Religious Procession, Seville

All Change Again

Well, my life moves on into a new phase now. I've just finished my time at the Giraldo Centre, all six weeks of it. I'm kinda sad to have stopped, because I've been enjoying it so much, but my brain has reached saturation point with Spanish and I've really got to give myself some time to absorb what I've learned. Aside from that, I looked at my bank balance a few days ago and got quite a shock. It's time to tighten the belt, pinch the pennies, save nine by doing a stitch in time and all that jazz. Not much point in having two birds in the bush if you no longer have a bird in your hand.

Fiesta Video

The Brotherhood Of Mount Zion

Despite the hangover I got sucked outside by the hypnotic sound of drums and brass, and typical of Spain, was not disappointed. They do know how to fiesta here. Loads of brass bands giving it hot licks under the still hot Sevillian sun... and to think I missed fireworks night in Glasgow for this life! Hombre, I love this city. If I could think of a way of earning money I'd stay here for the rest of my life. Okay, their night clubs "suck ass" and they even "suck balls" (as my amigo Leora would say), but brass bands and processions and fiestas make up for it big time. I love it here. Love it! I've lost count of the amount of apparently random fiestas I've encountered since arriving here... and these are just the wee ones. Wish I could stay through to the spring, coz there's Carnaval (which has got to be experienced in Cadiz) and then there's Semana Santa and Feria de Abril, here in Sevilla. Oh, and Three Kings Day on January 6th, which if my luck holds out I may just manage to stay for. Man, I love, love, love it here. What have we got back in Glasgow? Oh yes, Orange Walks... and they are just a whole heap of festive fun, aren't they?

A Quiet Night Out...

The plan - as is always the case - was for a few beers. Having only just managed to extricate myself from bed at half past mid-day, I can tell you that not all went to plan. My new Scottish amiga, Maggie, can fairly put them away, and is certainly a formidable drinking companion. What I thought would be a couple of canas before going to the Carboniera for a civilised evening of Flamenco ended up being 4 canas (which for this serious minded student of Spanish is normally "bastante por la noche").

By the time Maggie and I got to the Carboneria, the place was packed to capacity or hoachin (as we say back in the homeland). I couldn't see Hew or Leora anywhere, so me and Maggie stood, nursing a fifth drink, sweating in the crowd, craning our necks to see the performance.

During the half-time break, phone calls and arm waving ensured we found Hew and Leora and a couple of fly-by-nights, Paul and Aurelie. We then proceeded to drink two jarras of a lethal substance known as Aqua de Seville (I hope I don't need to translate that), which tastes vaguely like pineapple juice, but which is dangerously and deceptively toxic. It comes with a topping of cream, by the way, just to make it look that little bit less peligroso. Whoever invented that drink is surely rotting in the lowest circle of hell right now... of this I am sure!!!

My God, I have not been that drunk since I was in my thirties, or maybe even my twenties. When we left the Carboneria, we were exactly like one of those sprawling bunches of British/ Irish drunks I normally cross the street to avoid (although it has to be said, Aurelie, being French, still managed to carry her drunken state with Gallic dignity). We were truly borrachio! A terrible sight to see. We only made it about 100 metres before we were in another pub.

Then we staggered in the direction of Alameda, towards Kafka's Nightclub for a not very existential experience of pretty average techno. We lost Maggie along the way, as she quite rightly decided to peal off and head to a more sensible place (ie: home). Those of you who are avid readers of this blog (all four of you) will remember that I vowed never to set foot in a Seville nightclub again... and with good cause, for they are horrible, sweaty, smoky boxes where folk just stand around and yell at each other over the music. Seville may be the home of Flamenco and the Bailar Sevillano, but when it comes to having it large on the dance floor, the youth of Seville haven't got a scooby. A nightclub in Seville is a bit like a discothèque in Scotland circa 1980 (ie: the way it was before ecstasy changed our little world), with blokes standing together in huddles, eyeing "the birds" and girls in little groups trying to both dance and look cool at the same time (a combination that NEVER works). It was a sad sight indeed. And yet, there I was, again, back in the hellhole I vowed I'd never visit again (damn you Mr Maxwell and Ms Glasgow!).

Despite Kafka's turgid atmosphere, I danced my sweaty little butt off. Fuck it if everyone else wants to stand around like potatoes, I'm in the Arches buzzing my tits off, right (the wonderful power of the imagination). So I danced like a trolleyed raver, much to the confusion of the youth of Seville. Look, there's a bloke dancing! Actually, I exaggerate for the sake of a good story, there were at least five or six other people dancing that night, not including my wee contingent, who were all making a brave effort against the prevailing tide of non-dancing. Fuck man, I don't get homesick very often, but Kafka's brings it on big-time (oh for the love of God, what the fuck is wrong with the youth of Seville, don't they know what it is to dance with gay abandon? Take me to the Subbie or the Arches, sweet Jesus, teleport me there now so I can go mental with all the other Weegie mentalists). Aye, so homesick... but only briefly; wouldnae like to be waking up to a freezing November, pissing-with-rain Glasgow day. Seville is a much more hangover-friendly city.

And hungover I most definitely am; fit only for blogging and facebooking. There's a trumpets and drums doodah going on outside, no doubt with giant Virgin Mary being carried through the streets by mad-for-it catholics and I can't even be bothered to go and look. Normally I love those processions. Any excuse for some sort of fiesta, the Spanish (and especially the Andalusians), but I'm not fit to partake... or am I?

Oh and yukk, all my clothes stink of tobacco smoke after the night in Kafka's hellhole. Spain is about the only remaining country in the EU where you can smoke indoors, which is fine for a bar with an open terrace, but in the closed and packed environment of a nightclub (sealed by two doors to prevent noise pollution) is terrible. I might yet come to review my views on smoking in public places. Not that I'm ever going to be in favour of the Nanny State Fascism of Britain, but some ventilation for fuck's sake!!!

Anyway, suffice to say, a good night was had by all; and I'm sure I'm not the only one nursing a hangover this fine afternoon, saying "never again", but knowing it will be more of the same next weekend.

The Dangers Of Mispronunciation

Girls, if in the heat of the moment you don't pronounce it correctly, you may find your Spanish lover trying to insert a hairbrush into your mouth.

Similarly, if you go to a "peliqueria" to buy a hairbrush, if you are not careful you may get more than you bargained for.

Don't say you weren't warned!

Cansado Como Un Perro

Yesterday in my Spanish class we were taught loads of phrases for expressing tiredness. "Cansado Como Un Pero" wasn't one of them; it is my literal translation of the English, "Dog Tired" or in this case "Tired As A Dog". It is not a Spanish expression, but who knows, if I say it often enough it might catch on?

I am dog tired. In fact, the way I feel right now, I make a sleeping fifteen year old Labrador seem positively effervescent. "Dog tired" doesn't begin to express the way I feel.

And why?

Well, I'm not alone in feeling this way. Apparently it is usual here in Seville, in November, with the sudden and rapid change of the season. Two weeks ago the temperature was hitting 35 degrees (and even 40 degrees one day) and now it is in the low twenties... and I know this is hard for my Scottish (and even my English) friends to understand, but it feels cold. Honestly!

But for me, it is more than just a change of the seasons. I've now done 5 weeks of intensive Spanish (20 hours a week at school, living with a Spanish family, and numerous sessions of inter-cambio). My head is stuffed full of Spanish, and every day I'm getting that wee bit better, but it's been like a thirty-five day assault course. I'm war-weary and mud-spattered; and more than anything I want a holiday from this holiday (if that makes any sense). I'd love to fly back to Glasgow for a week, and to speak and think in nothing but English.

Next week is my last week at the Giraldo Institute. I think six weeks is enough for the now. I need time to assimilate what I've learned. I need time to chill out and just be... and in perfect timing, it looks like one of my friends from Scotland is going to come over for a visit. It's not for definite yet, but it'll be lovely if he can make it over. We can do some tourist stuff together, and chew the rag in our native tongue.

Of course, the Spanish learning won't end next week. I'll still be living with my Spanish family, doing my inter-cambios and trying to study at home too, but it should be just that little bit more gentle for me. I hope...

So Alive I Could Die

I thought my dreams had faded out
like a dimly distant star
extinguished by a cold universe,
and nobody noticed or cared...
But then there was you,
a thunder burst of diamonds
blowing jagged thru ash valleys
and sodden embers,
stoking up a fire of magnesium bright,
like a magician
pulling a house from a hat.
You remade me;
not with your fine sculptor's hands,
nor with your tentacled centre,
not even with the tenderness
of your breasts,
but with your eyes;
searching, staring, questioning,
cutting deep into the core of me,
reaching up, reaching out
for words so exquisite
nobody has ever known...
and if ever they were heard
each word would make you die
and die again
of ecstasy;
and what could be
more perfect than that?

A Heart Ache That Will Not Go Away

I woke up from a siesta, dreaming I met up with my daughter again. She had grown really tall. She was up to my heart. She hugged me, and laid her ear against my chest, listening to my heart.

To Be Or Not To Be....

I could gloat about the weather to make me feel better, tell you that last night I sat on a roof terrace, under the light of the nearly full moon, in nothing but light trousers and a t-shirt, but the truth of it is I feel homesick.

I posted a whole pile of videos of Glasgow neds up on my Facebook to remind me of why I left Glasgow this time (and why I've left Glasgow so many times before), but it hasn't done any good, I still feel homesick.

Last night, as I sat on my friend's roof-terrace I should have been over-joyed. We had a barbeque, we had alcohol, I was surrounded by like-minded people, and they were all having a good time. They were, I wasn't. And why?

Because they were speaking in a language I have only a basic comprehension of, and in which I can barely speak.

It's true, my two English-speaking buddies were there, but they both have considerably better Spanish than me, and could interact with everyone much better than me. One of them is more or less fluent (though claims not to be) and is mightily capable of holding her own at a Spanish-speaking party. The other is less fluent and occasionally appears flummoxed in group situations, but holds his own well, one to one. Between them, they've clocked up about half a decade in Spain. The consensus (and I've heard this from more than them) is it takes a year and a half of living in a country before you are comfortable with the language (comfortable, but still not fluent). A year and a half? Eighteen months? Fuck!

Technically, I've already spent a year of my life in Spain, but always living or travelling with an English speaking partner, and thus I had, for all intents and purposes, totally shite Spanish when I arrived here a month ago. I'm not joking. I could order a coffee or ask for directions, but that was it. I speak and understand much better now, but - en realidad - I know I've got a 17 month mountain to climb before I'll be muy contento in a party full of Spanish folk speaking rapidamente. So, roll on May 2011....

But in the meantime, que hago?

A veces (at times), that 17 months that lies ahead of me looks like an insurmountable hurdle, and hurdles are notorious for making you feel homesick.

And, aside from that... I have been trying, without any success so far, to find work as a profesor d'ingles. With the euro strong and the pound weak, my savings are getting pissed away at a rate of knotts. I can't realistically sustain the expense indefinitely, so am giving myself two more months here. If I can't find work, I'm quitting. Adios Espana. And then what? Back to Scotland? I'm not that fucking homesick!!! No, pienso que, "NO". I'll go back for a couple of weeks, maybe a month, and then I'm going to head off to India, where it's mucho mas barrato a vivir.

