tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46420044654653975162024-03-13T20:45:34.475+05:00JOHNNY RED PANTS SAYS...Random musings from someone old enough to know better...Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-46162370855365789092024-02-16T18:35:00.005+05:002024-02-16T18:35:46.760+05:00Stockholm, 2024. Part 7: Hejdå för nu, Stockholm…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4Ig6Xi-k-bsWaMxF21jj6yskiH6ouDgn3l4AUULCF2BZdVpL9P0gzUo1o7w7HrdadvC_bchHdMhJ5DO4x_CQJjK16WvNTxzd3DI23MoPPoNp1a11T4AvlC01bPHlbHT4nIO-ktTZpvILX6YZFbpAbrZkVTsDcBWvubE_nncn-OBQnfIW97G2kKqplamH/s275/Arlanda.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4Ig6Xi-k-bsWaMxF21jj6yskiH6ouDgn3l4AUULCF2BZdVpL9P0gzUo1o7w7HrdadvC_bchHdMhJ5DO4x_CQJjK16WvNTxzd3DI23MoPPoNp1a11T4AvlC01bPHlbHT4nIO-ktTZpvILX6YZFbpAbrZkVTsDcBWvubE_nncn-OBQnfIW97G2kKqplamH/w640-h301/Arlanda.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br />My flight isn’t for another 2.5 hours, but I’m already at the airport, partly due to my paranoia of missing the effing thing and partly due to Swedish transport efficiency. I checked out with a minute to spare having pretty much cleaned the room myself. Again, my paranoia comes into play. I don’t want Sigrid, the sullen looking maid, to think I’m slovenly, so I make sure I give her as little work to do as possible: I always strip the bed and leave the the sheets and towels in a neatly folded pile near the door, rather than in a soggy, funky heap on the bathroom floor. Next to them are the tied-up, emptied bins. The bathroom sink and showers get a wipe down and the toilet gets a lucky last flush. Then I give the pillows a zhuzh, disinfect the TV remote control and finish off with a good blast of deodorant so it smells nice. Sorry ozone layer. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />Once at the airport, I went straight through security in a matter of minutes - there was no one there. It took longer to thread my belt back into my jeans than it did to pass through the whole process. I gave myself an hour to get to Arlanda airport from the hotel in central Stockholm. It took 25 minutes door to door. How good is that?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After dousing myself in various fragrance testers (again, sorry ozone layer) at duty free, I’ve taken refuge in a bar - surprise, surprise. It’s pretty empty, but then again, they have the fucking temerity to charge £12 for a pint, so little wonder. The bar is upstairs and I’ve plonked myself next to the window which affords me a panoramic view of the organised chaos that rules in the gates below.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I see a melting pot of people in power suits, hammering away at their laptops; stressed-out parents trying to contain bored toddlers; couples - some obviously in love, others not so much. Important-looking uniformed men cut through the throng like a hot knife through cheap margarine. Suddenly, I notice that a toddler with zero fucks to give has bolted and a pissed off parent runs after them, gesturing theatrically and angrily as they go. I see the other solitary travellers - some of them on their devices, others with their nose in a book. I wonder where all these people are going and find it fascinating that while we are all congregated together now, in a matter of hours, we will have dispersed all over the world. Different countries, different continents, different languages, cultures, lives. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I smile at the thought of home: of getting back, giving K a massive hug and then retreating to the sofa in comfy-cosy clothes. I’ve had such a lovely time in Stockholm - a gorgeous, uber-civilised and fascinating city that boasts a rich history and a vibrant present. I love the multitude of islands, all of which have their own identity and feel. It feels pretty unique - I can’t really compare it to anywhere else that I’ve been. But it’s beautiful and I feel grateful for my first Scandic experience. I would raise my glass to the place, but this pint isn't going down too well - it's gassy AF. That's not to say that I'm not going to drink it - £12 a pint? Hello? - but if the gas goes in, it has to come out one way or other and I'm about to step on a plane.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sorry ozone layer. (And also fellow) passengers. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">*parp*</span></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-18244793256937484512024-02-16T00:38:00.005+05:002024-02-16T00:40:44.382+05:00Stockholm 2024: Part 6: Mist, Fog and a Deep, Deep Thaw...<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6k9IPuZbFpBsNWjksWdLSy6JYSPuY_61GQct-z5-8racIeFoSCpYfYvHkg5K3T7R3WpUxmW49VyUvniUHjPgZNklq3cdd-ZH1Nu79ilpNGrMs8lKkweXgdcCd91oXVAG84iofojOhrKV_2nN8eK88hUr5Rz01Kk1JxwOnh3Y9nbwl6VmUONHYm7IHOyv/s1000/frozen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6k9IPuZbFpBsNWjksWdLSy6JYSPuY_61GQct-z5-8racIeFoSCpYfYvHkg5K3T7R3WpUxmW49VyUvniUHjPgZNklq3cdd-ZH1Nu79ilpNGrMs8lKkweXgdcCd91oXVAG84iofojOhrKV_2nN8eK88hUr5Rz01Kk1JxwOnh3Y9nbwl6VmUONHYm7IHOyv/s320/frozen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">When I landed here four days ago, an elegant blanket of snow had smothered the entirety of Stockholm. As I battled against the elements to get to my hotel - a converted ship - I took in the vast lake that it sits on. It was crowned with a robust, thick crust of ice that stretched beyond the bridges and past the horizon. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the last few days, warmer temperatures have fought a silent war with this glacial canvas, culminating in a slow victory. Today, the lake looks like a huge, cracked mirror as the transformational thaw begins. In the near distance, mist and fog marches in, obscuring the bridges and the houses on the hills that look like models made out of posh matchboxes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">To the west is a huge body of water facing off against a dwindling front on the east. The ice - previously a resplendent, timeless white - is now wafer thin. In its final days, it has adopted different shades of grey, from dove, to flint and - where the ice meets the edge of the water - a dark iron. In the distance, birds have taken respite on treasonous panes that have broken away and now float hopelessly in the black lagoon intent on reclaiming itself. Their presence isn’t just about rest, but also survival: that some kind of treat will surface for their murderous delectation. I find myself wondering about what lurks beneath. What could survive those temperatures and happily call it home? I take note of the symphony of silence that accompanies this play. So much is happening in the stillness and I am in awe. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The mist and fog draws closer and closer, like a curtain, and before long, visibility is almost zero. Nature’s show is over. As a swansong, the light of the day conspires as it withdraws and soon all that remains is blackness. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">As a spectator in this special theatre, I am in awe.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">How lucky I feel to have had a</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> front seat.</span></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-9883085536824381852024-02-15T00:43:00.000+05:002024-02-15T00:43:15.319+05:00Stockholm, 2024. Part 5: Sodermalm, Kungsholmen, Vasastaden and the arse-end of nowhere…<div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDZwuMkobA7plIoRgEzzZR09vxrzYknf7KIL_ILmOLDMV-eU7iH533mfLqBOkMUz6Gkc1paTun1hNhki4_jtlR6vgYt7FeRoYuBqM4t-E_yGk3Rfn6QMPODdzu0ta-zWzS7z7qT7AEO-WtpFFPcCnk6L8SJH1bzNlD7Xz3Iys6Kg4GFMvPkasHcLhOHMH/s1600/Soldermalm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDZwuMkobA7plIoRgEzzZR09vxrzYknf7KIL_ILmOLDMV-eU7iH533mfLqBOkMUz6Gkc1paTun1hNhki4_jtlR6vgYt7FeRoYuBqM4t-E_yGk3Rfn6QMPODdzu0ta-zWzS7z7qT7AEO-WtpFFPcCnk6L8SJH1bzNlD7Xz3Iys6Kg4GFMvPkasHcLhOHMH/w640-h426/Soldermalm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>As a student in the late nineties, I would often slope off into London on my own to try and FIND MYSELF. If you think that’s code for traipsing around Soho, getting drunk in dimly-lit gay bars and copping off with strangers on a damp Tuesday night, then you’d be absolutely correct. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The scrapes I got myself into, though... The first time I ever went, I got my drink spiked, which is terrible, but I accidentally had a great time. Then there was this one time I got conned by an evil dwarf called KitKat in an illegal nightclub. I only agreed to go because I’d missed the last train and had nothing better to do. And the reason I missed the train was because I’d ended up sleeping with a married American woman who thought I was a prostitute and paid me £100. I know right. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Happy days, etc. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After that, I was much less slovenly about my time keeping but then another issue would present itself: my inability to stay awake. The number of times I’ve been shoved back into consciousness by an irritated ticket inspector, desperate to turf me off the train that terminated in Godforsakens-ville twenty minutes ago, is ridiculous. I’ve spent nights huddling outside bloody Bedford and Luton stations in the bleakest of midwinters waiting for the first train of the morning to come through and save me. Error. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Today, my sleeping trick came back to haunt me. Except this time, there was no booze involved - more’s the pity. I got my mooch in the late morning after a lazy start. So far, I’ve explored Gamla Stan, Norrmalm and the city, Ostermalm and Djurgarden. Today I went in the opposite direction, to Sodermalm, the island just south of where I’m staying. It’s been another 15K steps day but I tell you what, doing it on ice and snow feels much harder. I’m like Bear Grylls meets Torville and Dean. And in Sodermalm, they aren’t that arsed about gritting the pavements so there were times that I would just perform an accidental lunge. Still, buns of steel in the morning, babes. Check out my thigh biceps, etc. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Apparently, Sodermalm used to be a right shit hole but you know what happens with such places, don’t you? Gentrification. It felt quite trendy although it lacked the grand, ornate buildings of Gamla Stan and Ostermalm. I made my way to the underwhelming Medborgarplatsen - Citizen Square - before moving on to SoFo. According to my guide book it’s supposed to be like Soho in London. It’s nothing like it. There was no scary dwarf called KitKat. No one mistook me for a rent boy. I did see a load of snow drop off a roof and twat an old woman over the head. Bless her, she was okay but not pleased. It looked like something out of a pantomime.