…but it kinda looks like a front view of a shark eating a crappy blue and green rug. Kinda…
This song still sounds brilliant, doesn’t it?
I’m not a massive fan of superhero stuff. When I was young, I liked the old Adam West Batman, and I remember that I loved the old Spiderman cartoon, too. I watched an episode of it recently on YouTube: the animation is bloody awful. I’ve seen some of the new Batman films over the years, a couple of the Spidermans, obvs, the three 70s/80s Supermans. But on the whole, superheroes aren’t really my cup of tea. I don’t hate them or owt, just, y’know, put your underwear on first, dummy.
Saw a poster for something called Ant-Man the other day. Now, I have no idea if Ant-Man is a good character or a good film or whatever, but jesus, it’s very hard to work up any enthusiasm for a bloody ant. What are his superpowers? The ability to be burned by a magnifying glass? The power to not be able to cross a line of talcum powder?
Yep, the only Ant-Man I care about is this one. I’d deffo go see a film about that superhero.
A few weeks back, I had an idea. Nothing earth-shattering, but interesting enough to tell a few people about. There were varying reactions to the idea. The girlfriend thought I was bonkers. But my pal Eric thought it sounded great.
Chocolate-coated cacahuates japoneses.
Before I go on, I should explain what cacahuates japoneses are, right? The direct translation is Japanese peanuts, and Wikipedia tells us that they are popular in “Mexico, Brazil, and parts of the United States.” What they are, though, are peanuts in a crunchy shell made of wheat flour. Wikipedia also tells up they are “unknown in Japan,” which is possibly an over-exaggeration, because surely Japanese tourists have visited Mexico, seen them, and gone home and said, “hey, guess what, mum!” Wikipedia also tells us they were the creation of the father of an artist called Carlos Nakatani.
Now, the world already has peanut M&Ms, so my “idea” is no great leap, but I’ve never seen chocolate-coated japonés here, so I figured I’d give it a go. (A note: I’ve seen them called “japoneses” and “japonés,” I’m not sure why and what the difference is.)
Heeeeeere’s the recipe, should you ever see a packet of japonés and want to give it a go.
Some cacahuates japoneses
1. I couldn’t find any cheap non-Hershey’s chocolate in my local supermarket, but I am quite sure that pretty much any other type of chocolate would be preferable. I went for milk chocolate, but I can totally image dark chocolate would be pretty good.
2. Put the chocolate in a cup and melt in in the microwave, or in a pan and melt it on the stove.
3. Grab some of the cacahuates and bung them into the melty chocolate. Move ’em around with a fork until they’re covered in chocolate. Repeat ’til you’ve used up all the chocolate.
4. Probably best to use greaseproof paper, but I didn’t have any so, sod it: just chuck them on a plate and put the plate in the fridge for however long it takes the chocolate to set (about half an hour or so, but I forgot to check the time, so it could’ve been more).
5. Chisel them off the plate if you’ve not used greaseproof paper and then offer them to your friends and family. Their taste-buds will immediately say thank you. Honestly, they’re really good.
Thanks to the generosity of a couple of friends (gracias Pepe y Samuel), on the last day of June, we had guest list tickets for the Flaming Lips concert at the Auditorio Nacional, a big concert venue with: (1) a capacity of around 10,000, (2) Latin America’s largest pipe organ, and (c) some woefully under-staffed bars. Queues of 50-odd people waiting for plastic cups of beer. Fuck that shit. I’d rather not drink than participate in such business. The show was general admission within each of the various price categories. Guest list tickets were, it seems, all up on the balcony, about 35km from the stage.
It was a weird night for me. My girlfriend and her pals seemed to really enjoy it. All around us seemed to enjoy it. All of the people downstairs seemed to enjoy it. Me? Not really. There were some pretty lights, I’ll give them that. But all of the dancing creatures, it was a bit Teletubbies meets “Stonehenge.” It kinda felt like all of the theatrics were covering up for a set of songs that were, on the whole, sounded fairly average.
