. We were very safe and visited some different places and areas to those I'd been to before but there was a lingering feeling in the group that we should have just gone to the 'Whiskey Girl', lost some brain cells, thrown shapes and mooned a taxi.
Actually, mooning can get you into some serious bother in San Diego being, as it is, a military town and the 'don't ask, don't tell' policy isn't one you want to be putting to the test after a few sherbets in the company of guys who spend a lot of time with other guys. Bumming. (joke; don't kill me Texans).
Shady faced but full of vigour, Dan and I headed to Vegas the next day. Vegas. Bloody hell. Not so much a place as a pit, contained by the wall of the surrounding desert to claim liver, dignity and dollar. As I had built up goodwill with the USA Hostel chain we had free accommodation for 3 nights in their Vegas hostel, located off the strip. How then can it be that somehow I felt screwed?
Perhaps because the hostel is located in an area that wouldn't be good enough for Britney Spears next wedding reception. What a toilet. Actually defecating in the street might have improved the place and at least given the bums something to chuckle at. But, I'm dead serious when I say that it wasn't so much dangerous as depressing. The stench of failed gambling, marriage and dream clung to the air like smoke from a fire in a tyre warehouse. Leaving Las Vegas? Too bloody right sunshine.
Still, we made the best of it and tore up the strip a couple of nights, but it's just a very odd experience. Think of Caesar's Palace: The grandeur. The pomp. The whiff of air freshener and the sting of just dim enough / just light enough tube lighting designed to give me an immediate headache. My pictures betray the reality. Here's my Vegas advice: get in, see what you need to, then scarper quick before you feel your soul wither like a grape in a sauna.
So we did, and now I find myself in El Paso. I can't do justice to it today and will save my writing 'pon it still further. But, my dearest companions, it is a right funny old spot. I'll shed light on my meaning soon enough, but until then, let my list of activities keep you warm and fuzzy at night. Here it is:
1. Headed for the drive in before leaving San Diego. A great experience, marred only by the fact that the van had to be kept ticking over to keep the radio on (you tune the radio to the film soundtrack) and there was a constant fear that we might be stuck with either no fuel or a flat battery.
2. Tried in vain to take pictures of it, but for some reason, a huge illuminated rectangle in the pitch black of the night doesn't make for the best pictures. Damn you flash photography, do my bidding.
3. Hit the beach one last time, but it's not the same when the weathers a bit rubbish
4. What supplies I couldn't finish went to Stuart the illegal immigrant Irish traveller who worked at the hostel: farewell and good luck buddy boy.
5. Took a gazillion hour trip on a greyhound bus to Vegas, the same back, then a further goodgravyisthatthetimeillion hour trip here. Bushed but I covered many, many miles.
6. Just about managed to repack my backpack to a good standard, but I swear my stuff has gotten bored and started to breed in there. Do I really need that many checked shirts?
7. Wait, I forgot I was in Texas. Of course I need that many checked shirts.
8. Discovered the hidden gems on my ipod. Thank you Squeeze. Cheers R.
9. Spent the best parts of the day in Vegas in the pool. The temperature of the water actually caused one of my balls to seek refuge in my stomach, I think.
10. Was angered by the bus driver on the way down here. After waiting for ages at one stop he finally says 'oh, yeah, this is a rest stop. You can get coffee, but we're leaving in two minutes now, so it's probably not worth it.' I wished that man more harm than was natural to wish on another human being, but it would have been amusing to see him try to get that exhaust pipe out of his rectum, before he coughed up his spleen like a warm jellyfish.
11. Received some nice compliments about these mails. Sorry to have left you alone for so long.
So that's your lot. Twice in one day? Must be the carbs I'm eating (although the other one was pretty much finished, it still counts as two). I'll be back to one mail a week if I write again tomorrow and judging by the hiking trip, followed by museums, I should have plenty to say. The kindly old gent who runs the place is a rare lad, and I've accepted his invite to a local pub tomorrow, before home for tea and scones (I swear, the guy's either 60 or has fashioned himself a new skin from the hide of a bloodhound).
See you very soon folks.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...Well, at least I was having fun...
Hello you beautiful people,
I realise that as I have spent the last few days wound up (and then finally released) in Vegas like a monkey kept inside on a rainy day finally released among the tyres, that I have been neglecting you my dear reader. My idiocy is matched only by my durability and here I am to once again deliver musings stateside. Yes, you lucky folk, deprived for weeks of my witty, inane and irrelevant banter, you now find yourself feasting like wolverine at the flesh of yet more of my continual wittering.
And what a few days it has been. Finally leaving San Diego was a wrench. After all, the pleasures of dining from the 'free stuff' table (i.e. picking over the remnants of passing travellers forgotten nachos, like 16 year olds minesweeping beers at a wedding), scrubbing toilets like a deranged human pipe cleaner and being responsible for hostellers drunken antics on pub crawls that would make Solomon weep, has not been easy. To my friends in San Diego I say: hello, farewell and now bugger off.
The leaving party seemed never to end and eventually no one really remembered when it began (similar to baseball, only without the DVT and lingering thoughts that suicide really is a viable option) stretching as it did over the course of two days.
Wednesday saw the spectre of the famed 'Wednesday Night Pub Crawl' reappear like Jacob Marley to taunt me and then leave me as ashen faced as Scrooge. It also seemed to destroy my goodwill to all men as I descended from yet another mechanical bull, knocked a drink out of Australian Dan's hand, and proceed to go A over T right in the middle of the pub.
You'd think that by now I'd have realised that mechanical animals are best avoided, having nearly garroted myself in Tijuana. When the robot beasts are combined with beer, they cause a violent riding up of the jean gusset to such an extent that mummy Adams may have had to content herself with a third daughter. Either that or find me literally half the man I used to be. Hitler, eat your heart out (as in '...he's only got one ball' and not meaning that the spirit of Texas is somehow siphoned into the clockwork rodeo and succeeded in turning me into a stauncher right-winger than Aaron Lennon with half an Airfix kit).
The comedy did not end there. For, as I looked about me whilst sprawled on the floor I realised that I'd come over all Karate Kid and managed to 'sweep the leg' of Aliya, the girlfriend of said Aussie. I was all of a dither at first, somehow not comprehending the world... 'Oh, I thought I fell over, what are you doing here' was my initial thought until the glass shattered on my imagined success at keeping my feet and I finally realised I'd made a bigger tit of myself than Big Bird with a bucket of blue paint on Halloween.
I was deeply concerned for the well being of my fellow staff member so cruelly transformed from 'vertical' to 'horizontal'. So concerned, that when I finally stopped laughing for long enough, I did the decent thing and ejected myself from the pub to wait outside. The confused face of the bar staff member who was sent over to kick me out for my buffoonery (is that a real word?) when he saw me causally walk past him and straight out the door will live with me forever. He was almost sad: "Damn him, I wanted to do it".
Nethertheless, we persisted on with the night out and had an intellectual evening contemplating the great philosophers: Plato, Nietzsche, Partridge. Actually, it ended exactly as you'd expect, with tequilas all round and a kebab. But it was a philosophical kebab at that accompanied by some resolute and enlightening chat on the health benefits of kebab over 7/11 chicken (which is half beast, half guts).
The following evening was my true 'last night' but was a calmer affair where we caused not affray but dismay, as we took ourselves uptown to the outer reaches of San Diego and the Hillcrest district near the University. We were very safe and visited some different places and areas to those I'd been to before but there was a lingering feeling in the group that we should have just gone to the 'Whiskey Girl', lost some brain cells, thrown shapes and mooned a taxi.
Actually, mooning can get you into some serious bother in San Diego being, as it is, a military town and the 'don't ask, don't tell' policy isn't one you want to be putting to the test after a few sherbets in the company of guys who spend a lot of time with other guys. Bumming. (joke; don't kill me Texans).
Shady faced but full of vigour, Dan and I headed to Vegas the next day. Vegas. Bloody hell. Not so much a place as a pit, contained by the wall of the surrounding desert to claim liver, dignity and dollar. As I had built up goodwill with the USA Hostel chain we had free accommodation for 3 nights in their Vegas hostel, located off the strip. How then can it be that somehow I felt screwed?
Perhaps because the hostel is located in an area that wouldn't be good enough for Britney Spears next wedding reception. What a toilet. Actually defecating in the street might have improved the place and at least given the bums something to chuckle at. But, I'm dead serious when I say that it wasn't so much dangerous as depressing. The stench of failed gambling, marriage and dream clung to the air like smoke from a fire in a tyre warehouse. Leaving Las Vegas? Too bloody right sunshine.
Still, we made the best of it and tore up the strip a couple of nights, but it's just a very odd experience. Think of Caesar's Palace: The grandeur. The pomp. The whiff of air freshener and the sting of just dim enough / just light enough tube lighting designed to give me an immediate headache. My pictures betray the reality. Here's my Vegas advice: get in, see what you need to, then scarper quick before you feel your soul wither like a grape in a sauna.
So we did, and now I find myself in El Paso. I can't do justice to it today and will save my writing 'pon it still further. But, my dearest companions, it is a right funny old spot. I'll shed light on my meaning soon enough, but until then, let my list of activities keep you warm and fuzzy at night. Here it is:
1. Headed for the drive in before leaving San Diego. A great experience, marred only by the fact that the van had to be kept ticking over to keep the radio on (you tune the radio to the film soundtrack) and there was a constant fear that we might be stuck with either no fuel or a flat battery.
2. Tried in vain to take pictures of it, but for some reason, a huge illuminated rectangle in the pitch black of the night doesn't make for the best pictures. Damn you flash photography, do my bidding.
