We woke up on Saturday morning at 8.30, as we had all arranged to meet at nine for breakfast. On our way down to the restaurant every member of staff smiled and bade us good morning. Whilst the Bristol Hilton may not be the most salubrious, the staff were all absolutely charming. And then we arrived at the restaurant. We were sat at a table for six, and served coffee and tea. We then began to serve ourselves from the very good buffet. As business was fairly brisk, table space was at a premium. As I sat down with my bacon and scrambled eggs, I glanced a couple waiting to be seated. The Maitre D' reassured them, with unsolicited familiarity, that she was 'just waiting for two old biddies to get a move on and finish their muesli.' A small amount of coffee exited my nose, as I suppressed a laugh. Her candour was the icing on the Bristol Hilton cake.
The rest of the day passed without much incident. Adrian dropped my wife and I back home, and I assumed the alcohol-recovery position on the sofa, for most of the day.
In the evening we headed to the Gower in Swansea to celebrate the 40th birthday of our friend Eddie. I probably would have concocted some lame excuse not to drive an hour to a party, if it were somebody else, but Eddie is an absolute gentleman. He is one of the rare breed of people that is liked by everybody who meets him. And he likes them. Unless they are Robert Mugabe. He had been on the same bill as me the Thursday before, and had been very good, unlike myself, and had invited my wife and I to his party. He told me how to get there, what time it started, and informed me that if we needed to stay in Swansea, we could stay at his place. What a great bloke. However, he failed to tell me that it was a fancy dress party. What a wanker.
My wife and I walked into the club at Murton, at 8.30pm, to be confronted by Mr T, John McEnroe and Phil Oakey, from out of The Human League. Evidently it was an 80s themed party. Eddie, already an unnaturally handsome individual, was dressed as the lead singer of Glam Metal outfit Poison, replete with eye-liner, long black wig, boots and skin-tight, zebra-print, trousers. If I was a woman I would have felt the urge to leap on Eddie there and then. In fact, as a man, I felt the urge to leap on Eddie there and then. This made me feel confused and dirty. But in a good way.
It was a great party and the costumes worn by everyone, except my wife and I, were brilliant. It struck me, during the evening, that men never really grow up. This was highlighted by the fact that someone had painstakingly removed the 'tails' part of the large 'Cocktails' sign, Arnold from Diff'rent Strokes was seen to grope the jockstrap-clad testicles of Leroy from Fame, and I witnessed Timmy Mallet using a balloon penis to virtually-bum Rod Hull. And Emu.
We left the party, with it still in full-swing, to drive back to Cardiff, with ZZ Top ringing in our ears. Happy birthday Eddie.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Saturday, 18 October 2008
Friday October 17th
I had the pleasure to go to Bristol yesterday. Bristol is probably most (in)famous for the slave trade. There surely cannot be many more contemptible examples of man's inhumanity to man, than the practice of forcing a fellow human being, shackled, into the fetid bowels of a slave ship, to face an arduous journey, which they may very well not survive. I imagine that the only crumb of comfort for the wronged, would be that if they did eventually make landfall in America, they would only face a life of unjust beatings, servitude and hardship, and not the possibility of a return journey to set up home in Bristol. Obviously I am exaggerating slightly, but Bristol always reminds me of how a friend, visiting from Canada, once described my hometown of Barry, 'It's not the end of the world, but you can see it from there.'
We were heading to Bristol to see Steve Coogan's live show at the Colston Hall. Adrian, the black pudding conspiracy theorist, accompanied by his wife Theresa, picked my wife and me up at four o'clock. He had arranged for the four of us and my friends Dave and Neil, to stay at the Hilton Hotel in Bristol. Adrian has a friend who works for the Hilton Group, and occasionally he can arrange discounted accommodation for Adrian. I was a little apprehensive, as the last time that I had stayed at a Hilton Hotel with Adrian had been a couple of months previously. We had gone to London to fix the botched plumbing job in the bathroom of the apartment that my sister lets out there. Botched, incidentally, by Adrian. I shared a (twin)room at the Hilton with Adrian. After a night relaxing with Margaritas and Indian food, we retired to our separate beds. I was confronted in the morning, as I walked into the bathroom for my morning ablutions, with one of the most horrific sights I have ever seen. The bathroom looked like the cell of an IRA hunger-striker. But a hunger-striker that had made a caveat that he would eat Chicken Dopiaza and pilau rice. There was not a surface, horizontal or otherwise, un-soiled. I was convinced that news of this flagrant disregard of hotel etiquette and accepted social norms would have spread throughout the Hilton chain, but I was wrong, and the booking had been readily accepted.
The Hilton in Bristol is an understated affair, compared to many of their hotels. It is just off the M5 South, on the A38 to Filton. At the first set of lights, turn left, head into the bleak, soul-less, industrial estate, and immediately turn left again. If you go past Muzzy's Kebab Van (I have added the apostrophe), you have gone too far. By about eight feet. We checked in and went upstairs, there was no elevator, to our rooms. I had a shower, and put on one of the 'Big Three'. These are the three shirts that still fit me. I own twenty-six shirts at last count, twenty-three of which have been gathering dust for months, waiting for me to 'get back in shape.' Consequently I always have the choice of my brown shirt, my brown stripy shirt, and my floral shirt. As none of these shirts co-ordinate with black shoes, I am, currently, too fat for twenty-three shirts, three pairs of shoes and a pair of Chelsea boots.
Dave and Neil, who are not a couple, as they are always at pains to point out, arrived at the industrial estate about an hour after us. We ordered a taxi through the very nice receptionist. Our taxi driver turned up, and as there were six of us, looked at me and said, with staggering over-familiarity 'You're a big fella, you'd better go in the front.' This is just one more example of the institutionalized sizeism that goes on in this country every day. I smiled at him, and resolved to exact revenge. Not by retorting with, 'You'd better drive, as you're patently qualified to do little else in life, besides operate basic machinery', but by asking him every question in the taxi driver's question manual, namely,
'Busy tonight in town drive?'
'Is this your own car drive?'
'What time are you on 'til drive?'
I was foiled, however, as he was hard of hearing. I will never know what he thought I was asking him, but he answered the first question with,
'A lot of renal cases for the hospital, mostly.'
The second with,
'From the Midlands originally, but I've lived in Bristol for twelve years.'
And the third with,
'My son used to work for a company near there.'
On arriving at the venue we paid the driver and headed into Colston Hall. I will not go into any great depths about the show, as I would not want to spoil it for anybody, but I think that I'm entitled to describe the toilet conversation that amused me. During the interval I was availing myself of the facilities, when a fellow urinal-goer looked at me and said, 'It stinks of piss in here.' I was not sure what he expected me to reply with. What I wanted to say back was, 'It is a small, windowless, room where hundreds of people come solely to urinate, what did you expect it to smell like?', but being British, I just smiled, in a way that I hoped would not be misconstrued.