But, a good night of post-concert boozing hanging out with friends, chatting, listening to music, was kinda the perfect way to start a mini holiday: three nights in Real del Monte. It was a perfect start in an unexpected way: because of the drinking and the late night, it kinda forced me to not wake up and rush around in the morning. The plan was to be up, out, and at the bus terminal for about 9am. Tired brain told me NO.
I was a bit stressed about work stuff, so a few days away seemed like a good idea. I would be revisiting Real del Monte (or Mineral del Monte, not sure which is the proper name, but you see signs for with both names in the area), a place I’d first visited a couple of years back. It’s just outside Pachuca, which is about 90 minutes on a bus northeast-ish from Mexico City. It’s a pretty simple journey: subway to one of the main bus terminals in Mexico City, have a look at the bus times, find one that is going soon, buy a ticket.
The guy checking bags and metal detecting asked where I was from. I told him Inglaterra, and he asked, in English, how was the correct way to say “Tott-eng-hem Ho-spor.” I told him he was close and pronounced it as clearly and English-ly as a member of the Royal Family. The bus journey is nothing special, really: no particularly nice landscape or owt. I listened to Marc Maron’s interview with Barack Obama over the sound of a dubbed version of the Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis film “The Campaign” blaring from the bus’ TV speakers.
Once in Pachuca, there’s a dude directly outside yelling the destinations of various small combi buses. I told him I need to go to Plaza de la Constitución, he pointed at a combi. I squeezed into the tiny van that waited until it was rammed full of people (that is to say, had about 10 people inside) and we were off. I’d made this journey once before so kinda knew where I was going, but I was sat in the middle and couldn’t really see out of the window. By the time that everyone else had got off, I asked him where the plaza was, and he took me a few hundred yards further and told me to nip through the market and there it is.
I followed his instructions, bought a new cable for my phone in the market (it’s pink with tiny blue UV lights inside and only 35 pesos!) asked another guy where to get the Real del Monte combi and was soon in an almost identical tiny vehicle heading out and up above Pachuca. It’s a nice wee journey. I like the contract of arriving in Pachuca, seeing a relatively decent-sized city from street level, then a few minutes in the hills and the same place looks pretty small.
The combi stopped at various points in Real del Monte before getting to the central square and church-y bit, where I got off. I knew there were a handful of hotels, but I didn’t bother booking a room. It was a Wednesday, not really tourist-y season, no special festivals going on, and most importantly: I love arriving somewhere and not knowing where I’m going to sleep. I wandered to the hotel I stayed in last time. Door was locked. It was about 2pm. Knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. So I asked the security guard at the museum next door and he said they’re probably having their lunch.
So, I just went to another hotel instead. I was very thankful that I only bothered to pay for one night in advance, cos when I got to the room, the view was of a breeze block wall about 30cm from the window. Ho hum. I couldn’t be arsed to make a fuss, so I just dumped my stuff and went back out to get some food. And food, dear readers, is pretty much the main reason for visiting Real del Monte.
When one lives in a foreign land, as some of you might have experienced, food from your home country is one of the things you miss the most. There’s a level of comfort that dribbles through the mind, like a slow-moving river of melted white chocolate, when I think of British food like Marmite, Branston pickle, scotch eggs, pork pies, Cornish pasties. And in Real del Monte, they have pasties. Oh yes, muchos pastes. (Eff why eye: the Spanish spelling of pasty: paste. Plural: pastes.)
Real del Monte has a strong English–specifically Cornish–influence. Back in the day, when the people in this area found stuff in the ground, they need to mine it. Load of Cornish people came over to work in the mines and they brought three things in particular with them: well-good mining techniques, pasties, and football. Real del Monte was the first place in Mexico where football was played. I saw several ceramic tiles painted in bright colours around the town celebrating the football history and there was a big advert painted on a wall for a football museum which I couldn’t find, sadly.
The pasties are great. It’s been two-and-a-half decades since I was in Cornwall, but the “tradicional” variety of pasty in Real del Monte is as good as I remember any being in Cornwall. I say “tradicional” because pasties come in lots of varieties in Read del Monte. At Pastes el Portal which is, in my opinion, the best of the pasty places in Real del Monte (and have no fear, I tried several) you can get mole, beans, chicken, sausage, tuna, and “Hawaiian.” They also do sweet pasties: peach, apple, pineapple, strawberry, coconut, chocolate, and vanilla. (I tried the vanilla one and mmm, mmm, mmm, delish.)