3. Hit the beach one last time, but it's not the same when the weathers a bit rubbish
4. What supplies I couldn't finish went to Stuart the illegal immigrant Irish traveller who worked at the hostel: farewell and good luck buddy boy.
5. Took a gazillion hour trip on a greyhound bus to Vegas, the same back, then a further goodgravyisthatthetimeillion hour trip here. Bushed but I covered many, many miles.
6. Just about managed to repack my backpack to a good standard, but I swear my stuff has gotten bored and started to breed in there. Do I really need that many checked shirts?
7. Wait, I forgot I was in Texas. Of course I need that many checked shirts.
8. Discovered the hidden gems on my ipod. Thank you Squeeze. Cheers R.
9. Spent the best parts of the day in Vegas in the pool. The temperature of the water actually caused one of my balls to seek refuge in my stomach, I think.
10. Was angered by the bus driver on the way down here. After waiting for ages at one stop he finally says 'oh, yeah, this is a rest stop. You can get coffee, but we're leaving in two minutes now, so it's probably not worth it.' I wished that man more harm than was natural to wish on another human being, but it would have been amusing to see him try to get that exhaust pipe out of his rectum, before he coughed up his spleen like a warm jellyfish.
11. Received some nice compliments about these mails. Sorry to have left you alone for so long.
So that's your lot. Twice in one day? Must be the carbs I'm eating (although the other one was pretty much finished, it still counts as two). I'll be back to one mail a week if I write again tomorrow and judging by the hiking trip, followed by museums, I should have plenty to say. The kindly old gent who runs the place is a rare lad, and I've accepted his invite to a local pub tomorrow, before home for tea and scones (I swear, the guy's either 60 or has fashioned himself a new skin from the hide of a bloodhound).
See you very soon folks.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...Well, at least I was having fun...
USA Email Series 16: To covet, wrath, oxen and ass
(First sent: 14th October 2009)
Hi there sports fans,
Having been smugger than a Republican chairing a Fox news debate, regarding the continuing good weather, I am eating some serious humble pie this week. The day after I finished mocking you; isolated, freezing and bored on your little island like lepers at a barn dance hosted by Lionel Blair, the weather here turned greyer than John Major's favourite suit (oooh a nineties political reference - edgy). Revenge is yours, but I still wager that most of you would sell a kidney to be in Calitothefornia so I shall remain smug. So long as smug is wearing some big ass socks and a hoodie this season.
Luckily, prior to the downturn in warmth, I attended a the biggest event of my life. How big? BIG. BIGGGG. GODDAMNMASSIVE. FREAKINGBIGGERTHANYOURTINYMINDCANCOMPREHENDYOUGODDAMNAHOLE. Yeah, it was Sunday night Football!!! FOOTBALL. DO YOU WANT SOME? DO YOU WANT FOOTBALL? No? Oh, sorry.
Seriously (kinda), these guys take it very seriously. Serious. And BIG. Rocking up to the stadium, with my packed lunch and camera, I began to feel somewhat out of place when I realised that nobody else had brought their sun cream. Or a packed lunch. They'd regret it later when I was dishing out the cheese and pickle, make no mistake.
Actually, for some reason, they all seemed pretty contented with their beers. My word, what a plethora of beers there were. There was Bud, Bud Light and... er... well, you get the idea. Actually, one of the American traditions at the game is to arrive early and 'tailgate'. No, that is not some Trans-Atlantic re branding of 'dogging', but the practice of large hipped Americans unhinging the back of their Ford Comegetyousome and using the 'tailgate' as a bar. Do you see? That's why it's called tailgating. Clever stuff eh?
They whack open the back, boil up the barbie, stick half an ox on it and have a blast. And my, did I ever covet thy neighbours ox. The steaks were so big, juicy and tender looking that I nearly hacked off a piece of my own arm with my Swiss Army just so I could join in the cook out. Actually, I think Jamie Oliver did that... oh, no wait. It was part of his face, which is why he's so pretty.
After observing the beery joys of sitting on a deckchair in a large car park and getting drunk in 100 degree weather, the fun moved inside the stadium. The thing that struck me was the safety aspects. Now, football back home (or Soccerball as they know it over here) can be brutal - arriving among hordes of chavs, shepherded into the ground by furious looking policemen who have seen it all before and didn't particularly care for it the first time, then moved into your rain sodden seats by a steward with fists bigger than an asses head, it can be a slightly less than welcoming experience. Thank god football is bloody good.
But the American version is more jazzy by some distance. It's like 'Sport: The musical' has been unleashed. The weather is great, the mustard flows and home and away fans are all in together. What's the point in separating them? They've only had 5 million beers outside, and the PA is trying to whip everyone up into a testosterone filled frenzy: what can go wrong?
Well, actually not much at all. Sure, one bloke was a bit over enthusiastic with his name calling to the Dolphin's fans, and those fans took it upon themselves to launch one of their empty (plastic) beer bottles at him. Sure, the guy reacted by having quiet conversations with his mate then looking up at his nemesis, shouting "That's it, I'm gonna smoke you. That's it" whilst making his hand into the shape of a gun and letting off some imaginary rounds at his foe. It's just boys being boys.
As it happened, nothing happened, because they were both a bit tired and a bit drunk and a bit poorly, and when it was clear that the game was won by San Diego, they all just left early. Still, with 70,000 people pouring onto the streets I expected more of a police presence, but there was literally about 7 of them, stood around looking bored. Perhaps I'm just cynical but the phrase 'are you kidding' springs to mind. I guess that without the history of violence that soccerball has had in England, the Americans can enjoy their sports in the right way: with a huge frigging steak out the back of a 4x4.
Well, other than my sporting adventures (Go Chargers, go) and my hardy and delighted inspection of the half time cheerleaders, life has been drifting along pretty nicely thankyouverymuchindeedy. Apart from the usual toilet cleaning and shower scrubbing I've been doing all manner of things to keep me busy. He's some of the fun facts:
1. Was responsible for turning the head housekeepers toe black after a game of footy in the park. These Japanese can't take the heat (or perhaps I'm just rubbish at tackling, got a bit angry then kicked out - you choose)
2. Took the trolley to yet more beaches. I never get tired of those bad boys.
3. Had quite some trouble sleeping. Being in the very top bunk makes it bloody hot.
4. The air con doesn't help either
5. Or the noise from the restaurant below.
6. Damn them
7. Spent a day taking apart many, many, bunks as the rooms were being turned into private ones (as the season dies down, this is standard to try to sell out the Hostel quicker). It was a thankless task that took all bloody day, not helped by Dan, the resident Aussie proclaiming each time I dropped a piece that I 'got it caught up in my skirt'.
8. Still, made $100. Get. In. Volved.
9. Heard from quite a number of you, which is nice. Keep the stuff a-comin
10. Decided to head to Vegas next. Not sure if this is wise on my own, but if I should die, think only of me that I did it my wayyyyyyyyy.
11. Was forced to prance up and down the newly built stairs in one of the rooms that was being renovated. Unfortunately, the handyman could scarcely have looked less impressed when I couldn't really do it and he had to start again. Make the steps wider next time toolio.
12. Felt like a gigantic idiothole when answering the door and almost refusing to let Maria (the owner) in. She didn't have a key, I was just being cautious.
13. Got some rad pictures of the NFL game. Funny there seems to be a lot of the cheerleaders. Can't imagine why.
14. Failed to attend the last baseball game of the season. It's not my fault the Padre's suck at what is an extremely tedious sport. I say that the ball should be bigger to assist the teams. And instead of a bat, they should kick it, just so there's more hits. Rather than trying to kick it out of the ground, which would be pretty easy, they could try to kick it into a bucket, receptacle or 'goal' and then they can have a point. Whoever has the most 'goals' after, say, about an hour and a half, wins. These small changes will enhance the experience no end.
So my time in Cali is coming to a close and I can say it's been lovely. Lovelier than a sunset over a haunted wood. Yes, it's that special. But worry ye not fair reader, for the road is calling like a demented voice in my head, that whispers 'burn it. Burn it all to the ground' and soon I shall be back on it. Indeed, plans are forming in my head as we speak and dreams of Vegas dance like buttercups in the breeze.
Until next time. Be safe. Be aware. Don't drink and drive.
Byeloveyoubye xx
Hi there sports fans,
Having been smugger than a Republican chairing a Fox news debate, regarding the continuing good weather, I am eating some serious humble pie this week. The day after I finished mocking you; isolated, freezing and bored on your little island like lepers at a barn dance hosted by Lionel Blair, the weather here turned greyer than John Major's favourite suit (oooh a nineties political reference - edgy). Revenge is yours, but I still wager that most of you would sell a kidney to be in Calitothefornia so I shall remain smug. So long as smug is wearing some big ass socks and a hoodie this season.
Luckily, prior to the downturn in warmth, I attended a the biggest event of my life. How big? BIG. BIGGGG. GODDAMNMASSIVE. FREAKINGBIGGERTHANYOURTINYMINDCANCOMPREHENDYOUGODDAMNAHOLE. Yeah, it was Sunday night Football!!! FOOTBALL. DO YOU WANT SOME? DO YOU WANT FOOTBALL? No? Oh, sorry.
Seriously (kinda), these guys take it very seriously. Serious. And BIG. Rocking up to the stadium, with my packed lunch and camera, I began to feel somewhat out of place when I realised that nobody else had brought their sun cream. Or a packed lunch. They'd regret it later when I was dishing out the cheese and pickle, make no mistake.
