Badger Tracks

A quick interlude before I finish up the tale of being blown by Emily. This interlude will consist of three elements; wine, flamenco guitar and estate agents, so if you're weird enough to not be interested, in any way shape or form, in any of these, you can slope off now and have a fag in the bogs.

Firstly, wine. A while back, whilst stumbling around the interweb, I came across a web site - not an unusual thing to do when hooked up to the interweb and staring at a browser, but at least you now know how I came across the information I am about to impart. Anyway, on this web site - and I have no recollection of which one it was by the way, so don't bother asking - there was a message to bloggers (those, like me, who run a weblog web site) to submit an e-mail requesting a sampler bottle (a full 750 ml no less) of wine from a South African producer called Stormhoek. Clearly it was a clever ploy to get people to submit live e-mail addresses that would be added to a massive datebase...which in turn would be used to send out vast numbers of e-mails promoting penis enlargement gadgets. However, I'm a gambling man and I like my wine, and the infinitesimally small odds that this was not a spam scam, were more than good enough for me. Well, it arrived - the wine, not the penis enlargement gadget - all labelled up with my name and number (there are clearly 75 other foolhardy bloggers out there gagging for free booze), and I have to report that it is really rather good. I had the Stormhoek Sauvignon Blanc 2005 and it was just as good as the latest overrated, over priced Sauvignon Blanc offering from Messrs Cloudy Bay. I'm not sure where I can buy more, but if you're interested, try the boys at Orbital Wines (http://www.stormhoek.com). Ah, I've just remembered the web site where I came across this little gem, http://www.gapingvoid.com. It's run by a chap called Hugh Macleod. He produces cartoon business cards for people/companies that don't take themselves too seriously - more power to that. On that note, check out the ecclesiastical cartoonist, Dave Walker, at http://www.cartoonchurch.com.

Secondly, flamenco guitar, or rock-flamenco guitar. Sounds strange I know, but if you're serious about your music, or if, like my good friend Roland, you simply like a nice tune and still have early Madonna CDs in your car CD multichanger, then Rodrigo & Gabriela Live in Manchester & Dublin (on CD) is a must. Frankly, even if you hate music but occasionally drum your fingers on your desk whilst talking to pre-scripted photocopier salesmen on the telephone, then this is worth a listen.

And finally, estate agents. Working at home has its upside; I don't have to commute and thus there is no chance of finding myself sitting next to a swarthy looking gentleman clutching a rucksack loaded with explosives he made in his mother's Magimix the night before. The downside is that I have to put up with leaflets and free newspapers and magazines exploding through my letterbox three or four times a day. The former may be extremely hazardous to life, but the latter doesn't half scare the bejesus out of you when the only other sound is the cat snoring gently in the corner. Death and the attributes of a congested cat aside, the biggest contributors to the exploding-letterbox-whilst-a-cat-snores phenomenon, or EL WACS as I call it, are estate agents. Nine different free property newspapers and magazines are hammered through my door. After a spot of weighing and multiplying, I've calculated that 9,096 metric tons of free property newspapers and magazines explode through Londoners' letterboxes every year; that's the equivalent of 147 Challenger 2 tanks or 1137 average sized African elephants landing on our doormats, without as much as a by your leave. Of these 9,096 tons, 2,819 tons - or 352 average sized African elephants - are the unsolicited glossy output of just three estate agents; Foxtons, Kinleigh Folkard & Hayward, and Douglas Gordon. Even more staggering is that apart from Foxtons, these figures are for south west London alone! Quite apart from the number of trees being destroyed to fuel this avalanche of largely unwanted advertising and the cost in terms of landfill, what is it doing to the mental health of those that work peacefully at home - with or without a snoring cat? I rang these three agents and politely asked them to stick their magazines up their fucking arses, but still they come, exploding through my front door. Later today, on a run to Waitrose to pick up provisions, I will be ramming, commando style, three weeks worth of recycling waste (two bin bags) through the letterbox of one of these three agents. I bet the bastards won't like it up 'em!

If you too are appalled by the thought of 1137 average sized African elephants exploding through letterboxes every year, I urge you to do the same. MAKE EL WACS HISTORY. All I need now is a modest, softly spoken Scottish sidekick, from an electronic 80s pop band, and I might just scare up a Knighthood.

That's my morning out of the way. Now for a straight six hour run at the book, which is going very nicely by the way, and should hopefully be finished just before the bailiffs arrive in a few months.

(sometime last week...)

I was awoken this morning by a phone call from my good and lovely friend Nancy, who was in a hardware store buying sandbags.
'Sandbags!', I said.
'Yes, sandbags', she said.
'What in hell's name are you doing buying sandbags?, I said.
'Where have you been for the past 24 hours', she said, 'the island's just about to be hit by a hurricane.
'A hurricane', I said.
'Yes, a hurricane, hurricane Emily' she said.
'People are buying up as much water and food and as many candles and batteries as they can carry. The island is shutting down at 11 O'clock and people are being told to go home and batten down the hatches. Have you got any provisions in?'
'I have rum and possibly half a carton of soya milk. Will that do?'
She laughed, and with that she was gone.

I phoned my good friend Roland in London and relayed the news. He's a good man in a crisis and once despatched two injured sheep with a three foot fence post, in front of a crying pilgrim, rather than let them suffer. He was on the case immediately and came back with the latest interweb report from the BBC.
'It's been downgraded to a tropical storm with maximum 75 mile-an-hour winds. You should be fine. Do you have provisions in?'
'I have half a gallon of rum, I've just finished the soya milk, and I'm low on cigarettes'.
He advised me to get some mixers, and with that he was gone.

I scootered down to the Texaco garage under darkening skies. A light, but worryingly vertical rain started as a rode and a ferociously gusting wind was getting about the palms and flamboyants. The beach was empty and the sea, although flat, was simmering like a glass of water on a washing machine. The Texaco garage was teeming with life and the normally lethargic locals were moving to a new found and somewhat faster rhythm than usual. The food chiller cabinets and shelves where the water bottles lived were empty, but fortunately there were plenty of mixers left. I made my selection, grabbed some Marlboros and departed.