I had a couple of traditional carne con papas pasties, then had a wee walk around. I went to the tourism booth outside the town’s indoor market and asked the nice people there a few questions. Specifically, about the opening hours of the English cemetery. On my last visit, we walked all the way there and found that the gates were locked, so I wanted to be sure. They were friendly, so I signed their guest book thingy and got a wee map of the local area.
It started drizzling, so I stopped for a beer in bar. The bar had Old West-style saloon doors. Inside there were lots of pictures of two things: Club América football team, and naked women. The toilet had no door, it was simply a urinal in the corner of the room with a curtain for privacy. It looked like you might vote there, not piss.
Another bar, this time with insanely loud music (yeah, grandad…) and I was soon back at the hotel, in bed, and asleep well early, and having a dream about getting back to Mexico City to find my apartment had been burgled. Joy.
I tend to wake up early quite a lot anyway, but on holiday, it’s pretty much a given. 7am is late for me on holiday. 7am, though, is still very early, it would seem, for the cafe owners of Real del Monte. So was 8am. Basically, it was 9am before anywhere was open for any breakfast. I went to a place around the corner, ordered the desayuno Realmontense from a bored-looking owner, a man whose who being screamed “the waiter/waitress isn’t here yet, so I’ve gotta deal with this shit.”
The breakfast was shite. That weird concentrate orange juice that is way too sweet, coffee that comes pre-sweetened, even the bread was sweet. Of all that, I had a few sips of the orange juice. The main part wasn’t sweet, thankfully: chilaquiles verde with chorizo.
I went back to the first hotel that I tried and there was someone there. Yes, he did have a room for two nights. Do I want to see the room? Normally, I don’t bother with that business, but after the breeze block view, I did. Lovely big room, lovely view over the town. I paid, went back to the other hotel, packed my stuff and checked in to the new place, where, incidentally, the lobby was full of pictures of Marilyn Monroe.
I asked the guy where I need to go to get the bus to a nearby village called Huasca de Ocampo, and traipsed off in the direction he told me to go. Up and above the main part of Real del Monte, to the main road that runs by the town. There was an old lady waiting there. I asked her. She told me to wait for the green bus. Plenty of buses went by, vaguely slowing when they saw someone stood at the corner. The sign on the front of the bus was really small, so I was squinting. Is it… is it… yes! I stook out my hand, the combi screeched to a halt, and I sat on the only available seat. The teenage girls sat across the way kept glimpsing at me, the gringo. The driver’s CD player was blasting out eighties hits. Arthur’s Theme, I Wanna Dance with Somebody, and Careless Whisper. As we bombed around the curvy mountain roads, I looked down and figured that, if I was gonna die in a bus accident, I’d quite want George Michael to soundtrack my demise.
Huasca de Ocampo seemed to be a smaller version of Real del Monte. A perfectly lovely little Mexican town. As far as I can tell–and I’m obviously no expert–small villages fall into two categories here: Pueblos Mágicos and non-Pueblos Mágicos. An explanation: the Magical Villages Program is something that the tourism board do to promote, err, tourism around the country. There are 80-odd of them, of which I have visited ten. Some are better than others. Some are indeed magical. Some, well, you get the feeling that the mayors of some of them used their influence to get the magical status. You can see it straight away: the streets are cleaner, the town squares are tidier and there’s generally an air of expecting tourists.
First thing I did was have a wee look inside the church in the town square. Tick. Yep, that’s that done. A nice cup of coffee (that is to say, not thick with sugar) and I asked a taxi driver how much it was to go to the nearby Basalt Prisms. Just 60 pesos. Muy bien. The Primasa Basálticos are these tall colums of rock in a ravine kinda thing, with a waterfall that does its water-y business there. It was quite lovely. Here’s some photographs:
50 pesos entrance fee. Impressive stuff. Not too crowded with tourists. I was pretty much the only non-Mexican there as far as I could tell. Half way around the ravine, there were a couple of souvenir shops and a place selling drinks. I saw other people with cocktail-y kinda things, and assumed they must be just fruit punch or something, but no! Actual alcohol. I asked if they had a beer. Yep. 50 pesos. Okay, seems steep, but it’s a tourist place, and it’s hot, so sure. It wasn’t steep. It was a caguama, a nearly-a-litre bottle. So I had this huge beer, and I’d kinda seen everything, so, well, I wandered around again, just with a massive beer in my hand. And boy was it worth it. It was nice to look at everything a second time, notice things I’d not seen before. I don’t know how it’s taken me this long in life to look at things twice at a tourist attraction, but I will be doing it again, caguama or not.