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From SoFo, I headed north and to the photography museum - the Fotografiska - before deciding to bail on Sodermalm and catch some sort of public transport to Kungsholmen - an island north east of where I’m staying. I consulted The Google, which told me to walk down the road and get on the number 3 bus. Simple. What could possibly go wrong?</span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />I did get the number 3 bus, but I got on the number 3 bus that was going the wrong way. Oh well, I thought. I just went back around Sodermalm and took in the treasures that I’d missed on foot: Lake Malaren, Mosebacke and a snatched glimpse of the Avicii Arena that looks like a massive golf ball. When it came to chucking off time, I got off at the back and then got on again at the front. This time I bagged a better seat next to the heater. As we trundled along, my cosiness morphed into drowsiness and shutting my eyes for two minutes felt like a really good idea. Next thing you know, this burly woman was prodding me saying ‘Wanker, wanker!’ in a funny accent. Turns out that she wasn’t. She was saying, ‘Vakna! Vakna!’ - which means ‘Wake up!’ in Swedish. Silly me. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />I rubbed my eyes, got up and trudged off the bus. According to Google Maps, I was near a place called Rasunda. I’d sailed through Kungsholmen and Vasastan completely unconscious. Probably snoring too. There I was. Up to my tits in snow and ice somewhere near fucking Rasunda. It would be a bit like setting off from Central London to go, say, Hampstead and instead arriving at High bloody Wycombe. Still, I had a coffee and one of those cinnamon buns that they go on about and all was well with the world. By the way, I love Sweden and the Swedes, but they need to calm their tits about these buns. They’re nice enough, but how sexy can a cinnamon bun get? </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />Anyway, refreshment complete, I made my way back to where I was called a vanka, crossed the road and only had to wait a few minutes before my bus came. This time I rode the bus standing - that way I couldn’t fall akip and wake up in, I dunno, Copenhagen? Gdansk?</span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Wouldn’t put it past me, babes. </span></span></p></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-57614170491858948862024-02-14T14:40:00.000+05:002024-02-14T14:40:29.959+05:00Stockholm, 2024. Part 4: Thank You For The Music...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHEuksSDJwfjnkUjofVprmWrGDc3yZ4Dj-wnLnk1616tf4DcwkWN4hyphenhyphenn2VPrZTGHbK2SofONwetI-NaXchKxs0s1MJ-mMh-hldO-mwOt6D7V5-PzaeX8gGVouA2fsqMgGtlKhls6bgQ5kM454SKXluzRY49s-xXSV8hhod4cILX68ZH7u-fxj5DP95Zeq/s905/Abba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="905" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHEuksSDJwfjnkUjofVprmWrGDc3yZ4Dj-wnLnk1616tf4DcwkWN4hyphenhyphenn2VPrZTGHbK2SofONwetI-NaXchKxs0s1MJ-mMh-hldO-mwOt6D7V5-PzaeX8gGVouA2fsqMgGtlKhls6bgQ5kM454SKXluzRY49s-xXSV8hhod4cILX68ZH7u-fxj5DP95Zeq/w640-h416/Abba.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />I left the Vasamuseet and walked south towards another museum. The museum I’ve been ACHING to go to. The Abba Museum. <br /><br />Aaaah, ABBA. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways… <br /><br />1. Wednesday, 22nd September 1976. Yes, I was premature - obviously being inside a woman was never for me - but as I hatched at teatime, guess what was Number one? Dancing Queen. This obviously answers a lot of questions and I think Jesus planned this quite frankly. Proof enough that God loves the gays.<br /><br />2. Here’s the thing: I grew up in a house that was opera-centric to say the least. My Dad was both a tenor and a tyrant. He saw pop music as declasse - as something that only stupid people liked. My sister rebelled and had a few pop albums in her room. When she went out, I would swoop in and pilfer her vinyl… My first record was technically Abba Greatest Hits Vol. 2. I stole it from my older sister. I’m not sorry. While other children my age were playing football or trading Panini Stickers of footballers who, let’s face it, looked like paedos, I was choreographing a lovely movement to Eagle. How I flapped and swooped! Such grace! <br /><br />3. I will happily die on the hill that is marked with the flashy neon sign: ABBA ARE MUCH BETTER THAN THE BEATLES. You know why, babes? Because it’s true. I remember voicing this opinion when I was in 6th Form, which went down like a fart in a spacesuit with my peers who were generally greasy and sweaty and into Britop and grunge. To them, the Beatles were the founding fathers of everything. The thing is, this opinion does not offer any disrespect to The Beatles. It just shows how good Abba are by being better than them. Lolling! <br /><br />4. I finished university with no idea what to do. I moved to London on the Saturday and spent the following Monday walking around the West End, handing out my CV (my first work of fiction) to anyone who would take it. I arrived home hours later, knackered and depressed and convinced that I was going to become another unemployment statistic when the phone rang. Guess who was on the blower, offering me a job? Abba. YES, ABBA. Okay, that might be overegging the pudding a tad. It was actually The Prince Edward Theatre offering me a job working on Mamma Mia. As a ticket ripper. ‘In you go sir, toilet and bar downstairs’ was my oft-repeated phrase. Six days a week for £120 and as much Abba as I could take. I wasn’t very good and would often ring in sick with outlandish excuses including ‘My Grandpa has died.’ Not technically a lie - he was dead alright, but had slipped off the dish in 1964, years before I was even born. But the boss didn’t need to know that. <br /><br />5. I’ve actually met Bjorn. I know right. I say, met, it’s slightly more convoluted than that. What happened was this: I was at the theatre and it was half time. At this point I was usually refereeing an argument between two sets of patrons: June, the po-faced serious theatre go-er who had been placed next to Rachel from Bromley who thought she was at a sing-a-long. Except Rachel can’t sing - sounds like a newborn being eaten by rabid wolves, apparently. And Rachel’s pissed-up on three Babychams and won’t listen to reason. I would nod sympathetically in both directions and say, ‘Hmm, let me just go get the manager,’ and then I’d just walk away and leave them to it. Anyway, the hoi polloi would finally go back into the theatre and I’d have to collect all the glasses up. I was doing a grand job, even if I say so myself, and then there was one straggler, still nursing a glass of overpriced red. Meanwhile, this vile cretin behind the bar started having a go at me, because he wanted this last glass back. In the end, I slouched over to this bloke and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I’m going to need that glass back.’ The man didn’t even turn to look at me. I piped up again, ‘You’re missing the second act, but don’t worry, it’s hardly Shakespeare, is it?’ The man then looked up at me. It was fucking Bjorn. ‘Really?’ he said, offering me his glass. I just did a gay gasp, spun around and ran away. To be honest, I love Abba more than life itself, but Mamma Mia is a pile of shite, isn’t it? It is. Come on, be honest. I’ve not even seen the second one. The idea of Cher caterwauling her way through Fernando keeps me awake at night. If you want an Abba musical, watch Chess or Kristina. They’re MUCH better. (BTW, if you’re wondering, I left the theatre after about six weeks to do a terrible job where I sold vacuum cleaners over the phone! What on Earth possessed me? I lasted four days.)<br /><br />I tell you what isn’t shit though: the Abba Museum. From the moment I stepped through the doors, I was ENTHRALLED. <i>Walk in, dance out</i>, they say. I just did a strange sort of shuffle and finger click all the way around. From their baby photos through to Eurovision; replicas of their studio; the chance to have a go at mixing their songs (I am no DJ, it turns out); their costumes; a silent disco; all their vinyl and their impact on the musical landscape. It was PURE JOY all the way around. I loved it. If you’re in Stockholm, you should <i>Take a Chance</i> on it (see what I did there?). It’s not expensive - in terms of <i>Money, Money Money</i> (hee!), I think it was £17. Go on, you’ll be <i>Head Over Heels</i>! You can say <i>Thank You (For the Music)</i> later. Okay, that’s quite enough, I'm starting to sound as corny as Mammia Mia and besides, I need the <i>(Water)loo</i>. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Knowing Me, Knowing You</i>, ah-ha and also ta-rah. </span><br /></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-39301480874300891632024-02-14T03:20:00.000+05:002024-02-14T03:20:18.985+05:00Stockholm Part 3: Culture in Djurgarden…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcT-nAqbnhY8WC7HtPS79tEhO7dcraEMMoy-XRJC3HFXbZ1POOCfIaqMptn_ZR9J8OzrFhvoy0jLNeac9kAtTRDAWcvqYGC4mbR_uwphuOsIi7FrOSvuyYwll70gwyVyYXnUBmBSf5ZNQt5DFJLXbATxDgCR2prZEt_PW-mLaGGdBE3dKICEv6jLGTte4/s285/Vasa.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="285" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcT-nAqbnhY8WC7HtPS79tEhO7dcraEMMoy-XRJC3HFXbZ1POOCfIaqMptn_ZR9J8OzrFhvoy0jLNeac9kAtTRDAWcvqYGC4mbR_uwphuOsIi7FrOSvuyYwll70gwyVyYXnUBmBSf5ZNQt5DFJLXbATxDgCR2prZEt_PW-mLaGGdBE3dKICEv6jLGTte4/w640-h397/Vasa.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-a0fae680-7fff-45b9-1131-59da26524876"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Breakfast is included in my hotel booking and it’s one of those ‘help yourself, all you can eat’ extravaganzas that I have to remind myself is an offer and not a challenge. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me as I went to take a second heaped ladle of scrambled eggs and then thought better. Then my Dad’s voice swam to consciousness as it encouraged me to set myself up for the day. Why not? On holiday, I have decided that there is no such thing as calories or consequences so I shrugged and then chucked a load more on my plate. Oh, and some crispy bacon. And a pastry. Okay, two, but they were small, okay? Practically non-existent. As was the side of yoghurt. All washed down with three steaming mugs of strong coffee, which doesn’t count. Why? Because I said so. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I rolled out of the hotel snow an hour later, wondering how you say, ‘Please can I have a packet of Rennies and my jaw wiring.’ in Swedish. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From the cosy warmth of indoors, the cold slapped me squarely around my chops, leaving them a shade of drag-queen rosy. I tightened my scarf and adjusted my woolly hat as I acclimated to the snow that fell in a special sort of silence that seems reserved only for snowfall. It’s not stopped all day and I love it. I’ve forgotten to bring gloves with me. A memory that has been packed away for decades sprung to life earlier: as a child, when it snowed and we couldn’t find our gloves or mittens, my Mam would make us put a pair of socks over our hands, dismissively telling us that it was the same thing. Note to mother - I was five. Not thick. That reminds me - there was one time that she bought me a pair of trainers, except they weren’t a pair. Yes, there was a right foot and a left foot, but they weren’t a pair as such. They didn’t match. And yes, I had no choice other than to wear them. Even the kid who only had four fingers on his hand took the piss.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Speaking of footwear, it’s a good job that I’ve got my proper walking boots on. They’re as ugly as sin, but I’ve needed them today. I got my mooch on and made my way through the icy cobbles of Gamla Stan and over the bridge to the city where I slung a right past the stunning opera house and down through the harbour. Was it a harbour? I dunno, but there were loads of boats all moored up. On the other side of the road stood the most regal buildings - apparently the style is Swedish Grace, a form that takes in Neoclassicism, Gustavian and a dash of Art Deco. I then crossed another bridge and into Djurgarden, one of the fanciest of all the islands in terms of places to live, apparently. Not only that, but it’s home to a shit-ton of museums. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vasamuseet showcases - and tells the story of - an ancient warship, the Vasa. I went in there thinking that it was a Viking ship, but then I had to get The Google to prove me stupid. Apparently the Viking Age was from 793-1066. I’m sure I learned this at primary school - primary schools are obsessed with the fucking Vikings, aren’t they? I remember going to the Jorvik Viking Centre in York as a nipper (probably with my hands bound in socks, eh mother?) Now the thing about the Jorvik Centre - it’s USP - was the fact that you went round in like a waltzer-type cart REALLY SLOWLY and not only did you get to float past a load of scary mannequins that had struck typically Viking poses (raiding, murdering, pillaging, that sort of shiz), but they also recreated THE SMELL! It was an early attempt at multisensory jiggery-pokery, but let’s cut to the quick: everything just smelled like horse shit. And I was stuck next to the kid who shit himself on the reg anyway, so all in all, the money my parents dished out on that trip could’ve been spent on proper fucking gloves. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ahem.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So yeah, let’s do the timewarp. Back in the 17th century, Sweden was MASSIVE politically, even though they only had a population of 1.5 million. It’s probably a crass comparison, but you know what it’s like in the Middle East today where they’re all scrapping over oil but pretending it’s about God and shit? Well, welcome to the Baltics, 300 years ago Basically, a total bitch fest between Sweden, Denmark, Russia and Poland as they grappled to dominate the Baltic estuaries and trading ports. Then came the Thirty Years War which sucked in a load more European countries over, guess what? Bloody religion. What a shocker. We don’t learn, do we?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, let;s crack on. It’s August 10th, 1628. Sweden is a hard-ass mo-fu and has a fleet of ships that basically rules the waves. They then design and build the most expensive ship of all time, The Vasa. Moored under the Royal Palace, it made its maiden voyage to grand applause. Yet it only made it a few hundred metres down the way before she did a Celine-Dion-singing-Titanic and fucking sinks. The King wasn’t happy, bless him. There was an inquest, the lot. I bet Norway and Denmark laughed though. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It turns out that The Vasa had a fatal flaw: she was top heavy and had insufficient ballast.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know how she feels. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, down she went, like a sad sack of shite, only to be resurrected 333 years later, in 1961. She’s in surprisingly good nick, considering - something to do with the type of water she sank in. It was a great experience being so up, close and personal with the boat itself - to take in the workmanship and craft that went into it: the intricate carvings that decorate a ship made for war. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although, if I was one of the 450 blokes on board, I think I’d be quite pleased that it sank. Sorry, but I said what I said. Let’s look at the facts, courtesy of the museum itself: firstly, there were only two - YES, TWO - toilets for all 450 people. Secondly, these boats were known for being riddled with all sorts of disease: scurvy, dread bone disease, swollen heads and necks to the point where they couldn’t speak or hear. And when you felt rough, was there a doctor on board? No, babes, there was a BARBER. In addition to a tight skin fade, he’d also pull your teeth out, perform blood-letting and amputate the odd limb. Anything else, but sorry babes, you’re going overboard, which was also a punishment if you got lairy and fell out with your bedfellow. They’d either sling you overboard or stab you in the hand. Seriously. What a load of shit.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bastards.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-52832752954183911612024-02-12T23:29:00.018+05:002024-02-12T23:35:10.376+05:00Stockholm, 2024. Part 2: Gamla Stan...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslZpWeBxfL3A0ylTUsqCUUEzgy3ZyDR-1edYOnczIUYrClimfQIwsEDvthPMHAszTGLhcUpwS0NK7tvxGJ9GbHZs5_376DoTRPZD6k54H26T0iXKeUf60yIVWWLTa_AT8qtZrGiMqEV_UhFyksMOA-Z_isgzM18ZT4tOSqcwtEp4tyNJnHO_AbYDabOxZ/s275/gamlastan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslZpWeBxfL3A0ylTUsqCUUEzgy3ZyDR-1edYOnczIUYrClimfQIwsEDvthPMHAszTGLhcUpwS0NK7tvxGJ9GbHZs5_376DoTRPZD6k54H26T0iXKeUf60yIVWWLTa_AT8qtZrGiMqEV_UhFyksMOA-Z_isgzM18ZT4tOSqcwtEp4tyNJnHO_AbYDabOxZ/w640-h426/gamlastan.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Did you know that Stockholm isn’t your normal land-locked city? Oh no, dear fact enthusiasts, it’s actually</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">made up of 14 islands connected by 57 lovely bridges. Fancy that, eh? And then as you go east towards the </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Baltic sea, you’ve got the Stockholm archipelago (I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it either - it’s </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">‘arr-key-pell-ago’, according to The Google), which contains another 30,000 islands, islets and some massive</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">rocks that just poke out of the sea. My hotel is actually a converted ship that is moored off Riddarholmen, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">a tiny island connected to Gamla Stan, the mediaeval old town that languishes bang in the centre of Sweden’s</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">capital. I’ve bagged a cute little cabin that overlooks a frozen body of water - the Riddarfjoren - and the iconic</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">City Hall (Stadshuset) over the way. Also, don’t get too excited, but my cabin comes with both windows and</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my own private bathroom. That might seem like a weird thing to say, but when I was researching places to stay</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">most of them had either a shared bathroom or no windows, which they attempted to market as a ‘sleeper’ room.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">Hmm, nice try, Stockholm babes, but I need both daylight and not to be greeted by Olaf’s unsinkable floater at</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">8am, thanks very much. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting there was a piece of wee-wee: straight off the plane and onto the clean, spacious and modern-looking Arlanda Express. £24 gets you to the Central Station in less than 20 minutes. A little on the steep side, but a) Stockholm isn’t cheap anyway and b) I couldn’t be arsed fannying on with taxis that would probably rip me off anyway. Going away always highlights how lazy and rubbish I am at maths. I struggle with the conversion no matter how straightforward it is. It just doesn’t make sense, so I shrug nonchalantly at any amount that is asked of me, tap my card and pretend that whatever it is that I’m paying for is free. Then I simply resolve to worry about it when I get back to the UK. Works for me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Check-in wasn’t until 3pm, but I went to the hotel to dump my case at midday to find that my room was ready. Hurrah! I unpacked, consulted the map (I’m not much better at map reading than I am maths, BTW) and made my way into Gamla Stan. While it dates back to the 13th Century, I think some clumsy knacker burnt the place down at some point so most of the buildings stem from the 17th and 18th centuries. It’s a lovely place to wander around and lose yourself. I wound my way through the narrow, old cobbled streets, taking in the colourful, imposing structures that give a nod to the baroque, renaissance and romantic eras. It’s all really rather beautiful. As I climbed to the pinnacle of the island, I found myself in the Stortorget (the Big Square) where I took a minute and people-watched outside the Nobel Museum. I then made my way around to the Royal Palace and the Cathedral before descending back into the streets laden with cafes, bars, souvenir shops and curious oddities like the Iron Boy and the Alley of Marten Trotzig - at 35 inches wide, it’s the narrowest street in Stockholm. And yes, I did fit through it quite easily, thank you very much. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s been a lovely mooch - 15,000 steps worth but it’s bloody cold. Apparently it’s minus 2 with a ‘real feel’ of minus 8. I can quite believe it. The skies above are plump with snow that is supposed to come down any second. In order to warm my cockles, I’ve come into a cafe-bar for a coffee, but found myself saying, ‘Stor ol tack’ - large beer please - when asked for my order. It’s doing the job. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bottoms up babes, or as the locals say, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">skoal! </span></p><p><br /></p>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-82986902098133019972024-02-12T17:14:00.002+05:002024-02-12T23:40:26.597+05:00Stockholm, 2024. Part 1: Flying Solo...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZRzcMaZbU9X1A8bGpqc313H-uJXnLsFFvPi4OeUCVwbqKmiWRxUKy2030hZypZTvyhMdulPw6Xdxk4NI2OlaNg4suKFIkP-lDJmc-zLHnb1gDksreb1Q0JPeV6CphzadhS71wtf1bIFFArgTYfsqf3JQuu5mn2Fwx3-CBf7BF24lSs5bON-Ge60uUEuM/s300/Flyingsolo.