See ya later…

Blimey, thank God that’s over (I capitalise God these days, not due to a new found love of all things nonsensical or because ive met the girl of my dreams and so have taken on her religion, pretending that I believe in whatever it is she’s forcing me to believe in….. I mean, surely that’s more annoying to any God than people just not believing full stop, I mean, announcing your new found faith in front of him just to get laid every night for the first couple of years of your married life…if you’re lucky, but out of respect to those who actually believe, as some of you are my friends and I don’t want to disrespect your ‘mental’ beliefs!!)

7 months with a man-giant in the World’s smallest metal greenhouse.  7 months!!!  Can you Adam an’ Eve it?  7 months of burning my lungs with someone else’s methane, 7 months of seeing the worst underwear BHS ever produced, 7 months of wondering whether the next drive would be our last, 7 months of ‘that smell’………

So, the Gil Scott-Heron gig never occurred, namely because of Gil Scott-Heron taking offence at my cohorts shirt.

In the ensuing chaos, a Clown decided that he wanted to buy Bruce.  So, he got on a comedy camel-humped bus, drove 8 hours in 40 degree heat, sat in Bruce’s drivers seat, bashed him against a parked van, stalled, made me bash into another two parked cars, then got on another comedy bus, this time equipped with a trampoline toilet seat and a bucket of glitter and buggered off on his second 8 hour journey in 24 hours.
Never trust a Buddhist Clown that breathes fire and likes to make kids laugh whilst dressed as a medieval swordsman.  Unless you trust him to play bumper cars with yours and some very angry Spanish peoples prized vehicles and then fuck off back to the Big Top and decide actually your ‘proper bashed up’ road-hotel isn’t suitable for a man who wears a red nose and shoes on the wrong feet.

Nice dude, though…

Alas, I write this, my final blog whilst on foreign shores, for the next month or so anyway, from the restaurant, and I use that term as loosely as I would the term ‘Innocent’ when referring to a recently deceased kiddy fiddler/one time high-pitched moonwalker, of the beautifully industrial and downright SHIT port of Calais.  Yes, I’m finally homeward bound, as Simon and Garfunkel would undoubtedly and annoyingly sing in my ear at every opportunity until I wept and asked them to ‘…please, sing that song with Chevy Chase in the video’…  Again, I use the term Homeward Bound very loosely as I don’t actually consider myself to have a home cos a) I own nothing of any value more than some amusingly striped toothpaste and b) I don’t actually live anywhere in particular (and you thought YOUR life was shit…. Well, it is, but mine aint…… who’s worse off now, home-owning debt-laden in-it-for-the-rest-of-your-life-for-what sucker?  I’ve got stripey toothpaste, you’ve got a miserable face!!!!)  But so have I (got a miserable face), not because I’m unhappy, I’m always happy, (something which some of you cant seem to understand).  Its because my current level of happiness isn’t the same as it was whilst I was partying with some of the Worlds hottest mama’s or lapping up the sun on the beaches of one of the coolest cities this side of Sandown, Isle of Wight or seeing some free live Gospel Soul gig or watching a super fierce guitar laden lead singer being passed over the crowd in a super lush bar whilst playing some super rocky Chinese pop track (supposedly) to an adoring audience.  Its because im going back to a country with a face as long as the time you wait for summer to actually come back after April’s ‘nice’ week.  Ive just left daily blue skies and tattoo clad bikini Goddeses, im less than 27 miles from Blighty (they should rename it Blimey, is this it!) and its over 24 hours since ive seen anything remotely resembling Duncan from Blue.  But I need money and Spain is shit for that.  Money.  What a shitter that is, eh?  And guess what, the two dudes who were offering me the work I wanted but were full of Billy happened to be from where?  ‘Once-Great Britain’ (after it had bullied its way to the top of the Great chain by murdering, raping, thieving, etc).  Its probably just my annoyance at having to return, even if it be for just a month, that’s the reason for my melancholy, but apart from a git who had his hand in my bag when I turned round to see what that tugging at my shoulder was, only to plead innocence, the only dishonest people I have come across on my travels, happened to be from my own country.  That’s what you get when a third of your population watch Eastenders every day!! That Ian Beale, I tell ya…

My last times in Barcelona were about as eventful as the rest put together.  I was visited by the leg end that is Claire Ives, who put us up in 4-star luxury for 5 nights of pure comedy times (at the Hotel Granados 83 – google that shit, man).  We drank Pina Colada’s by the pool, Milk of the Panther in an ace Spanish Bar and the sun on the beaches of Sitges, a li’l town (the gayest this side of San Fran supposedly… it was pretty clean I guess!) 30 minutes outside of Barcelona that’s definitely worth a visit if you’re ‘round those parts.  We had a night out at Nasty Mondays (a massive Indy-Rock night), which, this time, my Barca friends didn’t stop us going too (they had a better time than anyone among the most beautiful 20 year olds in Barca, in fact, everyone of us pulled except guess who… although, in fairness to me, she was rubbing her fanny against a hand rail and im sure that would have put most of you off… I said most, Bobby!).  We went to a buskers festival and got ‘sprinkled’ by the sprinklers.  I witnessed, quite possibly, the finest club singing by my visitor, this side of Vic Reeves, which was so pant-wettingly funny, I burst a kidney laughing and had to replace it with more booze.  We went to Sala Montjuic, a film festival held throughout July, which I mentioned in my last blog, and instead of seeing Wall-E which I thought we were gonna catch (it was the last night, alright!) we actually saw a film on Leonard Coen (which was AWESOME, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, the dude is something else, so is that guy from Anthony and the Johnson’s), whilst tucking into a picnic of prawns, rad chorizo and fizzy pink wine.  It was great, I didn’t have to eat all that shit by myself, unlike last time!!  And I got to experience all of this with a totally hilarious, wickedly cool person who made my last few days in Barca ones to remember.
However, in time honoured tradition, it wasn’t without its li’l piece of stress.  I lost the keys to Bruce, the only set of keys in the World, two days before I was due to get to this point im now at.  I looked everywhere, asked everyone and thought of everyplace they could be, to no avail.  And as I was contemplating paying a million pounds to get a new lock and key sorted, i cried to the receptionist at the hotel to once more check that they hadn’t been handed in.  And guess what?  They hadn’t.  But, they did know where they were.  In my bed sheets!!!  Don’t ask…