Actually, for some reason, they all seemed pretty contented with their beers. My word, what a plethora of beers there were. There was Bud, Bud Light and... er... well, you get the idea. Actually, one of the American traditions at the game is to arrive early and 'tailgate'. No, that is not some Trans-Atlantic re branding of 'dogging', but the practice of large hipped Americans unhinging the back of their Ford Comegetyousome and using the 'tailgate' as a bar. Do you see? That's why it's called tailgating. Clever stuff eh?
They whack open the back, boil up the barbie, stick half an ox on it and have a blast. And my, did I ever covet thy neighbours ox. The steaks were so big, juicy and tender looking that I nearly hacked off a piece of my own arm with my Swiss Army just so I could join in the cook out. Actually, I think Jamie Oliver did that... oh, no wait. It was part of his face, which is why he's so pretty.
After observing the beery joys of sitting on a deckchair in a large car park and getting drunk in 100 degree weather, the fun moved inside the stadium. The thing that struck me was the safety aspects. Now, football back home (or Soccerball as they know it over here) can be brutal - arriving among hordes of chavs, shepherded into the ground by furious looking policemen who have seen it all before and didn't particularly care for it the first time, then moved into your rain sodden seats by a steward with fists bigger than an asses head, it can be a slightly less than welcoming experience. Thank god football is bloody good.
But the American version is more jazzy by some distance. It's like 'Sport: The musical' has been unleashed. The weather is great, the mustard flows and home and away fans are all in together. What's the point in separating them? They've only had 5 million beers outside, and the PA is trying to whip everyone up into a testosterone filled frenzy: what can go wrong?
Well, actually not much at all. Sure, one bloke was a bit over enthusiastic with his name calling to the Dolphin's fans, and those fans took it upon themselves to launch one of their empty (plastic) beer bottles at him. Sure, the guy reacted by having quiet conversations with his mate then looking up at his nemesis, shouting "That's it, I'm gonna smoke you. That's it" whilst making his hand into the shape of a gun and letting off some imaginary rounds at his foe. It's just boys being boys.
As it happened, nothing happened, because they were both a bit tired and a bit drunk and a bit poorly, and when it was clear that the game was won by San Diego, they all just left early. Still, with 70,000 people pouring onto the streets I expected more of a police presence, but there was literally about 7 of them, stood around looking bored. Perhaps I'm just cynical but the phrase 'are you kidding' springs to mind. I guess that without the history of violence that soccerball has had in England, the Americans can enjoy their sports in the right way: with a huge frigging steak out the back of a 4x4.
Well, other than my sporting adventures (Go Chargers, go) and my hardy and delighted inspection of the half time cheerleaders, life has been drifting along pretty nicely thankyouverymuchindeedy. Apart from the usual toilet cleaning and shower scrubbing I've been doing all manner of things to keep me busy. He's some of the fun facts:
1. Was responsible for turning the head housekeepers toe black after a game of footy in the park. These Japanese can't take the heat (or perhaps I'm just rubbish at tackling, got a bit angry then kicked out - you choose)
2. Took the trolley to yet more beaches. I never get tired of those bad boys.
3. Had quite some trouble sleeping. Being in the very top bunk makes it bloody hot.
4. The air con doesn't help either
5. Or the noise from the restaurant below.
6. Damn them
7. Spent a day taking apart many, many, bunks as the rooms were being turned into private ones (as the season dies down, this is standard to try to sell out the Hostel quicker). It was a thankless task that took all bloody day, not helped by Dan, the resident Aussie proclaiming each time I dropped a piece that I 'got it caught up in my skirt'.
8. Still, made $100. Get. In. Volved.
9. Heard from quite a number of you, which is nice. Keep the stuff a-comin
10. Decided to head to Vegas next. Not sure if this is wise on my own, but if I should die, think only of me that I did it my wayyyyyyyyy.
11. Was forced to prance up and down the newly built stairs in one of the rooms that was being renovated. Unfortunately, the handyman could scarcely have looked less impressed when I couldn't really do it and he had to start again. Make the steps wider next time toolio.
12. Felt like a gigantic idiothole when answering the door and almost refusing to let Maria (the owner) in. She didn't have a key, I was just being cautious.
13. Got some rad pictures of the NFL game. Funny there seems to be a lot of the cheerleaders. Can't imagine why.
14. Failed to attend the last baseball game of the season. It's not my fault the Padre's suck at what is an extremely tedious sport. I say that the ball should be bigger to assist the teams. And instead of a bat, they should kick it, just so there's more hits. Rather than trying to kick it out of the ground, which would be pretty easy, they could try to kick it into a bucket, receptacle or 'goal' and then they can have a point. Whoever has the most 'goals' after, say, about an hour and a half, wins. These small changes will enhance the experience no end.
So my time in Cali is coming to a close and I can say it's been lovely. Lovelier than a sunset over a haunted wood. Yes, it's that special. But worry ye not fair reader, for the road is calling like a demented voice in my head, that whispers 'burn it. Burn it all to the ground' and soon I shall be back on it. Indeed, plans are forming in my head as we speak and dreams of Vegas dance like buttercups in the breeze.
Until next time. Be safe. Be aware. Don't drink and drive.
Byeloveyoubye xx
USA Email Series 15: Blowtorches, soup, bumfights and Eurovision
(First sent: 27th September 2009)
Morning y'all.
Rise and shine campers, go get your booties, because it's COLD out there today.... Well actually it isn't. There's a rumour amongst the locals that it's going to crack 100 again next week in the San Diego area, but I trust rumours less than I trust a gang of hoodies with a blowtorch but, it's truly a beautiful month to be in America, especially California.
Even Americans from northern states are checking into the hostel to try to chase the summer as it drifts ever southwards, and they can be seen looking around with envious smiles at the tans and beach outfits as they contemplate returning to a winter of corn dogs, bad sport and walking around malls like rats escaping a nuclear apocalypse.
Still, despite the good weather, tasty nachos and questionable bleached mullets, there is still time for a sprig of misery amongst the fun, like a turd in the vichyssoise. That bum nugget is, of course, me:
Ever wanted to fear for your life? Ever wanted to be seen huddling like condemned cattle awaiting the bolt gun, under a shady awning that looks like it's been constructed from Meccano by a one armed child in an electrical storm? Ever wanted to talk to grey faced kiosk servers, dishing out tickets for the bumfight with the sort of air of misery reserved for sick ponies touring a Bostik factory? Then come to the funfair on Mission Beach. I promise you'll have a god awful time.
It runs under the tag line "It's so much fun, you'll never need more", which is true. You'll never want more if this is fun. If this is fun, then jabbing your fingers into a working toaster is an absolute hoot, that'll have you giggling and chuckling at the smell of your own burning flesh.
To start with, it has a sort of depressing commercialism that is seen world over - from here to Blackpool the small, struggling seaside resorts compete for the last pound/dollar which has been wrestled away from the small, independent, amusements of years gone by, to the malls, multiplexes and X-Cox games machines, that modern 'youths' enjoy. In fact, this isn't the only problem. Nostalgia is grand, but in reality, time has passed by for these types of resort and they have been replaced, naturally, by bigger, better things. It's entertainment evolution. There was a time when people gathered round the radio to be scared to death by Orson Welles telling us about the impending Alien apocalypse. Nowadays we all gather round the TV to watch Britain's Got Talent - Jesus, what mugs we all are.
Most of the fun fair is the expected tat - buy a hat, buy a hot dog, buy a trip on the Deathatron, buy, buy, buy, buy, pleasegodbecausetheleaseisup buy. What I love to see is the truly random stuff - we're on a beach, so I'd expect 'surfing' rides, or tilt-a-whirls called things like 'tropical thunder', but to see the dodgems re branded as 'Beach cruisers' is taking it a bit too far, and as for the toilets being re branded as the 'Surf Shack', words failed me.
But the icing on the cake was the dull eyed optimism of the staff, who believe that they can entice you with cheery, impersonal banter. I can imagine them, grin fixed firmly in place, as they turn you upside down and shake every last cent from your pockets. As your eyeballs turn red, they will whisper coldly "Thanks, and how are you today?" Chilling.
Actually, my lack of kindness for what are really just old carnies trying to make the odd buck to stay off the streets, is probably down to the lack of sleep I've had, due to every frigging Aussie in the hostel being up until past 4am last night to watch the final of the Aussie Rules Football, hollering and whooping like a stag party at all you can eat rib night in Hooters. I thought NFL was a stupid sport, but AFL is beyond stupid. Kick a ball high. Fight over it. The last man with an intact spine or retention of control over his bowel movements is the winner. The end.
That said, next weeks email will in fact bring highlights of the NFL, as tomorrow I'm off to see the San Diego Chargers take on the Miami Dolphins, only on ESPN!!!!
So, what about this week, I hear you (not) crying? What indeed. Wanna find out what I've been up to? Do you? Do you? Well tell me if you do.
1. Got a trifle burned on Pacific beach. You know, it's a tough life. I hope it's bloody freezing back in England. Sorry, but I do. Ha.
2. Found an entire basket of dirty washing just left in someones room. They had checked out, they just didn't want it. Lazy bastards.
3. Went to Coronado to look round the hotel from Some Like It Hot. Some interesting pictures of Marilyn and the boys, but I failed to get there in time for the tour. Nobody's perfect.
4. Came down to get my bagels for breakfast, only to notice a small hole chewed into the side of the packet, and some of the bagel missing in chunks. Doesn't take a genius to identify the calling card of Mr Rat. Sir Norman (as he has been called) now spends his evenings as a star of CCTV, as the boys on the night shift call out to each other when they can see movement on the night vision camera and then run into the kitchen with a broom in hand ready to send Norm to the great hostel in the sky. So far he has proven to be elusive - further updates to follow.