Fuck, but my head is full of palabras (words) espanoles. I keep thinking in bits of Spanish, and at times even forgetting the words in English...

In truth, I would love to stay here, despite my homesickness (which is easing off as I write). I feel like I've taken Spanish so far... and it is my dream to be able to speak at least one other language fluently (actually, three other languages is my dream: Spanish, French & Hindi). The reality of my dream is that it isn't easy. It isn't "comodo" (comfortable).

Comfortable is watching X-Factor. Comfortable is cocoa and slippers. Comfortable is going to the pub. Comfortable is having a regular job. Comfortable is not having to think. Comfortable is a fucking anathema to me. I don't want comfortable, and I will suffer "la pena" because it is worth it....

And I will suffer "la pena", because I have not chosen an easy life...

For me, this blog is my safe place, where I can moan about suffering the pain I've chosen to suffer, but also where I can shout my joy from the rooftops.

So the last few days have been hard for me, but even those days have not been without their wonders. Even in the darkest of times there have been moments of awe, joy and inspiration.

Today, por exemplo, in the middle of writing this blog, I had a conversation with mi casera (my landlady) and we talked for several hours about the history of Spain and even about her trials and tribulations, raising a son who suffers from Asperger's Syndrome, and I understood pretty much everything she told me (mas o menus), and that filled me with hope,once again, that maybe I can master this damned language. Maybe.... and if I can find trabajo (work), maybe I can stay on, and maybe, maybe, maybe....

Before I go though, just to give you a picture of the hurdles in front of me, I'm going to share one things with you. The Spanish conjugation of the verb "to be"... or rather, the two separate verbs that mean "to be". Are you ready for this?

Soy, eres, es, somos, sois, son, era, eras, era, eramos, erais, eran, fui, fuiste, fue, fuimos, fuisteis, fueron, sere, seras, sera, seremos, sereis, seran, seria, serias, seria, seriamos, seriais, serian, sea, seas, sea, seamos, seais, sean, fuera, fueras, fuera, fueramos, fuerais, fueran, fuese, fueses, fuese, fuuesemos, fueseis, fuesan, fuere, fueres, fuere, fueremos, fuereis, fuerun, se sea, seamos, sed, sean, he sido, has sido, ha sido, hemos sido, habeis sido, hand sido, estoy, estas, esta, estamos, estais, estan, estaba, estabas, estaba, estabamos, estabais, estaban, estuve, estuvesteis, estuvo, estuvimos, estuvieron, estare, estaras, estara, estaremos, estareis, estaran, estaria, estaria, estariamos, estariais, estarian, este, estes, este, estemos, esteis, esten, estuviera, estuvieras, estuviera, estuvieramos, estuvierais, estuvieran, estuviere, estuvieres, estuviere, estuvieremos, estuviereis, estuvieren, estuviese, estuvieses, estuviese, estuviesemos, estuvieseis, estuviesen, esta, este, estemos, estad, esten, he estado, has estado, ha estado, hemos estado, habais estado, han estado....

I hope, after reading the above list you have at least a little sympathy for my plight. To be or not to be.... that really is the question! Now, I'm going out for a wee walk to sample the joys of a warm November day...

A Promotion

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Cyber-Stalked And Censored In Sevilla

Those of you who have been following this blog, if you review backwards, will notice that one of the entries has disappeared. It was my recollection of my first ever inter-cambio experience, with someone whose name I cannot mention. I deleted it because she phoned me up, furious, after reading it, threatening to contact the police. I don't think the police would actually have done anything, especially as I only mention the person by her first name, but I deleted it anyway.

Perhaps my portrait of her was less than flattering, but I think it was more or less accurate. She did seem to me, desperately unhappy. I don't recall her smiling or laughing once, not even at my crap Spanish. I think the thing that offended her the most though was that I thought she was about 50 years old. Again, first impressions... and off the mark. I thought she was about my age, or maybe a few years older. On our second meeting, today, I thought she might be a bit younger than me, but no more than a few years, maybe 45 or 44.

I wrote about her as I thought about her, and used her first name, not thinking for a second that any of my inter-cambio partners would actually search for me on the internet to see if I'd actually said anything about them in my blog. So I was a bit shocked when she phoned me in a total rage.

I think, in future, I shall have to take more care. I only mentioned her name in the first place because it meant something interesting in Spanish, and seemed strangely appropriate. Otherwise she would have been entirely anonymous. I think everyone else I have talked about in this blog will be pleased about the way I see them, and I'm pretty sure my two anglo-phone buddies will take everything I've ever said about them with the humour intended. I'm sure even if I had talked about my first inter-cambio experience entirely anonymously I'd have still received the furious phone call. My first impressions weren't good, and I can't say they've changed much after being cyber-stalked. I'm a bit weirded out right now, to tell the truth.

Crunch Point

I have a week left in Seville... or maybe not. My studies at the Giraldo Institute finish on Friday, and I have my accommodation here booked up to the Sunday afterwards. After that, I have a number of options. I can return to Scotland and find somewhere to stay and a job and all that (and if you could hear the tone of my voice at this moment, instead of seeing mere typed words, you would know that this is the least favoured of my options); or I could go back to Scotland temporarily and then head off to India; or I can carry on staying in Seville.

If I opt for the latter then I'm going to have to get my finger out to arrange things... and it ain't easy when you don't really speak the lingo. Number one priority is to arrange somewhere to stay. I like where I am at the moment, and ideally I'd like to negotiate with my landlady to see if she would be able to offer me a reasonable rent if I were to stay here long term. If that isn't a go-er, then I have a long haul ahead of me, looking for suitable alternative accommodation, and only a week to achieve my objective...

There are many other things that I need to do if I am going to stay on in Seville, but if my number one objective can't be met there's not really any point in thinking about the other things on my "to do" list. So, I'm not fretting about them... which pleases my "here and now" sensibilities.

The way I see things... I want to stay in Seville, if it's possible; and I'm going to put all my energies into achieving this objective this week, but if in the end it doesn't work out I'll work on the principle of "if it ain't for you it won't go by you". That is, I'm going to trust that the universe will provide.

How do I feel? Well, at present (and for the past while) I have been at peace with myself. I've very much enjoyed all the stimulation that Seville has delivered, and I've really enjoyed learning Spanish. I'd like it to continue as it has been, but if that isn't possible I'll move on to pastures new... as simple (and as complicated) as that.

Clubbing In Seville

So far I have discovered two "nightclubs" in Seville, both of them by the Alameda, which is the hip, groovy barrio of Seville. My anglo-phone amigos and I went to them on two consecutive Wednesday nights, after going to a Flamenco show in an art centre that used to be a monastery. The first night we went to Jacksons, which was basically an empty and rather unappealing box with a bar, but the music wasn't bad. I wouldn't know how to describe it. It wasn't "dance music" exactly, but it had a groove and my dancing feet knew what they wanted to do, so I ended up there till 3am, despite having to get up the next day at 7.30am. My amigos and I were pretty much the only ones dancing.

The following Wednesday we went to Kafka's for a reggae night and again I noticed, but much more pronouncedly this time, that the vibe on the dance floor was definitely "school disco", little huddles of men and little huddles of women in groups together, standing round chatting; that is, shouting at each other over the music, with virtually no-one dancing. Sure there was the odd person shuffling their arse, but there really wasn't much going down on the dancefloor at all.

Two days later we went back to Kafka's again. It being a Friday night, and having heard they actually play "techno" at the weekends, hope sprang eternal in my heart. We arrived just after midnight and there were five or six other people there, and the DJ certainly wasn't playing anything I'd ever classify as "techno". Eventually, though, we went through the spectrum of Indie to a weird, slightly beat driven ambient to something that definitely had a housey beat, and the "nightclub" gradually got more and more packed. After maybe an hour the music finally got to my dancing feet and I was on the floor giving it the two foot shuffle, but aside from a small gaggle of girls shaking their booty, it was virtually a carbon copy of the two other Wednesday nights, that is, loads of people standing around; drinking, smoking and chatting/ shouting. I got well into the music eventually, but really, I had to shut my eyes and pretend I was in the Sub-Club or the Arches back in Glasgow. My amigos, neither of them huge house or techno fans decided they'd had enough, so we left about 3am. On the way they wanted to pop into Jacksons. So I went with them. Jacksons was totally packed, and by that I mean sardines in a can. The music was shite, and even if you had wanted to dance, you couldn't have. I didn't stay...

Mis Amigos Peligrosos

I think it's time to name and shame them, my dangerous friends. One of them is an American, Leora Glasgow, and the other is Irish (but with a fair bit of Scottish blood), Hew Maxwell. If you see them, run like hell, because inevitably what starts of as a sober trip to a monastery (with no bar, naturally) to see a Flamenco show ends up continuing and becoming a drunken debauch in the bohemian barrio of Sevilla, The Alameda.

Last night I had slightly stiffer resolve than on the previous occasion and managed to squeeze myself out of Kafka's nightclub, just after 1.30 in the morning, leaving Ms Glasgow and Mr Maxwell to continue their fiesta of reggae and cerveza, in the sure and certain knowledge that they have the luxury of staying in their beds until the manana becomes the tarde. I quite literally staggered home. I was glad to make it there, and glad to be so intoxicated that instead of going through my entire Spanish vocabulary in my head I fell straight into a pleasantly blank coma, which was rudely interrupted a very short six hours later by the insistent drone of my mobile phone's alarm. Hell's teeth, I can't begin to tell you how hard it was to drag my sorry arse out of bed and in the direction of the Giraldo Institute.

Another night of not enough sleep, and my bed - seductive as ever - calling me to partake in the Spanish ritual of a siesta. I'm trying to resist, am determined as ever in my quest to master Spanish, as I have a Spanish "Easy Reader" to tackle (all 36 pages of it, but it took me 1 hour to read the first 3 pages, so....). I've also got the onerous task of trying to organise accommodation, as I'm about 82.5% decided I'm going to stay on in Sevilla; and 82.5% is enough to spur me into action. There are, of course, a goodly amount of other things on my "to do" list, and Mr Sensible is telling me not to siesta, but oh my God, that bed looks SO good!

Oh... and like the devil herself, Ms Glasgow has just emailed me to tell me of all the wonderful things I missed by leaving "early"! Temptress, seductress, spawn of el Diabolo - fuera!!!

Estoy Muy Cansada...

The last two nights I have been deprived of the luxury of falling asleep by thinking in Spanish. That is not to say I am thinking coherently in Spanish, but that words and phrases float round my skull, sometimes clearly, sometimes through a fog, and very often demanding that my mind pay attention to them and make sure they are the right tense and conjugated in the correct person. It is enough to drive one to distraction. I suppose, this is the first step towards thinking in Spanish coherently... and I do sometimes find myself doing this during the day, but when I am trying to get my beauty sleep, so that I am sufficiently rested to be wholly there at school, it is a pain in what my granny used to call the bahooky. I'm told I will soon start to dream in Spanish. I'm not sure if that will be particularly restful either.