But hark, there wasn’t 1, but 2 (well 3, but it’s a couple which generally means 1, right?) friends a-visitin’ on me last nights.  Step up Dave ‘Biggy’ Irvine and his surely Bride-to-be, Camilla.  2 extra nights of madness ensued, including a visit to the most silent, un-colourful, driest fountain display ever witnessed and a jaunt to the coolest tapas bar on Hitlers Earth, where you cant move unless you elbow someone in the face and nick there sausage but amazingly you manage to drink loads of pink wine whilst doing it as well as chat up a massive hotty from Buenos Aries, even though you tease her about the fact that some of their Islands now belong to us for no reason one can conjur!  The offence taken at that was only counter-balanced by the offering of my sausage, which for some reason, bought on much whimsy (wouldn’t be the first time)!  Needless to say, I went home empty handed after preferring the flavour of a South-Bronx Club Sandwich over a delicious Argentinian Steak and getting a soggy haddock instead (chance woulda been a fine thing!!)  Life, take heed.  Don’t ever give me any choices.  I’ll make the right one, but it’ll tell me to get lost and kick me up the bum ‘ole with a big toe that’s way too big for its size 27 warty corn-foot.

But to see another old friend made it all worth while cos the laughs we had will stay with me forever.  And add to that, a final night out with the World’s Funniest Female-Loathed Mr Bartlett, who managed to tell a bird I thought he was gonna get hold of that she could do with losing 3 or 4 kilo’s (he went the same way as me) and with Marta Calvo Hong Kong Phooey, who’s friend we jumped out on in her flat, then proceeded to laugh hysterically at while he tried to do a real bad impression of a man who hadn’t poo’d a bit in his pantaloons (I really felt real bad for poor the dude, he was the source of much mirth for a bunch of people he’d never met who were standing around him pointing and laughing, as though he was a black person at a conservative party conference).  Marta, as always, was a total leg end, letting me bend her ear with my troubles, although, a small amount of which were created by her by talking ever so slightly too loud about someone who was standing ever so slightly too close!!  Still, when confronted, I lost my tongue instead of saying what I should have said, eh Bronx?!!

But you know what?  City life is City life, wherever you are.  I mean, maybe its easier to meet people when you’re away cos you have to but you still get up to the same ol’ tricks, just with a different cape on, right?  And I figured, on my 2 day drive to this shitebag of a place (which included my first ever solo pick up of hitchers, PROPER Rutger Hauer style!) that wherever you are, you can make good things happen, like I feel I have in Barca.  I have met some INCREDIBLE people on this trip, Loic and Alex in Meribel, Roland and Raphy, Chetan, Greg and Astrid and Charlie at Fargassa, Mr B, Marta Calvo Hong Kong Phooey, Anh Thu BUI and Nadine in Barcelona all spring to mind (and there are still others that ive momentarily lost count of).  But you know, I’m sure that wicked peeps like this exist everywhere and im darn sure im gonna try and meet as many of them as poss.  For all the ace things there are to see in this World, its meeting rude dudes and dudettes that makes life all the more rad and I cant wait for the next bunch that I bestow my greatness upon!!  Lucky whorebags!

But you know what, the best of ‘em all is that Big Git that ive spent these last 7 months listening to tales of various meetings with the fairer sex, from.  This whole experience would only be 95% of what it has been if I hadn’t shared it with a total dude, the funniest man since Jim Davidson and a geezer who’s had more dates than even me (that’ll be rectified, don’t sweat it)!!  Seriously, when Tayloroidle left for Madrid last week and hence, our travels together came to an end, it was all I could do to stop myself from boo hoo-ing like a big jesse.  When you share the World’s most temperate house with someone for 7 straight months, its weird, but you actually start to like them.  Must be what a proper relationship is like.  Mind you, I reckon 8 months and shit starts to go down, know what im sayin?  Just like a proper relationship……

But I reckon we worked in such claustrophobic conditions cos we both share a similar outlook on life.  You cant have everything your own way all the time, it leads to massive selfishness.  You gotta sometimes do things you don’t wanna do, for the happiness of others.  You have to listen sometimes and not talk.  You’ve gotta be compassionate.  You’ve gotta be understanding and accepting.  But most of all.  You’ve gotta make sure you have a reet proper laff!  Even through the rough times, comedy has always been there to make light of them.  And that’s what I reckon we have in common more than anything else.  A desire to have a bloody good time and not let anything get in the way of that.

Some people say life is shit.  I say life’s fookin’ AMAZING.  Its about trying to have as much fun as you can.  Nothing’s better than fun.  You might think “Love is better than fun.”  I reckon Love IS fun.  Fun, good times, happiness, its all one big Black Forest Gateaux on a Sunday evening watching the Muppets before bath time.

And if there is one thing I can say about this mini adventure with Buddhist truthfulness its this:

FUCK ME, have I had fun

x

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