Everywhere you go (Always take the weather with you) Or "a few days with Jesus"

Well, what a week. When I heard I was going to Spain I was less than excited - it was, after all, work and not a holiday, and living on your own in a cheap hotel for four days can be a bit of a drag. So I didn't exactly have a joyous spring in my step when I set off. Overall though, the experience was not as bad as it could have been and better than I had feared. Arriving in Malaga at 8 o'clock at night things did not get off to a good start. I picked up my hire car and quicly realised that;

a) I had not driven a manual car for over 6 years.

b) The steering wheel and gearstick are on the wrong side. (Although this turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because all the drivers drive on the wrong side of the road, so it sort of makes sense.)

c) The sat nav maps on my phone were at least 3 years out of date - and the display might just as well have displayed a skull and crossbones with the message "Here be Dragons" for all the use it was.

d) It was dark.

e) It was pissing down with rain.

So, to a merry accompaniment of shouts of encouragement from Spanish road users I lurched, juddered and swerved my way around Malaga until I spotted the road that I needed to take. It is a measure of my ability to quickly acclimatise that I was only lost for an hour or so. Some time later, I found the hotel. Then, looking for a parking spot, I got lost again and found myself on the motorway, speeding away from the hotel at a great rate of knots. By this time I was a seasoned Spanish driver, so it only took me about 45 minutes to find the hotel again. Cue a calming beer, and off to my room. I decided to use the USB dongle to pick up my emails, as the Internet connection in the hotel cost €24 (!) this proved to be a wise choice, as my Internet usage only came to some £35.....um. The next day it was off to the hills, where I was to be recording the Spanish Voice Over for a computer game.

The Studio

The studio was Little piece of hippy heaven snuggled into the foothills of whatever mountains were looming over us (note to self - pay more attention to geography). It was originally set up be a chap named Usul - a friend of Ravi Shankar's who died a couple of years ago, and was a place that had proudly earned the epithet "ramshackle". Take away the recording equipment and the tipsy wooden beams and placeholder roof would have not looked out of place in Hobbiton. The grounds were studded with orange, grapefruit, lime, clementine that you could just pick straight from the trees. I know, I can hear your thoughts already, but let's be fair, for most of us, the natural environment of the citrus fruit is the supermarket shelf, isn't it? In addition, there were the signs of another recently harvested crop which I would have found much more interesting had I needed to feel at one with life the universe and everything.... Inside, propped in a corner was a sitar that was once played by Ravi Shankar himself! Like any right minded person, I picked it up in the hope that Sitar playing skills had magically descended upon me. Alas no.

So, to work. The work would have gone swimmingly but for the constant interruptions of the local cockerel - every couple of minutes the recording would have to stop whilst we ran outside and shooed away the bloody thing. These things happen. The 2 actors, Jesus and Javier, were absolute stars, and made the trip for me - anyone who introduces themselves with the phrase " you are from England - you know David Icke?" can't fail to be interesting, or baffling. Or both. The work progressed, actors made sounds, we recorded them and all was well (cocks excepted).

After recording, I followed the same routine, hotel, shower, stroll, tapas, beer, hotel. A word about tapas. The tapas in Spain is Brilliant. (capital B intended), whether it's the chorizo, the anchovies, the octopus, the chicken livers, the little kebab things, the salads, the ham, the meatballs, the fried breadcrumbs, the potatoes in "stuff".. well, I'm sure that you get the point. For anyone planning to stay in San Pedro, the best place I found was La Bodega - relaxed, traditional, friendly, yummy and no Brits.

And so it went - having done my research and found that Estepona rejoiced in a year round climate of around 19 degrees, I was not best equipped for the freezing conditions. Evidently it is very rare for there to be snow. Really. And now back to the home front - delayed projects tapping me ever more urgently on the shoulder, things I really should be doing. And here I sit - blogging. Well, no more. To work it is. Until the next time, hasta la vista!

Brothers, Sisters, we don't need no fascist groove thang.

Having fallen off the wagon, I am feeling generally well disposed towards the world at the moment. Farewell road rage, and hello familiar worries. Although I do have some new worries...