It was a wonderful relief when today's inter-cambio partner phoned up to postpone. So tonight I am going out to see some Flamenco with my two best English-speaking buddies, which in terms of R&R will be like a good night's sleep. A couple of beers (nearly said "cervezas" there) will also help towards that feelgood glow.

Don't get me wrong, I love learning Spanish, and I am gob-smacked at my progress in such little time, but it is an exhausting process, and it's good to take some time out.

In The Nothingness

Meetings With Random Strangers

Those of you in Northern climes with a disposition towards schadenfreude might be happy to hear that it is pissing with rain in Seville today. If so, stop rubbing your hands together, because I'm loving it. It's the first rain I've seen in nearly four weeks and I'm totally loving it. It's like manna from heaven. Rain is beautiful when you don't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Believe me! And apparently it's going to rain tomorrow too, which is great because it means another outing for my Indian rainbow umbrella. After that? Well, according to the weather forecast it's back to blue skies and 29 degrees. God, I fucking love Seville. Sorry to be crass, but there is no other way to put it.

My amigos back home will know me for the serendipity-loving hippie that I am, and as serendipities go there was nothing more serendipitous than my meeting with Maggie, a fellow Scot. As people go, we are chalk and cheese, but I enjoyed our meeting immensely, and I enjoyed it even more because it was raining. Made me feel quite at home. As you will recall, if you read the last entry, Maggie decided not to meet me. However, just after receiving the email from Maggie I went out to meet Inter-Cambio partner number 2, a girl called Maria. Maria had spent some time in Scotland and had a great love for my homeland. She told me that her mother rents out a room in her house and it was a Scottish person that was staying there, a woman. Somehow, I just knew it had to be Maggie, and as serendipity would have it, it was indeed Maggie. I couldn't resist emailing Maggie to let her know about this. As coincidences go, it was one of the bigger ones, and I think even a person who doesn't believe in serendipity - and I'd count Maggie as one of those - would be impressed by it. Certainly, it was enough to make her change her mind about meeting me. So we met tonight.

It's kinda strange meeting random strangers, but I'm getting used to it now, and I have to say I'm enjoying it immensely. I met two random strangers tonight, first Maggie, then inter-cambio partner #3, Salvador.

Maggie is a lawyer and has been for twenty odd years. She described herself as "conservative" (though we never got as far as determining whether that was just her outlook or her politics as well) and I think it would be fair to say she dressed conservatively too. If you had seen us, you'd have thought us an unlikely pairing, but underneath the surface I think we probably had more in common than you might initially perceive. It was a very interesting experience, as have all my random encounters been, and I was reluctant to tear myself away to go and meet Salvador. In the end though, I'm glad I did, because my encounter with Salvador was just as interesting. He is... well, we never quite decided what his job title is in English, something like a quality control manager for one of the big motor-car companies. Again, not the sort of person I'd be likely to encounter in my social circles back home.

I am totally loving this life, and I'm especially enjoying the inter-cambios. Not only are they helping my Spanish, but they are helping me to remember my English teaching skills, which I honed 17 years ago on an intensive TEFL course. If I am going to stay in Seville, those skills will be useful. For soon I must join the rest of the human race and start working again. My lazy, hazy days of living off of the profits of selling my house are finite, and in Europe (with the weak pound) look a lot more finite than they did when I was living the life of riley out in India earlier this year. Common sense tells me NOT to spend every last penny I have, that I might at some point in the future want to buy some land, or if not that, to have a down payment for a mortgage on some land. So, work is beckoning once again... and my ability to speak and teach English is a definite plus. Not sure if I will bite that particular bullet yet because I have been enjoying my freedom and I might yet decide to eke it out by adiosing to the third world, where - if you are frugal - you can get by on only a few quid a day. We'll see...

A Strange Guy Abroad...

One of the things that would inspire me to stay on in Sevilla, aside from some good inter-cambio partners, is the possibility of finding a good room in a shared apartment. Trouble is, hip and groovy as I am, I'm still 47 years old, and lovely as some folk half my age are, I've kinda done my days of scraping mould off the plates that are piled up in the sink. I just don't really want to live with bogging students... and cultural differences aside, my guess is students are just as bogging in Spain as they are in Scotland.

There ain't many people in their 30s and 40s looking to share an apartment. They can usually afford one all to themselves, what with being grown up and earning proper money. So, imagine my optimism when I saw a room wanted ad in Loquo placed by a 47 year old English woman. I wrote to her, told her I was 47 too and was looking to share a flat and would she be interested in looking together.

She emailed me back almost immediately, and it turned out not only was she the same age, she was actually Scottish. Wah-hey, paydirt I thought, God is smiling upon me and wants me to stay in Seville. But, not at all... it was one of God's cosmic jokes. Maggie, as it turns out, made the assumption that the Dee that wrote her was a woman. When she found out I was a man (as I explained in my 2nd email, telling her how to recognise me for our meeting) she not only decided against meeting to see if we were potentially good flatmates, but decided against meeting altogether... and here I quote her verbatim: "I know my husband wouldn't be happy about me meeting up with strange guys abroad which would leave me to choose between making him uneasy or being disloyal to him."

So, that was that. Bit of a disappointment really, but life often teases you with what sound like promising possibilities....

Imagining A Perfect Life

Imagine, you get up in the morning to go and study something you are interested in learning, like Spanish. You spend four hours there and then you go for a delicious light lunch, sitting outside in October (and not needing a jacket, jumper or winter woollies). After that you might go for a wander in a park and practice your poi in the shade (because it's too hot to exercise in the sun). After that, you stop off for a quick boost of "cafe solo" in a local bar and then make your way home. You walk for 20 minutes, and every step of the journey you are drinking in the colour of the buildings against a bright blue sky, and at times you are so overwhelmed by the sheer aesthetic brilliance of it you almost want to cry. You get home, do some yoga, have a shower and maybe study Spanish for a bit. Later you walk round your barrio photographing winos and graffiti, and you wallow in the weird beauty of ugliness. Then you post the photos up on your Facebook, read your emails, make arrangements to meet people and then you have a dinner prepared by a kitchen goddess. Then you go out to an open-air bar to drink a few canas with some friends, or maybe you go to watch a Flamenco show. It just sounds absolutely perfect, like the best kind of life you could possibly live, like the sort of life most people lust after, but never actually anticipate being able to have... well fuck me sideways, I'm actually living it! It's like a fairy-tale, a dream and a fantasy all rolled in one. I can't believe I am actually living it. Sometimes I have to slap myself hard, just to make sure I'm actually awake. Ouch! Yes, really, I'm awake, this is real!!!!

The Joy Of Beauty And Ugliness

The thing I love most about Seville is the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness. In the barrio where I live, Ferria (near Alameda de Hercules), the houses are old, painted in mostly beautiful colours, and almost every doorway is vandalised - some of the vandalism is in itself beautiful and much of it is ugly, but there is even an aesthetic in the ugliness. That probably sounds paradoxical, but then again, much in life is paradoxical. I love the vandalism here: it is jubilant and celebratory... or at least, that is how it appears to this very elementary Spanish student (perhaps when I gain fluency it will appear less so). Maybe it is the blue sky and the gaily coloured buildings that give the vandalism a certain beauty, I don't know. In Glasgow or Edinburgh, with the driech weather and monochrome buildings, even the smartest of graffiti art looks squalid.

Photographing Seville, in all its beauty and ugliness has become my mission. Every afternoon, just as it's becoming almost intolerably hot (30-35 degrees) I set off for a lunch of tapas and cerveza or cafe solo and then off to prowl the streets in search of the perfect picture. Before coming here, I splashed out on a mid-range camera, a Canon Powershot SX120. It takes pretty good photos and has a 10 times optical zoom, which allows me to frame up my shots in a much more satisfactory way. It also allows me to take the odd sneaky shot of un vagabondo, dozing on a bed of cardboard. I feel kinda naughty doing this, but the photography is becoming kinda compulsive, and if someone is showing the ugliness and beauty of the world to me, I want to share it with others.

Quiero Hablar Pero No Puedo...

Last night I went out for some "canas" with mi amigo Irelandes, Hew. Later we met up with some Spanish folk and I sat there in almost total silence as Hew gabbed away in near-fluent Spanish. I had a seriously faltering conversation with a Spanish guy who spoke no English, but it was like he was talking to a dim-witted three year old. I have similar sorts of conversations with my landlady, Margarita, and with the two foreign students (one French, one German) who are living in mi casa. Sure, it is good for me to have to keep practicing my Spanish, but it is very frustrating. I don't much care for being a three year old retard inside the body of a forty-seven year old man. If anything is making me homesick, it is the desire just to have a decent conversation con mis amigos Escoses.

Perhaps I exaggerate my handicap, because yesterday I managed to talk with Margarita about her son (who is partially autistic) and the difficulties she's had with him, and the lack of co-operation from her estranged husband and her daughter. I was surprised I could understand so much of what she said... and generally I am surprised that I understand Spanish so much better than I speak it because I am the other way round with French (which I speak much better than I understand).

The only English conversations I have fairly regularly are, ironically enough, with my fellow students at the Escuela de Espanol. There are ten of us in the class: two Dutch, two Germans, a Fin, a Philippina, a Japanese, an English guy, an American and me; and the only common language is English, but as most folk speak it as a second language conversations do not flow with ease.

If I keep up this travelling life long term I may end up forgetting how to speak English. Not true? I tell you, it's possible. When I was in India, earlier in the year, I met a Scottish woman who had been travelling between India and France for seven years, and when she spoke to me it was in pigeon Hinglish. She just couldn't get into the groove and speak to a fellow Scot "normally". It was a bewildering experience. She was fluent in Hindi and French, but her English was rubbish. So, not only do I need to learn Spanish, I have to make a concerted effort not to forget my native tongue. To this end I might become Mister Blogalot.

The Other Side Of Sevilla

The photos that I posted up in my Facebook over the last few days show one side of Seville (the side that the tourists know, and where all the money is made). There is, of course, another side to Seville, where tourists are less likely to go a-wandering, and where there is a lot less money blowing about. So I made today's task to go and photograph the less seemly side of this gentile city. I thought, in the interest of balance, this would be only fair. Personally, I like the run down, vandalised part of Seville as much as I do the colourful, archaic centre. Grubby as it may be, there is a certain aesthetic - albeit a naive, unskilled one - to the vandalism; and I think I could get into photographing and documenting it. So, maybe more photographs to follow...

Some Facts About Seville For The Visitor

Most of the tourist maps of Seville have pretty pictures of monuments on them, which is useful if you want to know what the monuments look like, but counter-productive if you actually want to use the map to navigate your way round the city as they invariable obscure several road names and oftentimes, several roads. If you are going to get a map, get one without the pretty inserts. Even if you do manage to get a more pragmatic, less pretty map, you are still going to get lost. The roads in the historic centre of Seville go every which way, and even after a week when you think you've got it sussed, you are still going to end up in a square with six roads going off at every angle, and even if you think you know which one to take it will invariably lead you to another square with six roads also heading of every which way. A useful phrase is "estoy perdito" (which means, "I am lost"). This will give you a five minute breather while a helpful Sevilliano will stare puzzled at the map and try to work out where on the map you actually are. After that you will be fortified enough to throw yourself back into the labyrinth.

