I’m really sorry. Believe me, I really, truly am so very sorry. All those lovely gals out there, pray tell, I am desperately sorry. All those who may have had a little place for me in their hearts or those who may have had ‘designs’ on me, saw me as their future, their love, maybe their whole life, I’m sorry to have to let you down. I so truly am, with all my heart, really. But it’s happened…………….

I’ve fallen in love……..

I know it’s sudden and I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t see it coming and in fact, I was more shocked than I’ve ever been in my life. I mean, I live in a metal box on wheels with a bloke who I sleep within arms reach of (and sometimes I use that distance to my advantage….. while he’s asleep of course). I mean the environment just isn’t conducive to such lustful and amorous feelings. And I just can’t understand why these things happen at the most in-opportune times. Only the other day, my co-habitor and I were discussing the spate of weddings and births that are happening to those we’ve befriended or befamilied over the years and how our environment for the foreseeable future, and this is at least a possible year or two, isn’t conducive to any such circumstances. And then, right out of the blue, which in a way should be expected really, as that’s usually how it happens isn’t it?, it sits right on your face and SQUELCH, that’s it, your heart belongs forever to another.

And the object of my desire, my lust, the one who has my heart? Introduced to me by Steve, no less, she’s Swiss, she has a body as smooth as a Barry White lyric, the colour of Venezuelan coco beans, the suppleness, when she feels like it, usually on a Wednesday evening, of a contortionist on a Paul Daniels ‘Magic’ trick, she tastes like the sweetest chocolate and the most velvety curtains all mixed together, when she’s around, she has my undivided attention and my gaze cant leave her profound beauty. I think about her when I’m shopping, at midday, after dinner, I dream of her, I taste her when she’s not here, I’m just fully bowled over by her sheer presence on this Earth. And to think it happened in Meribel, home of the Average White Anglophile goon. Even as I type this, my mind keeps wandering to her and her massive presence in this new World I find myself in, a World of candyfloss clouds, of lollypop trees and lemonade that makes you float to the ceiling towards a big, scary, whirling fan that might chop you up unless you let out the biggest Lager Belch any fat English bastard has ever dreamt of producing that’ll make you float back down to the safety of the cotton wool Earth I now inhabit.

And her name, when I say it, just makes every other name in the World sound wrong, fake, like a gold bracelet that you find in a Christmas Cracker, the light glinting of its rich tone as it rolls out into your gravy, only for you to realise that actually, your mum just found the Harrods box in a charity shop and its just the same old Woolworths value crackers she cello-taped back together from last year. And come to think of it, the year before as well. And they were second hand, even then.

I’m sure that it’s only me this happens to. But when I pronounce it, the sun shines and I get all excited and need a wee, like when you’re hiding in hide and seek and your pursuer is closing in but then walks right past you and into another room. If you say it yourself, it wont have the same effect, undoubtedly, but try, you might be fortunate enough to see what all the fuss is about……………

Nutella…….. Say it again, slowly……. N-u-t-e-l-l-a…….. You see how it just makes everything seem better? Man, life is as rich as an English Banking Chairman after his 7th bonus of the year whilst all around him collapses, people lose their homes and children have to eat Aunt Bessie’s instead of the goose fatted proper roast tatties Nigella is always banging on about in her castle at number …..(that’ll cost ya), Eaton Square. I just can’t get enough of her (not Nigella, that was a long time and two court orders ago).

So, as I said, I’m sorry, but my heart is now taken. And besides, you wouldn’t want me anyway, my teeth are rotting and I’ve got this sticky congeal-some beard that’s definitely rash inducing. But again, that might be something to do with my proximity to the ‘special friend’ i’m on this journey with, during the witching hour.

However, there have been times when I haven’t been thinking about my chocolate Princess and my presence has been felt in the party capital of Europe’s mountainous regions. For example, if any of you have ever been to a Dicks Tea Bar, you’ll know the sheer naked enjoyment of which I spaketh. Sorry, again, but I don’t think I just did it the justice it really deserves. What words can I use to describe this club that blesses us with its magnificent presence among us mere mortals of Meribel?

How about……. Faecal……. Bile-ic…….Putrid? Undeserving of its place in even this, the town of ‘Super Un-cool’? Maybe you get the message, but if not, at the weekend, take a trip down to a Peckham high rise and lick the flap at the bottom of the rubbish chute of Nelson Mandela House or wash yourself in the dregs of a tramps Speccy Brew beer can. Then think of someone rotten, like Roy Hattersley, leading you into a back room, stripping to a pinafore and poll dancing to Voulez Vous.

It wasn’t even as pleasant as all that mixed together in a crumble. But let me provide one piece of evidence that will sum up this Hades for you, just so you can see for yourselves what a pit of Vampire vomit this place really was. After listening to some kind of ‘dance’ music for an hour and really, and I mean really, trying to enjoy oneself and those of you who know me best know that I really do try, even when a hatred of a certain music is coursing through my bulging, purple veins, my erstwhile colleague, Steven of Taylor, approached Mephistopheles in his dj (dirt jockey) pit and requested, in best Formal Polite English tone, “Sire, does one perhaps perchance have any funk one may bestow upon us, your loyal subjects’ , this shits doin’ me fuckin’ ‘ead in”. To which Satan replied, “I’ve got Superstition but we only play that on cheese nights”.

I’ve said enough.