At the entrance/exit area, I asked the ticket woman if I could wait around here for another taxi to drop someone off, so I could jump in and go back to Huasca. She told me I needed to call for one. I had no credit on my phone, so asked if she could call one for me. 50 pesos. Bloody hell, that’s a bit steep to make a phone call, but, pfff, I guess it’s better than just waiting around for ages. When the taxi driver arrived, I saw the woman give him 50 pesos. Aaaah, my suspicious mind was embarrassed. It was just paying in advance for a taxi. I felt bad. The driver and I chatted all the way back to Huasca. He asked if we spoke ingles in Inglaterra. I confirmed that we did. And he said, “”aaah, like the United States…” He, like seemingly every taxi driver I talk to in Mexico, was a Chivas fan.
Back in Huasca de Ocampo, I had lunch: trucha al a diablo. Trout in a spicy sauce. Bloody lovely it was, too. Dead tomato-ey, spicy, and served with rice and tortillas. After lunch, I made a half-hearted effort to look more at the town, but really couldn’t be arsed. I’d seen the basalt prisms, which was why I went in the first place, so found a parked combi, and sat inside with a load of locals until it was full and we were heading back towards Pachuca. I got off at the junction where I got on in the bright afternoon sunshine, and by the time I was back at the hotel it was cloudy and a bit rainy. It’s another lovely thing about Real del Monte: the English weather. I know it’s a crappy thing that ex-pats always say when they live in hotter countries, but it’s true: I miss the British weather. And it is nice knowing that when I get bored of the sunny-every-dayness of Mexico City, I can nip up to Real del Monte and wear a coat and wipe the rain off my glasses.
I spent the evening in the hotel listening to podcasts and drawing. As you might have noticed on the blog recently, I’ve been doing a lot more simple things, brightly coloured. Not sure why this has been happening. I’ve been specifically doing a lot of things that I refer to as mountains. They are not, I guess, what one would normally consider mountains, but they were mountains to me. I kinda think they are drawings that combine some of the colours of living in Mexico, with shapes or landscape, balloons, and stuff. I dunno, they feel really Mexican to me. I’m enjoying them. You can see a whole load of them here.
And while we’re talking about drawing, here’s one I did of the Prismas Basálticos. I did a pen drawing in my notebook while I was there, photographed it, and then drew over the photograph in the Brushes app on my iPad:
It was a bad night’s sleep. Not sure why, cos the bed was ace. I love those hard mattresses with big plump pillows where you can make an inverted V shape around you head so that every time you turn over, there’s still a load of pillow there. It was all perfect, but I was awake a lot. It was nice, though, when I heard the rain on the tin roofs outside. Rain on tin roofs: second best sound in the world. (Best is obvs rain in a forest or jungle.)
Another breakfast debacle the next morning. This time I asked what type of coffee they had, and specifically was it pre-sweetened. Yes it was.
Do you have it without sugar?
“No.” He told me they had Nescafe.
No thanks, what type of tea do you have?
“Camomile, mint, green.” They had no black tea.
Sigh. Okay, nothing thanks, just orange juice, please.
He looked pissed off with me for being a picky English prince. He brought me some good chilaquiles (I don’t eat chilaquiles often, so when I’m out of town, I like to indulge myself) and asked if I wanted an Americano. Yes, I’d very much like that, please. He came back with a mug of dark liquid that tasted exactly like Nescafe. Cheeky bugger was trying to trick me. But I drank it.