Once home I made the rounds of the windows, checking each was secure on its rusty hinges and that the security bolts were as secure as they could be in their rotten casements. Happy that I hadn't left anything to chance and that from this point on if any of my neighbours were decapitated by rotten, rusty, low flying windows, it would be karmic revenge and not as a result my criminal negligence, I hunkered down on the deck with a cup of black tea and a tumbler of rum and waited for the show to commence.

As most of you are aware, the great Barbados project has come to an end, or will do very shortly once I've gone out there to pick up my stuff, sold a few scooters I have lying about the place, and returned a few DVDs that I've had on loan for the past 6 weeks. Owing to this change in direction, I will be back in the UK and available for guest appearances at dinner and drinks parties ("Oh, you must meet my friend, he's a writer don't you know!") and of course on 24 hour emergency call-out for blind dates, gap filling at dinner parties, and other such female support services.

However, what with the Barbados gig and associated construction work having not panned out, I now have a large and peculiarly shaped red hole in my finances. As such, and with the completion of the book a priority, I'm going to have to prostitute by brain on a part time basis, to fill this red hole...so to speak. I have a number of kind, astute, mad, but ultimately generous friends who have offered me various projects that would all fit the bill, however, I thought I would kick off this round of fund raising with a simple no-brainer - a kind of, help me help you, at no cost to anyone, sort of thing.

A number of you will have met my dear friend Roland, who, as it happens, runs a delightful and, coincidently, extremely good courier company in London, called BCCP. If I can introduce him to you, or to whomever within your organisation is responsible for this type of thing, and they hit it off - in a platonic business sense that is - Roland will give me an introductory commission - which he would have given to a sales person anyway.

Here's a little background to lull you to sleep: BCCP run bikes (up to 10 o'clock in the evening), parcel cars (24 hours), vans (24 hours on booking) and have a number of very swish Mercedes to boot. They also have an international courier division for sending presents to your Aunt in Canada. They boast (although boasting is not their style) a great client list which includes the likes of: Reuters, Bain, Boston Consulting, Pearson Group, Columbia Sony, Havas Group, WPP, etc. The etc. bit is not the end of the list, by the way -  it goes on to list a raft of smaller companies who they service equally as well as the big, powerful sounding ones. Oh, also, they have a fantastic web site with all of the information in just the right place, where you can book things on-line...all of which was designed and produced by my good self (http://www.bccp.co.uk).

The clincher here is that you get to have lunch with Roland - and find out how to deliver a lamb or a calf - you get to call him 'Ro', and I get to pat you on the back and say lovely things about you. If I ever get to publish the book you will also get a credit. Can't say fairer than that!

Let me know if this sounds agreeable and I will pass on your contact details to him.

As a bloke I once bumped into, in a tavern high in the Rocky Mountains, once said: "when the going gets tough, the weird turn Pro".

Many thanks

P.S. Here's a selection of this week's search engine terms used to find this site:

The classiest:
  • venice guggenheim museum roaring lion sculpture

The most obscure:
  • imperial cubicle tracks

The most misguided:
  • can we build the next concorde

Unfortunately I'm still in the UK at the moment and not basking in the ninety degree plus heat of Barbados. Discussions, with my good friend GBJ, about what to do with the house in Barbados have stalled - mainly due to the high cost of building work on the island and also, but to a lesser extent, because of the fragile state of global property market, the price of oil, test firing of Syrian Scud missiles over Turkey and the fact that I can't get the rear light on my motorbike to work.

When I say discussions, what I actually mean is snatched thirty second mobile phone calls between myself at home and GJB in various bars, prisons, and football stadia across Europe - this is about as good as it gets when dealing with a high-rolling legal eagle with a taste for the good life, a few clients in the hole and a passion for Liverpool FC. We've met up a couple of times, once when GBJ turned up and announced he had to be somewhere else, and another time when he turned up, slightly worse for wear, and gave me a thick lip, knocked one of my fillings out and bit my arm - this is about as good as it gets when dealing with a man with a new born child attending regular cranial osteopathy sessions, who likes a good rough and tumble in the middle of a private members club and who has a strong set of teeth.

Suffice to say, and what with the price of dentistry these days, my unpublished author's finances can't stand up to this kind of punishment and thus I've decided to jack in the Barbados gig. I'm flying back to grab my things, lock up the house and sell the scooters - if you know of anyone in Barbados in the market for a low mileage, well maintained scooter, or scooters as is the case, then please let me know.

In reality, the place was getting to me a bit and an extended period away from cheap rum probably makes sense - I expect the Mountgay Rum distillery will be switching to short time as a result. Next stop, well, who knows. I have tentative transfer offers from Swansea and LA, and an option in Switzerland, but nothing is signed as of yet.

In the absence of any rum ridden stories of excess, I thought I would lift the statistical drain covers of the web site and take a peek at the weird and random ecosystem that is the internet. Here is a list of some of the search terms that people have entered into a search engine (Google, MSN, etc.) that lead them to this web site. Bear in mind that for the search engine to have directed someone to this site, these terms must have been deemed relevant to its content.

The most worrying of these terms were:
  • water wave naked arab oil massage
  • what was the heaviest object ever remove from the stomach

The sickest:
  • badger bugger (nice to know that based on a search of 8,058 million web sites, when it comes
    to 'badger bugger' I'm page 1, entry 2)
  • tit shit bugger

The most obscure:
  • friday night 3d darts torrent
  • strimmer petrol heavy duty ireland
  • the truth about hells angels asked to leave ireland
  • heard headboard banging
  • badger insurance song (Perhaps I should write one!)
  • tarmac camera pouch
  • las vegas bellagio titty fuck (He clearly 'ain't going to Vegas for the gambling!)
  • property tower of london cave

Ones whose authors need help:
  • cocaine needle tent
  • hairy dudes
  • receptionist window tracks
  • nurse shave groin
  • noisy mattresses
  • skunk lunch
  • i didnt pay my payday loan what's going to happen
  • pancreatitis and thrashing about
  • badger badger song the lord of the rings how it really happened
  • picking up a badger

Ones whose authors should have their arms ripped off:
  • adopting white tigers oh

The obvious (to those who remember Vegas):
  • massage parlors happy endings
  • happy ending massages
  • thai massage happy ending
  • massage parlor las vegas
  • massage happy ending new york city
  • thai massage happy ending los angeles

The nicest:
  • andrew darling

That's it for now.