After the show we headed out to sample the delights of Bristol. I think that downtown Bristol could most kindly be described as 'spacious'. In an area the size of an International Airport's runways, Bristol has managed to cram in one O'Neills, a Reflex Bar and a Pub. There are vast swathes of concrete and tarmac, unsullied by anything as crass as buildings. Because of the distances involved in travelling between venues, Bristol is peppered with open-air plastic urinal booths. There is, as far as I am concerned, no more damning evidence of how the binge-drinking culture has harmed Britain, than Bristol Council exploiting a plastic loophole, to, essentially, legalise pissing in the middle of the street. In twenty-first century Bristol, one can, in full view of elderly couples leaving the theatre, love-struck teenagers, and the constabulary, relieve oneself, one's penis illuminated by council-tax funded street lighting, into a council-tax funded, grey-plastic, abomination. This, in the country that gave the world Shakespeare. I despair.
When we arrived, eventually, at O'Neill's, Adrian treated us all to an example of the inadvertently brilliant statements, that makes spending time with him such a joy. Talking, with admirable candour, about his step-son's recent experience at Crown Court, he defended the judge, criticised by his wife for sentencing her son to a maximum tariff term of incarceration. He confidentally stated, 'Well I really liked that judge. He wasn't taking any prisoners.' I pointed out that, according to his own preamble, the judge had taken at least three prisoners that I knew of.
After a couple of beers in O'Neills we all decided to head out for an Indian meal. I didn't think this to be a particularly unreasonable ambition at 11.45pm, on a Friday, in a major British city. I was mistaken. After walking for several days we decided, in the best traditions, to ask a policeman. He advised us to get a taxi to the nearest Indian restaurant, as it was over a mile away. No surprise there. On arriving at the Jubo Raj in Cottham Hill, we all enjoyed an unexpectedly good Indian meal, although the Kingfisher lager tasted more fishy than kingy. Not sure what I mean there, but the beer wasn't very nice.
After we had finished our meals we phoned a taxi to take us back to the jewel in Hilton's crown. As we were dropped off in the car park we could see that Muzzy was doing a roaring trade. I had originally assumed that Muzzy's passing custom would be very sparse, as he had decided to park his van on an industrial estate, on the A38. But Muzzy and Baron Hilton are obviously visionaries who know their market intimately. Muzzy's 'pitch', and accordingly, our hotel, were only around 12 miles from Bristol city centre, and as such are among the most central eating establishments and accommodation providers.
On arriving in our rooms my wife and I decided on a romantic night-cap. I opened the cabinet door, behind which, in other hotels, the mini-bar is typically located. However, in the Bristol Hilton, the traditional mini-bar has been replaced with mini-space. I was not surprised. All the mini-space lacked, to make it authentically Bristolian, was an mini-open-air urinal.
We were heading to Bristol to see Steve Coogan's live show at the Colston Hall. Adrian, the black pudding conspiracy theorist, accompanied by his wife Theresa, picked my wife and me up at four o'clock. He had arranged for the four of us and my friends Dave and Neil, to stay at the Hilton Hotel in Bristol. Adrian has a friend who works for the Hilton Group, and occasionally he can arrange discounted accommodation for Adrian. I was a little apprehensive, as the last time that I had stayed at a Hilton Hotel with Adrian had been a couple of months previously. We had gone to London to fix the botched plumbing job in the bathroom of the apartment that my sister lets out there. Botched, incidentally, by Adrian. I shared a (twin)room at the Hilton with Adrian. After a night relaxing with Margaritas and Indian food, we retired to our separate beds. I was confronted in the morning, as I walked into the bathroom for my morning ablutions, with one of the most horrific sights I have ever seen. The bathroom looked like the cell of an IRA hunger-striker. But a hunger-striker that had made a caveat that he would eat Chicken Dopiaza and pilau rice. There was not a surface, horizontal or otherwise, un-soiled. I was convinced that news of this flagrant disregard of hotel etiquette and accepted social norms would have spread throughout the Hilton chain, but I was wrong, and the booking had been readily accepted.
The Hilton in Bristol is an understated affair, compared to many of their hotels. It is just off the M5 South, on the A38 to Filton. At the first set of lights, turn left, head into the bleak, soul-less, industrial estate, and immediately turn left again. If you go past Muzzy's Kebab Van (I have added the apostrophe), you have gone too far. By about eight feet. We checked in and went upstairs, there was no elevator, to our rooms. I had a shower, and put on one of the 'Big Three'. These are the three shirts that still fit me. I own twenty-six shirts at last count, twenty-three of which have been gathering dust for months, waiting for me to 'get back in shape.' Consequently I always have the choice of my brown shirt, my brown stripy shirt, and my floral shirt. As none of these shirts co-ordinate with black shoes, I am, currently, too fat for twenty-three shirts, three pairs of shoes and a pair of Chelsea boots.
Dave and Neil, who are not a couple, as they are always at pains to point out, arrived at the industrial estate about an hour after us. We ordered a taxi through the very nice receptionist. Our taxi driver turned up, and as there were six of us, looked at me and said, with staggering over-familiarity 'You're a big fella, you'd better go in the front.' This is just one more example of the institutionalized sizeism that goes on in this country every day. I smiled at him, and resolved to exact revenge. Not by retorting with, 'You'd better drive, as you're patently qualified to do little else in life, besides operate basic machinery', but by asking him every question in the taxi driver's question manual, namely,
'Busy tonight in town drive?'
'Is this your own car drive?'
'What time are you on 'til drive?'
I was foiled, however, as he was hard of hearing. I will never know what he thought I was asking him, but he answered the first question with,
'A lot of renal cases for the hospital, mostly.'
The second with,
'From the Midlands originally, but I've lived in Bristol for twelve years.'
And the third with,
'My son used to work for a company near there.'
On arriving at the venue we paid the driver and headed into Colston Hall. I will not go into any great depths about the show, as I would not want to spoil it for anybody, but I think that I'm entitled to describe the toilet conversation that amused me. During the interval I was availing myself of the facilities, when a fellow urinal-goer looked at me and said, 'It stinks of piss in here.' I was not sure what he expected me to reply with. What I wanted to say back was, 'It is a small, windowless, room where hundreds of people come solely to urinate, what did you expect it to smell like?', but being British, I just smiled, in a way that I hoped would not be misconstrued.
After the show we headed out to sample the delights of Bristol. I think that downtown Bristol could most kindly be described as 'spacious'. In an area the size of an International Airport's runways, Bristol has managed to cram in one O'Neills, a Reflex Bar and a Pub. There are vast swathes of concrete and tarmac, unsullied by anything as crass as buildings. Because of the distances involved in travelling between venues, Bristol is peppered with open-air plastic urinal booths. There is, as far as I am concerned, no more damning evidence of how the binge-drinking culture has harmed Britain, than Bristol Council exploiting a plastic loophole, to, essentially, legalise pissing in the middle of the street. In twenty-first century Bristol, one can, in full view of elderly couples leaving the theatre, love-struck teenagers, and the constabulary, relieve oneself, one's penis illuminated by council-tax funded street lighting, into a council-tax funded, grey-plastic, abomination. This, in the country that gave the world Shakespeare. I despair.