The Spanish word "Calle" which translates as "Road" in English is a misnomer, especially in Seville. Most roads are so narrow you have to duck into doorways to let cars pass... and it doesn't matter how narrow the roads are, cars will still try to pass through them. Personal stereos are not a good idea in this city, not if you don't want to be garrotted by a car wing-mirror.

Seville is very hot. Even in October afternoon temperatures reach 35 degrees and at night will drop to a comfortable 25 degrees, but even in the wee small hours of the morning won't get much colder, which you will find to your cost as you try to sleep (especially if you are sleeping between the almost ubiquitous nylon sheets that Sevillano landladies prefer). Unless you can afford a hotel with aircon and you are happy to stay indoors all day, do NOT come to Seville in July or August.

Seville is utterly beautiful; every corner you turn (and you will turn many) offers a new stunning view of colourful ornate buildings, palm trees, blinding blue skies and a gaggle of tourists with their cameras pointing in every direction.

Sevillano women are possibly the most beautiful women in Europe. If you are a man you will oftentimes forget to keep your eyes on the beautiful buildings and will become distracted by the beautiful women.

Polyglottal Confusion & New Landscapes

The polyglottal confusion continues somewhat. My landlady, Diana, is Bulgarian. Yep, Bulgarian, so technically not Spanish, as advertised in the brochure of the language school. I'm sitting there in her cluttered and small living room, where I'm allowed to smoke (no smoking in the bedroom!) and in comes here cousin and they start chatting away in Bulgarian. To be fair, she does speak Spanish fluently. She's lived in Seville for 8 years, and before that for 25 years in Cuba. Aside form Bulgarian and Spanish, she also speaks Russian and German fluently. Her English is very basic, and that's a blessing, I guess. I have to speak Spanish, and I have to listen to Spanish. So that's me on a diet of Spanish from now on, and boy have I got a headache... in fact, strike that, it's more like a migraine or a minor flashback to a brain haemorrhage.

As for my accommodation... well, I've got a tiny little room in a flat in what must be the Sevillian equivalent of a council estate. It's not quite Easterhouse, more like Knightswood... if you dragged it 1,000 miles south and had it basking in 35 degrees of heat at the beginning of October. I kid you not, today and yesterday the temperature has been thirty-five degrees. So, here I am in my poky wee room and Diana is crashed out on the couch in the sitting room, snoring for Bulgaria. I feel somewhat disorientated with all the changes. First the language school and now the move out to the sticks. No sign of the wonderful colours or ornate architecture that the old town is known for. I look out my window and I could be in Rio or Moscow or Glasgow. All I can see is a concrete building which is so near I could spit at it. This is not the sort of place I would choose to live, but as it's part of an "experience" I am happy to experience it, just as I was happy to experience living in a hostel. It makes for an interesting life. Of course, I'm disappointed to be living so far away from the rather lovely old town, but to put a silver lining on that cloud it does mean I get some exercise, walking to and fro, and what with the cerebral life I'm going to be living for the next four weeks that will definitely be a good thing.

Trying To Learn Spanish

This hostel, The Picasso, has been my home for four days, but it feels like I've been here much longer. I like it here, and if I had a private room - even a small cupboard - I would stay on, because it is central (two minutes walk to the cathedral), the staff are pleasant and the folk who are staying here are friendly. The thing I can live without is sleeping in the same room as 5 other people. Also, I could really use having some place to put my things. Any time I want anything I have to unpack my rucksack and re-pack it. So, I'm looking forward to moving into my own room, which is going to happen in just over an hour. The school where I do my Spanish classes has arranged for me to move in with a Spanish family. I went for this option because I figured it would force me to try to speak Spanish. God knows how! Since arriving here my Spanish has gone to hell. It really has. I spoke better Spanish in Glasgow. And the reason? Well, Sara the Flamenco dancer is one of them. She's an eccentric French lady (and you can only call her a lady!) with a passion for dancing, even in the streets and we converse in something that might approximate Franish or Spench, a weird mix of two tongues, neither of which I have a great hang of. I've also been talking pigeon Spitalian and Fritalian with the guy who was sleeping in the bunk above mine... so, linguistically speaking, I'm fucked!

The Fall Of Babylon

My salvation has been meeting the odd person who speaks English as a first language. It has been a blessed relief to speak in my native tongue. Mostly though, I've been meeting Spanish, French and Italian speakers and have been communicating in a confusing melange of the three, mixing and matching as I go along, and what little Spanish I spoke before has deteriorated and I have become someone who communicates in an amorphous 21st Century Latin Esperanto. Hopefully, this will start to be resolved today, as I am signing up for Spanish classes. If I'm lucky the school might be able to place me in accommodation with a Spanish family and that will be me truly flung in at the deep end. If I'm unlucky I'll have to spend more nights in this hostel, trying to snatch some zeds between being woken up by the various snores, farts and burps of my fellow sleepers and the 3am drunken arrival of some youngies who have been out drinking as late as they possibly can. I've now got bags under the bags under the bags under my eyes, but it ain't so bad because they are fairly well hidden by an ever deepening tan

How Travelling Has Changed...

I'm sitting in the common room at the Picasso Hostel in Sevilla in front of my wee notepad computer. Beside me is a guy with a laptop, who actually ate his breakfast while working on his computer. There's another girl here and she's sat at the hostel's computer doing her emails. Since I've been here there's been a procession of people at the computer, doing emails, uploading photos to their Facebooks etc, and the only noise I've discerned in the last hour has been the odd "hola" and the tippy-tappy clickety-clack of fingers on keyboards.

I compare this to my travels in the last century and remember sitting round common rooms in hostels and all you had was talking, laughing, guitar playing, singing and maybe even the odd joint going round... and, oh boy, I think the generation of young folk today have missed something big time; sorry to sound like an old fart, but seriously I do. I can hardly preach though, sitting in silence in front of my notepad as I am, but I do miss the old days of having to walk to the nearest telephone box if you wanted to call your folks and tell them you're okay; of writing and sending postcards and hoping they get home before you do; of picking up mail from post-restantes and being all excited about having a letter; of saving up your rolls of film and having to wait about a week to get the photos after you get home and having forgotten what you took photos of and getting some pleasant and some occasionally unpleasant surprises (the sorta photos you hit the delete button on today); of writing a diary, using a pen, and it being totally private, shared with absolutely no-one.

I love my electronic gadgets as much as the next person, but I'm seriously wondering about the wisdom of having them when I travel. Do I really need a mobile phone, a digital camera, a notebook, an iPod and all that other clutter? Do I really need to report my every move on Facebook, post my thoughts on my blog, contact my friends by email and text my family to tell them I'm okay? I wonder....

A Long Long Road To Sevilla

It felt good to arrive in Spain, what seems like weeks ago, but was only five days ago, I guess. First stop was Bilbao where I had to spend several hours before getting the bus to Bayonne in France. I took a good long walk round Bilbao and was shocked at how beautiful it is. I've only ever driven through it on a nightmare motorway, through it's scuzzier suburbs, so didn't expect to find a clean, modern city into which its older buildings blended beautifully, and the awesome Guggenheim Gallery, which is a wonder of modern architecture.

At Bayonne I took a train to St Jean Pied de Port where the Camino de Santiago starts, and just the walk to the official auberge where you register for your pilgrim's passport damn near killed me. My rucksack is heavy. I found out exactly how heavy, weighing it on their scales, eighteen kilogrammes. I also have a shoulderbag stuffed full of things too. They recommend that your pack is no more than 12kg, and really should be less than 8kg for comfortable walking. They also explained to me that not only is the first day's walk 27 kilometres, it also ascends 1,200 metres (the height of Ben Nevis, Scotland's largest mountain).

The next day I was in something of a quandary, as I could already feel my back was sore from carrying the pack just a few kilometres a day, and my legs didn't feel to smart either. I knew if I tried the walk I'd be risking an injury. I didn't want to give up on it, but I had to be sensible now, given that I'd been a fool not to actually research what the walk involved. I'd been given the impression that the walk was largely flat, but hadn't figured on the first few days being hardcore. I'd also packed for all eventualities, planning to go down to Seville to stay for some time and to learn Spanish, so I had lots of clothes, my notepad computer, sketchbooks and art materials, and nothing I could really jettison for the sake of the walk. So, after much agonising the next day, I abandoned the Camino and took the train back to Bayonne. I was sad to give up on the Camino because everyone says you'll meet your true love on it, or if not that, you'll have a life changing experience. Well, I guess I did have a sort of epiphany at the beginning of the Camino, but not a good one.

In Bayonne I got seriously depressed and homesick, and was even contemplating packing it up and returning to Glasgow with my tail between my legs. I was thinking maybe I'll just get a flat and a job and settle down and have an ordinary life, I'm way too old to be gallavanting round the globe like a gap year student etc. I wasn't in a good space. Bad spaces happen when you travel, just like they happen when you don't, but when you're travelling and they happen you can feel like the loneliest person alive.

A lot of texts too and fro to my father, sister and elder daughter were nourishing and reassuring, and gave me the strength to soldier on. So, yesterday morning I split Bayonne and took the train all the way down to Sevilla. As soon as I arrived in Irun I felt better. It was good to cross the border back into Spain. At Irun I caught my 2nd train, down to Madrid. Then at Madrid I took the train to Seville. This last leg of the journey was interesting because I travelled 1st class - there were no 2nd class seats for days, so I paid the extra. I've only ever travelled 1st class two times before, and that was in India (and felt like European 2nd class), so 1st class was a surprise. It wasn't that bloody comfortable anyway, you get about 2 inches more of arse room and leg room, but you do get a little airplane style snack, some orange juice, coffee and a nice wee brandy to top it off, not that that was worth the extra 30 Euros I had to cough up. What surprised me most was how miserable the folk in 1st class were, not a smile amongst the lot of them, whereas next door in the buffet compartment folk were standing about chatting loudly and laughing uproariously as only the Spanish can do. So, I don't plan on too much more 1st class travelling.

So that was my journey. I arrived in Seville last night and felt just wonderful, like I had arrived home. Unfortunately, it is a very expensive "home"; twenty-quid-for-a-bed-in-a-dorm expensive; one-pound-fifty-for-a-can-of-coke expensive; and unbelievably expensive compared with the way things were when I was travelling in Spain over 2006/2007. Don't know how long I'll be ale to afford to keep going, but it won't be as long as I'd hoped, that's for sure. But what the fuck, I'll enjoy it while I can.

Armageddon Outta Here...