(Yet another one I forgot / was too pissed to upload at time of writing)

I thought I might as well apologise for this weekend's round of drunken phone calls. They would appear to have started sometime around 3:00am my time and continued through until noon of the next day. This was either Friday or Saturday...I really can't recall. This weekend's record for messages left on an answer machine was six, and is held by a certain couple from South West Wales...and I'm sure they won't mind me mentioning the fact that, well, they live in South West Wales. The weekend record for longest call, at approx 1.2 hours, goes to my father. I'm pretty sure I held it together for the most part of this 6.30am call (GMT), however, the fact that I've never ever called him before midday probably raised a few questions that will, in the fullness of time, require answers. The record - one which could possibly lead to a criminal record - for strangest call is still up for grabs. There are probably a few very confused and or upset people out there still trying to work out how Care in the Community could have gone so badly wrong and allowed one particularly sick and twisted individual onto the streets of Britain/Barbados with unfettered access to the public telephone system. Drop me a line before you made that call to your local Psychiatric Services department - let's talk first.

A quick roll call of apologies (for calls I remember):

Lyn - sorry for waking you
Philly - for bollocking on
Clare & Adam - a number of calls of minimal and worthless content
Frank - for making little sense and persisting when you clearly had other far better things to do - you are a gent
Sarah H - for multiple answer machine calls
The Gunther Bushells - for all six answer machine calls
The Potts & parents - can't quite remember if apology required
Nicky C - repeated answer machine calls
Ronaldo - talking utter crap
Dad - being the attentive son and thus extremely scary
Debs - talking film reviews at clearly the wrong time of day/night
Janine - hope you got to your office answer machine before anyone else on Tuesday morning!
Douglas - you never return my calls you bastard, so you deserve early morning abuse

Please don't feel offended if your name doesn't appear on this list. You were either sensible enough not to answer your phone or I was too drunk to hit the right keys in the correct order.

There was, however, one very satisfying sting in the tail for those of you who were less than pleased by my errant behaviour - at whatever stage of the weekend it was that my errant behaviour came to pass. Having sat on my veranda for a good 18 hours, and having consuming the brown rum, all of the white rum and most of the vodka (you know the point where you end up on tap water mixers) and having had no sleep for 36 hours, I eventually turned in/passed out. However, some hours later (exact number unclear) I awoke in a heart thumping, sweat oozing, eye popping, mind frazzling panic. And boy, I've ridden a few of these buddies of Beelzebub before, but this one was a real multi-headed screaming medusa of a beast, with doom emanating from each and every one of its hideous slithering scales. There was no reasoning with this baby, not even after 15 milligrams of two year old, orally ingested Diazapam. There is very little that can be done in a situation like this; when both reason and logic have been brought to bear, and both have been found wanting. The eminently sensible thing to do at this stage is to run...run like a bastard to somewhere you know possesses a more powerful pharmaceutical weapon to slay the beast, and hope that the powers that be see fit to sort you out. And so it was, racked with fear and shaking slightly, that I mounted my faithful scooter steed and made my way down the 15 or so miles of pothole ridden road to Bridgetown...and the Queen Elisabeth Hospital. Now some my consider this to be an extreme reaction, but as an agoraphobic living alone on an island in the Atlantic, a few miles off the coast of South America and more than a few thousand miles from home, I thought it was eminently sensible one.

Anyway, by the outskirts of Bridgetown the aging Diazapam that I had consumed earlier was beginning to kick in, or to be more accurate, ease in, and things where slowing down a touch - if 35mph on a scooter can seem any slower - and my vague recollection of the location of the Queen Mary Hospital was was getting very much vaguer than it already was. Rather than endlessly weaving my way through the back streets of Bridgtown for three hours - and believe me parts of Bridgetown are inauspicious enough during daytime, let alone once darkness has added its shadows and threat to the mix - I decided to seek help from what must have been the only on-duty police car in Barbados. This was, as it happens, sitting by the side of a road that I had passed up and own a number of times that night. Now, this could have been one of those "in hindsight not a wise move" moments, but fortunately, and most unlike any of my previous encounters with the boys in blue, it turned out to be quite the opposite. Clearly missing the wild but strangely numb look in my eyes, the occupants of said police vehicle calmly directed me to the big building in front of us with the huge sign saying 'hospital'.


I made my way to the entrance of A&E and parked up...only to be informed by a lone security guard that the large but totally empty car park was reserved for hospital employees only. I could of course have argued that my little scooter was neither causing an obstruction nor preventing an employee, critical to the effective running of the hospital, from parking and carrying out his or her life saving duties. However, I'm wise to this particular flavour of island behaviour, which differs from its British equivalent, where when an official instructs you to do something that is not totally necessary, the underlying motivation is a desire to exercise power. Here in Barbados, where, it has to be said, motivation is a abstract concept, officials are simply doing what they have been told to do. As a consequence there is about as much point in arguing as there would be in sharpening a biro. Now, those who know me well will be only too aware that I tend to have a theory for just about everything, or, at least that I have something to say on just about any subject that crops up in just about every conversation I enter into. Some, and for 'some' read very few, people see this as the product of an inquiring and perspicacious mind, others as an endless torrent of bullshit, and just because I have a theory or have something to say on a given subject, like the behaviour of security guards in different parts of the world, doesn't necessarily mean it holds any water...apparently. But on this occasion my theory was instantly proved correct, as I was instructed to park not in the empty staff car park...but directly in front of, and blocking, a set of fire escape doors flanking the main entrance. This seemed equitable solution given that in the event of fatalities arising from the blockage of this particular fire escape, neither of up would be held to account; Mr Security Guard had not been instructed to prevent people from parking in front of the fire escape and I had been instructed by an official to park there.