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZRzcMaZbU9X1A8bGpqc313H-uJXnLsFFvPi4OeUCVwbqKmiWRxUKy2030hZypZTvyhMdulPw6Xdxk4NI2OlaNg4suKFIkP-lDJmc-zLHnb1gDksreb1Q0JPeV6CphzadhS71wtf1bIFFArgTYfsqf3JQuu5mn2Fwx3-CBf7BF24lSs5bON-Ge60uUEuM/w640-h358/Flyingsolo.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Even after seven lovely years together, K and I rarely argue. We tend to get just on and rub along nicely; </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">we laugh more than anything else and without wanting to overdo the schmaltz, I count my blessings every</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">day that we’re together. Of course, there’s probably the odd irritation that occasionally floats between us,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">but I can’t help my singing voice. That’s just the way it comes out. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm grateful because it’s not always been this way: my previous relationships have been… How can I say? Lessons learned, let’s put it that way. Some of them have been really fucking difficult lessons and I’d be lying through my pearly whites if I said that I hadn’t seriously considered smothering pretty much all them as they slept. Cackle. But rather than indulge my shadow self, I’ve always opted to get on with my life and let karma do her thing - rather than spend the rest of my days calling someone Daddy in HMP Strangeways.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few weeks ago, however, the usual sanguinity that scaffolds us was temporarily rocked after researching half term breaks. I was about to hit go on a trip to Stockholm when K stopped me in my tracks. Apparently, I’d put the wrong dates in, which made sense as the deal seemed a bit too good to be true. But then I checked and it turns out that I was right after all, which is something I love being. My smugness was cut short as K victoriously waved his school calendar in front of. Well, two can play at that game, Sonny Jim, and with a few cursory flicks of my finger, I pulled up my diary and I was correct. 1-1. But how could that be? And then it dawned on me: for the first time, our holidays didn’t align. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bugger. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">This left me with a simple choice: sit on my arse all week at home or go anyway. After the briefest of conflabs,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">K encouraged me to amend the form in Expedia and submit it: a 5 day break in Stockholm for one. Hurrah! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Strangely, people have reacted to this news as though something terrible has happened. ‘You’re… You’re… </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">g-g-g-going on your… own?’ friends have stammered as though I’m being sectioned or euthanased or deported</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">to Yemen rather than going on holiday. Well, yes. Obviously, it would be lovely if K was with me, but he can’t</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">be, so I’m cracking on like Geri Ginger Spice would want me to. I’m slamming my body down and winding all</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">around, Stockholm-style, babes. Zig-a-zig-ah, etc. I’m going to wrap up and stomp around Sweden’s capital like</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">some international man of mystery. Besides, I’ve travelled ‘on my one’ before and it was ace. I wasn’t meant to,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">but my best chum couldn’t come to Lisbon at the last minute, so rather than cancel it, I hopped on the plane any</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">way and ended up having a brilliant time - although I imagine my visit still haunts the poor sap who pedalled tha</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">t</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">tuk-tuk up all seven hills with me in the back. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Anyway, as I write this, I’m somewhere hovering over the North Sea on an Airbus A320. I have no idea what</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">that means, but it’s nice enough and the cabin crew are lovely. There’s one smiley woman who reminds me of </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">the mum of one of my closest friends. While the flight is busy, I’m lucky enough to be next to the window with</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">an empty seat next to me, which is a good job really, as the woman - let’s call her Chiquitita - in the aisle seat</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">sat down and promptly started to slide into some form of medicated unconsciousness. Rather than steer into</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">the skid, she’s resisting it which means that she has just spent the last twenty minutes swirling and flapping in</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">her seat like a pissed-up giant snake in slow-motion. Every so often she falls still in a pose that looks so</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">uncomfortable that I am left wondering if she’s accidentally just died. Then she will let out a singular, almighty </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">snore and start body popping again. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I don’t think Benny and Bjorn would approve somehow. </span></p>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-49009604425783034092024-01-05T21:55:00.000+05:002024-01-05T21:55:25.036+05:00 Balkans-fest 2024. Part 8. The Final (iron) Curtain.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EfBRAjSFRZA4m4Koe-loOKfTpDuq8OE1O171MeSC7QcO-OvVpq1CVvd_cSjfrsDqphNjWVmSz76YXh-dBGzXgFGq3dlmhh6FuTZoh7igHb97y_F9SYA3ReU34g9JyGkfD2lmJytckbMqnprAoVjx4PM9r3ytXVFTe_cHXKqsMaWXyOu95-4W9g9Tp5az/s380/Sofia.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="132" data-original-width="380" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EfBRAjSFRZA4m4Koe-loOKfTpDuq8OE1O171MeSC7QcO-OvVpq1CVvd_cSjfrsDqphNjWVmSz76YXh-dBGzXgFGq3dlmhh6FuTZoh7igHb97y_F9SYA3ReU34g9JyGkfD2lmJytckbMqnprAoVjx4PM9r3ytXVFTe_cHXKqsMaWXyOu95-4W9g9Tp5az/w640-h222/Sofia.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-fb722dd4-7fff-beb2-f98a-6aedb50a1751"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Greetings, brother. We’re at Sofia airport waiting until the bag drop opens. Apparently, we’re here a tad early and according to the man with the attitude that is almost as bad as his frighteningly-tweezed eyebrows, we have to wait. Until then, I would like to say that we’re taking advantage of the facilities, but there aren’t any, apart from a tiny booth serving Costa Coffee and another one offering a smorgasbord of Bulgarian newspapers and magazines. Instead, we’re playing a game called ‘What Twat Is Making That Noise?’ - a fun game for all the family. Basically, someone is walking around and every twenty seconds or so, they’re making a really loud, strange noise. It’s more than a throat-clear but less than a full on moan. Either way, it’s irritating and I need to see who is responsible for it. I don’t know why - it just feels like an unsolved, annoying mystery in the manner of the Bermuda Triangle, Area 51 or similar. It really is surprisingly sparse - I’d expect this to serve as an airport terminal if somewhere like Skeggy decided to build one - not the capital of a European country.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, we had our last walkabout earlier. I said goodbye to the mountains and we had a fumble through the tat-fest souvenir shops. We then returned to our favourite restaurant and had a lovely meal that should keep us going until we land at 11pm-ish. It’s a good job we did, given what’s (not) on offer here. I need more than a lukewarm medium latte and a pretentiously toasted panini to keep my pecker up, babes. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Overall, it’s been a fab trip. Sofia is really interesting. It’s full of history and the various styles of buildings manages to balance the beautiful with the monstrous with relative ease. I’d say it’s typically Eastern European - it feels like the petulant cousin of Budapest, Prague and Bucharest. It’s a good place to get your mooch on and just amble about and It’s a really cheap city - booze and food is as cheap as chips (do you like what I did there?) and you can get a swanky hotel for next to nothing. A lovely adventure to kick off 2024.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">See you on the other side, comrades. For now, dovizhdane. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-18842705834661197392024-01-05T00:05:00.000+05:002024-01-05T00:05:20.037+05:00Balkans-fest 2024. Part 7: Bulgarian Fat Belt.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5QGsXt86kUL9BM3R2hoBjLcDyIb8cvhTMQof9b5bkFPnthDAKV3nZL7z9VlAGqyTtaDmuFAOec7LVpjjOUDFbfZR3dezB-RM4GPe_hEU-3FqNU29O9fiFMEr0lyr0RHew5ni7FE16mg__VNMBZOfp5RHfxdDNAp1Re01TC2iate54F7F5rjZSq5DUNIq/s587/Cyrillic-Alphabet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="587" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5QGsXt86kUL9BM3R2hoBjLcDyIb8cvhTMQof9b5bkFPnthDAKV3nZL7z9VlAGqyTtaDmuFAOec7LVpjjOUDFbfZR3dezB-RM4GPe_hEU-3FqNU29O9fiFMEr0lyr0RHew5ni7FE16mg__VNMBZOfp5RHfxdDNAp1Re01TC2iate54F7F5rjZSq5DUNIq/w640-h346/Cyrillic-Alphabet.png" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I rose from a deep, replenishing sleep a touch after 11am this morning. Ordinarily I might be annoyed that I’d let so much of the day slip away, but all we’d planned for today was to relax, so a lazy start felt appropriate. The room is beautiful and the bed is delicious. And huge. I stretched out into a star fish and there was still room between me and K, who had also taken advantage of the additional rest. We stayed like this until early afternoon when we finally decided to get ourselves out. We left the hotel and walked towards the Palace of Culture under cloudless skies that took on soft pastel blue and pink hues.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">By now, the streets of Sofia are becoming more familiar and our first stop was the coffee shop at the top of Vitosha boulevard. We were only in there for a matter of moments, but as we came out, everything had changed. Threatening, gunmetal-grey clouds had taken siege of the sky and the mountain, which was completely obscured. As we hurried south, they followed and swirled in their intensity. I, meanwhile, was effing and jeffing under my breath - somehow I managed to knacker my belt yesterday, which meant that every twenty steps or so, my trousers would dip below my arse as though I was a fifteen year old wannabe gangster… or just a middle-aged flasher. I’m not sure how the Bulgarians would take to seeing my arse - not well, I’m guessing - so I found a menswear store and played a convoluted game of charades with the po-faced owner until he was able to furnish me with a belt. It’s massive: I could lasso a sports team with it. I’m guessing that a small herd of cattle perished to keep my jeans up and my bits and bobs protected from the elements. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Communicating is harder here than anywhere I’ve ever been. The language feels complicated and hard to pronounce - it feels like the sounds come from the back of the throat and when we’ve translated the Cyrillic alphabet into the more familiar Latin one, the letter placements are tricky - lots of hard consonants like ‘z’ and ‘d’ are often paired together; not only that, but the words seem to lack vowels - so the outcome is a guttural noise that someone in a diabetic coma might make as they come round. That said, some of the shops have anglo-saxon names although they can be confusing. Clothing shops tend to be given a single English first name. I’ve seen ones called Lucy, Emily, Elizabeth, Brian and even Caca (which I’m sure means ‘shit’ in Romanian). There is a chain of convenience stores called Kinky. I went in. I was disappointed. Similarly, the shop called Fetish offered nothing of the sort.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">ANYWAY. Trousers secured, we chanced upon the Ladies Market in a run-down part of town that was off the beaten track. We weren’t there long before an almighty flare of lightning imparted itself before our very eyes. At first, I thought an electricity cable had blown, but no. It was like Thor himself was with us. An ear-splitting crack of thunder boomed above us and then the rains came: violent, incessant, punishing. There was nowhere to run and within a minute, it didn’t really matter anyway - by then we were wet to the core. At one point, we tried to take shelter by huddling together under a shop veranda. The wind picked up and started making short shrift of the stuff around us: it dispensed with bins, metal stands and the bloody veranda we were standing under. Realising that we were in danger, I shouted at K to move, which he actually interpreted as ‘Please use me as a human shield to save yourself from the mortal peril you’re in.’ It’s a good job that I love him, innit. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">We finally took shelter in the Mall of Sofia. I had big expectations, given its title. Let’s just say that these were not met, but by this point, I was being a mardy arse. Gel from my hair had run down my forehead and was gumming up my eyes. My hair was flat as a witch’s tit. I was sodden down to my undercrackers, shivery and my feet made squelching sounds with every step. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">There was only one thing for it. A healing pint. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay then, three. And a whisky. Medicinal and warming. -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cheers. Or as the locals say, </span><span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; color: #202124; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">наздраве</span><span style="font-size: 28px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">(pronounced: NZ-DRVY - see, I told you)</span></p>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-68133064052649421572024-01-04T02:32:00.000+05:002024-01-04T02:32:07.176+05:00Balkans-fest 2024. Part 6: Plovdiv…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwGqjavcF68EsA2DG9AyR76ea8HYUFTstJ3Ab66i_gLhCsWQi_PwsI7MTZSnRd9P62FdeyQ79Xz38wdCM61koU8CGKU8gJql481MOlAaolA4Cq-bKk15RC5pCaRXl7A9mtMX8n2VFSispuuf82bSLS0YoryqbZdIC0QV3q0xkNYDAcvsGLudZRSr5uyqr/s279/Plovdiv.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" height="415" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwGqjavcF68EsA2DG9AyR76ea8HYUFTstJ3Ab66i_gLhCsWQi_PwsI7MTZSnRd9P62FdeyQ79Xz38wdCM61koU8CGKU8gJql481MOlAaolA4Cq-bKk15RC5pCaRXl7A9mtMX8n2VFSispuuf82bSLS0YoryqbZdIC0QV3q0xkNYDAcvsGLudZRSr5uyqr/w640-h415/Plovdiv.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-a6527603-7fff-ec9b-3f79-ed18250db606"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So we can’t go to North Macedonia because we might get terrorised and/or have to sell a kidney to afford the car hire. Therefore, we can’t go to Kosovo and even if we could, the Serbs wouldn’t have any of it so we’d be buggered trying to get back to Bulgaria. Moody, mardy bastards. There's always one that spoils it for everyone, isn't there? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a result, we got up early and made our way to the train station where we took a two hour train southeast to the city of Plovdiv - Bulgaria’s second biggest city and one of the oldest cities in the world. At first I wasn’t convinced, mainly because the station is in a really sketchy part of town. It was like stepping off the train into a grim 1972. Honestly those Commies loved a right angle, didn’t they? Almost as much as they liked the colour grey. Rigid, imposing blocks of cement stood their ground. Everyone looked harassed and pissed off apart from me and K who just fell about laughing. We’d come all this way for what felt like a place sponsored by Gruel. And no sir, I don’t want anymore, thanks. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That said, we’re not easily defeated. We made our way to a park near the opera house all ready to see the Singing Fountain in all its glory. I was more than prepared to give it a verse or two of Like a Prayer, but guess what? Some bastard had not only switched the fountain off, but they’d drained the lake too. I would imagine that summer would be spectacular, but on a damp January day, it was a depressing stretch of anorexic, leafless trees with a (possibly dead) tramp laying on a pissy bench and a one-eyed cat, miaowing in the faint hope that you might chuck it a kipper. Do I look like I carry canned fish on me? Exactly. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we found our way out of the park, the city’s beauty decided to show its face and not before time! It was worth the wait. as an air of glamour and sophistication blew through the wide, cobbled streets. Grand, bright buildings stood tall while traces of ancient civilisations popped up everywhere. You can’t move for a bit of old Roman tat. I mean ruins. There’s the Roman stadium and - feel the burn on the buns as you traverse the city’s seven hills - a gorgeous amphitheatre at the top of the old town. Coming back down, we took in the Bavarian feel to the buildings as we made our way into the trendy district of Kapana via the cobbles which felt like a death trap at this point. Cafe culture (in the cold) is a thing here and we had a little break in the bunting-heavy, narrow cobbled roads, where heating comes directly from fires on tables (yes, really) rather than overhead heaters. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">15,000 steps later, we made our way back to the station as rain started to fall and jumped on the train back to the capital where we both fell asleep and I woke myself up snoring. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Very sexy. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-44790499043040278382024-01-04T02:17:00.001+05:002024-01-04T02:17:36.728+05:00 Balkans-fest 2024. Part 5: Political fuckery…<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIh9Psyc_A3DOrfcFLnVN2EARXxI4pegAAIvuuOAbhgVhtK_9H73iVP_h1m6bTenboUFEMXjqReRenYurXZFdy6d1n11BKjFqOZM0aMlaO63Hn0wgaa6La-TeJalHUDTmn3ptrmmVNcPHhy-qjOOcba0L9FB8wQClaPNwdpzI7iCwzDOY4mo1E3tqbTzV/s797/Balkans.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="797" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIh9Psyc_A3DOrfcFLnVN2EARXxI4pegAAIvuuOAbhgVhtK_9H73iVP_h1m6bTenboUFEMXjqReRenYurXZFdy6d1n11BKjFqOZM0aMlaO63Hn0wgaa6La-TeJalHUDTmn3ptrmmVNcPHhy-qjOOcba0L9FB8wQClaPNwdpzI7iCwzDOY4mo1E3tqbTzV/w640-h482/Balkans.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-84573c79-7fff-1abd-0d68-3501ef3d9b8e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">As the saying goes, to assume is to make an ass of you and me. And guess what? We’ve made some assumptions that have landed us in arse-ville. I blame the EU - spoilt for years on all that unrestricted travel.. Me casa su casa and all that jazz band. How lovely was it when we were an army of lovers, speaking the international language of love to each other? My German teacher might have been renown for having skidmarks but it didn’t matter when I could connect with my formerly Prussian brethren with a simple, ‘Das ist fantastisch, bebe. Danke, ja!’ </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-7c0fe55a-7fff-1df6-3fc6-408a1080a1d0" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And as the other saying goes, all good things must come to an end - and end they did, as 17 million racists, I mean, idiots, I mean, people, exercised their democratic (cough, splutter) right and thought that Little England would be fine on its own. Yeah, the economy might be much shitter, inflation might have caused an epidemic of gastric reflux and a tin of beans might cost you nearly £2 in your local Tescos, but guess what? None of that matters because we have Tory blue passports. YAY! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">As another, massively British saying goes, for fuck’s sake, you silly cunts. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Coming into this trip we took cross border travel for granted. In our heads, we thought we might have a mince around Sofia for a few days, rent a car and nip into North Macedonia, then up into Pristina, Kosovo, and then have a little mooch around Nis in Serbia before heading back to the Bulgarian capital. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The thing is, with Xmas and all that stuffing (oooh, matron), we didn’t really look into things too much until we got here. Without wanting to sound like a complete knob-banger, we’ve road-tripped around Europe a fair bit and flitting about from country to country has never been an issue. Border, schmorder, babes. France, Spain, Portugal, Luxembourg, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland - they happily leave their back door open or stick a key under the mat. No bother. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The Balkans are a different bunch though. It turns out they pretty much hate each other. Back in the day I would envy friends who went to Yugoslavia for their holidays, but then in the 1990s, this melting pot exploded in the worst possible way as Communism collapsed. Wars ensued and seven countries were carved out of the debris. Eight if you count Kosovo, which Serbia don’t, which makes crossing the border a bit of a shit show. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Not only that, but despite having a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Treaty of Friendship</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> with their neighbour, Bulgaria vetoed North Macedonia’s attempt to get into the EU. Talk about pulling up the ladder after yourself. As a result, there are border thingy-me-jigs that make it a bit tricky to get from one country into another. Green cards and shit. It's not impossible, but things that we perhaps should have thought about before we left. A quick squizz on the UK government website made us chew on our cuticles: apparently terrorist attacks are likely, especially if they find out you’re British. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And as yet another saying goes, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough. Or not. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Car hire might be cheap within Bulgaria, but as soon as you cross the border, it becomes prohibitively expensive. Not only that, but - and I’m just going to say it, so bite me - the drivers over here make me look good behind the wheel and I am a shit driver. The attitude seems to be: ‘Fuck it. Just go!’ and it doesn’t matter if there’s a rusty tram hurtling towards you, a swimming pool sized pot hole in the road or a knackered clutch at play. Fuck it. Just go! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I think I might adapt this as my motto for 2024.</span></p></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-73646822036702520612024-01-03T01:59:00.000+05:002024-01-03T01:59:05.099+05:00 Balkan-fest 2024. Part 4: The Red Flat.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6S4ItIla-TZU1KYiT0z0eLUw49tZcKA5PHCd_yqLsDHI1khaWWST-MEl1fEhh5FrryoJ73x0cDuMO5pqkOOase9ct_j50hrK5QZBEYrIfOZ9a7_RQA7sVMXWWrjlFsMFnKVMRigm9kmovoFjU9x-0UBJbSNKFD1Ma5Ju5brZM9N5qC5YF58zog2HNJg6T/s275/redflat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6S4ItIla-TZU1KYiT0z0eLUw49tZcKA5PHCd_yqLsDHI1khaWWST-MEl1fEhh5FrryoJ73x0cDuMO5pqkOOase9ct_j50hrK5QZBEYrIfOZ9a7_RQA7sVMXWWrjlFsMFnKVMRigm9kmovoFjU9x-0UBJbSNKFD1Ma5Ju5brZM9N5qC5YF58zog2HNJg6T/w640-h426/redflat.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f691debc-7fff-d8a0-e8ba-3331c6ac3353"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rant alert disclaimer: I’m proud to say that I’m a woke liberal leftie. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If that causes you to roll your eyes and/or tut, I suggest you do the following: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1. Look up what these terms actually mean, rather than assuming that they’re a bad thing because the media tells you so. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. Eat shit and die, you Daily Mail reading, Tory voting piss stain. Cheers, thanks a lot. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Woke</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> basically means that you’re aware - awake if you will - of political and social injustices, particularly regarding racial and social inequality. In other words, you’re not a fucking racist. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Liberal</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> means that you’re open to new ideas and being a </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">leftie</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> pertains to the left side of the political spectrum - for me that means advocating for greater social and economic equality. It means being socially liberal and tolerant of differences. Not just tolerant - I’m not a fan of that word - but accepting and celebratory of those differences. Why wouldn't you be a woke liberal leftie? And what's the ACCEPTABLE alternative. Feel free to slide into my DMs and tell me. And keep your pervert pics to yourself - I know how you right wingers roll... </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The key thing is that it’s a scale. Imagine a ruler. A shatterproof ruler. 30 cm in length. Most of us bundle about between, I reckon, 12 (me!) and 18 (knobby Tory fuckers). And then you’ve got those weirdoes that linger at either end: Jacob Rees-Mong, the Nazis and the Commies. Eeeek. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, we got to see what life was like under Communist rule as we visited <i>The Red Flat.</i> Bulgaria was ruled by the Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP) from 1946 until 1990, when, presumably the people got fed up with endless vats of tasteless stew, regulation dungarees and DIY haircuts. It’s a funny one though, isn’t it? I mean, the idea of everyone being equal is not only brilliant, but kind of essential, no? Yet, we aren’t equal are we? I respect the fact that a brain surgeon earns more than I do. And so they should. Things need to be meritocratic. Hard work should be rewarded but at the same time, we need to look after those who are less fortunate. But people need rights. And employers should respect them, especially as it’s those at the bottom who are doing the donkey work that helps to generate the profit. And also, if I pay my taxes, so should big business. If you give me that shit that Starbucks and co will just leave the country, then let fucking them. Or prosecute them, like you would do to me, if I didn’t pay my taxes. Breaking news: their coffee ain’t that great and quite frankly, they can get to fuck. It just perpetuates this realism that there’s one rule for one and one rule for another, if they belong to the ruling classes. Actually didn’t this sort of thought cause the downfall of Communism, no?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, we stepped back in time (just like Kylie) as we entered the Red Flat in central Sofia. It’s a snapshot in time - a perfectly preserved apartment stemming back to the 80s when the Communist Party ruled. It’s an immersive experience - you get to sit on the sofa, grimace at their choice of curtains, flick through their record collection (no Madonna - boo!), nose through their bits and bobs, rifle through their kitchen drawers and even have a wee in their loo. Don’t judge me, Judy. I was desperate. It was fascinating - we got to see what </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">life was like for ordinary Bulgarians during the Cold War: work and leisure, school and vacations, eating, drinking, watching TV, partying and even doing the chores. And guess what? It wasn’t that different to how I grew up. The stuff was pretty much the same. I recognised the ugly sideboard containing things that were put away for special occasions, the board games that wouldn’t last two minutes before war erupted, the Chopper bike, the bright yellow furnishings that probably seemed like a good idea at the time. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was brilliant - it felt authentic yet fun. Afterwards, we skipped out feeling a bit superior and had a mooch down to the stunning aynagogue - the largest in SE Europe; one of only two in the country and the third largest in Europe. We weren’t there long before we decided to get a bit of refreshment in a place that sold baklava. The man said that he spoke English, but that was a bit like me saying that I speak Bulgarian - and I’ve only just mastered thank you: ‘ba-war-go-daria’. That’s all I’ve got babes. Nothing else will stick and believe me, I've tried. This bloke was able to say precisely four words. K pointed to various treats and asked what they were.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: What’s that one, please?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Is puur-stashy. An’ crem. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: What about that one? (Lots of pointing was taking place)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Is puur-stashy. An’ crem. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: And that one, next to it?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Is puur-stashy. An’ crem.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: Lovely. What about that one at the back?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Is puur-stashy. An’ crem.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: Okay. But what about that one over there. The one that's orange?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Er. Is puur-stashy. And crem. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">K: That chocolate one?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.3333px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is puur-stashy. An’ crem.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Me: Do you have anything else?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Man: Yis. Is puur-stashy. And crem. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn’t help myself - I howled like a banshee. I erupted like a hysterical volcano. The more I tried to suppress it, the worse it got. We ended up with two slices of what tasted like cream cheese flaky pastry cake. And then I fell down the stairs on the way out. I completely missed a step and down I went like a sack of cold shite. I wasn’t hurt - just a bruised ego, which, in Bulgarian translates as: Is puur-stashy. And crem. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That'll learn me, etc. </span></p><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-53774807891363377802024-01-02T14:24:00.000+05:002024-01-02T14:24:13.599+05:00 Balkans-fest 2024. Part 3: Sofia, Bulgaria.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPICqLdf3ZsHdit229DQ-gGrNHFfchGKtzEdqHEAz_SofHTvfcCepSeYzx7BiIoD7GYBltTWPDfz6vxsGfnnu_viyY4xG4-17CSJImMUdNdccFrsmimuv2Hf3BSqPPhfA9eVCna1Zlwd1wOla37mbO88QQr-vUJShLT06AdizTlQSetDtMHVebMCkgT02l/s275/Sofia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="220" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPICqLdf3ZsHdit229DQ-gGrNHFfchGKtzEdqHEAz_SofHTvfcCepSeYzx7BiIoD7GYBltTWPDfz6vxsGfnnu_viyY4xG4-17CSJImMUdNdccFrsmimuv2Hf3BSqPPhfA9eVCna1Zlwd1wOla37mbO88QQr-vUJShLT06AdizTlQSetDtMHVebMCkgT02l/w356-h351/Sofia.jpg" width="356" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the plane landed to a smattering of applause (what did they think was going to happen?) we were out onto the streets of Sofia in a matter of minutes. We went straight through passport control and as luck would have it as we made our way to the baggage claim, our cases weren’t in Delhi. Oh no, there they were waiting for us on the carousel. It was a bit like Yo-Sushi, but with clothes. Rather than risk being ripped off in a taxi (they don’t do Uber here), we realised that we could jump on a bus that would take us to the centre of the city and to the doorstep of our rather lovely hotel that comes with a sky bar that offers panoramic views of this mesmerising city. After checking in, we dropped our bags and then set off on a twenty thousand step, four hour mooch...