As I travel across the Bay of Biscay I've been reading yesterday's Independent Newspaper, and am grieved to observe a heating up in the anti-Iran rhetoric, and especially the first mention of the word "military", sneaked in beside a lot of references to "sanctions". Anyone out there getting a deja vu? Replace the phrase "nuclear weapon" with "weapons of mass destruction" and we have a carbon copy of the shite that was getting pumped at us over 2001-2002. Of course, Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction... and I'm sure it will prove, later on, that Iran never was a nuclear threat, though only after they've been decimated by the US and their oil fields are in the hands of American multinational oil companies.

Mixed Feelings

To all my Scottish friends back home... if you had travelled with me on the way down to Portsmouth, if you had seen the clouds roll away as we pulled into Oxfordshire, if you had had to take off your coat and jumper in Portsmouth and not put them back on until after sunset, maybe you would also be questioning the wisdom of living in Scotland. Yesterday, at the end of September, in Portsmouth, was the warmest day I experienced since arriving back in Scotland on the 15th July. Why does anyone live in Scotland? Is it masochism? I don't know. I say this, and I keep coming back to the damn place too. What is it about Scotland? I hate it... and yet, at the same time, I love it too. I guess it gets into your blood, and sometimes it ain't all deep fried pies and pissing rain, sometimes its smoked salmon and magical misty glens. Again, I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

Travel Without Prejudice

The last time I did this journey was in the opposite direction, from Bilbao to Portsmouth. I hated every minute of it, because it was full of pissed-up Brits on a three day mini-cruise (or, a "booze cruise", as its called). They were the sort of people that made me want to leave the UK in the first place... and there was I, on my way back "home", after 10 months of living the gypsy life in France, Portugal and Spain. This time round though, I'm leaving Britain, and my attitude is totally different. The people are not annoying me at all, not even the piss heads; and I'm even enjoying chewing the fat with old grannies who I have absolutely nothing in common with. Interesting to see how much my perspective alters according to my situation. I am journeying in hope today, so am more open, more open-minded. It's better to journey this way.

Leaving Blighty Again...

There was a moment for me, as I stood outside the Travelogue Inn at 7am this morning when I thought of just quitting and returning to Scotland with my tail between my legs and egg on my chin. It would have been embarrassing, sure, but "what the fuck" I figured, it'd still be better than having to spend another day on the hard shoulder with my thumb out. As chance would have it I met a fellow smoker (us pariahs, shivering on Britain's collective doorstep) who happened to be a fellow artist (though a much more successful one than me) and who also happened to be going all the way up to Glasgow and was willing to give me a lift. I thought, maybe he was an emissary of God, come to take me home, where I could settle into a nice ordinary, not-scary life of ordinariness; get myself a flat and a job and all that. I was so piss-miserable at that moment I really was ready to give up. In the end though, I said "no thanks" and determined to give it at least another day and not be such a fucking pussy. It was not an easy "no" to say.

But let's rewind a bit, so at least you get an idea of why my resolve had turned to lard...

To hitch out of Glasgow ain't easy. You could stand on a slip road onto the M8 and wait forever for a lift that might take you onto the M74 (the motorway that heads south). The best bet is to get a bus to Bothwell and walk a mile down to Bothwell Services, the first service station on the M74. I learned this the hard way, back in 1980 when I first hitch-hiked down to London and spent six hours standing in the wrong starting spot and ended up stuck overnight at Charnock Richard services, trying to sleep under a bush by the slip road, with another 10 stranded hitch-hikers. Those were the days, eh? Anyway, suffice to say, after that I always started at Bothwell Services and always managed to make it to London in one day.

So, I set off for Bothwell. The bus journey there was interminable, and it seemed to manage to go through scuzzy Glasgow scheme after scuzzy Glasgow scheme, the bus sweating a load of pizza-faced, malnourished Weegies, making me feel more than glad that I was leaving. There were no fond farewells, as there might have been had the bus passed through more salubrious suburbs. Finally, we got to Bothwell and then began a 2 kilometre hike to the service station that damn near killed me and put me in a lot of doubt about my capacity to walk at least ten times that distance every day for a month. What the fuck was I thinking? My pack seemed to get heavier with every step. Despite the typically Scottish autumnal weather (about 13 degrees, overcast skies, wind and the threat of rain) I was sweating like a navvy. I soon cooled off though, standing on the sliproad with my thumb out, watching grimly scowling vehicle drivers pass me by. My good humour lasted about thirty minutes (as did my body heat), and after two hours I was teetering on despair and what felt like early onset hypothermia. I was pretty much ready to jack it in, get the bus back to Glasgow and book a £10 flight with Ryan Air. I was starving hungry and very pissed off. So, I decided I'd go and grab something to eat; and then after maybe I'd give it another hour, or maybe I'd just get the bus back immediately. However, as soon as I picked up my rucksack a car stopped, like magic, like the universe was conspiring to get me the hell out of Scotland. My first lift was with... I can't remember the technical term anymore, but it translates as an eye doctor for kids. I think the doctor's name was Jim - pretty sure it was, but all names are beginning to bleed into each other already. He was a chief consultant in Hull, and he talked to me in endless detail about doctoring, using jargon I didn't understand, talking about hospital politics I hadn't a clue about. One thing I do remember clearly though was that he told me that they accidentally found a cure for a pretty bad eye disease. A patient with a kidney disease who was also going blind was diagnosed a kidney treatment and it cured his eye condition. So doctors began using the kidney drug to cure the eye condition. A vial of the kidney drug cost £25 and could treat 5 patients. The drug company got wind of this, made a minor change to the chemical compound and started marketing it as an eye drug at £1,000 a pop, and, of course made sure that doctors were tied up and couldn't "illegally" use the kidney drug. How about that for cynical? Bastards! So, Doctor Jim cheered me up no end. Actually, he was a lovely guy and we didn't talk about doctoring and doctor politics the whole trip, maybe only three-quarters of it. Man, I didn't care what we talked about, we were going South, down into what my sister calls England-shire. When I think of England-shire, I think of the middle bit of Britain that the English love calling "The North". It's not The North, it's the Middle... and it sucks ass! I hate the middle bit of Britain, coz they're as poor as piss (or as poor as their northerly Scottish neighbours), but they have aspirations to wealth like they were from England proper (you know, the South), and it gives them a mean, nasty streak. Well, hey... that's the way it seems when you're standing on a slip road trying to get the fuck out of Arsehole of The Universe Service Station, Lancashire. The amount of folk that gave me the finger, the two fingers or that smarmy thumb with the huge grin as they floor it down the slip road, well it doesn't bear recalling. At least in the True North (yep, in Scotland) folk don't generally take the piss as they pass you by in their nice comfy, warm cars, they just scowl or look away, which ain't pleasant, but it feels like warm, friendliness compared to what I got in England-shire. It was dispiriting to say the least, and I was a long long time waiting to get out of there.

My second lift that day was with a salmon smoker from Ludlow. I could have hugged him for saving me from Arsehole of The Universe Service Station. He got me down almost as far as Manchester to another Arsehole of The Universe Service Station, where I stood shivering until night had well and truly fallen.. and with it, my spirits too! I was stuck. I mean, totally stuck, but I think God was smiling upon me, if a little expensively, for this service station had a Travelogue Inn and I had a piece of plastic in my pocket that meant I didn't have to sleep under a bush like I did 29 years ago. It hurt though, to pay £48 for the privilege of 12 hours in a sterile hotel from hell. Hmmm, how best to describe a Travelogue Inn? A Sterile Hotel From Hell In The Arsehole Of The Universe Service Station. I'd say that pretty much sums it up. Shit and over-priced as it was, at least I slept... until about 6am, when I woke in what can only be described as a total panic attack. What the fucking fuck am I doing in a Travelogue off the M6, trying to hitch-hike to Spain, I must be fucking mad etc etc. And then I met my fellow smoking artist who offered me a lift all the way back to Glasgow, and I damn near caved in.

Even after finding the resolve to persevere I was sure I was on a hiding to nothing. I decided that if I didn't get out of Arsehole Of The Universe Service Station Number Two I would stay another night at The Hotel From Hell, cough up another £48 and then the following morning I'd get a taxi to Warrington, from where I'd be able to meander my way back up to Glasgow by public transport; and I'd just have to live with the embarrassment of my aborted trip. Fortune favoured me however, and I got picked up fairly quickly by an IT guy in a scarily fast car who took me about 40 miles down the road in near enough record time. He dropped me at an even more scary Service Station that I seriously thought I'd never get out of, where every second car was filled with smirking Cro-Magnons who enjoyed nothing better than laughing at the poor sod standing on the slip-road. I stood there, on the sliproad of Scary Service Station, for maybe only half an hour, but it felt like an eternity. My salvation came in the form of a fellow Jock, a lorry driver from Lewis who now lives in Southampton. He drove me all the way from England-shire into England proper, where the money is, and where people are that much more pleasant altogehter... but money, man, Jock (as I'll call him) talked of nothing else. He was like a parody of a character I wrote into an as yet unfinished (and probably never likely to be finished) novel, and I felt very strange indeed, like I was living inside one of my own books. He talked about money for three hours... well, money and all the things he buys with his money. And he makes a lot of money as an owner-driver. For example, yesterday he turned over £1,000. Admittedly, he'll only see £600 of that after all his expenses, which he outlined in elaborate detail. And, I had to put up with him talking about "darkies" and bloody foreigners that can't drive and cause all the crashes on the motorway, which are bloody annoying because they put him behind schedule. You get the picture? And no, I didn't challenge his perceptions; I am too old and long in the tooth to try and argue with racists, and I was also too grateful to be in his nice warm artic, heading South, all the way to Southampton; didn't want to be papped out on the hard shoulder at the next slip road just so I could score brownie points against a bigot. Jock was really only all mouth anyway, braying on about "what's mine is mine and fuck everybody else", but he was generous enough to give me a lift, and when we stopped of at a Service Station he bought me a roll and a coffee, and when he dropped me off he was all for giving me a box of wine, which I had to decline on account of how heavy my load was already. He was really all heart, despite his gob, and I'm not saying what I've said about him to slag him off, but to demonstrate what I truly believe, which is that most people are fundamentally good, even ones with bad mouths. So thank you Jock for restoring my faith in humanity, and for getting me to Southampton.

Jock dropped me beside Totton Railway station on the outskirts of Southampton. I was kinda done with hitch-hiking by then and decided to treat myself to a train journey to Portsmouth, which is about 20 miles from Southampton. By the time I got to Portsmouth I'd missed the last day sailing to Caen in France, so I was left with the choice of a really expensive crossing to St Malo at 8pm or a cheaper eight hour crossing to Caen at 11pm, but if I wanted a berth I'd have to pay an extra ninety quid. Or... there was another alternative! As luck would have it, today was one of the days that the Portsmouth-Bilbao ferry was sailing, and it didn't cost substantially much more than the other ferries. So I decided to forego the dubious pleasure of trying to hitch-hike all the way through France and make do with a 36 hour trip to Bilbao in Northern Spain, all of 50 miles away from St Jean Pied de Port, where the Camino de Santiago starts in earnest. So that's where I am now, on a P&O boat, heading across the English channel, on my way to Spain. Hallelujah!