I re-parked and quickly made my way into reception. Here I was confronted with a sight that chilled my blood...an empty waiting room. Never in all my days have I seen such a weird sight, and as such I was spooked. Why, why was it empty? Three o'clock in the morning is prime bottle-in-the-head, glass-in-the-face drunken brawl territory, and no self respecting A&E (ER) department should be empty. I should, by rights, have been facing at least a three hour wait amongst a rag-tag motley crew of drunks and degenerates. What was going on. Had all the bars in Barbados shut that evening? Had convivial behaviour broken out on such an epic scale as to make late night emergency medical services totally redundant? Or had I, a hardened late night visitant of British A&E departments, finally stumbled on the truth...that the British have a predilection for mindless violence that is absent from my those upon whom we once visited organised imperial violence? Clearly they have learnt from our mistakes!

The large lady behind the heavily bruised and chipped Formica reception desk appeared half asleep...largely because she was half asleep, and with nothing else to do apart from stare at an empty reception area and a television mounted high on the wall tuned to an American cable home shopping channel, who could blame her. How different her union representative's job was to his or her British counterpart, having to argue, as he or she presumably did at the annual round of pay negotiations, that an inflationary pay rise could in no way compensate her for the hours of sleep she had to put in night after night, week after week. I gave her my details and was directed to sit...and wait for the doctor. I waited whilst someone tracked down a doctor and presumably roused them from their peaceful slumber. After five minutes the security guard from my car park encounter shuffled in, nodded at me, stretched and lay down, in a well practised fashion, across a run of five deeply contoured chairs with a good line of sight to the television. There was nothing to read, not even a copy of Woman's Weekly - or the Bajan equivalent - from the early eighties. Nor where there any health leaflets lying around or notice boards with staff rotas and public information posters to read and away the endless minutes. I sat back, adjusted my eyes to the fluorescent glare of the strip lighting above, focused on the muted television and tried to imagine what the heavily coiffured, orange tanned, manically smiling sales presenter on the shopping channel was saying. The graphic along the bottom of the screen stated that she was pitching a fruit and vegetable peeler, and she was certainly peeling up a storm as the mountain of discarded fruit and vegetable peel contested. Quite how she managed to keep up an interesting and informative narrative on what she was doing and how this simple piece of plastic with a blade could revolutionise the lives of her viewers, was a mystery to me. The only thing I could come up with is that she must have consumed a hideously large quantity of cocaine in make-up before she had come on. This could have worked, I guessed, but in my experience, only if the audience had consumed roughly the same hideously large quantity of cocaine and was roughly on the same wavelength as her and numb to much of what she was saying. Before I could ruminate on this interesting little theory any more and just as she was wrapping up her, by now, fifteen minute pitch for the wizzo, semi-automatic multi peeler, a large lady in a white coat appeared from behind a curtain and ushered me into a cubicle. 'What can I do for you?' she intoned. This was a good question, and, as the 15 milligrams of two year old, orally ingested Diazapam had belatedly, virtually totally eased in, in truth, the answer should have been, 'not a lot, please, go back to sleep'. But this would not have sounded right and besides, the chances of referral to the house psychiatrist and a late night trip to a padded cell loomed far too large. So, omitting the 15 milligrams of two year old, orally ingested Diazapam, and with a bit of twitching and wild darting eyes thrown in for good measure, I explained that I was having a panic attack.

Five minutes later and having been admonished for drinking far more than my body was accustomed too, I was shown the door...with a prescription for 20 milligrams of Diazapam. Result! 5 milligrams to the good.

(Click for pdf)

(One from a few weeks ago that I forgot / was too pissed to upload at the time of writing)

I'm fairly wankered as I sit here typing this, my latest and out of order missive (there are as yet uncompleted works awaiting my careful touch), so don't expect much in the way of coherent thought, noteworthy grammar and other such petty stuff - this is from the drunken head and heart, so fuck the grammarians and nit-pickers amongst you; I do this for some greater good that I do not fully understand as yet and thus cannot fully articulate...but when I do, and I can, you can bet it will have been worth waiting for... that should have made sense but doesn't, but who cares.

Anyway, and moving swiftly on for fear of getting hideously bogged down in words of little value, tonight I completed my first ever Mullins to Holetown full throttle run. This was an important milestone for me and thus one which I felt duty bound to share with you. Let me explain. I have a scooter, be it only a 49cc wimp of a scooter, but, none the less, a vehicle that propels me along the pothole ridden roads of this fair island at speeds of up to 40mph quite happily. Jesus, this is going to take quite a bit of explaining, which I'm not entirely sure I'm capable of at this time in the morning, but, for your sake I will try.

As an aside, the sun has just risen on me - it does so at concord speed here due to my location relative to the equator - not in a seriously dramatic fashion mind; not like the opening salvo of a late 70s Genesis lighting rig, but dramatic enough to be of note. What three or four minutes ago was a Parker ink bottle bluey black, is now pale grey blue, made all the more resplendent by flecks of orange tinted cloud drifting off the high ground to the east of me. It's a beautiful thing to behold...if your head is where mine is...which I doubt it is.

Back to the plot. The road between where I live in Mullins and Holetown (aptly named) runs for about 5 miles along a relatively straight stretch of coast; thus the road is also relatively straight. However, approximately half way along this relatively straight road between Mullins and Holetown there is an 'S' bend and also a few sharpish kinks. Now an 'S' bend and a few sharpish kinks in a road does not tend to bother your average traveller/tourist/commuter, but, being a man who rides motorbikes for adrenaline highs as much as for simple transport, these parts of the road constitute a daily physiological and topographical challenge. However, and more importantly, they are an irritating impediment to rum ridden travel at ungodly hours, and as this is a fact of life out here, need to be studied and thoroughly understood. Now, there is probably a point at which some of you mere A-to-B road users will lose interest in a story based solely on 'S' bends and a few sharpish kinks... and this is it. However if this does describe you, then I strongly suggest you go grab a two wheeled motor vehicle with more power than you can adequately handle, and let rip on a fairly straight road with an 'S' bend and a few sharpish kinks. If you survive intact and are able to move your cast encrusted arms over a keyboard, come back and read on.