5. Was given some very interesting Russian lessons. Failed to recall anything - doesn't bode well for my career.
6. Took a group to the Hookah bar for some Eastern European flavoured tobacco and some Eastern European dance music as well. It was like the frigging Eurovision Song Contest semi-finals in there.
7. Watched many people check out, but not too many check in. I fear that the slow season is upon us.
8. Despite that, last night four English guys checked in and immediately came to the bar and did a shot of whiskey, vodka, tequila then moonshine in a row. The results were amusing as they took turns to dry heave into the bin.
9. Then I regretted serving them, as I realised I was on trash duty.
10. Realised that the manager of 'Tequila 100' bar down the road knows my name, and beer is free to me when I take a one of the hostel tours there - this could spell DANGER
11. Very much missed my friends and family back home. Sad, but true.
12. Perfected the art of simultaneous pancake and coffee making. Yesssss.
13. Received $20 from the management for getting a glowing mention in a mail from a guest. Unfortunately, she then read the mail to the whole staff, revealing that my mention was to do with how much I was 'sweating' whilst cleaning the showers. Nothing like a week of being known for 'sweating for money' and being the 'sweatiest cleaner in town' to raise a chuckle. Everyone's a comedian.
So that's it young sonny Jim fella me lad, pal from the briny. Everything is good and the weather remains as it was. Living in CALIFORNIA remains ace. Any of you with a spare $200 can come for a visit if you want. I'm diary, to your pencil - why don't you fill me in? WHY?
Take care all, let me know how life is.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...The more angry I get, the more this indicated life was treating me well. This funfair was not incredible, but it probably didn't warrant quite this much fury. If anybody was getting the impression I wasn't having a good time, then they would need to suspend disbelief for a bit and enjoy the show. I really was reaching more desperately for targets though and should probably have dedicated a bit more time to letting my friends and family know I was OK. Still... Good fun. By the way, the rat was never harmed...
Morning y'all.
Rise and shine campers, go get your booties, because it's COLD out there today.... Well actually it isn't. There's a rumour amongst the locals that it's going to crack 100 again next week in the San Diego area, but I trust rumours less than I trust a gang of hoodies with a blowtorch but, it's truly a beautiful month to be in America, especially California.
Even Americans from northern states are checking into the hostel to try to chase the summer as it drifts ever southwards, and they can be seen looking around with envious smiles at the tans and beach outfits as they contemplate returning to a winter of corn dogs, bad sport and walking around malls like rats escaping a nuclear apocalypse.
Still, despite the good weather, tasty nachos and questionable bleached mullets, there is still time for a sprig of misery amongst the fun, like a turd in the vichyssoise. That bum nugget is, of course, me:
Ever wanted to fear for your life? Ever wanted to be seen huddling like condemned cattle awaiting the bolt gun, under a shady awning that looks like it's been constructed from Meccano by a one armed child in an electrical storm? Ever wanted to talk to grey faced kiosk servers, dishing out tickets for the bumfight with the sort of air of misery reserved for sick ponies touring a Bostik factory? Then come to the funfair on Mission Beach. I promise you'll have a god awful time.
It runs under the tag line "It's so much fun, you'll never need more", which is true. You'll never want more if this is fun. If this is fun, then jabbing your fingers into a working toaster is an absolute hoot, that'll have you giggling and chuckling at the smell of your own burning flesh.
To start with, it has a sort of depressing commercialism that is seen world over - from here to Blackpool the small, struggling seaside resorts compete for the last pound/dollar which has been wrestled away from the small, independent, amusements of years gone by, to the malls, multiplexes and X-Cox games machines, that modern 'youths' enjoy. In fact, this isn't the only problem. Nostalgia is grand, but in reality, time has passed by for these types of resort and they have been replaced, naturally, by bigger, better things. It's entertainment evolution. There was a time when people gathered round the radio to be scared to death by Orson Welles telling us about the impending Alien apocalypse. Nowadays we all gather round the TV to watch Britain's Got Talent - Jesus, what mugs we all are.
Most of the fun fair is the expected tat - buy a hat, buy a hot dog, buy a trip on the Deathatron, buy, buy, buy, buy, pleasegodbecausetheleaseisup buy. What I love to see is the truly random stuff - we're on a beach, so I'd expect 'surfing' rides, or tilt-a-whirls called things like 'tropical thunder', but to see the dodgems re branded as 'Beach cruisers' is taking it a bit too far, and as for the toilets being re branded as the 'Surf Shack', words failed me.
But the icing on the cake was the dull eyed optimism of the staff, who believe that they can entice you with cheery, impersonal banter. I can imagine them, grin fixed firmly in place, as they turn you upside down and shake every last cent from your pockets. As your eyeballs turn red, they will whisper coldly "Thanks, and how are you today?" Chilling.
Actually, my lack of kindness for what are really just old carnies trying to make the odd buck to stay off the streets, is probably down to the lack of sleep I've had, due to every frigging Aussie in the hostel being up until past 4am last night to watch the final of the Aussie Rules Football, hollering and whooping like a stag party at all you can eat rib night in Hooters. I thought NFL was a stupid sport, but AFL is beyond stupid. Kick a ball high. Fight over it. The last man with an intact spine or retention of control over his bowel movements is the winner. The end.
That said, next weeks email will in fact bring highlights of the NFL, as tomorrow I'm off to see the San Diego Chargers take on the Miami Dolphins, only on ESPN!!!!
So, what about this week, I hear you (not) crying? What indeed. Wanna find out what I've been up to? Do you? Do you? Well tell me if you do.
1. Got a trifle burned on Pacific beach. You know, it's a tough life. I hope it's bloody freezing back in England. Sorry, but I do. Ha.
2. Found an entire basket of dirty washing just left in someones room. They had checked out, they just didn't want it. Lazy bastards.
3. Went to Coronado to look round the hotel from Some Like It Hot. Some interesting pictures of Marilyn and the boys, but I failed to get there in time for the tour. Nobody's perfect.
4. Came down to get my bagels for breakfast, only to notice a small hole chewed into the side of the packet, and some of the bagel missing in chunks. Doesn't take a genius to identify the calling card of Mr Rat. Sir Norman (as he has been called) now spends his evenings as a star of CCTV, as the boys on the night shift call out to each other when they can see movement on the night vision camera and then run into the kitchen with a broom in hand ready to send Norm to the great hostel in the sky. So far he has proven to be elusive - further updates to follow.
5. Was given some very interesting Russian lessons. Failed to recall anything - doesn't bode well for my career.
6. Took a group to the Hookah bar for some Eastern European flavoured tobacco and some Eastern European dance music as well. It was like the frigging Eurovision Song Contest semi-finals in there.
7. Watched many people check out, but not too many check in. I fear that the slow season is upon us.
8. Despite that, last night four English guys checked in and immediately came to the bar and did a shot of whiskey, vodka, tequila then moonshine in a row. The results were amusing as they took turns to dry heave into the bin.
9. Then I regretted serving them, as I realised I was on trash duty.
10. Realised that the manager of 'Tequila 100' bar down the road knows my name, and beer is free to me when I take a one of the hostel tours there - this could spell DANGER
11. Very much missed my friends and family back home. Sad, but true.
12. Perfected the art of simultaneous pancake and coffee making. Yesssss.
13. Received $20 from the management for getting a glowing mention in a mail from a guest. Unfortunately, she then read the mail to the whole staff, revealing that my mention was to do with how much I was 'sweating' whilst cleaning the showers. Nothing like a week of being known for 'sweating for money' and being the 'sweatiest cleaner in town' to raise a chuckle. Everyone's a comedian.
So that's it young sonny Jim fella me lad, pal from the briny. Everything is good and the weather remains as it was. Living in CALIFORNIA remains ace. Any of you with a spare $200 can come for a visit if you want. I'm diary, to your pencil - why don't you fill me in? WHY?
Take care all, let me know how life is.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...The more angry I get, the more this indicated life was treating me well. This funfair was not incredible, but it probably didn't warrant quite this much fury. If anybody was getting the impression I wasn't having a good time, then they would need to suspend disbelief for a bit and enjoy the show. I really was reaching more desperately for targets though and should probably have dedicated a bit more time to letting my friends and family know I was OK. Still... Good fun. By the way, the rat was never harmed...
USA Email Series 14: Midnight bloodlust, broken glass, a ray of sunshine and alphabet bile
(First sent: 18th September 2009)
Good mornin' y'all,
Sometimes, when meeting new people, we look for common ground to establish a friendship. Perhaps a similar age, interests, sense of humour, midnight bloodlust - you know, the regular stuff. It's comforting to chat to a new acquaintance in terms you can both understand to get you both through the prickly issue of not actually caring one solitary toss about each other.
So it stands to reason that while travelling these skills, normally reserved for the odd party or evening out with an old friend and their new mates, become finely tuned. What with all the people I have met on my journey, I've become quite adept at picking up (and sometimes discarding) people along the way. It's a pretty big problem for me, especially as I hate everyone in the world (present company... actually on second thoughts, forget it) and would happily leave most people to burn to death if they were trapped in a house fire, only stopping what I was doing for long enough to reload my stick with another marshmallow.
So this week has been a haze of being super perky for the guests despite their irritating and down right disgusting habits, that I am forced to clean from the wall of the bathroom, whilst at the same time wishing them a lifetime trapped in a lift with Ulrika Johnson, Ed Gein and Joe Pasquale. Actually, I think that could have been the line up from an especially strong episode of Come Dine With Me.