When we arrived, eventually, at O'Neill's, Adrian treated us all to an example of the inadvertently brilliant statements, that makes spending time with him such a joy. Talking, with admirable candour, about his step-son's recent experience at Crown Court, he defended the judge, criticised by his wife for sentencing her son to a maximum tariff term of incarceration. He confidentally stated, 'Well I really liked that judge. He wasn't taking any prisoners.' I pointed out that, according to his own preamble, the judge had taken at least three prisoners that I knew of.
After a couple of beers in O'Neills we all decided to head out for an Indian meal. I didn't think this to be a particularly unreasonable ambition at 11.45pm, on a Friday, in a major British city. I was mistaken. After walking for several days we decided, in the best traditions, to ask a policeman. He advised us to get a taxi to the nearest Indian restaurant, as it was over a mile away. No surprise there. On arriving at the Jubo Raj in Cottham Hill, we all enjoyed an unexpectedly good Indian meal, although the Kingfisher lager tasted more fishy than kingy. Not sure what I mean there, but the beer wasn't very nice.
After we had finished our meals we phoned a taxi to take us back to the jewel in Hilton's crown. As we were dropped off in the car park we could see that Muzzy was doing a roaring trade. I had originally assumed that Muzzy's passing custom would be very sparse, as he had decided to park his van on an industrial estate, on the A38. But Muzzy and Baron Hilton are obviously visionaries who know their market intimately. Muzzy's 'pitch', and accordingly, our hotel, were only around 12 miles from Bristol city centre, and as such are among the most central eating establishments and accommodation providers.
On arriving in our rooms my wife and I decided on a romantic night-cap. I opened the cabinet door, behind which, in other hotels, the mini-bar is typically located. However, in the Bristol Hilton, the traditional mini-bar has been replaced with mini-space. I was not surprised. All the mini-space lacked, to make it authentically Bristolian, was an mini-open-air urinal.
Monday, 13 October 2008
Thursday October 2nd
Today saw me going back to School X to continue my career as a part-time supply teacher. Despite my cynicism, I have found myself nearly enjoying working at School X. The other PE staff are people that I knew in my previous incarnation as a rugby player, three or four stones ago. As such there is a rapport that was somewhat lacking in my previous school, School W. The lack of chemistry with my head of department in School W was, in my opinion, largely due to one of us (I am au fait with the libel laws) having a level of communication skill that would embarrass an autistic child. (Were it possible for an autistic child to be embarrassed.) This was made worse, by the same one of us having a complete lack of a grasp of irony, or sarcasm. A typical dialogue between us, in the days before one of us gave up even trying:
One Of Us #1: You haven't seen a big box of badminton rackets anywhere, have you?
One Of Us #2: (Nodding at the big box of badminton rackets which they are carrying) What do you think this is?
You can, I am sure, imagine several like-scenarios that would present themselves in the course of a typical working day. As such, similar conversations regularly took place, as one of us became highly amused by them. Conversely, the other one of us thought that one of us was partially sighted, or unintelligent. This only heightened the enjoyment for one of us, whilst, at the same time, hindering that one's professional development.
But as I say, things are a lot better in School X. Although, if I hadn't become frustrated by certain people in School W, I would not be where I am today. Specifically, overdrawn, and driving my wife's Micra.
After finishing my days work in School X, I gave my time sheet to the jolly secretary to fax to the agency, and then set off to walk home. I had decided that I would rather spend money on a taxi to work and then walk home, than be seen driving the Micra to and from the school. I realise that this is ridiculous, and I am not proud of my lack of moral fibre, but every man has his limits. When my car was written off by a kindly skip-lorry driver, earlier in the year, we decided that, due to my painfully slow rise to the top, we only needed the one car. My wife offered to remove the Micra's 'Little Miss Naughty' pink steering wheel cover and dashboard-mounted 'Bagpuss', but I told her that that would not be necessary. She assumed that this was a magnanimous act on the part of a loving husband. The real motive was that, if they remained, I could get away with others thinking that I was driving my wife's/partner's car because my car was off the road for some reason. Remove them, and everyone would know that I, at 36 years of age, with a University education, drive a high-mileage, T-Reg Micra, which I am not even the registered keeper of.
The walk home took longer than I anticipated, and after forty five minutes I decided that I would never do it again. This meant that I could add walking to my list of unacceptable methods of transport. (I had written off taking a bus in the early nineties, as I had no desire to share an enclosed space with the long-term unemployed.) Consequently, from now on my options would be:
1. Get dropped off by my wife near the school entrance
2. Get a taxi to and from the school, being sure to point out to the jolly secretary that I was not banned for drink driving
3. Ride my mountain bike, but resolve NEVER to wear a cycling helmet
4. Ride my motorcycle
To clarify Point 3, I think that cycle helmets sum up everything that is wrong with the fear-obsessed, safety-conscious, nanny-state world that we inhabit today. I grew up in the 1970's and 1980's, and regularly rode bikes that didn't have lights, bells' shock-absorbers, or disc brakes. So did all my friends, including the ones I didn't like. None of us ever got badly injured, and none of us ever wore a cycle helmet, or knew anyone else who did. To see a grown man wearing one, makes me weep. If he is doing so riding across a park, with wife and kids in tow, all wearing matching head wear, I have to suppress the urge to kick him off and ask him what on earth does he think he is doing? An anonymous friend once took offence with this point of view and asked me what I would think if he took my advice and then got hit by a bus, whilst not wearing a cycling helmet. I pointed out that if he got hit by a bus and was wearing a cycling helmet, which is, let us not forget, essentially a polystyrene hat, the only diffrence would be that his corpse would look slightly more ridiculous. Still, it's a free country. Pity.
When my wife arrived home I put my (freshly-laundered) jacket in the back seat of the Micra, and headed off to pick up Elis James, as we were playing at the same comedy club in Exeter. I never feel embarrassed about the Micra in comedy circles as none of the other comedians in Wales appear to own a car. In the land of the blind, non-car owning comedian, the one-eyed, Micra owning comedian is King.
Although the journey to Exeter took us about two and a half hours, time passed quickly as Elis and I tried to out-anecdote each other all the way down. As we got to Exeter I switched my phones SatNav on. A deciding factor in purchasing the Nokia N95 was the SatNav capability, as I thought it would be useful for gigs in unfamiliar towns and cities. However, the last three times I have used it, including today, it has informed me:
1. To do an immediate U-Turn on the M5 as I was driving to a gig in St.Ives (the N95disappointingly made no mention of polygamous men, or sacks full of cats).