The events of the last couple of weeks have been worrying me, although not in the way you might expect. It seems pretty clear that we are heading towards a recession or a depression, depending on who you listen to, and although I don't think that we will be looking at soup kitchens and Jarrow marches, I think that one of the consequences of recession hasn't been seen yet. Always after an economic downturn there seems to follow a radicalisation of politics - liberalism (with a small l) doesn't seem to sit well with a population that's worried about jobs, money and the future that's in store for our kids. *cue some sweeping generalisations* The depression of the 1930's was the manure that gave vigour to the fascist movements in many western countries, and the dole queues were rich recruiting grounds for the National Front in the early 80's. With unemployment nudging 2 million again, how long before the Daily Mail readers start looking at the economic migrants with hate-filled eyes? Immigration has been an issue for debate over the last few years, and that's when there have been plenty of jobs to go around - how will the man in the dole queue view the Poles, Lithuanians, Latvians, Albanians, Croatians etc when he sees them earning money that "should be his"? I can even feel the stirrings of unease inside my own guardian-reading heart. Similarly, when money is tight, who gives a toss about the environment? When times are hard, who cares what the natives are doing to each other in Matabeleland? When you can't afford to run your own country, can politicians afford to look after another country's interests? "Foreign aid? No thanks, charity begins at home." And when the west is desperately trying to keep it's populations happy, fed and employed, some countries will see this as the perfect time to press their own agenda. Even in the last week, we've seen North Korea and Iran getting more belligerent - pushing the boundaries to see what they can get away with. I'm sure that this is going to continue - what hold we had over Russia and China has gone - and Georgia, has been the result. I certainly wouldn't like to be living in Taiwan at the moment - I wouldn't be at all surprised if there are some major Chinese military "exercises" there in the next few months. As the west sees that it cannot project itself on the world through conventional force, the only deterrent left becomes the unthinkable nightmare of nuclear weapons - raising the stakes of the game to a point where you simply cannot afford to call the bluff of the muscular states. And as the west sees it's hegemony slipping away, there will be those in the wings talking about the destiny of our countries, how we shouldn't bend our knee to the upstart nations, national pride, and even *whisper it* racial purity. And as we see the rise of the right, so too will we see the left gaining strength to balance the equation - the failure of capitalism will be flag, the fight against fascism will be the cause, and China will be the shining example. Throw into the mix a racially and religiously diverse population and we are heading for shit street. Politicians have seldom been so free of ideology as they are at the moment, to a point where it is difficult to say what the different parties (in the UK at least) actually stand for. Pragmatism has been the byword for recent politics, both in terms of the policies and the self-serving agendas of the politicians themselves - but when that pragmatism encourages politicians to swim with the current of public opinion, you get a distorted and amplified view of what 's in the public mind - no matter how ugly that is.

"Hard times in old England, in old England, very hard times."

V

Day four of giving up smoking and I'm not a nice person to be around. Or indeed to be. I'm very very tetchy. Angry almost. The headaches don't help. Driving is especially trying - Bruce Banner goes out of the window, and what is left is not a courteous and considerate road user. I have come up with a strategy however, to try to reduce the risk of a little incident; I have a mental narrative playing, where I try to categorise all other road users by the make of their car. For example, all Vauxhall drivers are cunts. Every one.

Corsa/Nova: Either untermensch chavscum "cruising" round town with their pox riddled fuck puppets advertising to the world their lack of taste in cars, music and women, or semi senile piss soaked grannies who are about as useful behind the wheel of a car as a random bucket of organs from the local butchers.

Astras: Falls into two categories, old Astras and new Astras. Old Astras are the equivalent of a mule in the wild west - cheap, basic transport, invariably laden down with tools, wood and bits and pieces from the local DIY shop. Driven by slouching old men with a roll up behind one ear and trousers held up with hairy string (probably). Highway code? They wrote it. In fucking crayon. Utterly unconcerned by the presence of other road users, probably because they are wondering where the nearest lay-by is so that they can clot their sporran over page three whilst eating a pie.