I've hammered - if hammered is an apt adjective to describe the progress of a half de-restricted 49cc step-through scooter - open-to-the-throttle-stop, up and down this road quite a few times now, and each and every time I've had to back off at the 'S' bend and one of the two sharpish kinks. With careful attention to the pockmarked road surface and an almost supernatural understanding of the swing-out trajectory of the oncoming traffic, I've managed to conquer sharpish kink 1, but number 2 and the 'S' bend still eluded me. That was until tonight. Tonight, on my way back from a night on the 'Hole' town, I decided to try the 'squat in the foot well and lean out' technique, which you may have seen employed by motorcycle sidecar racers and which, to oncoming traffic at least, must look like a 14 stone, 2 foot midget with no head, practicing for the 14 stone headless class of the 2 foot midget world Moto GP. This is a dangerous technique, more so for the fact that it will scare the bejesus out of road users unaware of the 14 stone headless class of 2 foot midget World Moto GP racing, and may lead to mass sightings of extra-terrestrials riding scooters around 'S' bends at gravity defying speeds. And woe betide anyone caught riding a scooter after a rash of such sightings, because a human like appearance will not stop the bastards from ripping your skin off in an attempt reveal the reptilian form of a comic book alien beneath.

Moving on ever so quickly, tonight I mastered this technique and consequently (but not obviously) mastered the last sharpish kink and the 'S' bend that stood between me and an open-to-the-throttle-stop run between me and Holetown. This is a huge monolith of a milestone and one that I felt moved to mention in despatches. That's it really. I did it. It is no longer a physiological or topographical impediment. It is, as it were, no longer. Sort of shuffled off its tarmacadam coil and gone to meet it's highway planning maker. It's pining for the Rotring marked, tracing paper fjords.

The target now is an open-to-the-throttle-stop ride between me and Bridgetown; a perilous journey of nearly 16 pothole ridden miles, passing through the heart of 'Hole' town and culminating on the infamous two lane, Spring Garden Highway.

Wish me luck.

(Click for pdf)

Last week was not a good week and this week is certainly not a good week, for thematically similar, but diametrically opposed reasons. Last week my scooter was stolen and this week it was recovered. The only thing that really happened in between these two events was that I spent a great deal of time standing/sitting around waiting, queuing, filling in forms, writing letters and making statements regarding the theft, at various offices across the island. Oh, and, of course, buying a new scooter, taking out new insurance and buying new road tax.

I now have to go through the laborious process of informing the various interested/disinterested parties of how and when the original scooter was recovered and whether I wish to press charges against the thieves.

My official statement will read as follows:

At approximately 8.00 on the morning of Monday 24th April, I was at home in bed and was awoken by a hammering on the french windows that lead on to the veranda. On investigation of said hammering I discovered the much animated presence of my neighbour, one Desmond Vasthill. Mr Vasthill had a large grin on his large bloodhoundesque face and was pointing in the general direction of the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert. On opening the aforementioned french windows that lead onto the veranda and through which I was observing Mr Vasthill, he informed me of the following. At approximately 7.30 that morning, being the morning of Monday 24th April, Mr Vasthill was taking Snowy, his largish cat, who for various psychological reasons is unable to leave their house unaccompanied, for her morning walk across the empty plot of land that adjoins the plot on which I reside, and towards the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert. On or at around the edge of the adjoining plot of land which marks both the psychological and physical limits of Snowy's early morning accompanied walk and also the border with the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert, Mr Vasthill spotted a blue Piaggio Zip motorscooter, registration E3385, parked precariously halfway down the steepish slope that leads to the small flood plain and major drainage culvert. He further stated that it appeared undamaged, was parked on its centre stand and had a key in the ignition. Mr Vasthill added that in his opinion the thief, or thieves, must have moved the scooter to its current position away from and out of sight of my residence to try and start it, and when unable to do so, simply left it there. Mr Vasthill then left.

I then made my way to the location that Mr Vasthill had described, that being halfway down the steepish slope that leads to the small flood plain and major drainage culvert, and there found the aforementioned blue Piaggio Zip motorscooter, registration E3385, parked on its centre stand, undamaged and with the ignition key in the ignition. Having turned the ignition key to the start position, and started the engine by way of the starter button, I rode it back up the steepish slope, across the adjoining plot and to the front of my residence. Here I again confirmed that no damage had been done and also that nothing had been removed and the ignition and engine were in perfect working order. I also found my house keys on the key ring to which the ignition key was attached.

Unofficially, however:

Early on Monday morning I was woken up by some wanker banging on the front doors. I had a nasty hangover and had only just gotten to sleep, so I wasn't best pleased. It turned out to be Desmond my neighbour, the one with the weird cat. He was clearly pleased with himself and started waffling on about his morning walk with the fucking cat. Eventually he mentioned having seen my scooter on the wasteland behind my house. I wandered over to a spot overlooking the wasteland with him and there saw the scooter exactly as he had described. I thanked him and he left.

My hangover was bad so I decided to leave it there and deal with it later. However, as I walked back to the house, fragments of memories started to emerge and coalesce in my mind, and then, suddenly, like a film of a breaking mirror being run in reverse, the fragments came together to reveal the whole dreadful truth. The previous Sunday night - around the time the scooter had been stolen - must have been the night I vaguely remembered staying up drinking rum on the veranda until the early hours, and then, as the sun came up, deciding to go exploring the wasteland, the small flood plain and the drainage culvert...on my scooter! Clearly it's off-road capabilities had been disappointing and I must have abandoned it near to it's vertical limit on the steepish slope, and proceeded on foot. This was the expedition that explained the photographic portraits of 'cows on wasteland' that I had found on my digital camera, that made sense of the various lacerations on my legs and had now solved the case of the disappearing scooter.

Oh bugger I thought, and went back to bed.