What was as pleasant as all that though, and even more so I’d go as far to say, were the two Antipodean lasses that liked our Bedford Chalet so much that they bought us breakfast every morning in an effort to keep us nearby their warm, cosy palatial residence. Probably for the laughs they got every a.m when they came out and saw a slightly chilly couple of English chaps waiting for the milk to defrost on their dashboard, ‘3’ Weetabix poised in bowl, just as the water on their camping stove hit the 33rd minute of the boiling process that in another hour and 12 minutes would yield the mornings first cup of Earl Grey ‘avec Miel’ (Mon Francais, c’est magnifique!). Granted, the sausages were made of some kind of plasterboard-polystyrene mix and the brown sauce was the kind that one finds in Wilkinson’s, Croydon, but the thought was there and as the milk would be another 4 hours, it was welcomed with arms, ever so slightly uncrossed, so as not to let out the warmth that had been generated by sitting in that position since 4 in the morning when noses froze and snot iced. Needless to say, two days later we moved on, under night’s cloak, so as not to be followed and put through such intestinal difficulties again. But it was the thought that counted.

Since my last rambling entry into what is fast becoming the worst diary of events of any kind produced by man since the bibles description of the Creation of the Universe (whoa there, Mr Controversy!), I have joined the local library, of which I’m sure I’m the only patron. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, you will find me there, weather permitting (if its sunny, ski’s are assembled and hideous ski attire donned), trawling through the 6 English fiction books, all donated by myself, for something yet unread and using the internet for hours upon end, much to the annoyance of the patron, surely plucked from the set of The Hills Have Eyes Visit Marie Curie Cancer Care for some Ill Fitting Troosers with which to wear Every Day of their Working Lives! The internet is free, as opposed to the 9 EURO’S AN HOUR at the tourist information centre (the French really do see the English coming!), which will explain to some of you why I’m always one of your friends ‘currently logged into Facebook’ every time your obviously very important jobs allow you to visit during the daytime (Alex, Ben GC, Greg, Venetia, etc!). Honestly, I know I’m supposed to be seeing the World, but I’ve done Meribel, 16 times and i’m just counting down the days ‘til our Rainbows End Rendezvous. Speaking of which, we are currently working out a path that will take us from our last French Farm, 800 metres from the Spanish border, on 3rd June, down the coastal roads of North East Spain to Barcelona for a li’l post-farm-work holiday, after which I’m heading of to a Meditation Retreat in the hills outside Barca for 10 days of mind-searching madness. A tour of Spain’s farmland, whilst labouring of course, will then be undertaken, hopefully, Bruce permitting, to the very southern province of Andalusia and, I’m hoping, to its annual food festival where gringo’s slaughter pigs with Odd Job style sombrero boomerang death hats and rip their beatin’ hearts out with wiry handlebar moustaches, Sergio Leone style or somethin’ like that.

Hey, also, while I’m here (and have been for 7 hours compiling this veritable Sonnet of events!), I’ve got another interesting question, or rather, regular occurrence I need your help explaining (by-the-way, thanks to the four of you who responded to my last question, that’s three more than I thought actually read this stuff, although none were of my own kin and one would expect at least 1 of them to be interested in their offspring/siblings adventures, no?!)

Myself and my sleeping buddy were discussing the film Willow this week when he said to me, “Who was it who wrote the score for that film”, and as he sat their, his massive cranium working over-time to try to find the fact hidden deep inside a memory that certainly resembles no elephants, I looked at him and thought who in the history of the Universe would even know the answer to such a question, and so without any thought on the matter, I conjured up “Mark Knopfler”. And who the hell might the composer of the score to the film Willow have been? You got it, the Dire Straights front man himself. Now, had this episode been of a solitary nature between myself and my attendant, I would have put it down to coincidence and thought nothing of it. However, a few weeks before our departure, we were sat in The Globe (fantastic li’l pizza joint at the end of Columbia Road, pizzas the size of Fatima Whitbread for 6 bucks, the same here would cost you your life, and that wouldn’t even include a tip), having a spot of lunch. I was thinking of a band that I was trying to get a gig for, called Maybe Murtle Turtle, (check ‘em on myspace, they’re fantastic, even better live), when my chum randomly, mouth full of rocket, spurts out “Murtle Turtle”. Now again, I would normally put this down to coincidence, although such random words being spouted by one whilst thought of by another as Murtle Turtle is some other kind of coincidence. Add to this, that he didn’t know of the band, but still, the saying of random words can be thought of as a coincidence, however remote. But the Mark Knopfler thing as well? Is it just a case of a 1 in a mahoosive number chance that two random utterances between the same people, whilst in the same physical proximity on both occasions, where knowledge of facts were not equally known, is just coincidence or might there be some other explanation. I’m a man who believes in Science and reason and explanation but this weirded me out somewhat.

Answers, explanation, discussion or just a ‘Hello’ are all welcome in the comments section of this blog-site.

Finally, since my last post, I’ve read Maggie Cassidy (Jack Kerouac), a work of such sublime literature that it bought a tear to my eye at its end, The Photograph (Penelope Lively), a work of such normal banality and tedious stereotypes that if the character in said Photograph didn’t remind me of a friend, I would have sent it to Guantanamo as a torture device AND asked for postage to be paid by recipient, am halfway through Extraterrestrial Life (Isaac Asimov), full of amazing space facts and also halfway through The Brother Gardeners (Botany, Empire and the Birth of an Obsession), (Andrea Wolff), full of amazing facts about the history of botany and gardening in England from the late 1600’s. Did you know, for example, that the majority of our English countryside is made up of tree’s from America, including the much loved ‘English’ Oak, all bought over as seeds and cuttings from the start of the 1700’s and that the best nursery in the country belonged to one Thomas Fairchild, situated, in 1716, in Hoxton, London?


Thanks for listenin’



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