As mentioned above, last visit, we’d tried to go to see the English cemetery, the Panteón Inglés, but it was closed. It’s a long uphill walk because the cemetery is on top of a hill. Nice place for a cemetery, no doubt, but it was quite a warm morning, and I couldn’t be arsed, so I got a taxi. Best 35 pesos I spent.
A fifteen peso donation for upkeep. It was kinda nice, kinda odd, to see so many English names in a Mexican
graveyard cemetery. (Update: I just read on Eamonn Griffin’s wonderful Benches of Louth blog that “if it’s got a church in it, it’s a graveyard. If it hasn’t, it’s a cemetery.”) Specifically, loads of Cornish surnames. You don’t have to spend long in the panteón to learn that mining wasn’t good for the health back in the day. Lots of graves of people in their 20s and 30s. It was a nice place, though. All the graves bar one were facing England. I don’t usually feel any swell of patriotism, but I did when the woman who took my donation told me about that. There is one grave, though, that doesn’t. The grave of an English clown who lived in Pachuca, who specified that he wanted his grave to not face England.
Still sunny, a very pleasant downhill saunter back to the town. I’d kinda done all the tourist-y stuff I wanted to do, so after lunch (pasties!) I went back to my room and did a simple sketch of a drawing I wanted to do while I was in town: a drawing of the view from my hotel room window:
Line drawing complete, feeling good about what I’d done, I went out for a beer. Not really in the mood, so it was just a beer. It was raining like billyoh. Kinda soaked, I saw a beautiful sight: an actual coffee shop. A place with a proper machine. I sat down, listened to the wonderful selection of 1950s rock ‘n’ roll they were playing, and had two wonderful Americanos.
I accepted the internal shame of having the same thing again and again and had pasties for dinner, did some more mountain drawings, and sleepy sleepy slept.
I woke with a plan: start working on the drawing of the view out of the window before I go out for breakfast, then finish the drawing afterwards, hopefully quick enough to be out of the hotel before the 1pm checkout time.
It was Saturday morning, and bloomin’ heck, Real del Monte felt totally different. The Pueblo Mágico-ness was kicking in ready for the weekend tourists. Cafes and restaurants that had been closed were suddenly open and I had a lovely load of eggs and coffee at one of them while an absurdly-loud-for-the-time-of-day TV blasted out the sound of three woman yelling and cackling interspersed with pop videos. This type of TV show seems very popular in Mexico.
Back to the hotel, I packed up my stuff, then dragged the chair back to the window to continue drawing. I’d finished with 40 minutes to spare, so went over to the good coffee place, had another Americano ready for an afternoon of travelling. This is how the drawing turned out:
And here’s a wee clip of the process of drawing:
I checked out and went to Pastes el Portal and picked up what I had ordered earlier in the morning: a box of pasties to bring home.
The reverse journey–two combis–back to the Pachuca bus terminal was dominated by the smell of the warm pasties on my lap. Oh my. It was a delight.
On the bus back to Mexico City, the woman in front of me was one of those people who reclines all the way just because they can. Those people need to be made extinct. It’s a 90 minute journey not an overnight flight to New Zealand, luv, calm the fuck down with the selfish behaviour.
I did another iPad drawing on the bus, which was fun. I started drawing quick doodles of things I saw along the roadside at various points. Basically, I was making notes, but as I did more and more, I realised I was doing a composite of what the roadside outside of Pachuca was like, and, y’know it ended up like this:
Y’know, it’s kinda hard to believe that when I was doing my travels in 2008, I used to write blog posts like this every day. I’m out of practise. This one took ages.
Obviously, he’s a fucking moron.
Something interesting happened last night: I picked a seat in a different section at the baseball park. A bit of background: last season was the, err, last season that the Diablos Rojos were playing in Foro Sol. It is a 26,000 capacity concert venue that just happened to be big enough to fit a baseball field, so when the Diablos’ old park got sold in 2000 (I think), they ended up at Foro Sol. Foro Sol was one of those sports venues that objectively is awful but you are fond of it because it’s where your team plays and you have a ton of memories based there. Indeed, apart from apartments I’ve lived in, I have spent more time at Foro Sol than anywhere else in Mexico City. And I’ve deffo spent more time at Foro Sol than any other sports venue in the whole wide world.