(continued from previous posting. Note: all names have been changed on the advice, or lack thereof, of my legal counsel. Thus Cliona is now Ruby...but don't mention the fact if questioned under oath or in open court)

I remember that the security floodlights were on as I left the house because I could see a number of cows idling in the garden - a consequence no doubt of GBJs recent bored whim to do a little weeding in the garden with a hired 3 tonne JCB earth mover, which had also understandably taken out virtually all vegetation and natural contours that had previously kept the cows out.

On the walk over to Ruby's I passed the house where the devil dogs live, who, true to form, appeared like missiles out of the darkness at the back of their roadside garden, yapping like banshees...that yap. No matter how many time I pass this house they always scare the crap out of me, apart from, that is, on this occasion. On this occasion, although not prepared for their sudden sharp yapping onslaught, I was not startled, most likely because of the slow motion 'Matrix' effect that alcohol seems to have on me. With the initiative on my side - for surely no one had ever ignored their barrage of piercing yaps - I decided to freak them out and walk straight up to the chain linked fence that separated us and make like Ghandi; stand and stare in passive resistance. And blow me - not that I wanted to be blown by a devil dog of course - it worked. The pair of them backed off, all tails wagging and happy to make my acquaintance. At about this point their owner appeared as if out of nowhere and enquired as to whether everything was OK, which I informed her it was. A short - I believe - conversation ensued, none of which I can recall, apart from a bit about her being a student at the university here on the island. What exactly she is studying is blank, but obviously interesting enough for me to invite myself over one evening for a longer chat. Quite how this proposal went down is also blank, but the dogs were not let lose so I can only assume it found some favour. Unfortunately though, I cannot remember her name and as it was dark, and she was dark, I have no idea of what she looks like. Thus I know as much, if not less, about her as I would if I had met her in an internet chat room, and on that basis will probably not take myself up on my kind invitation to pop over for a chat.

Ruby's place was winding down by the time I arrived and the field had reduced from three to one. Despite this, and as one does when the blood is up and the alcohol is still flowing, I decided that the odds were still good. At least I think this is what I thought because I'm not exactly sure of anything from around this point on. I vaguely remember finishing the Sancerre and then applying myself to the beer in the cool bags, and I vaguely remember chatting to Ruby...about what, I know not.

The rest of HST day I have pieced together partly from vague of recollections but mainly from eyewitness accounts;

• At some stage during the Sancerre I propositioned the lady of the house - apparently I was quite blunt. Unfortunately she did not acquiesce. Fortunately she did not call the police. Shortly thereafter I was slung out.

• I can only assume, given that no one has come forward to say otherwise, that I made my way back home...or to be more accurate, the home of my next door neighbour. Jan (name changed to protect the innocent) is a lovely lady, all 17, free bus pass, waddling stone of her. Quite why Jan was up at this hour she did not say. However, there is always the possibility that I hammered on her door until she opened up, a fact she was too polite to mention when questioned later.

• Around about or somewhere between 3.00 and 4.00am, I invited myself to swim naked in Jan's swimming pool. Having very athletically swum around for over 20 minutes, I retired, still naked, to a sun lounger and consumed the remainder of the third cool bag of beer. The fact that it was a dark moonless night must account for the fact that Jan failed to notice I was naked, unless of course, she was too polite to mention it when questioned later. Some time after 4.00am I was slung out...whether still naked I have no idea.

• The next day Jan brought round two empty cool bags (I assume the other is with Ruby) and requested the return of her towel (?). I obliged. As she turned to leave she mentioned that she was exhausted on account of me having kept her up all night. At this point my cardiovascular system shut down. As she walked away, I'm positive I heard her say, "you don't half talk a lot". Thereafter my cardiovascular system resumed normal operation.

My HST day didn't involve guns, or sex (although nearly) and unfortunately the drug element cannot be referred to here because of reporting restrictions and the fact that I have to live here for a while, but it was a good HST day, despite the absence of the aforementioned elements. I think is was a good 'omage. It was an enjoyable 'omage. It was an 'omage that started out with me drinking Chivas Regal alone in a bar, and ended up, 14 hours later, with me naked in the swimming pool of a 17 stone, 65 year old plus woman from the Isle of Man....having taken in a brush with devil dogs and a brutal petition for sex...and if that 'aint good enough for you pal, for a spur of the moment 'omage, then go fuck yourself.

Here's to you Hunter

PWP (proofed whilst pissed)

Most of you will no doubt be aware by now of the sad, untimely and dramatic exit from this realm of the one time candidate for sheriff of Pitkin County, the godfather of Gonzo, the first doctor (sic) of journalism, Hunter S Thompson (or J Walter Thompson as one of your number wrote in their Monday morning email to me).

It is no secret that the good doctor had been a literary hero and distant literary benchmark for me for quite some years now and I was deeply saddened and not a little shocked by the news of his passing. As those of you who I have regaled with stories of my road trip through the rockies last year will know, I went to great lengths to gain an audience with the great man at his fortified compound in Woody Creek, just outside of Aspen. My efforts, however, went unrewarded and not even a handwritten note handed to his cleaner on his porch managed to rouse his interest and desire to meet with me. I did, however, meet with his friend and handyman, Andy Hall, and also a close friend of his then current personal assistant (the one that replaced the one he mistakenly shot thinking she was a bear and the one after the one he married) and both were happy to stoke the legend of the gun totting wild man of Woody Creek, with well worn anecdotes about clashes with neighbours and lawmen and, the most loathsome of them all, Republicans.

There was, however, a twist in the tail of my expedition to meet the man. And, now he has gone, this is as good as it will get. For it was he who I bumped into as a exited the washroom at the Woody Creek Tavern on my last night, and it was he who I listened to bollocking on for half an hour as I sat trying to eat my dinner in peace, a few yards away along the bar. The sad fact of the matter was that I did not realise at the time that it was he, and it was only as I sat astride the great blue tipped shark, preparing for the ride to my hotel, watching the strange bald man in the extremely loud orange Hawaiian shirt, and his extraordinary pretty and large breasted but diminutive companion, being swallowed by the black of a moonless, back country night, that I did.