I have to make sure that I run at least one event per week for the guests, so when I break out my Butlins Holiday Camp style cheese and premium game show host quips, they make me feel like the life and soul of the party. Little do they know, I secretly despise their cheery faces and am only able to keep myself entertained by secretly imagining the $10 or so I get for each event. Imagine that? $10. I bet your tiny mind can't even comprehend that kind of wealth. Ha ha ha, money, power, fortune, mine all MINE.
Oops. Sorry. I turned into a James Bond villain for a second there. Be still my beating heart.
Anyways, it stands to reason that after the four billionth conversation consisting of "where have you been? Where are you going next? What are you doing next? Blah blah blah zzzzzzzzzz", things might become a little tedious. Especially as it's always the same thing - down here, everyone has either come from LA or are going there next. It makes me howl, hearing people ask things like "what's vegas like?" As if anyone is going to say "well, you know, the weathers nice, but there's nothing to do.." JUST GO! As if anything I say about it will make a difference anyway. Feel free to drive there but don't wear your seat belt, and with any luck the brake cables that I have severed will cause you some "issues".
I've not just been a little ray of sunshine for this week, I'm like this all the time. For me, everyday is a new series of people trying to tempt me towards the idea of adding broken glass to the pancake mixture. My mood was not improved by a slight cold, of the type that makes you feel like poo for the first three hours of the day, then improves in the evening to the extent that you think it's all over. Then the next day, BIGGITYBAM, it's back, giving you the finger and yelling at you from the window of the snot truck. I very rarely feel poorly, and there was no way I was missing a shift, so I had to man up and deal with it. (I can't believe I just wrote "man up".)
However, generally, life is good and it's great to be living in California. Wait. Just a sec. I need a moment just to check outside the window to make sure that's true. Yes, I appear to be living in Califuckingfornia. Yay! My hair is even starting to get very light, as well as long, so it's surely it's only a matter of time before I turn into an official beach bum. If any of you catch me wearing white socks pulled up above my Converse All Stars and long board shorts, droning on and on about "hanging 10", etc, you have my permission to bottle me - or at least get me freakin' beer, dude. Sweet.
As for this weeks list of what I've been up to, here's some choice nuggets for you to chew over while looking outside YOUR window to see the same old dump. Ho ho ho. Go on, take a look... oh dear. Go on, you can cry. Let it all out. Now be quiet.
1. Got to know all the staff members on a trip to the water park which is on the boarder with Mexico. I wondered if anyone wanting to enter illegally might try their luck by sticking on a bikini, pole vaulting the fence and crashing down on the pile of inflatable rubber rings, before walking slowly away, a proud citizen of the US of A. Could happen. Beware!
2. Hung my Jolly Roger in the staff quarters to literally no response. Arrrrr.
3. Actually referred to a coke as "soda". Damn you America.
4. Visited the Midway aircraft carrier again. Still grey.
5. Had a charming afternoon sauntering the streets of San Diego. With the sun on your face and a nice breeze, there isn't much better.
6. Visited the 'living artist' museum in Balboa park. On entering, there were two old women manning the till who appeared to be old hippies who spent too long 'experimenting' in the sixties. But, when they looked me over and announced "it's free for English people today", I was fully delighted. The accent finally pays off, and it's with two ancient hags. Never mind.
7. Re-read Lonesome Traveller and, thus inspired, made an attempt at some Kerouacian prose/poetry myself. The results were at best disappointing, at worse, alphabet bile.
8. Lost my key to the staff room within ten minutes of receipt. Idiothole.
9. Led my first bar crawl around the happy hours of San Diego, after which, the blokes from Wigan decided I was their god and spent the remainder of their stay trying to make me their official events organiser. Good in a bad way.
10. Made some lovely meals - steak and homemade chips, stir fry, chicken. It's been a festival for the taste buds. It's very nice finally being able to do a 'big shop' and get stuff to last me longer than 24 hours. I am a sad man, but I love it.
OK, so that's it. You've made my life complete by your being here, although I have no knowledge of you doing so. More ramblings next week for lady and gent alike.
Thanks for stopping by San Diego.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...Good to see that I wasn't getting cynical during my stay in San Diego. Actually, it was all a big smokescreen because I was having a whale of a time. The conjuring of elaborate metaphors for hatred were just a way to pass the time and amuse myself. Apart from the people who made a mess in the showers. Those complete gaping holes of people only inspire me to seek out their homes and nail dead animals to their garage doors and wait for the army of ants to devour their sad little hovels and stand at the roadside laughing at their confused, idiot faces when they wake the next morning to find their bedroom had developed sunroof technology overnight. Hmmm. It can't be healthy, all this, can it?...
Good mornin' y'all,
Sometimes, when meeting new people, we look for common ground to establish a friendship. Perhaps a similar age, interests, sense of humour, midnight bloodlust - you know, the regular stuff. It's comforting to chat to a new acquaintance in terms you can both understand to get you both through the prickly issue of not actually caring one solitary toss about each other.
So it stands to reason that while travelling these skills, normally reserved for the odd party or evening out with an old friend and their new mates, become finely tuned. What with all the people I have met on my journey, I've become quite adept at picking up (and sometimes discarding) people along the way. It's a pretty big problem for me, especially as I hate everyone in the world (present company... actually on second thoughts, forget it) and would happily leave most people to burn to death if they were trapped in a house fire, only stopping what I was doing for long enough to reload my stick with another marshmallow.
So this week has been a haze of being super perky for the guests despite their irritating and down right disgusting habits, that I am forced to clean from the wall of the bathroom, whilst at the same time wishing them a lifetime trapped in a lift with Ulrika Johnson, Ed Gein and Joe Pasquale. Actually, I think that could have been the line up from an especially strong episode of Come Dine With Me.
I have to make sure that I run at least one event per week for the guests, so when I break out my Butlins Holiday Camp style cheese and premium game show host quips, they make me feel like the life and soul of the party. Little do they know, I secretly despise their cheery faces and am only able to keep myself entertained by secretly imagining the $10 or so I get for each event. Imagine that? $10. I bet your tiny mind can't even comprehend that kind of wealth. Ha ha ha, money, power, fortune, mine all MINE.
Oops. Sorry. I turned into a James Bond villain for a second there. Be still my beating heart.
Anyways, it stands to reason that after the four billionth conversation consisting of "where have you been? Where are you going next? What are you doing next? Blah blah blah zzzzzzzzzz", things might become a little tedious. Especially as it's always the same thing - down here, everyone has either come from LA or are going there next. It makes me howl, hearing people ask things like "what's vegas like?" As if anyone is going to say "well, you know, the weathers nice, but there's nothing to do.." JUST GO! As if anything I say about it will make a difference anyway. Feel free to drive there but don't wear your seat belt, and with any luck the brake cables that I have severed will cause you some "issues".
I've not just been a little ray of sunshine for this week, I'm like this all the time. For me, everyday is a new series of people trying to tempt me towards the idea of adding broken glass to the pancake mixture. My mood was not improved by a slight cold, of the type that makes you feel like poo for the first three hours of the day, then improves in the evening to the extent that you think it's all over. Then the next day, BIGGITYBAM, it's back, giving you the finger and yelling at you from the window of the snot truck. I very rarely feel poorly, and there was no way I was missing a shift, so I had to man up and deal with it. (I can't believe I just wrote "man up".)
However, generally, life is good and it's great to be living in California. Wait. Just a sec. I need a moment just to check outside the window to make sure that's true. Yes, I appear to be living in Califuckingfornia. Yay! My hair is even starting to get very light, as well as long, so it's surely it's only a matter of time before I turn into an official beach bum. If any of you catch me wearing white socks pulled up above my Converse All Stars and long board shorts, droning on and on about "hanging 10", etc, you have my permission to bottle me - or at least get me freakin' beer, dude. Sweet.
As for this weeks list of what I've been up to, here's some choice nuggets for you to chew over while looking outside YOUR window to see the same old dump. Ho ho ho. Go on, take a look... oh dear. Go on, you can cry. Let it all out. Now be quiet.
1. Got to know all the staff members on a trip to the water park which is on the boarder with Mexico. I wondered if anyone wanting to enter illegally might try their luck by sticking on a bikini, pole vaulting the fence and crashing down on the pile of inflatable rubber rings, before walking slowly away, a proud citizen of the US of A. Could happen. Beware!
2. Hung my Jolly Roger in the staff quarters to literally no response. Arrrrr.
3. Actually referred to a coke as "soda". Damn you America.
4. Visited the Midway aircraft carrier again. Still grey.
5. Had a charming afternoon sauntering the streets of San Diego. With the sun on your face and a nice breeze, there isn't much better.
6. Visited the 'living artist' museum in Balboa park. On entering, there were two old women manning the till who appeared to be old hippies who spent too long 'experimenting' in the sixties. But, when they looked me over and announced "it's free for English people today", I was fully delighted. The accent finally pays off, and it's with two ancient hags. Never mind.
7. Re-read Lonesome Traveller and, thus inspired, made an attempt at some Kerouacian prose/poetry myself. The results were at best disappointing, at worse, alphabet bile.
8. Lost my key to the staff room within ten minutes of receipt. Idiothole.
9. Led my first bar crawl around the happy hours of San Diego, after which, the blokes from Wigan decided I was their god and spent the remainder of their stay trying to make me their official events organiser. Good in a bad way.
10. Made some lovely meals - steak and homemade chips, stir fry, chicken. It's been a festival for the taste buds. It's very nice finally being able to do a 'big shop' and get stuff to last me longer than 24 hours. I am a sad man, but I love it.