Anyway, Formula One motor racing is back in Mexico City this season. Foro Sol is inside the racing track. And with the renovations that will be taking place, they’re putting a corner through the outfield of the baseball field. Thus, the Diablos moved. They will get a brand new city-funded ballpark in 2017, but until then, the team is playing at a local municipal park that they renovated over the winter. It’s called Estadio Fray Nano, and it’s bloody lovely. Dead small, like 4,000 capacity, which makes the somewhat underwhelming crowds seem a lot better. A crowd of 1,800 looks okay in a 4,000 seater stadium, whereas at Foro Sol, it was a bit rubbish.
The biggest difference between the parks, aside from the size and the understandable price increase (tickets in the section I usually sit in used to be 70 pesos, and are now 100 pesos), is that it’s no longer general admission. Your ticket has a seat number now. At Foro Sol I pretty much always sat in the exact same seat. I would rock up half an hour before the game and plonk myself down, six or seven rows above the walkway, just to the right (that is, first base side) of home plate. Now when I buy a ticket, I have to explain kinda where I wanna sit every time. (This also makes the queues at the ticket booths a lot lot slower than before.) At Estadio Fray Nano, I have taken to asking for a ticket in the last row in the middle right above home plate. Last row cos it’s still closer than where I used to sit at Foro Sol, and because it’s nice not having people behind you, and above that last row is the team owner’s box and he has a TV in there so I can peak up and watch replays.
The view from where I used to sit at Foro Sol
The view from where I normally sit at Fray Nano
Last night, though, there were no tickets available in the last row above home plate. This happens at Friday, Saturday, and Sunday games, I’ve noticed. More people means the good seats tend to get snapped up at the online ticket store. I can’t be arsed with buying tickets online. I like a ticket ticket, not an A4 printout. Anyhow, no massive deal, I’ll get tickets for me and three pals in the section to the right, back row, next to the steps. My pals would all be arriving a bit later than me, so I went up to my seat, sat down, ordered a Corona, and watched the players warming up.
Something felt different. Something felt right. It was the feeling that I was sat back where I should be sat, just to the right (that is, first base side) of home plate. They are probably “better” seats where I have been sitting, dead centre, but just to the right (that is, first base side) of home plate is where I belong.
The view from where I sat last night
My mate Samuel arrived, we had a chat, watched the planes flying into Benito Juárez International Airport, watched the visiting Acereros de Monclova get a runner to third with no outs and the Diablos go in without conceding a run. Gabriel and Jorge arrived a bit later. It was Gabriel’s first Mexican baseball game (he’d seen the White Sox before on holiday in Chicago) and Jorge’s first ever baseball game. The sky turned an orange-y pink, the game was 0-0 in the fifth inning, a pretty rare thing in Mexico City.
It was tight, the park was pretty full, the atmosphere was really good, it was a fun night. I was happy. It’s good to have the newcomers with you experiencing a good game. Japhet Amador homered off the first pitch in the bottom of the sixth, and by the end of that half-inning, it was 4-0. Monclova got a couple back in the next inning, and that’s how it ended. A fun game with baseball virgins. A nice swift sub-three-hour game on a nice not-too-hot-or-nippy evening. You know why, right? I was back home. New home, but back home. Section B2, row M, around seat 140-ish. Just to the right (that is, first base side) of home plate.
Last night, I was lying in bed, watching an old episode of Carpool that I’d not seen before.1 It was one with Richard Herring. And even though I am still very much aware of him (that is to say, I listen to most episodes of RHLSTP), I stopped reading his blog several years ago. I used to read it every day, and it was an inspiration to actually blog about daily mundane crap myself. But until I saw him talking about it on Carpool, I’d not even thought about his daily blog for a long time. I had a wee look and yep, he’s still doing it. And I kinda felt like a failure. This blog, the one you are now reading, used to be like that to a certain extent. I would write stuff all the time. And then at some point, I kinda stopped. I now why that was, (and if you were around back in the day, you may have an idea), but it tailed off in 2010 and once I bought an iPad and started drawing on the iPad, iPad drawings basically replaced the typed word. Occasionally I’d write (most notably when I was in Belize last summer) but the desire soon went away again.