New Astras are invariably driven by bitter, under achieving, office supplies salesmen (and women). Cheap suits, cheap aftershave, and the flashiest mobile phone they can afford. Bitter at their lot in life, and wishing that they could be eligible for a better car, they always seem to drive as if they have something to prove. News flash: You've already proved it. And we're laughing. We KNOW that you'll never make middle management and the elusive executive upgrade, but do you? One day soon, after a morning spent carving up other motorists and and afternoon failing to sell any A4 copier paper you are going to sit down, assess your life, and make the world a happier place by leaving.

Zafira/Meriva

Where to start? The Paedophiles choice. Mum goes to Iceland, and dad drives a Zafira. For some strange reason, I see a lot of the GSi (is that right?) or "sporty" models about. A little badge on the back of your four wheeled transformer does not a cool dad make, and secretly they know it. People who drive these cars masturbate in the shower whilst thinking of the wife's sister, or the work experience girl. If you own a Zafira or a Meriva your life is over - oh you may still be breathing, but have you ever asked yourself what for? Your kids lie awake at night wondering how much they will inherit when you die. Alright, not as badly driven as some models, mainly because the drivers are acutely aware of their own mortality.

Tigra/Antara/Agila

Tigra - one of the ugliest cars in the world, can only be bought by blind people, who shouldn't be allowed to drive. (actually, I suppose that rich people could buy Tigras and give then to people that they really don't like, but I suspect that this is not a sustainable market given the current economic climate).

Antara "From £21,000". If you cannot think of a better way to spend £21,000 then you are dragging average IQ of the human race down, and you should be shot for the good of us all.

Agila. A Suzuki. Built in Poland. By Vauxhall. On which planet does this sound good? Judging by the drivers, planet Ditzy. Always female (or pre-op transsexual). Often with a passenger who that are incapable of talking to without turning their head and looking them in the eyes "why should I look at the road? It's not as if it's going anywhere..". Not involved in as many accidents as they cause, which is a pity.

Vectra

Ah, the Vectra. Ever wondered what happens to the bitter, under achieving office supplies salesman if he gets promoted? A bitter, under achieving sales manager. Or a policeman. Whatever, the effect is much the same, a cocksure, know-it-all napoleon complex wrapped up in a cocoon of insecurities, spite and bile. Often causes accidents by replying to email offering penis enlargement on their blackberry. Interestingly, many Vectra drivers seem to be aware of this on some level, and often drive the cars as if they really hate them. You know that David Brent would drive a Vectra.

Labels for this post: e.g. scooters, vacation, fall

It is true that it has been some time since I put finger to keyboard and for that I apologise. Newsworthy events have been few and far between of late. Or so I have believed. Ennui has reared it's lethargic head and yawned at me. Work has become more of a chore than usual, and the excitement of the new has become the lassitude on the mundane. Starting projects is all well and good, but they need to be followed through and finished at some stage. I have become aware that I am good at starting fires, but bad at keeping them fed. Even so, I feel the urge to start something else now, something exciting, something rewarding, something fulfilling. And in a way, I have. But more of that later. All counselling is now finished, and it would be forgotten but for the fact that I had set a recurring alarm in Outlook and since all of my phones are synced, every week I get a reminder for an appointment that I no longer have. Strangely, I haven't deleted the appointment and I don't know why.. perhaps it's part of me saying "at least once a week you need to gaze upon your navel" perhaps I'm just lazy. Hmm. It's quite appropriate to be having these thoughts at a time when I've just talked myself out of a potentially lucrative contract - inside I'm shouting "take the fucking money you idiot!", but there was a conflict of interest with another client, and it didn't feel right to take the money when it could come back to bite me on the arse and besmirch my professional reputation. Easy come, easier fucking go.

Change is in the air at the moment - I smell woodsmoke, apple and blackberries, and everything tells me that I should be looking to the new. I think that it's something ingrained in me since school - new term, new year, new challenges. I always prided myself that I seemed to have a wellspring of ideas and creative solutions to problems, but now I realise that ideas are useless unless they are acted upon. Ideas are just dreams, until sweat and focus make them solid. I've been lacking sweat and focus. So I'm purposely denying myself the indulgence of dreaming up new schemes, new things to do, until I've put a few of the old ones in their place. So that is where I am - revisiting old ideas, assessing them and if they are still worthy, whipping them until they run or die.