2. That the M4 on which I was driving en route to a gig in Minehead was not, as I had mistaklenly believed, a road.
3. That Tiggas Bar in Exeter is located in a quiet residential cul-de-sac, and bears a striking resemblance to a newly built detached home.
If Mr Nokia should ever read this, then please know that I think you are a charlatan sir, and I wish you would get lost. You may borrow my phone if you are unsure how to do so.
Eventually, using the traditional method of asking a local, we happened upon the venue. The manager of Tiggas has transformed the venue, from the place I vaguely remembered from my university days, into a very stylish bar with a nice stage, good lights and a very receptive clientele. I thoroughly enjoyed the gig, Elis compered superbly, I did my thing pretty well, and the headline act, Craig Campbell made me laugh out loud. Sometimes comedy nights can make me question my sanity at leaving a proper job. Other nights really make me think that there aren't many better ways to spend your life than making people laugh, then sitting down with a beer and letting people make you laugh. I dread these enjoyable evenings, because I know that at some later point, invariably when I am sat on the left side of the big sofa, the memory of the enjoyment will only serve to make me even more depressed that this will all end one day. Undaunted, I talked to Craig for a while after the gig and he was a thoroughly decent chap, as well as being a very funny comedian. If you get a chance to see him, or Elis, you should. Similarly, in my experience, the South West is a very nice part of the world, especially considering that it is in England. One for the xenaphobes there.
The way home passed pretty quickly again, but nonetheless, my emergency supply of caffeine tablets definately helped me to avoid having a quick, but deadly, nap whilst driving. In my daily thoughts about death, on the big sofa, a recurring theme is to die in an embarrassing fashion. As we neared the Severn Bridge at two thirty in the morning, with heavy eyes, it struck me that if I nodded off and we did go into the water, the emergency services would eventually recover a red Micra with pink accessories. In that car would be an eighteen stone, burly, thirty-six year old man, wearing a floral shirt and cowboy boots. Sat next to him would be a diminutive, fresh faced, long-haired, younger man. A South Wales Echo story about the mysterious couple, referencing Thelma and Louise, could not be ruled out. Fortunately that didn't happen and by three in the morning I was asleep in my underpants, having my usual nightmare in which all my teeth fall out, with the Micra safely unlocked outside.
One Of Us #1: You haven't seen a big box of badminton rackets anywhere, have you?
One Of Us #2: (Nodding at the big box of badminton rackets which they are carrying) What do you think this is?
You can, I am sure, imagine several like-scenarios that would present themselves in the course of a typical working day. As such, similar conversations regularly took place, as one of us became highly amused by them. Conversely, the other one of us thought that one of us was partially sighted, or unintelligent. This only heightened the enjoyment for one of us, whilst, at the same time, hindering that one's professional development.
But as I say, things are a lot better in School X. Although, if I hadn't become frustrated by certain people in School W, I would not be where I am today. Specifically, overdrawn, and driving my wife's Micra.
After finishing my days work in School X, I gave my time sheet to the jolly secretary to fax to the agency, and then set off to walk home. I had decided that I would rather spend money on a taxi to work and then walk home, than be seen driving the Micra to and from the school. I realise that this is ridiculous, and I am not proud of my lack of moral fibre, but every man has his limits. When my car was written off by a kindly skip-lorry driver, earlier in the year, we decided that, due to my painfully slow rise to the top, we only needed the one car. My wife offered to remove the Micra's 'Little Miss Naughty' pink steering wheel cover and dashboard-mounted 'Bagpuss', but I told her that that would not be necessary. She assumed that this was a magnanimous act on the part of a loving husband. The real motive was that, if they remained, I could get away with others thinking that I was driving my wife's/partner's car because my car was off the road for some reason. Remove them, and everyone would know that I, at 36 years of age, with a University education, drive a high-mileage, T-Reg Micra, which I am not even the registered keeper of.
The walk home took longer than I anticipated, and after forty five minutes I decided that I would never do it again. This meant that I could add walking to my list of unacceptable methods of transport. (I had written off taking a bus in the early nineties, as I had no desire to share an enclosed space with the long-term unemployed.) Consequently, from now on my options would be:
1. Get dropped off by my wife near the school entrance
2. Get a taxi to and from the school, being sure to point out to the jolly secretary that I was not banned for drink driving
3. Ride my mountain bike, but resolve NEVER to wear a cycling helmet
4. Ride my motorcycle
To clarify Point 3, I think that cycle helmets sum up everything that is wrong with the fear-obsessed, safety-conscious, nanny-state world that we inhabit today. I grew up in the 1970's and 1980's, and regularly rode bikes that didn't have lights, bells' shock-absorbers, or disc brakes. So did all my friends, including the ones I didn't like. None of us ever got badly injured, and none of us ever wore a cycle helmet, or knew anyone else who did. To see a grown man wearing one, makes me weep. If he is doing so riding across a park, with wife and kids in tow, all wearing matching head wear, I have to suppress the urge to kick him off and ask him what on earth does he think he is doing? An anonymous friend once took offence with this point of view and asked me what I would think if he took my advice and then got hit by a bus, whilst not wearing a cycling helmet. I pointed out that if he got hit by a bus and was wearing a cycling helmet, which is, let us not forget, essentially a polystyrene hat, the only diffrence would be that his corpse would look slightly more ridiculous. Still, it's a free country. Pity.
When my wife arrived home I put my (freshly-laundered) jacket in the back seat of the Micra, and headed off to pick up Elis James, as we were playing at the same comedy club in Exeter. I never feel embarrassed about the Micra in comedy circles as none of the other comedians in Wales appear to own a car. In the land of the blind, non-car owning comedian, the one-eyed, Micra owning comedian is King.
Although the journey to Exeter took us about two and a half hours, time passed quickly as Elis and I tried to out-anecdote each other all the way down. As we got to Exeter I switched my phones SatNav on. A deciding factor in purchasing the Nokia N95 was the SatNav capability, as I thought it would be useful for gigs in unfamiliar towns and cities. However, the last three times I have used it, including today, it has informed me:
1. To do an immediate U-Turn on the M5 as I was driving to a gig in St.Ives (the N95disappointingly made no mention of polygamous men, or sacks full of cats).
2. That the M4 on which I was driving en route to a gig in Minehead was not, as I had mistaklenly believed, a road.
3. That Tiggas Bar in Exeter is located in a quiet residential cul-de-sac, and bears a striking resemblance to a newly built detached home.
If Mr Nokia should ever read this, then please know that I think you are a charlatan sir, and I wish you would get lost. You may borrow my phone if you are unsure how to do so.