OK, so that's it. You've made my life complete by your being here, although I have no knowledge of you doing so. More ramblings next week for lady and gent alike.
Thanks for stopping by San Diego.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...Good to see that I wasn't getting cynical during my stay in San Diego. Actually, it was all a big smokescreen because I was having a whale of a time. The conjuring of elaborate metaphors for hatred were just a way to pass the time and amuse myself. Apart from the people who made a mess in the showers. Those complete gaping holes of people only inspire me to seek out their homes and nail dead animals to their garage doors and wait for the army of ants to devour their sad little hovels and stand at the roadside laughing at their confused, idiot faces when they wake the next morning to find their bedroom had developed sunroof technology overnight. Hmmm. It can't be healthy, all this, can it?...
USA Email Series 13: A side of ham, Vim, Mr Peanut and Grizzly.
(First sent: 7th September 2009)
Top o' the mornin' to ye!
Sometimes while travelling, the idea of travelling itself becomes sickening, tedious and fills you with the same enthusiasm as one might have for attending an all night rave with Victoria Beckham and a side of rotting ham (although trying to tell the difference might be worth a few chuckles).
Yes, the spectre of 'travel fatigue' has been hanging over me, filling my socks with lead and making the mere suggestion of a visit to the 10,000th bloody museum make me want to hack somebody's eyes out with a piece of abandoned railway track. The fatigue of being on the road makes the idea of packing up and moving on a again feel less entertaining than trying to count trees in a wood while listening to Michael Bolton's greatest hits being tapped out in morse code on your head by a passing woodpecker. I.e. not exactly thrill a minute.
There are many ways to attempt to rekindle the love you once had for the nomadic lifestyle. Some try to supplement their wardrobe (which by this time has been reduced to 4 over washed and colourless items) by hitting the shops, but I never much had the taste for plus sizes and the American ass can fill a giant pair of trousers. Actually, American clothes more closely resemble poorly arranged bed sheets stapled together by a madman who lives inside a tornado. So that's out for me.
Some people turn to drink. Too late.
Therefore, it was left that the third option was all that was remaining. An option so bleak and evil that only a few hearty souls have the brass to even attempt it. I'm not talking about drinking the worm from the tequila... Far worse. I have got myself a job.
Now I know that for most of you, the idea of me scrubbing a few toilets and mopping the floor is all you ever saw in me anyway, but, a hostel doesn't get to be a grimy, flea infested hell hole all on it's own - you need a crack squad of layabouts, dropouts and clowns to ensure their continuing mediocrity.
Actually, working in the hostel opens up your eyes. It's some sight to behold when you see a first class honours student, currently working towards an MA in political science, a published author of poetry and a 27 year old English Literature graduate, squabbling over the last of the tin of Vim like weeping children throwing tantrums over the unmelted ice-cream at a fun fair. It would be poetic if it wasn't so bloody filthy in that shower, and the goddam Vim is mine, biatch.
For me though, a dose of reality and organisation is a breath of fresh air that is going to allow me to stretch my legs, chill out and hopefully, over the coming weeks, dissipate the greyhound sponsored thrombosis that pulsate through my legs like hot plums in a sausage machine. I get to live for free (save 4 hours plucking pubes from the shower cubicles), access the secret, Narnia like staff quarters that are replete with aircon, fridges and a monkey butler and I also get to attend a couple free excursions a week. I might even get paid for a couple of them. All in all, a sweeter gig than when Mr Peanut last suggested visiting the Snickers Factory.
But there is a seedy underbelly to all of this. Yes, the world of hostelling has a river of dirty money running through it, infecting everyone. Well, it might be a bit more downbeat than that, but is is interesting some of the practices that go on. Like, for example, the Tijuana trip I discussed so lucidly last week cost me $12 to go on. Now, $2.50 went on the train ride, sure, but the rest? Where oh where could it be? In case your slower at catching on than supporters at a John McCain rally, I'll tell you - the pocket of the person running the tour.
No wonder they spend so much time enticing us like pied pipers to part with our tokens to follow them like rats onto the giddy bandwagon. I love it - American free enterprise working like George Bush had written the book on it (so long as the book was written in crayon, of course).
Other than all that jazz though, there have been a few things catching my satirical eye this week. Wont you come on a little journey with me, while I lay bare my winnings and poop up my life for you all to peck at? Or alternatively, just read this stuff that I'm about to write.
Not yet...
NOW.
1. Visited the USS Midway, a big, grey ship. I love a good ship but I'd like it to be more colourful. Perhaps a 'Misty sunrise' or a 'Blackbeards delight' should be suggested to the navy.
2. Saw a pair of trousers on the street, abandoned. Must have been an interesting conversation when the owner got home to his family: "Ohhhhh, not again dad"
3. Visited Coronado Island which is a very pretty little island off the shore. You access it by ferry and can browse the shops and highways to find wonderful little nooks and.... oh, who the hell am I kidding. It was dull as nuts and I got a red nose from the sun. Nice butties from the man in the van though.
4. Rode the bus to Ocean beach. Lovely beach, no bums, lots of waves. Wicked.
5. My last roommate before I venture into the staff quarters is a man from deepest Florida called 'Grizzly'. I'll say that again: 'Grizzly'. He's 52, and to sum him up I will revert to his words: "I'm broke, so if they don't give me a job here, I'll camp." So, to clarify, his big life plan is to live outside rather than cough up the $120 bucks he's already spent securing his room in the hostel. It's not a good character trait to be willing to swap 'inside' for 'outside' when discussing sleeping arrangements. Is my locker secure? Hell yes. Is everything I own that I hold dear (including my Luche Libre mask purchased in Mexico) in said locker? Yarp!
6. Watched Gangs of New York in subtitles, which included the fine subtitle "(Both grunting)" I like a good and varied selection of grunting in all my motion pictures. See the film '300' for some textbook grunts.
7. Had a game of soccerball in the park with some fellow hostel employees. I won. The end.
8. Unpacked and repacked my pack to look for something that was in my pocket. Done that twice now, and it gets funnier every time.
9. Stayed classy.
So that's me for this week. Nothing changes but everything's different. I believe that is 'philosophy', so I hope you're taking notes. If not, I can come round to your house every week at random times of the day or night to repeat each of my mails uninterrupted into your quivering lobes until your eardrums pop. That is what they would call 'enlightenment' so feel the burn.
Keep me up to date with what's happening in sunny England (ha!) and I'll ignore your emails whenever and however I can.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
Top o' the mornin' to ye!
Sometimes while travelling, the idea of travelling itself becomes sickening, tedious and fills you with the same enthusiasm as one might have for attending an all night rave with Victoria Beckham and a side of rotting ham (although trying to tell the difference might be worth a few chuckles).
Yes, the spectre of 'travel fatigue' has been hanging over me, filling my socks with lead and making the mere suggestion of a visit to the 10,000th bloody museum make me want to hack somebody's eyes out with a piece of abandoned railway track. The fatigue of being on the road makes the idea of packing up and moving on a again feel less entertaining than trying to count trees in a wood while listening to Michael Bolton's greatest hits being tapped out in morse code on your head by a passing woodpecker. I.e. not exactly thrill a minute.
There are many ways to attempt to rekindle the love you once had for the nomadic lifestyle. Some try to supplement their wardrobe (which by this time has been reduced to 4 over washed and colourless items) by hitting the shops, but I never much had the taste for plus sizes and the American ass can fill a giant pair of trousers. Actually, American clothes more closely resemble poorly arranged bed sheets stapled together by a madman who lives inside a tornado. So that's out for me.
Some people turn to drink. Too late.
Therefore, it was left that the third option was all that was remaining. An option so bleak and evil that only a few hearty souls have the brass to even attempt it. I'm not talking about drinking the worm from the tequila... Far worse. I have got myself a job.
Now I know that for most of you, the idea of me scrubbing a few toilets and mopping the floor is all you ever saw in me anyway, but, a hostel doesn't get to be a grimy, flea infested hell hole all on it's own - you need a crack squad of layabouts, dropouts and clowns to ensure their continuing mediocrity.
Actually, working in the hostel opens up your eyes. It's some sight to behold when you see a first class honours student, currently working towards an MA in political science, a published author of poetry and a 27 year old English Literature graduate, squabbling over the last of the tin of Vim like weeping children throwing tantrums over the unmelted ice-cream at a fun fair. It would be poetic if it wasn't so bloody filthy in that shower, and the goddam Vim is mine, biatch.
For me though, a dose of reality and organisation is a breath of fresh air that is going to allow me to stretch my legs, chill out and hopefully, over the coming weeks, dissipate the greyhound sponsored thrombosis that pulsate through my legs like hot plums in a sausage machine. I get to live for free (save 4 hours plucking pubes from the shower cubicles), access the secret, Narnia like staff quarters that are replete with aircon, fridges and a monkey butler and I also get to attend a couple free excursions a week. I might even get paid for a couple of them. All in all, a sweeter gig than when Mr Peanut last suggested visiting the Snickers Factory.
But there is a seedy underbelly to all of this. Yes, the world of hostelling has a river of dirty money running through it, infecting everyone. Well, it might be a bit more downbeat than that, but is is interesting some of the practices that go on. Like, for example, the Tijuana trip I discussed so lucidly last week cost me $12 to go on. Now, $2.50 went on the train ride, sure, but the rest? Where oh where could it be? In case your slower at catching on than supporters at a John McCain rally, I'll tell you - the pocket of the person running the tour.