In a related development, space has now been cleared in the garage for the next great project - getting my motorbike ready for next spring - good honest work. Work fit for a man. With a reward at the end. Operation Triumph is go!

Piss, vinegar and CJ Stone

Today I rediscovered an old friend. In a manner of speaking.. One of my favourite writers is a chap called CJ Stone. I first stumbled accross his writing in the guardian column "Housing Benefit Hill". Truth be told it was this column that confirmed me as a guardian reader, for a while. When the column ended (or was dropped, I'm not quite sure) the guardian seemed to lose a little bit of it's edge, an edge it hasn't really found since. I'm not saying that the guardian was defined by the column, but it was a good fit with the editorial style of the time, when there were not too many writers that had a good word to say about the miners, the travellers, the rave scene, reactionary legislation and all of the other things that were important to me at the time. Another thing that endeared me to his writing was a kind of attached detachment to the subjects he covered - yes, I know it's a poor description, but I can't do any better. It seemed that he was seeing the people and event through my eyes rather than his. Even now the writing reminds me of what we have lost in terms of political awareness and the willingness to protest and party. I'm older, I know, but I doubt that the generation behind me has as much of the piss and vinegar that we seemed to be full of. Or Shepherd Neame (meh, give me Theakstons any day). "Piss and vinegar? No thanks, I'll have a nice shiraz and a doobie thanks awfully."

Anyway, read his stuff. It's good. Fierce Dancing is a particularly good book, and if by any chance somebody is reading this thinking that they have a copy that I lent to them, I'd like it back. Either of them. That'll teach me to lend books after midnight.

Many boats, one river.

Sorry. It's not you, it's me. I haven't been taking this blogging thing seriously. I just needed a little space. But I'm back now. For better or for worse.

So what's been happening? Life. Like a boat trip, it moves on, it carries you along on the current, and you get to look at things from a different perspective every single minute. It's good that perspectives change - it says as much about the subject as the object that such a simple twist can create profound effects. It says to the soul "I change, you change, we all change." And not even god (intentional non-capitalisation) can control it. We can swim with the current, or against it but you have to acknowledge that it's there. Not that I'm saying swimming against the tide (so to speak) is a bad thing, far from it - it can be a noble, enriching, life defining action. To deny or oppose change is as valid as accepting it - it's just that you have to pick your battles.

So am I accepting it? Ask me tomorrow.

My perspective changed recently - slightly but perceptibly, and perhaps I am a little happier for seeing that he grass I always thought to be greener actually isn't... "Ha!" you say - he's just got round to counting his blessings..and well, yes I have. I have plenty of blessings - a fine and foxy missus, top kids, good friends, a roof over my head, food on the table, and a lot of toys.. But you don't appreciate these things until.... until.... well, in my case, until ................

The Buddha taught that this thirst grows from ignorance of the self. We go through life grabbing one thing after another to get a sense of security about ourselves. We attach not only to physical things, but also to ideas and opinions about ourselves and the world around us. Then we grow frustrated when the world doesn't behave the way we think it should and our lives don't conform to our expectations.

Thanks to PaintMonkey for reminding me about Buddhism in his blog.

Writing using definitions instead of words is hard.

In case that; granting or supposing that; on condition that the pronoun of the second person singular or plural, used of the person or persons being addressed, in the nominative or objective case, have or form in the mind as an idea, conception, (to indicate a person, thing, idea, state, event, time, remark, etc., as pointed out or present, mentioned before, supposed to be understood, or by way of emphasis) a large number, quantity, or amount of anything (used to indicate possession, connection, or association), of nonsense, falsehood drivel or the like (third person singular present indicative) of whatever or whichever it may be, satisfactory in quality, quantity or degree, then please have or form in the mind as an idea, conception in an additional case or instance furthermore, (a form of the possessive case of “I” used as an attributive adjective) person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.