Eventually, using the traditional method of asking a local, we happened upon the venue. The manager of Tiggas has transformed the venue, from the place I vaguely remembered from my university days, into a very stylish bar with a nice stage, good lights and a very receptive clientele. I thoroughly enjoyed the gig, Elis compered superbly, I did my thing pretty well, and the headline act, Craig Campbell made me laugh out loud. Sometimes comedy nights can make me question my sanity at leaving a proper job. Other nights really make me think that there aren't many better ways to spend your life than making people laugh, then sitting down with a beer and letting people make you laugh. I dread these enjoyable evenings, because I know that at some later point, invariably when I am sat on the left side of the big sofa, the memory of the enjoyment will only serve to make me even more depressed that this will all end one day. Undaunted, I talked to Craig for a while after the gig and he was a thoroughly decent chap, as well as being a very funny comedian. If you get a chance to see him, or Elis, you should. Similarly, in my experience, the South West is a very nice part of the world, especially considering that it is in England. One for the xenaphobes there.
The way home passed pretty quickly again, but nonetheless, my emergency supply of caffeine tablets definately helped me to avoid having a quick, but deadly, nap whilst driving. In my daily thoughts about death, on the big sofa, a recurring theme is to die in an embarrassing fashion. As we neared the Severn Bridge at two thirty in the morning, with heavy eyes, it struck me that if I nodded off and we did go into the water, the emergency services would eventually recover a red Micra with pink accessories. In that car would be an eighteen stone, burly, thirty-six year old man, wearing a floral shirt and cowboy boots. Sat next to him would be a diminutive, fresh faced, long-haired, younger man. A South Wales Echo story about the mysterious couple, referencing Thelma and Louise, could not be ruled out. Fortunately that didn't happen and by three in the morning I was asleep in my underpants, having my usual nightmare in which all my teeth fall out, with the Micra safely unlocked outside.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Wednesday October 1st
Wednesday, as far as I am concerned, highlighted some of the best and worst traits of the British nation. On the face of it, the plans I had made for the day were sparse, even by my standards. To wit:
1. Take my jacket to the dry cleaners to be cleaned, ready for the gig I was doing in Exeter the following night.
2. Collect jacket from the dry cleaners.
(I appreciate that these two tasks could be combined into 'Have jacket dry cleaned', but I wanted to pad it out a bit, in case my wife's father ever reads this blog. He is of the generation that doesn't consider anything that takes place in one's own house as work. Therefore, writing isn't work. Preparing stand-up routines isn't work. Even the evenings spent driving around the country, to prostrate myself in front of strangers, to arrive home, exhausted, at three in the morning, only warrant the label of 'a hobby'. Indeed, he is often keen to point out that I could always go back to teaching full-time, without having to give up this hobby.)
As I live in a capital city, sort of, in the world's fourth largest economy, I had assumed that this would be fairly straightforward. I drove past my usual dry cleaners, as they do not offer an express service, and parked the Micra, unlocked, in the free car park that serves the shoppers in the region of Cardiff where I live, the 'gritty' (rough) district of Canton. I'm not sure that the car park would be as full as it always is if there was a charge to park there. The shattered car window glass that always covers the area, and the series of escape lanes that lead away from it, like the spokes of a wheel, do not inspire confidence. But, using applied Welsh reasoning, it's always a good idea to park there; it may be unlit, unsafe, unpatrolled and unsecured...but it's free.
I walked into Johnson's Dry Cleaners, Cowbridge Road, Canton, Cardiff (I told them that I would list their full address), carrying my jacket, and was greeted by a middle-aged, bespectacled, simpleton.I told her that I would like to have the jacket dry-cleaned, using their express service. She smiled in 'that' way, took the jacket and told me that I could collect it on Friday afternoon. I held onto the jacket, and told her that I needed it the next day, and that I would like to pay the extra to use the '4 Hour Service' that was referred to on the shop's sign. She looked at me as if I had suggested bathing her, and told me that I had missed the load for that day. I pointed out that it was 9.05am. She assured me that there was nothing that she could do, but that it would definitely be ready by Friday. I composed myself, and told her that that was the day after I needed to wear the jacket in a cleaned condition. She smiled, and once more began to take the jacket from me. I held firm and asked if there was anyone in authority/with all their chromosomes, that I could speak with. She looked at me with contempt, and shuffled into the back of the premises.
Stella*, tha manager, looked like she was the sort of person that, had I entered into the following conversation in a pub, would almost certainly have glassed me. She had thin lips (never a good sign), hard eyes and a tattoo of a Welsh Dragon on her wrist, near enough the forearm to be more frightening than cool. I will try to summarise our brief meeting in script form, so that you can role play it, and in so doing, get a taste of contemporary British customer service.
Stella: (Angrily) Have you got a problem?
Mike: (Now with a bigger problem) Yes. I need to get my jacket cleaned today.
Stella: (Pointing to dungeon-girl) She's already told you, you're too late.
Mike: (Pointing to dungeon-girl)I've already told her, that you advertise a '4 Hour Service'. That's why I came here.
Stella: (Blinding me with science) If I put that jacket in an empty drum, it will pull the buttons off. You'll have to wait until the next load goes in.
Mike: When will that be?
Stella: Friday.
Mike: It's Wednesday morning.
Stella: We don't do any cleaning on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Mike: It doesn't mention that anywhere on your opening hours information.
Stella: We haven't done any on a Tuesday or Thursday for months.
Mike: How am I supposed to know that?
Stella: (Shrugs)
Mike: So why can't I have the '4 Hour Service' today?
Stella: You're too late.
Mike: At nine o' clock in the morning?
Stella: Yes.
Mike: That's ridiculous. You don't do any cleaning at all two days out of six, and on the four days you do, there's no guarantee that you can provide the '4 Hour Service' that you advertise.
Stella: It's nothing to do with me.
Mike: It is something to do with you, you're the manager. Your sign says '4 Hour Service'.
Stella: The sign is nothing to do with me, there are 374 branches.
Mike: But you're the manager of this branch, so this sign is something to do with you.
Stella: It's head office's problem.
Mike: Do head office know that the information on your sign no longer applies to the operation of your branch?
Stella: Uh?
Mike: Have you called head office to point out that your particular sign bears no resemblance to the service that your particular branch actually provides?
Stella: Not yet, no.
Mike: Then it is your problem.
Stella: No one else complains.
Mike: No one else wants my jacket cleaned today.
Stella: Uh?
At this point, in order to avoid a criminal damage law suit, I requested that Stella write down the name and contact details of the regional manager for me, so that I could take matters further. She reluctantly did so, then summoned dungeon-girl to join her for a tea-break at the back of the premises, they had, after all, been on their feet for nearly forty minutes, leaving me on my own at the front desk. I phoned head office, but was unsurprised to hear that the regional manager is on holiday, but that he will contact me on his return. Unsatisfied, I proceeded out onto the pavement, to photograph the shop's signage. I will use these photographs as evidence in my future dealings with Johnson's Dry Cleaners.