So much for my ill fated attempts to meet the man, and anyway, as another of your number pointed out, it's not good to meet your heros as they invariably fail to match up to your perceptions of them. Coming back to Monday morning and my reaction to the dreadful breaking news of the doctor's violent end the night before, my first instinct was to head to the Surf 'n' Lime, my local rum shack, and there raise a glass to mark his passing; and as first instincts are generally the best instincts, this is exactly what I did. Now, despite having slightly upped my alcohol consumption since arriving in Barbados, the decision to drink a large tumbler of Chivas Regal at around 11:30 in the morning, in 30 degree heat, wearing shorts and sitting alone in a bar, was not, as some might propose, something that I did lightly. This was my Kennedy, my Diana, this was the time and place I would remember for years to come. This was my little 'omage to a man who lived in a fortified compound thousands of miles away from me, whom I had once bumped into coming out of a toilet.

As I always find, the first bit of most things are invariably the best - cigarettes and class A for example - and so it was that morning with the Chivas. Once past the initial heavy jolt that all neat spirits deliver, I was into the smooth, light blend that Americans in general, and the doctor in particular, are and was so fond of. I had my laptop with me, and so whilst I continued my one man salute, I trawled the news web sites for more detail on the previous night's events. Unfortunately, nothing was forthcoming, aside from the basic facts that he had taken his life with a gun, which lets face it, is pretty much all the detail one needs. Most of the articles worked the irony angle without too much trouble: "gun nut in gun suicide", and most also crammed in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, drugs, counterculture, gonzo journalism, beatings at the hands of hells angels and at least one of his frighteningly honest quotes that helped make him both revered and mistrusted in equal measure. Working my way through this electronic wodge of obiturous news reports, I realised that some of the writers had subtly entered into the spirit of the occasion by dramatising the tone and quickening the pace of their coverage, to lend it a very faint gonzoid touch, that was the creation and mark of the good doctor. This, it seemed to me, was highly appropriate and also suggested that perhaps my little 'omage should, in true gonzoid style, not stop at a single tumbler, be it a large and well endowed Bajan tumbler, of Chivas Regal. Every day was not, after all, a Kennedy / Diana / Thompson day and thus it became perfectly obvious to me that I should write the day, and the day's writing, off... which in reality I knew, having kicked off at 11.30am, meant all of the next day and a slow start to the day following that. But what the hell, I was a fledgling author and disciple of the manic first hand account, and as I did with most things that didn't involve a keyboard and work and did involve alcohol and other stuff, I could always justify it as background for the next novel.

With my excuse note for teacher secured and a clear conscience ahead of me, I tucked into a few more, well endowed tumblers of Chivas, raising each one and uttering a few words to the doctor as I went. At precisely the point that I noticed a slight blip in my finger-to-keyboard coordination, I decided to ditch the laptop and the Surf 'n' Lime and move on in search of a new scene and perhaps some Monday afternoon drinking buddies. Now, in most places around the world the search for Monday afternoon drinking buddies would be a futile one, and even if one did manage to scare some up, they would most likely be of the toothless, homeless variety and the tipple would be purple and more suited to cleaning paint brushes. In Barbados, however, things are different. If there is no work, then the popular pastime is to lime. And to lime is to hang out and drink; we lime, they limed, I am liming. Thus if the sea was too rough and the West Side Boys couldn't operate their water-ski boats and jetskis for the punters, then regardless of day or time, they would be sitting in the shade at the back of Mullins beach, drinking.

I walked the short distance to the beach, stopping along the way at the 24 hour Texaco Star Mart to pick up mixers for the 2 litres of rum I had at home and three six packs of beer...because they were on offer, and, what's more, came in branded cool bags with long straps for easy carriage. The beach was packed by Mullins standards and with an easy, gentle swell not hampering the ability either the boats or the jet-skis to ply their trade, the West Side Boys were clearly not in liming mode. Not to be defeated, I made my way over to a couple of local lasses I knew, who where in fact from England and Ireland respectively, but who live here by virtue of visa extensions and day trips off the island to gain new entry day passport stamps. Unfortunately, they were not in liming mode either, but none the less gave me someone to chat to as a tucked into the first of my three cool bags of Carlsberg. An hour or so later they made their excuses and departed, leaving me to contemplate the usual stunning, water borne sunset and the next move of my live action 'omage. With Barbados being only a few degrees off the equator, the sun goes down extremely rapidly - none of this imperceptible movement malarkey - and to catch a good sunset on film, you need a camera with an auto winder. Within minutes I was sitting in full darkness, virtually alone and with my laptop, some mixers and about half of my original cool bagged stash of beer for company.

The thing is, I've always maintained that I'm somewhere between a light and middleweight when it comes to drinking, and as such I'm happy to admit that, with an initially empty stomach to my credit, by this stage things were beginning to get a little vague. Actually when I say vague, this applies more to my recollection of events from this point on and not to my actual corporeal experience. In reality, I'm sure everything was as bright and as ernest as things always are when the demon drink is in control.

I vaguely remember talking to Tash, a friend from England who is out here for six months, but I don't remember her picking me up from the Texaco garage in her car, giving me a thousand dollars which she had previously agreed to lend me for reasons far to prosaic to go into here, nor can I remember the short lift home. I do, however, remember phoning another local Irish lass and inviting myself over, despite, or possibly because of, the fact that she was entertaining two female friends/clients. Having stuffed a handful of condoms into my pocket, grabbed a rather special looking bottle of Sancerre that GBJ's mother-in-law had bought as a gift for GBJ, and having gathered up the remaining partially full cool bags of beer, I struck out towards Cliona's.

(to be continued)

Having suffered the slings and arrows of an English January, I'm back in my shorts, kicking back on the island of sun, rum and coke.

All appears well in paradise; the sun shines, the bugs bite, but unfortunately, Chef, the chef at my local rum shack, has moved on...or been moved on. No one is saying much about how this came to pass, and this is not a community known for it's tight lips! Mention of Chef the chef is met with a smile and a shrug. Chef was an aging lecherous lothario, come pig farmer by day and chef in a rural rum shack by night. He had a generous smile an infectious laugh and quick hands. Until I can confirm otherwise I am going to assume that it was his quick hands and inability to keep them away from girls half his age that were responsible for his departure.