</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-0a4fed30-7fff-1945-7bc2-6c2c3a772bb9"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What an oddly compelling place Sofia is. It’s mega interesting to look at and I’m surprised that I’ve not been knocked over by a boxy old Lada as I’ve wandered, slack-jawed through the incongruous streets that line Bulgaria’s capital. Geographically, it’s as diverse as the buildings that it boasts: in the distance, a snow-capped Vitosha Mountain lingers in the skyline, which extends on from the Western Balkan mountain range, Mount Rila, the Sofia plain and the hinter-Balkan valleys. Sofia also boasts mineral water springs - apparently they’re healing, so I might get myself down there at some point. Can’t hurt, can it?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are over 2000 years of history playing out for all to see and the result is a melting pot of the old, the new, the classic and the should-never-have-been. It’s equally beautiful and strangely imposing with its unique blend of different styles and influences, ranging from ancient temples and palaces to modernist and neo-classical buildings. One of the defining features of Bulgarian architecture, apparently, is its use of ornate decoration and intricate details and these dazzling beauties stand proudly next to dilapidated old communist structures that feel purposefully ugly. As though that’s somehow the point. Knackered old streets eventually flow into wide, cobbled roads with grand, pastel coloured buildings that sit at the foot of the city. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We left our hotel, swung a right and within five minutes we chanced upon the jagged, octagonal National Palace of Culture: a spectacular, if slightly unattractive communist structure that dates back to 1981. Standing in front of it, I felt as though I had stepped back in time - that I could have been some kind of cold war double agent or - better still - in an Abba video. You know, when they were breaking up with each other and plumped to wear fur and bright blue eye shadow in sad, snowy streets. Knowing me, knowing you. Ah-ah. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From the palace, we walked through the park where average-looking men decked out in tracksuits walked arm in arm with glamorous, beautiful women. They’d made a massive effort to say that they were simply going to sit on a park bench to smoke a fag: a full face of slap, Jackie-O sunglasses, hair on point and designer threads aplenty. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found myself grinning from ear to ear as we sashayed down Vitosha Boulevard, taking in its multifaceted feel of 1930s Paris, 1950s Budapest, 1970s Berlin and 1980s Moscow. After lighting my parents a couple of candles in Sveta Nedelya Church (try saying that after a few sherries), we ventured further south and stumbled across the pure glories that Sofia has to offer: the statue of the Sofia herself, Banya Bashi Mosque (the only functional mosque in Sofia) and the jewel in its crown: the majestic, golden domes of Sofia's Aleksander Nevski Cathedral. Stunning.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we made our way back via the winding, cobbled streets, the weak sunshine submitted to dusk. Fairy lights helped out with the ancient street lamps as they illuminated our path. By this point we were starving and as we got halfway back to the hotel, we dove into a restaurant where we had a huge, delicious dinner and drinks for a thrifty £12. Honestly, Gatwick needs to take note. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-676856094937081702024-01-01T23:45:00.002+05:002024-01-01T23:45:41.950+05:00 Balkans-fest 2024. Part 2: Hovering somewhere above The Alps.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjufgU4L8exsO6J4BDg3zFxTFgeV53yrpkh3mpQh15cowF2VwUj-ZGm8wqZmtTZlIVIClDSH8PxCoCSwY59Ec_akaMONd_7nLj6kcvqYsuygx74Uob3-EwSm3QXd6riX0H6FiKrp0rdoMcleFwQ6voCDP6FLAl7gtGX_zLlx1V1DquMW6FuiCV6VTPQV6G/s300/Alps.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjufgU4L8exsO6J4BDg3zFxTFgeV53yrpkh3mpQh15cowF2VwUj-ZGm8wqZmtTZlIVIClDSH8PxCoCSwY59Ec_akaMONd_7nLj6kcvqYsuygx74Uob3-EwSm3QXd6riX0H6FiKrp0rdoMcleFwQ6voCDP6FLAl7gtGX_zLlx1V1DquMW6FuiCV6VTPQV6G/w640-h358/Alps.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f2fcdff9-7fff-a315-c58c-1ef7cccb81ac"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We took off from Gatwick about thirty minutes after we should have done. Apparently, we all took too long farting about with bags and belts and missed our window. Both K and I have aisle seats next to each other. Even though we both have our headphones on, we occasionally lock eyes, smile and throw each other a cheeky wink as though we’re tarts with hearts. Normally, K gets the window and I sit in the middle of K and some random weirdo crisp eater. Not today, sucker. K has intimated that the bloke next to him guffs of BO. Three and a bit hours of secondary sweat invading your nostrils. Shame. To my right is a lovely woman who I accidentally sprayed with fizzy water as I attempted to open it. Fortunately she laughed, even though my accident made it look as though she’d peed herself. Whoopsy. Neither of us have enough shoulder room and we don’t know each other well enough to let our arms overlap so it looks as though we both froze halfway through the <i>Cha-Cha-Slide</i>. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’re flying with Sleazy-J and so if you want entertainment, you have to make it yourself. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite downloading a couple of films, I don’t fancy them so I’ve busied myself with macro naps, cheesy pop music and a good people watch. It distracts me from dark thoughts - I’ve seen the film <i>Alive</i>. I know how it works. You watch, the pilot will realise that he forgot to fuel up, we’ll go down above some mountain peak and I’ll spend my evening gnawing on the charred heel of the BO fiend…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh. Where was I? Oh yeah, I do love a good people watch. Don’t you? Our purser on the flight is a lean, chirpy man called Dave. He smells of soap and has a kind face that boasts a curly, waxed moustache that puts me in mind of Hercule Poirot. Alongside him is the more serious Shirley who has just taken six quid off us for two thimbles of tepid coffee that have been spiked with UHT milk. It’s a seller’s market up in the skies and in line with Shatwick, they’ll happily rob you blind. Trying to drink it through bursts of turbulence reminded me of that old sketch from <i>Jim’ll <strike>Fuck</strike> Fix It </i>where a load of scouts tried to eat a packed lunch on a rollercoaster in 1983. It’s worth a look on YouTube, despite the fact that Jim was a rotten, vile old perv. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In front of K and directly up and left to me is a rake-thin Hassidic Jewish bloke. As you might know, I’m oddly obsessed with the Hassidics and it’s all I can do to not stare at him like some slovenly gormless article. He has removed his shoes, revealing startlingly-long feet that are cocooned in red tipped socks that deviate from the modesty of the rest of his clothes. I have watched as he has rocked back and forth in prayer. I have attempted to read over his shoulder but my command of Hebrew is, well, non-existent. Still, it’s pretty to look at. I theatrically gasped as he delicately unwrapped a foil parcel containing eight thick slices of what looked like generously buttered bread. I was in awe as he matched this with a huge vat of crinkle-cut pickles and smashed the lot in one go. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’ve just been informed that we’re cruising at some ridiculous height somewhere over The Alps. That reminds me, I had another go at watching </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Sound of Music</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> over the Chrissy-Hols. I just can’t get on with it. It’s just too dull, the kids are too irritating and I find myself impatient for the Nazis to hurry up and get them. And just when they arrive and things get a bit less dull, they run up the mountain and the film just ends. Utter rubbish. And it’s like, three months long in duration. Give me </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Elf</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> any day. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know, I’ll hand my gay card in to Mary on the desk. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-63955831524310262592024-01-01T23:09:00.000+05:002024-01-01T23:09:08.062+05:00Balkans-fest 2024. Part 1: Gatwick and the Rise of the Machines<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9vc_HgCB1VrmVrJIics7XbXgVLO83WvaUOTLmNOlzP0h1Lcdpdq-cnD1sO5y07dsY_PoxmMoTzQWofsBp-TENr0n3RmD6wgDGz9mxOV2MRWsv0IolgKXTZ0KEqJN6h5nipphpKo2oBfGtuHBblzPz9eLUJnb3sBKW64Wb5H2Du6BHJLb3JHiRW9_kRiW/s320/Dirtybastards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9vc_HgCB1VrmVrJIics7XbXgVLO83WvaUOTLmNOlzP0h1Lcdpdq-cnD1sO5y07dsY_PoxmMoTzQWofsBp-TENr0n3RmD6wgDGz9mxOV2MRWsv0IolgKXTZ0KEqJN6h5nipphpKo2oBfGtuHBblzPz9eLUJnb3sBKW64Wb5H2Du6BHJLb3JHiRW9_kRiW/w640-h360/Dirtybastards.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As 2024 exploded into life through a gust of global pyromania and alcohol-infused mirth, several clues pointed to the indisputable fact that I am becoming an old fart. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-cde67b4f-7fff-a49a-e7d5-e7ca1874519d"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Firstly, as everyone drunkenly locked lips at midnight and attempted to sing Auld Lang Syne (before realising that they didn’t know the words), I was fast asleep, stone cold sober. Not even the merest soupcon of shandy booze passed my lips on the final day of 2023. This wasn’t because I was attempting to get a head start on Dry January (did it once, never again, etc) but because I was having to get up early the next day. How early, you ask? A dry-eyed, yawn-tastic 3:30am. And it’s not like I slept that well either. Knowing that I had to be up before the larks even went to bed, I flitted in and out of the shallowest of slumbers. I finally got up ten minutes before my alarm rang out and made a mug of coffee so strong that I could almost stand the spoon up in it. Lovely.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, Happy New Year and all that jizz. We’re starting ‘24 with a little five day adventure to the Balkans. First stop: Sofia, Bulgaria. It might actually be our only stop. We’re going to play it by ear, but car hire is cheap and the borders are close, so we’ll see. We’ve got a fancy hotel with a pool and a spa so the temptation to play Moby Dick or re-create pop videos from yesteryear might prove too much. I’m quite excited as I’ve never ventured to this part of the world before and I’m looking forward to having a mooch around a place where the culture has been shaped by the Ottoman and Byzantine Empires, the know-it-all, done-it-all Greeks, the Slavs, the Persians, Communism and 21st century Western culture.