On a happier note, the staff at Cathedral Cleaners, also in the Canton area, could not do enough to help. Despite not providing an express service at that particular branch they arranged for me to deliver the jacket to their Llandaff branch, and within three, yes three, hours, it was ready for collection. The helpful, full-lipped, manager, had even tightened a loose button at no extra charge. I was so pleased at my faith in people being restored by the good people at Cathedral Cleaners, that I offered to buy the homeless person selling the Big Issue outside the Llandaff Spar store lunch and a drink (I couldn't purchase a paper, as I had spent all my cash at the cleaners and only had a debit card on me). To my amazement he declined my offer of lunch. Evidently there is a more discerning class of vagrant in the Diocese of Llandaff. Unperturbed I wished him a good day, and headed home with my freshly laundered jacket and a tremendous sense of civic pride. My daily tasks had all been successfully accomplished. It was quarter to one in the afternoon. My father-in-law has got a point.
* Stella's name has been changed to protect her identity. Her place of work, physical description and tattoo details, have not.
1. Take my jacket to the dry cleaners to be cleaned, ready for the gig I was doing in Exeter the following night.
2. Collect jacket from the dry cleaners.
(I appreciate that these two tasks could be combined into 'Have jacket dry cleaned', but I wanted to pad it out a bit, in case my wife's father ever reads this blog. He is of the generation that doesn't consider anything that takes place in one's own house as work. Therefore, writing isn't work. Preparing stand-up routines isn't work. Even the evenings spent driving around the country, to prostrate myself in front of strangers, to arrive home, exhausted, at three in the morning, only warrant the label of 'a hobby'. Indeed, he is often keen to point out that I could always go back to teaching full-time, without having to give up this hobby.)
As I live in a capital city, sort of, in the world's fourth largest economy, I had assumed that this would be fairly straightforward. I drove past my usual dry cleaners, as they do not offer an express service, and parked the Micra, unlocked, in the free car park that serves the shoppers in the region of Cardiff where I live, the 'gritty' (rough) district of Canton. I'm not sure that the car park would be as full as it always is if there was a charge to park there. The shattered car window glass that always covers the area, and the series of escape lanes that lead away from it, like the spokes of a wheel, do not inspire confidence. But, using applied Welsh reasoning, it's always a good idea to park there; it may be unlit, unsafe, unpatrolled and unsecured...but it's free.
I walked into Johnson's Dry Cleaners, Cowbridge Road, Canton, Cardiff (I told them that I would list their full address), carrying my jacket, and was greeted by a middle-aged, bespectacled, simpleton.I told her that I would like to have the jacket dry-cleaned, using their express service. She smiled in 'that' way, took the jacket and told me that I could collect it on Friday afternoon. I held onto the jacket, and told her that I needed it the next day, and that I would like to pay the extra to use the '4 Hour Service' that was referred to on the shop's sign. She looked at me as if I had suggested bathing her, and told me that I had missed the load for that day. I pointed out that it was 9.05am. She assured me that there was nothing that she could do, but that it would definitely be ready by Friday. I composed myself, and told her that that was the day after I needed to wear the jacket in a cleaned condition. She smiled, and once more began to take the jacket from me. I held firm and asked if there was anyone in authority/with all their chromosomes, that I could speak with. She looked at me with contempt, and shuffled into the back of the premises.
Stella*, tha manager, looked like she was the sort of person that, had I entered into the following conversation in a pub, would almost certainly have glassed me. She had thin lips (never a good sign), hard eyes and a tattoo of a Welsh Dragon on her wrist, near enough the forearm to be more frightening than cool. I will try to summarise our brief meeting in script form, so that you can role play it, and in so doing, get a taste of contemporary British customer service.
Stella: (Angrily) Have you got a problem?
Mike: (Now with a bigger problem) Yes. I need to get my jacket cleaned today.
Stella: (Pointing to dungeon-girl) She's already told you, you're too late.
Mike: (Pointing to dungeon-girl)I've already told her, that you advertise a '4 Hour Service'. That's why I came here.
Stella: (Blinding me with science) If I put that jacket in an empty drum, it will pull the buttons off. You'll have to wait until the next load goes in.
Mike: When will that be?
Stella: Friday.
Mike: It's Wednesday morning.
Stella: We don't do any cleaning on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Mike: It doesn't mention that anywhere on your opening hours information.
Stella: We haven't done any on a Tuesday or Thursday for months.
Mike: How am I supposed to know that?
Stella: (Shrugs)
Mike: So why can't I have the '4 Hour Service' today?
Stella: You're too late.
Mike: At nine o' clock in the morning?
Stella: Yes.
Mike: That's ridiculous. You don't do any cleaning at all two days out of six, and on the four days you do, there's no guarantee that you can provide the '4 Hour Service' that you advertise.
Stella: It's nothing to do with me.
Mike: It is something to do with you, you're the manager. Your sign says '4 Hour Service'.
Stella: The sign is nothing to do with me, there are 374 branches.
Mike: But you're the manager of this branch, so this sign is something to do with you.
Stella: It's head office's problem.
Mike: Do head office know that the information on your sign no longer applies to the operation of your branch?
Stella: Uh?
Mike: Have you called head office to point out that your particular sign bears no resemblance to the service that your particular branch actually provides?
Stella: Not yet, no.
Mike: Then it is your problem.
Stella: No one else complains.
Mike: No one else wants my jacket cleaned today.
Stella: Uh?
At this point, in order to avoid a criminal damage law suit, I requested that Stella write down the name and contact details of the regional manager for me, so that I could take matters further. She reluctantly did so, then summoned dungeon-girl to join her for a tea-break at the back of the premises, they had, after all, been on their feet for nearly forty minutes, leaving me on my own at the front desk. I phoned head office, but was unsurprised to hear that the regional manager is on holiday, but that he will contact me on his return. Unsatisfied, I proceeded out onto the pavement, to photograph the shop's signage. I will use these photographs as evidence in my future dealings with Johnson's Dry Cleaners.
On a happier note, the staff at Cathedral Cleaners, also in the Canton area, could not do enough to help. Despite not providing an express service at that particular branch they arranged for me to deliver the jacket to their Llandaff branch, and within three, yes three, hours, it was ready for collection. The helpful, full-lipped, manager, had even tightened a loose button at no extra charge. I was so pleased at my faith in people being restored by the good people at Cathedral Cleaners, that I offered to buy the homeless person selling the Big Issue outside the Llandaff Spar store lunch and a drink (I couldn't purchase a paper, as I had spent all my cash at the cleaners and only had a debit card on me). To my amazement he declined my offer of lunch. Evidently there is a more discerning class of vagrant in the Diocese of Llandaff. Unperturbed I wished him a good day, and headed home with my freshly laundered jacket and a tremendous sense of civic pride. My daily tasks had all been successfully accomplished. It was quarter to one in the afternoon. My father-in-law has got a point.