This is sounding more and more like an obituary, which I guess, in a slightly dramatic rum induced way, it is. I liked Chef the chef; he had a tendency to cook the shit out of things, but he was a gentleman and a blithe but energetic character who laughed hard and loud. Here's to you Chef!

On a similar departure front, I have just been informed (as I sit here at the bar of the Surf 'n' Lime) that our Carol is to return to the emerald isle next week. This is a real blow to those of us who consider her an intrinsic part of the Mullins scene, and the beach will be all the poorer for the absence of her long slender limbs. Reasons for her departure appear far more complex than her initial offering, that being that her boyfriend Malibu's use of the "c" word to describe her boss...to her boss, was the main culprit. Four more hours of rum and coke would reveal that Malibu was simply responding the boss's lurid propositioning of Carol and that said boss had subsequently apologised and accepted full responsibility for the whole dark drunken affair. After a further two hours of rum and coke, which saw Malibu sink into a light rum and coke induced coma, we decided to put her departure down to "one of those things". Here's to you Carol!

On a topographical note, the deep gash in the Mullins beach, caused by outrageously heavy pre Christmas rain washing away a fifteen by ten metre section of sand, has for the most part healed. This may seem a strange thing to comment on, but being so used to dramatic stories of relentless costal erosion, environmental catastrophe and ugly little Norfolk villages falling into the North Sea, it's a beautiful thing to see mother earth healing her wounds with a little natural sand deposition. Here's to you mother earth!

Finally, and sadly, the view from my writing spot on the veranda has been irreparably altered. It seems that my good friend and house owner GBJ, whilst staying at the house in my absence and in a fit of boredom, took a three tonne JCB to the slightly overgrown garden. Whilst some would have employed the services of a couple a local lads tooled up with heavy duty petrol driven strimmers, or weed whackers as they are known around here, true to his bullish, take no prisoners, I'll 'av I'm, nature, GBJ decided on the full frontal George W Bush approach to dealing with a few insurgent weeds, trees, bushes and natural contours. My view is now a debris field, less burnt earth and more buggered earth. Here's to you GBJ!

One final finally. To those of you who suffered middle-of-the-night drunken phone calls from my good self during my last stint out here, I apologise. However, happily I can confirm that those of you who quietly questioned my mental state / state of my liver, were wide of the mark, and that these calls simply go to demonstrate how much I value / revere your friendship and also how good I am at pressing buttons whilst drunk. One last point, those of you familiar with the Data Protection Act will be aware that there is no specific mention of data being used to make drunken middle-of-the-night phone calls, and thus I am unable to confirm that calls from either myself or carefully chosen third parties, will desist.

in vino veritas

It's been a while good people, but I'm back, back on the airwaves...or electron flow or whatever the internet equivalent is. I'm not sure what happened to the writing on my return to London; dried up I did. I think, in all honesty, it was the twin evils of too much time and the lack of a tangible deadline that made it such a struggle.

The thing is, this writing lark is supposed to be about self fulfillment, the need to satisfy an inner desire or simply a need to be heard. But what no one tells you, possibly because you don't know to ask, is that no matter what drives you, you need a deadline, if whatever it is you're writing is not to take a lifetime.

I have no specific deadline, just a vague notion that at some stage in the near future the money will run out. Now some may consider this a perfectly adequate deadline, when viewed in conjunction with a Excel spreadsheet and an iron fiscal will, but then they don't know me very well. Spreadsheets I can do. It's the iron fiscal bit that troubles me. I do not posses that very particular set of genes that makes Chancellors of the Exchequer, or folk who simply live within or close to their means. I am, and always have been, a bit of a slut when it comes to money; I put out whenever I feel like it or whenever someone makes me an offer I can't refuse. As such I find constructing a budget and then trying to abide by it a futile exercise in futility. Lord knows I've tried to curb this sluty behavior - I even came close to cutting up my casino membership card once - but life is for living and as long as Apple keep bringing out the hardware equivalent of Liv Tyler, I'm doomed to vague fiscal deadlines and an uncertain future as a writer.

So what brought on this latest missive, I hear you say. A change of scenery that what. Thanks to the great kindness of my good friend GBJ, I am the temporary resident of 9 Polamar Gardens, Mullins, St Peter, Barbados. This will be a short trip compared to my American adventure - I'll be back in time for Christmas - but given the isolation and lack of transport, phone and company, it will hopefully be no less productive.

When I say lack of phone and transport, that is a little misleading as my mobile does actually work - albeit it at truly criminal rates - and I fully expect to be in possession of some form of motorised two wheeled transport at any moment. This really only leaves isolation as the main driver of productivity, and, let's face it, once the motorised two wheeled transport arrives, I won't be isolated any more. So, I'm pretty much fucked on the productivity front then, unless I'm lucky and the "domestic distraction" factor comes into play. This is a little understood but widely encountered factor that for most people manifests itself the moment they manage to convince their boss that: "it will be easier and quicker if I work from home today". Famous bleedin' last words. The simple facts of the matter are: offices don't have piles of dirty laundry and washing up sitting around, there aren't kettles and condiments sitting on each and every desk, and office maintenance, i.e. replacing blown bulbs, cleaning scuff marks off the floor, hoovering, etc, is someone else's responsibility. As a consequence, people are able to get their work done. Try working in an environment where the opposite of the above applies and these things are your responsibility, and presto, all of the above and a tidal wave of other things, that have been overlooked for the past god knows how many years, will immediately take precedence over whatever it is that you told your boss you would be able to do quicker and easier at home. In my case, or more precisely, in my present situation, that being not in "my home" and thus not responsible, the "domestic distraction" factor (DDF) will hopefully work in my favor.

All of this may suggest that my writing output is prisoner to all sorts of questionable or subjective, perhaps even perverse factors, and this may well be true. Rest assured however, I am made of sterner stuff and, to quote Mr Thompson, when the going gets tough, the tough turn pro.

More on house, heat, lizards, rum, karaoke and counterfeit $100 notes to follow. Live chat can be had on 001 246 267 0055.