I’m not gonna promise myself that I’m gonna do it every day again, but I should, and I want to. I want my early morning ritual to be writing, not clicking things I don’t need to look at on the Internet. I always felt that the writing on the blog helped the artwork. Things came up in words, and came out as drawings or picture stories. I need that back in my life. And “my life” is something I’ve been thinking about a lot of late. The realisation that my work is nowhere near — nowhere! — as popular as it used to be a decade ago is slightly crushing. My ego isn’t enjoying it, so the other parts of my brain have to do something about it. One of the things that happened to the blog was Twitter. When that came around, things that would’ve been 100-200 word blog posts, ended up as 140 character tweets. That’s a good thing and a bad thing at the same time. Economy is good, but not fleshing out sometimes feels like a missed opportunity. And this past year I’ve become less and less happy with how I use Twitter. Right now, I feel like I need a break from it. I’ve not tweeted at all for three days now, and every time my mind has a thought that needs tweeting, I stop myself, make a note, and maybe that thought will be a blog post tomorrow or next week.2
As I posted a couple of months back, we got a cat. She is called Cyndilauper. She went through a few names before she became Cyndilauper. Even before a cat occurred in my life, I liked the idea of calling a cat John Paul III (or Juan Pablo III en español). When it became clear that the cat was female, she was Juanita for a while (a name of an Underworld song and a Flying Burrito Brothers song whilst hinting at the JP3 idea). I really wanted her to be Britneyspears but that was poo-pooed by the girlfriend, so she ended up as Cyndilauper.
When I was watching Carpool she jumped up onto the bed, ran over my belly and stood next to my shoulder and looked at me. This isn’t the look of “stroke me, Englander!” it was the look of “move your cup of tea from the bedside table because that’s where I like to sleep, dude.” I complied, she took her place and I drank my tea faster than I’d’ve liked just cos it’s boring constantly holding a mug. It made me realise how, despite my desires for a minimally decorated apartment, you always need things like bedside tables.3 I do, though, kinda miss that student-y thing of just having a mattress on the floor. Even though at the time I was very keen on having a real bed. The next time I’m single, I’ll be going for the mattress on the floor again, though. No need for a bedside table then.
Anyway. Let’s see how this blogging thing goes, shall we? Right now I’m dead positive about doing it, even though a good friend of mine, whose finger is way more on the pulse of current Internet than mine, tells me that nobody reads blogs any more. It’d be nice to prove her wrong.
1. It’s interesting how we’ve come to this place in TV, huh? Small cameras and cars equals dead cheap telly. There’s the Jerry Seinfeld one where he showed off his collection of lovely vehicles. There’s the James Corden karaoke thing,4 there’s the Carpool one mentioned above, and Peter Kay’s really quite enjoyable Car Share.
2. This one doesn’t need to be a blog post, but: that one black cornflake in a box of cornflakes. Is that just a missed moment of quality control or is it there just to creep us out a little bit?
3. There’s a note in a notebook that I made earlier in the year to write a story about someone who lives as minimally as he possibly could. The main thrust of this was to get to the idea of him not having chair because if he wanted to sit, there was a toilet. I had the idea that is pretty horrible: him watching TV, eating pizza, and shitting at the same time.
4. If I sing along to “Fancy,” I kinda feel that the concept of fanciness must sink a little in its heart and mutter to itself, “no, you’re bloody not.”
31 years ago, Black Lace released a version of a 1971 French-language song “Agadou.” 31 years later, we are still paying the price. But! Let us confront our pain, not run away from it. Let’s look, listen, and learn…
Patrick Zabé’s 1975 release en français, the earliest version I could find on YouTube:
A 1981 version by a German band which seems to be the one that started the avalanche:
Here is a Czech version from 1982, the one with the “bloody hell, look at that”-est video:
Another French version from 1984:
A 1985 version by a Belgian:
A Dutch version:
And here’s a modern version with a house music beat for the young people:
I could go on, could I not? So let’s just finish with the one we (that is, British people) all know and “love.”
If you listened to all of the above, you win a prize: my eternal respect*
*Eternal respect best before end of July 2015