* Stella's name has been changed to protect her identity. Her place of work, physical description and tattoo details, have not.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Tuesday September 30th
Other than seeing Beelzebub in the morning, the instant that I opened the door to pick up my milk bottles, Tuesday was, as Tuesdays often are, non-descript. I spent the day writing ideas for a new scrpit that I am working on, which should, all being well, be unread, in an unopened envelope, in production company bins, throughout the UK, by November. Later in the afternoon I began putting together some topical stuff, as I was compering a new comedy night at Cardiff's Buffalo Bar in the evening. As it was a new night, I didn't really know what to expect. If I had known, I may well have spent less time preparing.
The venue itself was a strange shape for comedy, a wide stage area, a narrow corridor of seating, leading to another wide area, containing sofas, at the rear. I got there about half an hour before, as I usually do, and had my customary soft drink, whilst I spoke to the organiser. As the venue began to fill I began to suspect the worst. It was a new university term, and the average age of the audience was, I would estimate, eighteen. If you're not familiar with a comedy evening, the comperes 'job' is to prepare the audience for the comedians. Typically, depending on the gig, the format will be compere, comedian, break, compere, comedian, break, compere, headliner. But getting the hang of watching live comedy can be a similar process to getting the hang of performing live comedy. That is, if, as an audience member, you are embarrassed to laugh, or interract, or speak, you may not enjoy it as much as someone who is au fait with live comedy. This is not to knock the audience. One of the best things about comedy is that it is totally subjective. I used to sing in the clubs (I have no shame) which I never found scary. People may not have liked a song that I was singing, but they would have to admit that I COULD sing. However, if people do not laugh at you, you are NOT funny. Simple as that. As it was, I did manage to make people laugh, after a slow start, but only by ditching my planned topical routine and relying heavily on wanking-based material. This can be depressing. We like to talk about how unintelligent our American friends are, but if you spent an hour and a half wracking your brains to think of a laughter point that young people in Britain could relate to, that was nothing to do with the genital area, you would be as disillusioned with the Playstation Generation as I am. As a social experiment, ask a teenaged friend, or realtive, to give you a sixty-second rundown of recent world events. I guarantee that it will be an eye-opening experience.
In the evening I returned home, listening to Radio Two, had a glass of red wine, put on the History Channel, and sat down in my underpants to watch another programme about Hitler and the Third Reich. I like to move with the times.
The venue itself was a strange shape for comedy, a wide stage area, a narrow corridor of seating, leading to another wide area, containing sofas, at the rear. I got there about half an hour before, as I usually do, and had my customary soft drink, whilst I spoke to the organiser. As the venue began to fill I began to suspect the worst. It was a new university term, and the average age of the audience was, I would estimate, eighteen. If you're not familiar with a comedy evening, the comperes 'job' is to prepare the audience for the comedians. Typically, depending on the gig, the format will be compere, comedian, break, compere, comedian, break, compere, headliner. But getting the hang of watching live comedy can be a similar process to getting the hang of performing live comedy. That is, if, as an audience member, you are embarrassed to laugh, or interract, or speak, you may not enjoy it as much as someone who is au fait with live comedy. This is not to knock the audience. One of the best things about comedy is that it is totally subjective. I used to sing in the clubs (I have no shame) which I never found scary. People may not have liked a song that I was singing, but they would have to admit that I COULD sing. However, if people do not laugh at you, you are NOT funny. Simple as that. As it was, I did manage to make people laugh, after a slow start, but only by ditching my planned topical routine and relying heavily on wanking-based material. This can be depressing. We like to talk about how unintelligent our American friends are, but if you spent an hour and a half wracking your brains to think of a laughter point that young people in Britain could relate to, that was nothing to do with the genital area, you would be as disillusioned with the Playstation Generation as I am. As a social experiment, ask a teenaged friend, or realtive, to give you a sixty-second rundown of recent world events. I guarantee that it will be an eye-opening experience.
In the evening I returned home, listening to Radio Two, had a glass of red wine, put on the History Channel, and sat down in my underpants to watch another programme about Hitler and the Third Reich. I like to move with the times.
Monday September 29th
My wife answered the door to Adrian at seven thirty in the morning and, after nearly three hours of sleep, I was ready to face the day. I help out Adrian most Mondays. I would say that I work for him, but the only payment I get is to turn almost every thing he utters into a stand-up comedy routine. I currently have two full routines that are entirely based upon things that Adrian has told me. He never ceases to amaze me. He is my muse.
On this particular Monday I was helping Adrian to replace a window at an address in Caerphilly. There is one of the world's most picturesque snack food vistas from the car park serving the burger van at the top of Caerphilly mountain, so he stopped the Transit van there to buy us both breakfast.
We sat in the van, enjoying the British tradition that is an entire breakfast in a roll. Adrian is a devout and commited Jehovah's Witness, and often conversation gets steered towards his beliefs. I never find this offensive If anything it's quite touching that someone genuinely believes that they can help other people and are willing to try, usually in the face of adversity and ridicule, to do so. On this occasion black pudding was the catalyst. He asked if I like black pudding, I said I did, but only ever in small amounts. He asked if I knew what it was made of, I replied that I did. He informed me that he used to love black pudding, but when he found out what it was made of, he stopped eating it. He then explained to me, again, the reasons why we are not supposed to eat blood. It wasn't great meal-time discourse, but I nodded politely, and continued to eat my roll. He looked into the distance, and then came out with one of the sweeping, groundless, statements that endear him to me,
'I bet black pudding kills thousands of people every year, but the government hush it all up'
I nearly choked on my bacon, and started laughing. He was adamant that he was onto something though,
'They know it's killing people. But think of all the money tied up in it'.
So there we are. On that Monday morning I had not only had a free breakfast roll, I had become embroiled in one of the most brilliant, and deadly, conspiracy theories of all time.
The rest of the day didn't live up to it's early promise and it ended with me falling asleep on the big sofa at around nine in the evening, having had barely any opportunity to think about death.
On this particular Monday I was helping Adrian to replace a window at an address in Caerphilly. There is one of the world's most picturesque snack food vistas from the car park serving the burger van at the top of Caerphilly mountain, so he stopped the Transit van there to buy us both breakfast.
We sat in the van, enjoying the British tradition that is an entire breakfast in a roll. Adrian is a devout and commited Jehovah's Witness, and often conversation gets steered towards his beliefs. I never find this offensive If anything it's quite touching that someone genuinely believes that they can help other people and are willing to try, usually in the face of adversity and ridicule, to do so. On this occasion black pudding was the catalyst. He asked if I like black pudding, I said I did, but only ever in small amounts. He asked if I knew what it was made of, I replied that I did. He informed me that he used to love black pudding, but when he found out what it was made of, he stopped eating it. He then explained to me, again, the reasons why we are not supposed to eat blood. It wasn't great meal-time discourse, but I nodded politely, and continued to eat my roll. He looked into the distance, and then came out with one of the sweeping, groundless, statements that endear him to me,
'I bet black pudding kills thousands of people every year, but the government hush it all up'
I nearly choked on my bacon, and started laughing. He was adamant that he was onto something though,
'They know it's killing people. But think of all the money tied up in it'.