A Travelogue Inn Near Warrington, Darkest Mid-Britain

Okay, I'm crazy for doing this. I accept that. My father has told me I'm crazy, my sister has told me I'm crazy, and I'm sure that if I told my friends they would think I'm crazy too. So why oh why oh why am I trying to hitch-hike all the way to the South of France? I could just have got a flight and probably for less than I am paying just to stay in this soulless Travelogue Inn.

Why am I doing this? Well, I guess it was the whispering of that inner voice, a suggestion of an adventure which would not be easy. There is no challenge to getting on a plane and being whisked through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, and arriving someplace a thousand miles away, with no real inkling that you have travelled a thousand miles.

The gameplan is to hitch-hike all the way to St Jean Pied de Port, where the Camino de Santiago starts. And that's when I might really curse my madness, because the average day's walk is about 20-25 kilometres. Today I walked less than 2 kilometres with my heavy backpack (yep, I brought my Notepad... and loads of other stuff too!). My knees did not feel too smart after even that short distance, and standing around on slip roads didn't help either. So, I really am not too terribly sure of this adventure...

But, it's worth trying, and worth persevering with for more than one day...

I'd like to write more, but I am exhausted and need my sleep. I've got a 7am rise tomorrow, and I'm hoping to... well I'm hoping to get to Dover before 6pm because the Ferry Company no longer allows foot-passengers on after that, no doubt because of something to do with "health and safety". We'll see how far I get, and we'll see if I decide to give up tomorrow...

Mother Of God

Reflections After The Edwyn Collins Gig at The Assembly Halls, Edinburgh

There are moments in time that freeze in your consciousness. These are the snapshot memories that you will carry with you for the rest of your life. They don't necessarily have to be something momentous, like the birth of your daughter, but they need to have a certain poignancy to make an imprint. For me, there was nothing more poignant than going to see Edwyn Collins' gig at the Assembly Halls in Edinburgh last month. Collins suffered a brain haemorrhage in February 2005, which caused him severe physical trauma and left him partially paralysed. It was doubtful that he would ever walk again, and no-one would ever have imagined he would recover sufficiently to resume his music career, but he has, by sheer bloody determination and the loving support of his wife, Grace. The songs he wrote for his new album, "Home Again" he composed, holding down the chords on his guitar with his left hand, while she strummed for him. Collins still doesn't have much control over the right side of his body. His right arm and hand are more or less paralysed still. Watching him on stage, he looked like a soldier who had survived a war. The left side of his face, grinning broadly and his left hand punctuating every phrase of his songs. His joy was tangible, as was the massive aura of love, awe and support that was pouring out of his audience. To say the atmosphere was electric would be an understatement, the atmosphere was something so much bigger, better and brighter than mere electricity.

I went to my first gig in 1977, thirty two years ago, and I have been to hundreds, maybe even a thousand gigs since then, and I can say, hand on heart, nothing has ever moved me quite like that Edwyn Collins gig. I was damn near in tears, I swear, as was my friend Amitasuri. Perhaps, for Amitasuri and me it had that extra bit of poignancy, because both of us are brain haemorrhage survivors.

I feel like I go back a long way with Amitasuri, even though I first met her only a year ago. We met at Dhanakosa, a Buddhist retreat centre in the Highlands of Scotland. Someone on the retreat told me that Amitasuri had had a brain haemorrhage and I went up to talk to her, to share with her that I had also had a brain haemorrhage. She was the first person I'd met who was a fellow sufferer (and this meeting took place 7 years after my brain haemorrhage) and she was the only person I'd met, until I got to see Edwyn backstage after the gig. I felt an instant affinity with Amitasuri, and it was kind of reassuring to meet someone who had been through the same thing as me. After Dhanakosa, Amitasuri returned to Manchester and we became Facebook friends. Occasionally I'd check in with her to see where she was at. At the beginning of this year, as I was planning my trip to India, I noted from a Facebook entry that Amitasuri was also going to India, so I got in touch with her by email, and it turned out that not only were we both flying into Mumbai, but we were planning to arrive on the same day. So, we decided to meet up (my flight arrived one hour after hers) and we hung out together for a couple of weeks in Goa.

By chance again, I met Amitasuri last month in Glasgow. I was through for the day and she was up to see her folks. She told me she was going to go through to the Edinburgh festival and I invited her to come and stay. So she came, we went and took in some comedy shows and then she headed off the following day. I'd assumed she was off back down to Manchester, but she had taken a wander up to the book festival and saw that Edwyn Collins was doing a reading from his book. She got chatting with him and some of his band and she expressed her profound admiration for Edwyn and his fight for recovery and her feelings as she too had suffered a brain haemorrhage. She phoned me afterwards and asked me if I wanted to come and see his gig as she had got two guest passes.

You know something, I'm probably one of the few people in Scotland that never was a fan of Orange Juice. Objectively, I could say their guitar stylings were inventive, but they were too poppy for me, and I far preferred the more discordant sounds of their less tuneful contemporaries, like the Fire Engines and Josef K. Admittedly, my blindness (or rather my deafness) was mainly due to me being in thrall to an anti-pop snobbery that first took root in me in 1977 when I became a punk and had to pretend I didn't like music that was tuneful or more elaborate than a three chord thrash. I got over that, thankfully, but in the early eighties, although I had progressed in my musical appreciation and could deal with more than three chords, I still thought music had to be deep, dark and dismal to be truly appreciated; so Orange Juice, with their effervescent pop sensibilities didn't fit the bill. I didn't really "get" Orange Juice until 2005, until after I heard of Edwyn's brain haemorrhage, when I gave their tunes another listen with a more open mind. As for Edwyn's solo material, it is exceptional; and his best-selling song, "A Girl Like You" is a pop masterpiece. For me though, the album he recorded after his brain haemorrhage, "Home Again" is his best yet. I'm listening to it as I write this and I am totally blown away by it.

When I heard of Edwyn's brain haemorrhage I really felt for him, with all my heart, and when I heard that he was recovering, that he was recording and planning to gig I was overjoyed for him. So actually seeing him in concert was overwhelming, especially sitting beside Amitasuri (and we were lucky enough to have seats in the centre of the front row).

After the gig both Amitasuri and I were bursting with emotion. Words do not do justice to how I felt, but they are the only tools I have, and it was, at the time, my urgent urge to write a blog entry about the experience, but it felt beyond me. How could I possibly express THIS? And so, I didn't write about it at the time, and was only prompted to attempt to do so today after Amitasuri emailed me to tell me that the documentary about Edwyn's recovery is being aired on telly again. I watched it on YouTube a few days after the gig, and in the privacy of my own room I didn't hold back the tears as I did at the gig. It is one of the most moving pieces of television you are likely to see, and you don't need to have suffered a brain haemorrhage to appreciate both Edwyn and Grace's courage.

In preparation for writing this I decide to research and see which other "celebrities" had suffered brain haemorrhages, and was shocked and saddened to find out that Alistair McErlaine (guitarist with Texas) had a brain haemorrhage just a five days ago and is currently in critical condition. As a Scottish musician, I guess the parallels with Edwyn are obvious. Let us hope that one day soon there is also a documentary about McErlaine's recovery. My thoughts and prayers go out to him and his family.

It seems kinda flippant now to compile a list of celebrity brain haemorrhage sufferers, so I'm not going to bother, except to say that there have been plenty of them. I will mention one story that I unearthed though, for within its tragedy there is also a flickering and slightly bizarre flame of hope. Ice skater, Jane Soliman, was struck down with a brain haemorrhage just as she was coming to full term with her pregnancy, and she gave birth two days after she was clinically dead.

Fame & Fortune Beckon

One of my dreams is shortly going to be realised. Ever since I picked up a guitar, all them decades ago (when I discovered I couldn't play for shit), I've dreamed of having one of my songs recorded and released on record. Despite being crap at guitar, I still wrote songs every now and then. About 10 years ago, my sister, Kaela, took one of my songs, "Lemon Fields" and transformed it into "Apocalypse", turning a hippy dippy number into something that sounded, well... apocalyptic, or rather, maybe, an apocalyptic love song. She recorded it as a demo, with her then band, Sola, but it never made it any further than that. Now, though, it has finally been recorded by the lovely Bevvy Sisters (Kaela's latest musical venture) and will appear on their debut album, due out very soon. It is also going to be recorded with a different sort of vibe by Kaela in her other incarnation, "Kaela Rowan And The Roses", so it's going to be one not one, but two albums. A small dream come true. But, as the Spitting Image puppets said, "every silver lining has a cloud". Turns out that in order to receive my royalties I've got to spend £60 to join MCPS and PRS. And, in order to recoup those expenses - considering I'm getting half a writing credit on one track of the twelve or so that will be on the CD - the Bevvy Sisters are going to have to sell a shedload of CDs. So, to all of you wonderful people reading this... buy The Bevvy Sisters CD! They're brilliant, honest! Check out the video here, and you'll see what I mean. Also, check out their Myspace at www.myspace.com/thebevvysisters

Loveboat Big Band - Grand Finale

This is one of 22 clips of The Loveboat Big Band gig at Edinburgh's Queen's Hall. See the rest at www.youtube.com/user/deerimbaud or scroll down to the links below. Enjoy!

Voy A Ir A L'Espana

Three years on, Spain is calling me again. The Camino de Santiago wants to be walked and is promising me a life-changing experience. Do I want my life changed again? Probably. I hate to resort to clichés, but a change is as good as a rest. Michel Thomas is playing in the background as I write this. "No voy a hacerlo ahora porque voy a estar muy ocupado hoy". I've been playing the CD all day, in the belief that I will drink it into my subconscious. I dream of being able to speak Spanish fluently. Not just Spanish either, but French and Hindi too. Other less useful languages tempt me, especially Italian, which I've always loved the sing-song sound of. I don't know why I have these polyglottal desires, but suspect it might be because my mother and father used to discuss adult-stuff at the dinner table in Italian so we kids couldn't understand. There was a strange magic to those conversations, even if they were only about mortgage repayments and electricity bills. I'd like to imagine they were talking about fucking or poetry or drug-taking. Maybe they were. I hope so. It would be good if Michel Thomas taught a more leftfield Spanish. I'd like to write a poem about fucking in Spanish. I'd like to write it in French, Italian and Hindi too.