No wonder they spend so much time enticing us like pied pipers to part with our tokens to follow them like rats onto the giddy bandwagon. I love it - American free enterprise working like George Bush had written the book on it (so long as the book was written in crayon, of course).
Other than all that jazz though, there have been a few things catching my satirical eye this week. Wont you come on a little journey with me, while I lay bare my winnings and poop up my life for you all to peck at? Or alternatively, just read this stuff that I'm about to write.
Not yet...
NOW.
1. Visited the USS Midway, a big, grey ship. I love a good ship but I'd like it to be more colourful. Perhaps a 'Misty sunrise' or a 'Blackbeards delight' should be suggested to the navy.
2. Saw a pair of trousers on the street, abandoned. Must have been an interesting conversation when the owner got home to his family: "Ohhhhh, not again dad"
3. Visited Coronado Island which is a very pretty little island off the shore. You access it by ferry and can browse the shops and highways to find wonderful little nooks and.... oh, who the hell am I kidding. It was dull as nuts and I got a red nose from the sun. Nice butties from the man in the van though.
4. Rode the bus to Ocean beach. Lovely beach, no bums, lots of waves. Wicked.
5. My last roommate before I venture into the staff quarters is a man from deepest Florida called 'Grizzly'. I'll say that again: 'Grizzly'. He's 52, and to sum him up I will revert to his words: "I'm broke, so if they don't give me a job here, I'll camp." So, to clarify, his big life plan is to live outside rather than cough up the $120 bucks he's already spent securing his room in the hostel. It's not a good character trait to be willing to swap 'inside' for 'outside' when discussing sleeping arrangements. Is my locker secure? Hell yes. Is everything I own that I hold dear (including my Luche Libre mask purchased in Mexico) in said locker? Yarp!
6. Watched Gangs of New York in subtitles, which included the fine subtitle "(Both grunting)" I like a good and varied selection of grunting in all my motion pictures. See the film '300' for some textbook grunts.
7. Had a game of soccerball in the park with some fellow hostel employees. I won. The end.
8. Unpacked and repacked my pack to look for something that was in my pocket. Done that twice now, and it gets funnier every time.
9. Stayed classy.
So that's me for this week. Nothing changes but everything's different. I believe that is 'philosophy', so I hope you're taking notes. If not, I can come round to your house every week at random times of the day or night to repeat each of my mails uninterrupted into your quivering lobes until your eardrums pop. That is what they would call 'enlightenment' so feel the burn.
Keep me up to date with what's happening in sunny England (ha!) and I'll ignore your emails whenever and however I can.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
USA Email Series 12: Right wing politics, ludicrous shop names and, coming soon to ITV2: Bus Wars.
(First sent: 31st August 2009)
Good morning, good afternoon and goodnight...
So, the day drifts into early afternoon here in San Diego and the heat is not rescinding. In fact, if anything it's actually getting hotter as the sun goes down, making me conclude that science knows nothing and the temperature of the earth is actually regulated by a thousand hidden microwaves, in and around the cities, that are all just about to 'ping' sending us spewing into a cataclysmic future where there's baked potato and bits of lasagna stuck to the major landmarks, potentially drowning us in baked goods and certainly making us feel ready for a spot of lunch.
Actually, my ridiculous aside isn't that ridiculous if you substitute 'microwaves' for cars and 'baked potato bits' for the hideous sweeping smog that lingered over LA creating a putrid haze that, for some reason, put me in mind of Blackpool in the rain. That's how grim it was.
Two things on LA to report:
1) A real pain to get around. There's lots of buses, that's for sure, but they just don't seem to be going anywhere, just fulfilling some kind of nominal function of transporting the elderly to precisely nowhere. Maybe that's what happens when you get to a certain age; you just roam and roam and stare blankly out of the windows as foreigners squint at you trying to figure out where the bloody hell they are. That's why you get a bus pass at 65, to keep you out the way.
2). LA? Not for me, sir. It wasn't the filth, or the run down bleakness of the Mexican or central quarters (which make Coventry city centre look like the magical land of oz), or the smog and heat which combine to form a thick brown Campbell's Soup in your lungs just waiting to force you, doubled over, to cough up your tonsils like hot, red slugs.
No.
It's the overall pointlessness of the people who live in the place. If you're not poncing yourself around on the street like some sort of multi-cocked business tithole trying to discover just how many Abercrombie shirts it will take to replace the ownership of a soul, then you are almost certainly wandering and mumbling vaguely intelligible threats to nobody in particular before being moved on from the Greyhound station for being incapable of sitting in a chair (I saw this first hand, he simply couldn't stay upright - I'm not 100% sure why, but I think I could have a reasonable guess: It rhymes with 'hugs'. No it's not 'jugs' you filthy pervert.)
Yes, LA is a dump alright. There's some fun to be had on Hollywood Boulevard, snapping pictures of yourself with bits of concrete paving slab with some rancid celebrities horrible names written on them. Yes, it's a non stop chuckle festival. Luckily, it's only four and a half hours from San Diego, which is where I am now.
My word, it's really nice here. Really nice. Too nice. Makes me wonder, because every other city in America wears it's inequalities like a badge on it's shoulder and the homeless and beggars walk amongst the rich people willy nilly. Can you imagine that? How frightful. Can't they all be put 'somewhere' so as not to bother me while I get a Starcocks and browse the windows of Urban Underfitters or Wondercloth, or Stuffwhatmakemehateselfslightlylessfortwosecondsi'msolonelysoaffraidooohhnicecardy.com and they can't bother me by asking for 'change' (whatever that is - don't they take Visa?) and generally being smelly poo bums..... I'm sorry, I went all daily mail there for a second. Get me some Buffalo left-wings and an old copy of the Guardian, stat.
I'm not surprised though that people like me (genius) can drift into Fox News mode though. There's so many flags on show everywhere in SD that the BNP should definitely come here on a fact finding mission. I'm sure actual 'facts' rather than emotional outbursts and blind prejudice might induce the average BNP member to spontaneously combust, in which case I'll pay for Nick Griffin's ticket gladly.
Today, most of the star spanglies are at half mast for Teddy Kennedy who bit the cheese this week. Despite my cynicism over the fact that he had what you might call an 'advantageous' surname for working in politics in the US, he did bring in some 1000 laws in America in his life, 300 of which he wrote himself, no less. (Thanks to Wikipedia - still the number one alternative to actual knowledge)
In addition to those delights, SD also offers an opportunity for me to drift into the home of the swine flu that has ripped into the UK population (fingers crossed, Thatcher's next. Only joking. Or am I?) and visit Mexico. Yowzers. Tijuana is quite the toilet that you think it would be, punctuated only slightly by overly earnest street sellers who don't haggle so much as recite a NASA style countdown the second it looks like your interest in their sad bauble is rescinding:
"How much?"
"$10"
"$10?"
"$10, for that, it's $10"
"Hmmmm"
"$9"
"What?"
"$8"
"$8?"
"$7"
"ok, ok. Done"
"$6"
"What? Noooo, I said 'I'll take it'.."
"$5?"
And on it goes, until you feel like you're living in some kind of Life of Brian hyper-reality, trying to resist the temptation to get to the point where she will end up owing you a dollar to take the thing off her hands.
Alongside the street sellers, I also had my first experience of the street children begging or selling penny chews for peanuts. They seemed to be half enjoying it though, darting between us for a second, hands outstretched, before they looked at each other and started dancing around and playing silly childish games.
I should stress that the above observation is in no way intended to make it sound like there life is a great fun game, and begging for bumwipe from foreigners on the streets of a drugs haven is in some way a happy, let's go fly a kite, type of existence. It's more to point out the fact that in spite of the most horrendous circumstances, children can still have fun and still wear a smile.
So, apart from looking at children, I had a good old time there. The pictures of me riding a mechanical bull and trying to avoid insane Mexicans with whistles who pour tequila down your neck until you are full, will be lurking on Facebook no doubt. Here's this week's 'Richies Roundup' in a random order:
1. Bemoaned the loss of my old camera for the last time and replaced the bastard. Still, life goes on, and the spirit of my Canon lives on in the dreams and hope of its children. Or summat.
2. Hugged the seller of Mexican 'moonshine' despite the fact that the shot he gave me might be classified as attempted murder in some states. 98%. That's all I will say.
3. Saw into the future, after drinking Mexican moonshine.
4. Rode the greyhound, for the first time, into SD. No problems but a lingering smell.
5. Went on a limo tour of LA. It was as random as it sounds, and I felt like a tit, but I was a full on badass in a limo in Hollywood baby. Kiss my face.
6. Needed some TLC.
7. I managed to burn my nipple. Not pleasant, but glad to have done it once.
8. Went to the oldest building in LA. I was hoping it would be from about 1963 or something, but it was actually turn of the (last) century, so it was quite interesting. Right in the old mexican part of LA which was by far the nicest. Enjoyed the view with a gorgeous burrito to boot.
9. Did some crazy dancing with crazy Aussies. Well done.
10. Enjoyed watching a bus driver have a full on temper tantrum at the door of his bus that simply wouldn't close. We'd drive a bit. He'd look at it. He'd stop the bus. He'd swear loudly at the door. He'd give up. We'd drive a bit.... repeat, for a solid 45 minutes. Made me a bit late, but I think 'Bus Wars' has definitely got "ITV2 sleeper hit" written all over it. I could well imagine Jamie Theakston keeping himself out of bankruptcy court narrating that gem.
11. Learnt that the meaning of the phrase 'what happens in Tijuana, stays in Tijuana' that our guide kept referring to, was actually referring to most people's dinner. I was fine, thank you.