So there we are. On that Monday morning I had not only had a free breakfast roll, I had become embroiled in one of the most brilliant, and deadly, conspiracy theories of all time.
The rest of the day didn't live up to it's early promise and it ended with me falling asleep on the big sofa at around nine in the evening, having had barely any opportunity to think about death.
Sunday September 28th
The day after my wife's birthday party started in the same manner as it always does when I stay at my mother-in-law's house in Swansea, with the smell of partially cooked bacon. As much as love my MiL, cooking is not her forte. As such, she is a staunch advocate of the microwave oven. Personally, I think that there is a big difference in cooked food and hot food, consequently I neither use, nor own, a microwave oven. I got out of bed with, what I had a fairly good idea would end up being, one of the sort of hangovers that you assumed were a wild exaggeration by your older friends when you were in your twenties. From experience I knew that I had about two hours of feeling 'surprisingly good, actually', after which I would feel awful for around two days. This 'window of wellness' used to regularly give me false hope, but now I realise that it is but a fleeting moment of relative happiness, to be followed, with depressing certainty, by an overwhelming sense that death would be a sweet relief, so I don't allow myself to enjoy it for one second. I have just realised that my hangovers have become a metaphor for my life.
Anyway, I dragged myself to the dining room, to confront my breakfast ordeal. I was treated to the typical 'cooked' breakfast of translucent eggs, floppy pink bacon and volcanic beans. I took care not to rest my arms on the table, not out of politeness, but to avoid inadvertantly touching the glowing crockery. I think that my MiL must buy her plates from NASA, as they would appear to be made from Shuttle re-entry grade ceramic. The glass place mats are not for decoration, but to stop the table bursting into flames. After breakfast I drank the coffee my MiL had made me, containing, as always, 200% of the sugar that I had requested, and went back to bed to rest my eyes.
After waking up for the second time I headed to the sitting room, and was appalled to see that it was three-thirty in the afternoon. My wife had left to do the rounds of the Swansea relatives, so I sat eating Jaffa Cakes, drinking too-sweet coffee and trying not to think about my stomach cramps, until she returned. The cramps were caused by the fact that my MiL lives in a bungalow. This means that the toilet is on the same floor and, crucially, within earshot, of the sitting room. This fact means that I am unable to make proper use of the toilet facilities if anyone else is in the house. I am aware that this is not norml behaviour.
On getting back to Cardiff later in the evening we stopped at the Star of Wales Indian restaurant for dinner. The food was quite good, but my wife's powers of reasoning were simply world class, and I feel the need to share them with you. After poppadums she leaned over the table to ask me whether she could ask me something without me thinking she was stupid. I always say 'of course' to this, and I am rarely disappointed. She pointed at a painting on the wall behind me and whispered,
'Is that why it's called The Bay of Pigs?'
I looked around to see the painting of a seaside scene, then looked at her, perplexed
'Look. In the sand. It looks like an upside-down pig, don't you think?'
I looked again. There was a shadow cast by a dune that, if you used a degree of imagination, resembled an inverted pig, as a six-year old might render it. I replied that I suppose it did look a bit like a pig.
'So is that why it's called The Bay of Pigs?' she asked again.
I though I might be missing something. So seeking clarification I asked,
'Do you mean is the 'Bay of Pigs', in Cuba, so called, because, in a poorly executed painting in a restaurant in Cardiff, the shadow cast by a moving sand dune on an anonymous beach in India looks a little bit like an upside-down pig?'
She looked offended. Apparently I was trying to make her 'look stupid'. I apologised and assured her that Table Mountain in South Africa had nothing to do with a table depicted on another painting also hanging in the restaurant. The rest of the meal passed without incident.
On arriving home I began to wake up, suffering, as I was, from drink-lag. My wife could happily sleep for days, so she went to bed. I, on the other hand, watched three NFL games back-to-back. I eventually went to bed at around four thirty in the morning, having forgotten that I had agreed to help mt friend Adrian with a building project and that he would be ringing my doorbell in approximately three hours time.
Bugger.
Anyway, I dragged myself to the dining room, to confront my breakfast ordeal. I was treated to the typical 'cooked' breakfast of translucent eggs, floppy pink bacon and volcanic beans. I took care not to rest my arms on the table, not out of politeness, but to avoid inadvertantly touching the glowing crockery. I think that my MiL must buy her plates from NASA, as they would appear to be made from Shuttle re-entry grade ceramic. The glass place mats are not for decoration, but to stop the table bursting into flames. After breakfast I drank the coffee my MiL had made me, containing, as always, 200% of the sugar that I had requested, and went back to bed to rest my eyes.
After waking up for the second time I headed to the sitting room, and was appalled to see that it was three-thirty in the afternoon. My wife had left to do the rounds of the Swansea relatives, so I sat eating Jaffa Cakes, drinking too-sweet coffee and trying not to think about my stomach cramps, until she returned. The cramps were caused by the fact that my MiL lives in a bungalow. This means that the toilet is on the same floor and, crucially, within earshot, of the sitting room. This fact means that I am unable to make proper use of the toilet facilities if anyone else is in the house. I am aware that this is not norml behaviour.
On getting back to Cardiff later in the evening we stopped at the Star of Wales Indian restaurant for dinner. The food was quite good, but my wife's powers of reasoning were simply world class, and I feel the need to share them with you. After poppadums she leaned over the table to ask me whether she could ask me something without me thinking she was stupid. I always say 'of course' to this, and I am rarely disappointed. She pointed at a painting on the wall behind me and whispered,
'Is that why it's called The Bay of Pigs?'
I looked around to see the painting of a seaside scene, then looked at her, perplexed
'Look. In the sand. It looks like an upside-down pig, don't you think?'
I looked again. There was a shadow cast by a dune that, if you used a degree of imagination, resembled an inverted pig, as a six-year old might render it. I replied that I suppose it did look a bit like a pig.
'So is that why it's called The Bay of Pigs?' she asked again.
I though I might be missing something. So seeking clarification I asked,
'Do you mean is the 'Bay of Pigs', in Cuba, so called, because, in a poorly executed painting in a restaurant in Cardiff, the shadow cast by a moving sand dune on an anonymous beach in India looks a little bit like an upside-down pig?'
She looked offended. Apparently I was trying to make her 'look stupid'. I apologised and assured her that Table Mountain in South Africa had nothing to do with a table depicted on another painting also hanging in the restaurant. The rest of the meal passed without incident.
On arriving home I began to wake up, suffering, as I was, from drink-lag. My wife could happily sleep for days, so she went to bed. I, on the other hand, watched three NFL games back-to-back. I eventually went to bed at around four thirty in the morning, having forgotten that I had agreed to help mt friend Adrian with a building project and that he would be ringing my doorbell in approximately three hours time.
Bugger.
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