THE ENTRY OF THE BEVVY SISTERS

LOVE BOAT BIG BAND Video Clips

Love Boat Big Band 01 - Entry Of The Bevvy Sisters
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QM43ONotGwA

Love Boat Big Band 02 - Love Boat
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ubSWuYZ8Hs

Love Boat Big Band 03 - Life On A String
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGo7YD3EGQ4

Love Boat Big Band 04 - The Best Is Yet To Come
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sBJK9HUgvc

Love Boat Big Band 05 - Pebble In My Shoe
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29o2jsWE-MA

Love Boat Big Band 06 - Hold Tight
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QP4eBdYvdXs

Love Boat Big Band 07 - Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnqU_NhkUWA

Love Boat Big Band 08 - Matchmaker
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swvdRtH7rng

Love Boat Big Band 09 - Sugarfoot Rag
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1aDU2NqEFo

Love Boat Big Band 10 - Life Is But A Dream
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnUiMqOxxo8

Love Boat Big Band 11 - Clip 11
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ZXXtNZpLBI

Love Boat Big Band 12 - Clip 12
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi8jyQ4jddk

Love Boat Big Band 13 - Constantinople
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZq8Ug12VPs

Love Boat Big Band 14 - Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FILUTVCqJFo

Love Boat Big Band 15 - Beyond The Sea
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qczFMC7TWYk

Love Boat Big Band 16 - Bell Bottom Blues
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mm8TVB0gk3o

Love Boat Big Band 17 - Face The Music & Dance
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0kbQzpm-sM

Love Boat Big Band 18 - The Tide Is High
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EreMxw9_wNQ

Love Boat Big Band 19 - Thanks To Heather
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukygvfsat6M

Love Boat Big Band 20 - Captain Morgan On The Organ
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPSys7VkzkE

Love Boat Big Band 21 - Sing Sing Sing
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6htQ4vTkN4

Love Boat Big Band 22 - The Beat Goes On
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7vIosY0AI4

Shooglenifty, Live at The Queen's Hall, Edinburgh.

The Bevvy Sisters at Belladrum Festival 2009

My sister's band, The Bevvy Sisters, played at The Belladrum Festival. I was there to film them. Here are the links. Check them out:

Cow Cow Yicky
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eSCIZGYSzA

Littlest Birds
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZL6X6hWOEQ

Rock My Soul
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtYvRm-emFg

Draw The Line
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tm8guTMwN7s

Smoke Rings
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zJ2PzgBjlU

Mary Don't You Weep
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOS6nztzRGg

Coochie Coochie Mama
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yScA4KNJUEo

Sturdy Dog Food Dinner
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjX3GpYpfwU

India Videos

India & UAE 2009


Sunset In Dubai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXZWBnosDrA

"Freezing" In Dubai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Kj1xV7Db7M

Driving Thru Dubai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3_Pzn_zjNbw

Beach & Burj Of Dubai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFaCnOJdSrk

Lion In Zion (Dubai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWeVNQjEY7E

Mall Life In The Emirates (Dubai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-foNGOs8DA

A Five Star Hotel Luxury Spa (Dubai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuW5M-b_cDI

Seif & Taimour (Dubai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1OlfADiRXU

Sand Dunes Near Dubai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfO9necVCw8

Mall Of The Emirates (Dubai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ak7-iqF_tQ4

Arriving In Mumbai
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTPQKjweesA

Coloba, Taj Hotel & Mumbai Seafront.
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xfgg-spdiM

Fishing Village Slum, Coloba (Mumbai)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzlfTLKzwTU

Mumbai Streets & Posh Noodle Restaurant
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHqUPGzhdJc

Minimal Dragon Fusion in performance (Arambol Goa, Feb 2009)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlmBhdyBvfI

Cafe Society (Arambol, Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogKJlHNjd-g

Impossibly Cute
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsL6zWuI7wc

Near The Old Ferry (North Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDhGZfR3eAk

Arambol Carnival Begins (despite police ban)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ysb8kc_nK2g

Arambol Carnival Hots Up Big Time
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4B-4ePBCMo

Arambol Carnival, Into The Night
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9Ibs7cxy0g

Minimal Dragon Fusion
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5D6k0Bjy9E

Arambol To Anjuna
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxGO14lvl7c

Fire Show (Arambol, Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lY3MoXY9Y8o

Yoga & Painting Retreat (Majorda, Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hcWBW8N24w

Yoga & Painting Retreat, part 2 (Majorda, Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dJ-SuDiwAk

Downward Facing Dog (Majorda, Goa)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ccz2Z8NWYbc

Street Kids (Jaipur)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0E_5IKU4N6k

Bumming A Fag In Style (Jaipur)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZtUtkFizkA

The Back Streets Of Jaipur
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2JnEnW_mYc

Jaipur From Below And Above
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7c9Cmlwnvk

Broken Down (7km from Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ML93ebGEUQ

One Of The Most Beautiful Towns In India - Pushkar
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sC7UA2-G-hw

First Night of Holi (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQYd8WR3yVI

Second Day & Night Of Holi (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzRws3V_GFM

Third Day Of Holi (in glorious technicolour) (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2JcnTQgKMw

Hanging Out With The Bangladeshi Hare Krishnas (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3Qp0Ng6HE0

The Moon Cafe Crew With A View (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WDX8I3I6nc

More Celebrations (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZlW5jirF0w

Clowns & Jugglers (Pushkar)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhov9lxG9es

Bundi - One Of Rajastan's Hidden Gems
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0Ch6l201FU

Shoe Repair Wallah (Bundi, Rajasthan)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMuivqq1Zyg

Monkey Business (Bundi, Rajasthan)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EDu02nnYE0

Bourgoise Udaipur
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RG6ojhWn3qk

More Udaipur
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5yLzZjTupM

Mount Abu - A Breath Of Fresh Air
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_w_CSQ8xOE

Brahma Kumaris, Hindus & Jains (Mt Abu)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVdKTFeu-4s

Round Mt Abu Lake
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWm1R7Dk-Fk

Climbing Toad Rock & Boating On The Lake (Mt Abu)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ec2EsWhgwpk

Train Journey from Abu Road to Haridwar
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpilhWUQoH4

Haridwar
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVhpwst5tnc

Haridwar As Night Falls
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRcJ6FjNdjY

Arriving Home In Rishikesh
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ao8Y0kXndR4

Rush Hour At Laxman Jhula Bridge (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1nYtu8vXNI

Ram Jhula - Babas & Chaos (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynv4ZHX-OW4

Ram Jhula & Ganga Aarti (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TmIDYtwsNNo

Washing Away Our Sins In The Ganga (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tluMSv5P65U

Monkey Business & Hindi Lessons (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLpKKQ_uvfA

A Song Of Praise To The Holy Mother Ganga (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64I66s-Jclg

Why Sinead Became A Vegetarian Again (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgJr8D1fSKQ

Ganga Aarti (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdVSasFZzWM

The Crazy Woman In White At The Ganga Aarti (Rishikesh)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRbqp4_8w68

Uttarkashi
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eedRO_EVO1M

Gangotri
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHMzHJuEcSY

Bathing In The Freezing Ganga River At Gangotri
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGfgVSf2QPg

Dhal & Chapattis (Gangotri)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Iyq7P1RpBk

The Raging Ganga (Gangotri)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SRff5qKz2U

Back In Rishikesh To Pre-Monsoon Rains
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zn0Ir_85-PM

McLeod Ganj & Dharamkot (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7sxCgQ33Lw

More McLeod Ganj & Dharamkot & A Bit Of Bhagsu Too (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dtdFito_bY

Henry's Birthday, part 1 (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXZkfItZmmQ

Henry's Birthday, part 2 (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1NJ8E4LSME

Gig at Buddha Hall, Bhagsu, June 2009 (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK_ZnAix6IQ

A Buddhist Monastery & A Restaurant (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adOFu8fZBTc

The End Of The Rainbow Hat Gang (Dharammsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCKPvLGzBu0

Blazing Fiddle in Bhagsu (Dharammsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPJl5ycEvxY

Last Days In Dharamsala
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1hsguggDqs

Ori's Birthday & Jackson's Deathday (Dharamsala)
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXdgZzcvOi8

Dharamsala To Delhi
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvp46MY8Puc

Last day in India & Journey To Airport
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gxd3nG1bxs

Dubai Deja Vu
URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0p0AeadVzY

Final Four Drawings From India

Five More Drawings From India

Five Artworks From India

New MySpace Tunes

MySpace has now increased the amount of songs you are allowed to upload, so I have uploaded 4 new Melted Rubber Humans tunes - myspace.com/captainmelted

Melted Rubber Humans - Music Videos

One of the things I have been doing is putting my tunes up on You Tube, together with videos. So, here is the complete list (so far).

Addicted To A Dying World
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=tPLos63JwhY

All Over The Universe, The Winds Of War:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=GRaArtjeags

Antichrist Cometh:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=vaXuKRiiU3k

Coming Down To Ground (flashback mix):
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=crApeVfeD14

Dancefloor At The Centre Of The Universe
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=4J033ApyROQ

Escape From A Totalitarian Mindset
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=s5x6CVQwxog

Fear Of The Lord
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=DTNNgeNJ-ds

Goddess And The Orgasm
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=iRvgaWn8Hd8

Here Comes The Apocalypse
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=9iwXP93EG2s

Here Comes Tiffany
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=_aRa0J9SoMk

Hurdy Gurdy Woman
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=PlMO3DtgUEk

I And I Fly
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=y502IEPdEyM

I'll Get You My Pretty
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=YxVyugvVLQ8

In The End Just Radio Waves And Static:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=yZPSWtRPpr8

Journey Thru Inner Space
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Ra_lhbQQEB0

Last Of Days v1
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=lnzNKtbloYs

Last Of Days v2
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt0CJTODjpM

Life Is Just A Dream
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=53qtIxbUgUA

Living In A Different Reality
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=wDQ3SRo5llQ

New Beginning
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=7gHxeR1HFHE

Nightclub At The End Of The Universe
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=qIFa31AH1C8

Nightmare Vision Of The Golden Age:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=hG1OOhbE4Fs

Oh Switch Off (original version)
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=p-K42kMah-c

Oh Switch Off (Blue Peter version)
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=jnPhMxBkcrM

Out Of Primeval Chaos We Are Reborn:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=HaAEzVK3ZGQ

Out Of The Chaos And Into The Light
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=IsuGNoiF5ek

Seek Out Your Gifts
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=lXtIOWTES_Y

Self Medicating Magus Moves Mountains
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=_xzHd-QCgjw

Seven Angels Of The Apocalypse
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=UJfKkiVZjlA

Seven Angels Of The Apocalypse (2nd coming mix)
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=8X9KUj5oNfQ

Shaman In The Underworld
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=vzZhUm5n2-g

Shut Down:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=KwjbUwWl1Gs

Sunrise
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=cgonmSr57Dg

This Divine Light
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=adePNvv7uvw

This Is The End My Beautiful Friend
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=v5WZpffniAo

Tribes Will Rise Again:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=YeJX4KR7dww

Five More Poetry Videos

Waves
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=sDBbr7bnfUI

Heaven & Earth
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=dF2KgSdZWBQ

Tindersticks
http://www.youtube.com/v/omsvuCV5ZXY

Crow
http://www.youtube.com/v/s0mX0hXebz4

Awakening To The Light
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Tt-hc091KW4

New MELTED RUBBER HUMANS music videos

A Nightmare Vision Of The Golden Age:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=hG1OOhbE4Fs

Shut Down:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=KwjbUwWl1Gs

All Over The Universe, The Winds Of War:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=GRaArtjeags

The Tribes Will Rise Again:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=YeJX4KR7dww

Out Of Primeval Chaos We Are Reborn:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=HaAEzVK3ZGQ

In The End Just Radio Waves And Static:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=yZPSWtRPpr8

The Antichrist Cometh:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=vaXuKRiiU3k

Oh Switch Off:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=jnPhMxBkcrM

Coming Down To Ground (flashback mix):
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=crApeVfeD14

Last Of Days:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt0CJTODjpM

Seven Video Poems

These poetry videos feature work from my collection, Dropping Ecstasy With The Angels


When Angels Collide & Bang Their Heads:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmi3fikDww

Arc Of Descent:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=zqqRJ_NnFOw

The Morning After:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=3TNl32yEU5Y

Mother Of God:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=uDAnHNkwJpQ

A Beautiful Chemistry:
http://www.youtube.com/v/PAG-9qTi4tE

No Daisies:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=XNFlusVdHMk

Apple Of My Eye:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=DdrCX-2UTXw

The Birth Of The New American Century

My two latest tunes are, "All Over The Universe, The Winds Of War" and "The Birth Of The New American Century".