12. I'm going to the movies tonight. Not really a "thing I've done" yet, but I'm quite looking forward to it.
13. Looked around Balboa park which has nice architecture and wonderful old buildings (built in the 40's, so that's old for them) but I was underwhelmed. I prefer my parks to contain less museums and poncing around and more water fountains and softball. come on SD, stop being such a girl and get your mitt and baseball out. I'll learn you a game.
14. Went to Summerslam. Yes. I know. It's Wrestling. I can deal with it. Can you? Good.
15. Ironed a shirt. I finally made something flat on this trip. YESSSSS!
OK, well, that feels like a bit of a bumper mail this week. Did it feel like that to you. Well I am pleased. What's that? Oh, of course you can tell your friends about my mails. I'd love to add people to the list. I really want to. Who? That guy? No. Not him. Any other friends? Didn't think so. Loser.
Take care peoples and let me know how things are going back in England (or Korea or Holland, or wherever the ruddy hell you are.)
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...I hit the wall just prior to this email, as LA had really bummed me out. I was tired and frankly wishing I was at home, just three months into the trip. Lucky for me that San Diego was there to bail me out with it's sandy beaches, wonderful nightlife and slightly fewer headbuttingly jarring or medically insane people lurking around every corner waiting to make me feel like I'd stepped into a terrifying cartoon version of my own life...
Good morning, good afternoon and goodnight...
So, the day drifts into early afternoon here in San Diego and the heat is not rescinding. In fact, if anything it's actually getting hotter as the sun goes down, making me conclude that science knows nothing and the temperature of the earth is actually regulated by a thousand hidden microwaves, in and around the cities, that are all just about to 'ping' sending us spewing into a cataclysmic future where there's baked potato and bits of lasagna stuck to the major landmarks, potentially drowning us in baked goods and certainly making us feel ready for a spot of lunch.
Actually, my ridiculous aside isn't that ridiculous if you substitute 'microwaves' for cars and 'baked potato bits' for the hideous sweeping smog that lingered over LA creating a putrid haze that, for some reason, put me in mind of Blackpool in the rain. That's how grim it was.
Two things on LA to report:
1) A real pain to get around. There's lots of buses, that's for sure, but they just don't seem to be going anywhere, just fulfilling some kind of nominal function of transporting the elderly to precisely nowhere. Maybe that's what happens when you get to a certain age; you just roam and roam and stare blankly out of the windows as foreigners squint at you trying to figure out where the bloody hell they are. That's why you get a bus pass at 65, to keep you out the way.
2). LA? Not for me, sir. It wasn't the filth, or the run down bleakness of the Mexican or central quarters (which make Coventry city centre look like the magical land of oz), or the smog and heat which combine to form a thick brown Campbell's Soup in your lungs just waiting to force you, doubled over, to cough up your tonsils like hot, red slugs.
No.
It's the overall pointlessness of the people who live in the place. If you're not poncing yourself around on the street like some sort of multi-cocked business tithole trying to discover just how many Abercrombie shirts it will take to replace the ownership of a soul, then you are almost certainly wandering and mumbling vaguely intelligible threats to nobody in particular before being moved on from the Greyhound station for being incapable of sitting in a chair (I saw this first hand, he simply couldn't stay upright - I'm not 100% sure why, but I think I could have a reasonable guess: It rhymes with 'hugs'. No it's not 'jugs' you filthy pervert.)
Yes, LA is a dump alright. There's some fun to be had on Hollywood Boulevard, snapping pictures of yourself with bits of concrete paving slab with some rancid celebrities horrible names written on them. Yes, it's a non stop chuckle festival. Luckily, it's only four and a half hours from San Diego, which is where I am now.
My word, it's really nice here. Really nice. Too nice. Makes me wonder, because every other city in America wears it's inequalities like a badge on it's shoulder and the homeless and beggars walk amongst the rich people willy nilly. Can you imagine that? How frightful. Can't they all be put 'somewhere' so as not to bother me while I get a Starcocks and browse the windows of Urban Underfitters or Wondercloth, or Stuffwhatmakemehateselfslightlylessfortwosecondsi'msolonelysoaffraidooohhnicecardy.com and they can't bother me by asking for 'change' (whatever that is - don't they take Visa?) and generally being smelly poo bums..... I'm sorry, I went all daily mail there for a second. Get me some Buffalo left-wings and an old copy of the Guardian, stat.
I'm not surprised though that people like me (genius) can drift into Fox News mode though. There's so many flags on show everywhere in SD that the BNP should definitely come here on a fact finding mission. I'm sure actual 'facts' rather than emotional outbursts and blind prejudice might induce the average BNP member to spontaneously combust, in which case I'll pay for Nick Griffin's ticket gladly.
Today, most of the star spanglies are at half mast for Teddy Kennedy who bit the cheese this week. Despite my cynicism over the fact that he had what you might call an 'advantageous' surname for working in politics in the US, he did bring in some 1000 laws in America in his life, 300 of which he wrote himself, no less. (Thanks to Wikipedia - still the number one alternative to actual knowledge)
In addition to those delights, SD also offers an opportunity for me to drift into the home of the swine flu that has ripped into the UK population (fingers crossed, Thatcher's next. Only joking. Or am I?) and visit Mexico. Yowzers. Tijuana is quite the toilet that you think it would be, punctuated only slightly by overly earnest street sellers who don't haggle so much as recite a NASA style countdown the second it looks like your interest in their sad bauble is rescinding:
"How much?"
"$10"
"$10?"
"$10, for that, it's $10"
"Hmmmm"
"$9"
"What?"
"$8"
"$8?"
"$7"
"ok, ok. Done"
"$6"
"What? Noooo, I said 'I'll take it'.."
"$5?"
And on it goes, until you feel like you're living in some kind of Life of Brian hyper-reality, trying to resist the temptation to get to the point where she will end up owing you a dollar to take the thing off her hands.
Alongside the street sellers, I also had my first experience of the street children begging or selling penny chews for peanuts. They seemed to be half enjoying it though, darting between us for a second, hands outstretched, before they looked at each other and started dancing around and playing silly childish games.
I should stress that the above observation is in no way intended to make it sound like there life is a great fun game, and begging for bumwipe from foreigners on the streets of a drugs haven is in some way a happy, let's go fly a kite, type of existence. It's more to point out the fact that in spite of the most horrendous circumstances, children can still have fun and still wear a smile.
So, apart from looking at children, I had a good old time there. The pictures of me riding a mechanical bull and trying to avoid insane Mexicans with whistles who pour tequila down your neck until you are full, will be lurking on Facebook no doubt. Here's this week's 'Richies Roundup' in a random order:
1. Bemoaned the loss of my old camera for the last time and replaced the bastard. Still, life goes on, and the spirit of my Canon lives on in the dreams and hope of its children. Or summat.
2. Hugged the seller of Mexican 'moonshine' despite the fact that the shot he gave me might be classified as attempted murder in some states. 98%. That's all I will say.
3. Saw into the future, after drinking Mexican moonshine.
4. Rode the greyhound, for the first time, into SD. No problems but a lingering smell.
5. Went on a limo tour of LA. It was as random as it sounds, and I felt like a tit, but I was a full on badass in a limo in Hollywood baby. Kiss my face.
6. Needed some TLC.
7. I managed to burn my nipple. Not pleasant, but glad to have done it once.
8. Went to the oldest building in LA. I was hoping it would be from about 1963 or something, but it was actually turn of the (last) century, so it was quite interesting. Right in the old mexican part of LA which was by far the nicest. Enjoyed the view with a gorgeous burrito to boot.
9. Did some crazy dancing with crazy Aussies. Well done.
10. Enjoyed watching a bus driver have a full on temper tantrum at the door of his bus that simply wouldn't close. We'd drive a bit. He'd look at it. He'd stop the bus. He'd swear loudly at the door. He'd give up. We'd drive a bit.... repeat, for a solid 45 minutes. Made me a bit late, but I think 'Bus Wars' has definitely got "ITV2 sleeper hit" written all over it. I could well imagine Jamie Theakston keeping himself out of bankruptcy court narrating that gem.
11. Learnt that the meaning of the phrase 'what happens in Tijuana, stays in Tijuana' that our guide kept referring to, was actually referring to most people's dinner. I was fine, thank you.
12. I'm going to the movies tonight. Not really a "thing I've done" yet, but I'm quite looking forward to it.
13. Looked around Balboa park which has nice architecture and wonderful old buildings (built in the 40's, so that's old for them) but I was underwhelmed. I prefer my parks to contain less museums and poncing around and more water fountains and softball. come on SD, stop being such a girl and get your mitt and baseball out. I'll learn you a game.
14. Went to Summerslam. Yes. I know. It's Wrestling. I can deal with it. Can you? Good.
15. Ironed a shirt. I finally made something flat on this trip. YESSSSS!
OK, well, that feels like a bit of a bumper mail this week. Did it feel like that to you. Well I am pleased. What's that? Oh, of course you can tell your friends about my mails. I'd love to add people to the list. I really want to. Who? That guy? No. Not him. Any other friends? Didn't think so. Loser.
Take care peoples and let me know how things are going back in England (or Korea or Holland, or wherever the ruddy hell you are.)
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...I hit the wall just prior to this email, as LA had really bummed me out. I was tired and frankly wishing I was at home, just three months into the trip. Lucky for me that San Diego was there to bail me out with it's sandy beaches, wonderful nightlife and slightly fewer headbuttingly jarring or medically insane people lurking around every corner waiting to make me feel like I'd stepped into a terrifying cartoon version of my own life...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