You can find them at:
http://www.virb.com/melted_rubber_humans_3

You can download them for free. Also, if you so wish, you can copy them and send them to your friends.

Two New Drawings

I've just added two new Melted Rubber Humans songs, Out Of Primeval Chaos We Are Reborn & The Tribes Will Rise Up Again to our new VIRB site, which is at http://www.virb.com/melted_rubber_humans_3

Also, I've just completed a huge re-vamp of the art pages on my website, uploading several hundred artworks that haven't been available before. You can see these at http://www.rimbaud.org.uk/artmainpage.html

The Wind Whispering

The wind, you say, does not whisper in your ears,
does not confound with conundrums, nor exalt,
rather it chafes, rubbing rough channels
of bruise coloured, brittle ice
down through the ductus cochlearis
into the lightless kernel of your being.

Of course we have no soul, you divine:
a mind, maybe; consciousness, barely.
We are a race of grinning golems
sleepwalking towards our own extinction.
There is no animate spirit,
just the dull raging
of imbecile instincts.
We are born, we struggle to survive
and then we die.
We assume and consume,
in a desperate, blind rush
through the corridors of loneliness
to the grab sale of empty promises,
sating ourselves with pathetic comforts
that are scant protection,
for in the end
the thin darkness
will still consume us,
as it must.

Ah, but the wind does whisper in your ears,
it insinuates itself into your soft core,
through the staunch castle walls
of your meticulous cynicism.

How do I know this?

Well I too have been touched by the wind,
in the deepest, most secret of places;
with the sultry syllables of her sibilant fingers
she stoked up an inferno
of absolute uncertainty.

Listen to me, she commands,
can you hear her?

Listen to me...
open your legs and beg me to enter in,
for together we will bleed as one,
together will be poetry,
an infinite verse
that traverses the universe,
singing like the Rosenbergs in Sing Sing,
like a Stradivarius violin,
snapping to the beat of violence,
to the absurd silence that commences
when the words end,
when the rhythm finally moves through you
like a monk walking through boiling waters
wearing only feathers for clothes
and dreaming of wings.

So let me confound you with conundrums,
let me exalt you, like an angel of melting ice,
let me excite you, let me entice you,
for I will swim through the lightless channels
of your stoppered up ears
and my whispers will grow fierce,
throwing up a tumult
that will ignite the smouldering embers
in your no longer lost or lonely soul.

In The End, Just Radio Waves And Static

I've written a new tune, "In The End, Just Radio Waves And Static", which you can hear on Garage Band, here. It's a post-apocalyptic vision. A hopefully not psychic vision of our future, but something born of a cold, small fear. Something born of watching too many You Tube videos about the prophecies of Mother Shipton, Nostradamus and John the Apostle.

I'm not frightened of dying exactly. I had that fear dampened down in September 2001, when I nearly bit the big one, with a brain haemorrhage. I saw "death", and it was not nearly so big and terrifying as one has been led to imagine. I also saw the seeds of our planet's death, as I lay in my hospital bed, with that second plane hitting and hitting and hitting the second of those twinned towers, in constant action replay. Even in my fevered state, I knew a bunch of mad mullahs could not orchestrate an attack of that magnitude against the most powerful, most well-defended nation on this planet. Sadly, my first fevered thoughts proved to be vindicated.

Maybe we all deserve to die, for letting murderers and psychopaths take control of our lives. Maybe we are just not evolved enough to be able to peacefully co-operate and co-exist. It seems painfully inevitable that we will eventually - probably very soon - wipe ourselves out. If it isn't with weapons of mass destruction - as stockpiled mainly by Saddam Hussein's accusers - then it will certainly be because of the climatic (and maybe even seismic) havoc we are reaping, as we rape and despoil our once beautiful planet.

In some ways, I might have welcomed this collective self-destruction - after all, it is the pettiness of our skin, the blindness of our belief in our individuality, our isolation, each from each other, that causes such untold misery. In death, we will all be brought back to our true form, which is spirit, not flesh. Spirit recognises no boundaries. Spirit has no divisions. It cannot go to war with itself. It cannot steal from itself. It cannot neglect a part of itself. It cannot inflict pain upon itself. And yet, that is exactly what Spirit does, while encased in these separate bodies of flesh. So yes, part of me would have welcomed our collective death. Except....

Except that same month, September 2001, I became a father. I became blinded by the little parcel of flesh that I had helped to co-create. I became blinded by bio-chemical love, as all procreators do. I became jailed by the illusion of flesh. Like all fathers, like all mothers, I quickly grew to see myself as a guardian. I guard the little life that is my daughter's, just as preciously as any other parent. I may even kill to protect her, if push came to shove. I may even lay down my own life for her. So sucked in have I become to that bio-chemical illusion.

Yes, I see the bigger picture. Yes, this is all illusion. But what a beautiful illusion it can be; and I want my wee daughter to enjoy her allotted span of three score years and ten (and hopefully many more) before she shuffles of her mortal coil and joins the amorphous otherness of Spirit again. I want to shake George Bush, Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld. I want to shake Gordon Brown, Tony Blair and Alasdair Darling. I want to shake the slimy, cold bodies of every politician from Downing Street to Darfur, from Beijing to Washington, from Stockholm to Sao Paulo. I want to shake them until some dormant part of their brain wakes up and they realise the consequences of their actions (and their inactions). Like me, most of them have children. Many of them will have grandchildren too. And surely - even though their blood is colder, their hearts more calculating than the rest of us - they must at least love their own offspring. They must surely want them to thrive, even if they don't give a rat's as about the rest of us. Sure, they do deals with multinational corporations and line their own pockets, to ensure that their offspring inherit their wealth and power. But what use will wealth and power be in a world that is no longer inhabitable? I'm guessing that all those politicians and big business people just live day-to-day, that they truly are blind to the consequences of their actions, because I cannot believe that they would willingly sacrifice the happiness and well-being of their children for the sake of a quick buck. Cold-hearted as they are, I cannot believe they are that cold-hearted!

It is with these thoughts rattling round my head, rattling round my heart, that I compose my latest tunes. The thought that we will all die son. The thought that my daughter may not live long enough to produce a daughter of her own. The thought that we have turned our abundant Mother Earth into a weeping, angry, vindictive crone. That one day she will shuffle us off, like a dog scratching away blood-sucking flees. And then, what then? All that will be left of us will be radio waves and static.

(Click here and listen while you read the poem below)

In The End, Just Radio Waves And Static

What will we be in the end, but radio waves and static,
chaotic patterns of interference, perhaps detected,
but not understood, many years after
we have finally extinguished ourselves.

Maybe, high-powered telescopes will be trained
upon the dim star we once worshiped, long before
we were sophisticated enough
to bring about our own destruction.

Maybe those far off others
will be sufficiently technologically advanced
to be able to detect the cold mass
that was the planet we used to inhabit.

What will they suppose
when they hear the static encrusted voices
that once belonged to our leaders?

Will they try to decipher meaning
from those alien voices
that hiss and crackle through their atmosphere?

Will they speculate upon the reasons
for our demise,
or nod knowingly, sadly, sagely -
glad they had the luck to be so far away?


(You can hear more songs from The Melted Rubber Humans latest album, "Tunes To Play As The World Goes Up In Flames" at www.virb.com/melted_rubber_humans_2 )

Six New Pastel Drawings

I've posted up six new pastel drawings, below. All are for sale. All are UK £100 (plus p&p). I can accept payments in Dollars or Euros, subject to conversion charges.

If interested, contact me by email: dee@thunderburst.co.uk

You can view this pictures and more that are for sale at:
http://www.rimbaud.org.uk/artforsale.html

Shamanic Dreamer

Tender Is The Night

Pulling Down Flowers From The Moon

The Woman Who Dreams

Dreaming Of Wings

Drawing Down Flowers From The Moon

New Videos

I've posted up 10 new videos on my daughter, Rosie Sunshine's YOU TUBE account, at http://uk.youtube.com/user/rosiesunshine2001

Much more fun than my usual sorta stuff. Lightweight and fun.

40 Million Downloads and I'm A Dollar Millionnaire

You can download 15 Melted Rubber Humans tunes per month for FREE from:

http://newmelodies.com/index.php?action=iperfil.view&ID=melted_rubber_humans

and if you do, I will earn two and a half cents per download. That's a whole shiny new dollar for every 40 downloads. So, please do let all your pals, and who knows, if my luck holds out I might just earn enough to buy the new Britney Spears LP.

The Wonderful Rosie Sunshine

I've taken some time out from my own creative projects in celebration of someone who is so much more creative, so much more imaginative and so much more alive than me: my daughter, Rosie Sunshine. I've been working my way through 50 hours of video footage and editing clips of Rosie at her shiny, brightest best and posting them up on her very own You Tube site, which is at http://uk.youtube.com/user/rosiesunshine2001

Already there are 163 clips up there, and I've only got as far as December 2004; and I promise you, each one is a shiny gem. If ever you succumb to ennui or world-weariness, just log on and rediscover the delight in life.

Remember, you too were once a child... and somewhere inside that old, shrivelled up, hardened skin, a child STILL resides. For you ARE the totality of all your experiences, and inside you is that child who delighted in everything.

Art Slide Shows

I've made five slide shows featuring my art, accompanied by Melted Rubber Humans tunes. They are now up on You Tube for your viewing pleasure.

Photomontages & Collages
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Ra_lhbQQEB0

Charcoal Drawings
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=7gHxeR1HFHE

Pastel Drawings & Paintings
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=cgonmSr57Dg

Black & White Ink Drawings
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=53qtIxbUgUA

Black & White Ink Drawings (early work)
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=vzZhUm5n2-g

If This Is Heaven I'm Bailing Out...

I've just finished the last track on my fifth album, If This Is Heaven I'm Bailing Out. So, it's now available in its entirety for free download.

The track listing is as follows:
Escape From The Totalitarian Mindset
The Seven Angels Of The Apocalypse
Addicted To A Dying World
The Last Of Days
Out Of The Chaos And Into The Light
Seek Out Your Gifts
A Journey Through Inner Space
The Self-Medicating Magus Moves Mountains
This Is The End My Beautiful Friend

T-Shirt Legends

Well, I am now a t-shirt legend. Intrigued?