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In order to get there of course, we had to pick an exit and Gatwick was the aviationary weapon of choice. Our arrival at Terminal 1 summoned more old-fartedness to the surface as I lamented the loss of human service to the machines. Basically, you have to do everything yourself. You want to park? You have to organise it online. Fine. You want to check in? Again, get yourself online and tap away at your phone until the boarding pass reluctantly arrives in your inbox. And what TF is a QR code anyway? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bag drop is also on you. There we stood at 5am, bleary eyed, needing both a coffee and a wazz in equal measure, while trying to operate a machine that sends our bags on their way. There’s no one there to ask you if a drug lord or human trafficker packed your bags for you, oh no. Just a sticker on a screen, politely reminding you that AK47s, makeshift bombs and stolen babies are not permitted in your baggage. Like, phew. I did that old person thing of speaking my irritations aloud, hoping that someone would hear me and nod in empathic agreement, but no. The next thing you know, the machine spat out a metre-long sticky label that we had to wrap around the handle ourselves. More flashing buttons demanded to be pressed, which kicked the conveyor belt into life and I found myself waving tragically at my lovely new case as it carried itself away to fuck knows where. Hopefully Sofia. You watch, it’ll end up in bastard Delhi. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t even get frisked through security - boo! Instead I had to strike various poses similar to dancing the YMCA in slo-mo before being allowed on my way. More anachronistic rumblings continued through Duty Free as every till was a DIY affair. Every single one. Goodbye jobs, hello profit that goes directly into the pockets of fat cats that must be morbidly obese at this point. I can only hope that people were putting expensive designer fragrance through as a small Toblerone or a packet of tissues. That’ll learn ‘em. After liberally basting myself in various testers, we made our way to Pret smelling like glorious whores and here’s where I really sounded like a rancid old bag - a bit like the tight-arse characters from Catherine Tate’s sketch show. Two small sandwiches, two small medium bottles of water and two medium coffees. Guess how much? Go on, guess. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">£24 quid. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They greed it off you. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The dirty, machine loving bastards!</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-79279697911216716272023-12-31T23:35:00.007+05:002023-12-31T23:57:46.430+05:00 New Year’s Eve, 2023. 4pm. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmssqmDZC3OTcsGOQ-MBYXhyphenhyphen-0p_a-zRBoMvqZxpLPa5P4dmNx4ll2CDaDQ04WBZS27dufxQXOKVUQUAdnZ7sPQsH7mmhyphenhypheny3gASdJ7CdduNGrayJcQSgqxU1YweGXInYh4AN8asdhY7vE0-ec-maufO-T3p_h_vrFBG0W6zhZotLypigyd5ZAdxucRyie2/s275/NYE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmssqmDZC3OTcsGOQ-MBYXhyphenhyphen-0p_a-zRBoMvqZxpLPa5P4dmNx4ll2CDaDQ04WBZS27dufxQXOKVUQUAdnZ7sPQsH7mmhyphenhypheny3gASdJ7CdduNGrayJcQSgqxU1YweGXInYh4AN8asdhY7vE0-ec-maufO-T3p_h_vrFBG0W6zhZotLypigyd5ZAdxucRyie2/w640-h427/NYE.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Throughout my twenties and thirties, around this time on NYE - ie. just before I got ready for the Big Night Out that only seemed to deliver a hangover and a sense of anti-climax - I would take to my room, pick up a pen and construct a list of resolutions that would, I hoped, pave the way to happiness as the Earth casually took in its next waltz around the sun. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-659a1f7b-7fff-fa14-b849-199458df3dbb"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I failed every year. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, when the next NYE rolled around, I would repeat my pointless tradition and re-scrawl the same wish-list over and over again, just in a different order: </span></p><ul style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lose weight (for vanity’s sake, rather than health)</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sort out finances and save a gazillion pounds. Give or take a few bob. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Travel somewhere exotic (ie. dangerous) and (hopefully) not die.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fathom a way of getting into a career that I gave a shit about, rather than one where I would feign IBS and spend hours reading novels in the toilet and/or sleeping with the boss, which I seemed to do quite often, thinking about it. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Find someone lovely to love rather than my boss or someone who could be featured in the latest iteration of </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Psychos, Fuckwits and Coercive Liars. With Halitosis. </span></p></li></ul><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not a lot to ask for, eh? Upon completion, I would pop it in an envelope, drop it into a drawer and then fall into a pit of despair a year later as I found myself a stone more to the chunky, significantly poorer and locked in a strange, windowless hotel room in Southend with my boss. Who would invariably have halitosis. Halcyon days, folks. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure when I managed to break the cycle, but at some point I realised that I was chasing the wrong thing. I thought that those things would make me happy. I look at the list now and realise that I’ve kind of achieved most of them - bar the ‘stop being a porky slab cracker’ one - and while they undoubtedly contribute to a sense of wellbeing, I look back now and realise that those resolutions were written out of a sense of not feeling that worthy. I’m not sure if this feeling stemmed from a questionable upbringing or whether it’s a byproduct of being force fed the capitalist dream as we stumble through this dystopian Tory clusterfuck: achievement over all, amass as much stuff as possible, smugness over compassion, loving thy neighbour, but only if you're doing better than them. I used to work with someone who, on the surface, had it all: an amazing house in a wealthy London suburb, a successful career, a similarly successful husband, money in the bank, beautiful, healthy children who were doing well for themselves. All of life’s boxes apparently ticked. And yet she was the most miserable, bitter old crone that I’ve ever met. They say that jealousy makes you ugly? It certainly did. News of other peoples’ accomplishments - particularly mine - would bring a slow-release, maniacal grimace to her wizened mush that I can only describe as chilling. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was so sad and so unnecessary. After two years of manifesting her out of my life, the universe granted me my wish. We’re no longer in any form of contact, but I imagine that misery continues to loom large in her otherwise perfect sheen of a life. Don’t get me wrong, having nice stuff is lush. It’s nicer crying at the wheel of a Porsche than on the back of a piss-stinking bus with half a Pot Noodle dropped down your top, but the key to feeling at peace and content with the world goes so much deeper. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found happiness when I learned to let go of social expectations. When I learned to be satisfied. When I learned to reframe negative experiences as lessons that needn’t define me. When I learned to forgive arseholes for being arseholes. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I reflected on the way that I thought about things, identified my thought biases and realised that this was something that I could change. When I learned to be grateful. When I learned to simply not to give a fuck about what other people think. Compare and despair, people!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s easier said than done, but it’s entirely possible and much simpler than sticking to an arbitrary list of unassailable targets that you don’t really have the motivation for. These days I practise Mindfulness and it’s been transformational. Best to not get me started because I’ll be here all night, but what I will say is that it has given me tools to crowbar a bit of space between me and my thoughts so that my reactions don’t automatically take me hostage. It doesn’t stop the weirdo thoughts coming, but I am learning to step back and observe them before shrugging and getting on with my day. I can soothe my anxious mind and I can shine the spotlight of my attention where I want to, rather than having it fixated upon Catastrophe-ville. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I sit in silence in the final hours of 2023, I’m grateful for another year. It’s been successful in so many ways: professionally, things have been great and personally, I have a small but beautiful group of people whose love, support and humour sustains me. I’ve had some amazing experiences. I’ve been lucky to travel a fair bit: we've explored Israel and the Palestinian West Bank (before it all went properly tits up) and spent a month in the summer cruising around France, Spain and Portugal, where we Tuk-Tuk'd around Porto, sought absolution at Lourdes, lived it up in Biarritz and kayaked down the Dordogne river. Where we also capsized in three feet of water. That'll learn me, etc. We've been to the theatre, the opera and I got to see Madonna's Celebration Tour twice. I had to sell a kidney, but hey ho. There has been lots of laughter a few tears, but overall, it's been lovely. Oh, and let's not </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">forget the cracking week we had with the family in Blackpool! It’s not where you go, it’s who you go with. I also managed not to lose any weight. Again. Bugger. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I choose optimism as we tip-toe into 2024. For myself and my loved ones I am manifesting the important stuff: connection, compassion, empathy, laughter, support and love. The rest is just stuff, just noise. I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with it - a</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">lthough I’d still like a size 32 waist, if you’re listening, universe. Cheers, thanks a lot.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happy New Year. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">JRP xx </span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-41496427161500384222023-12-26T00:13:00.026+05:002023-12-26T00:24:18.416+05:00Christmas Day 2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rX05KQA9qvMQQKtgvm0IZt5kqnCjOWwGEbNOHIjZO3jsrxIp8BD3BDgDkRB8S3e7ntxY0DIWJmyFU2KamEQZcj1yGlZg2ggREszY78rDnSpyGOdHVE6KCer6kS7LZLsaoKs51cgpNCwzrd-G9UQuBHUxnIDhS1oNRFcUlC5tQEltMrEMWpORV72xDCmY/s333/Xmas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="333" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rX05KQA9qvMQQKtgvm0IZt5kqnCjOWwGEbNOHIjZO3jsrxIp8BD3BDgDkRB8S3e7ntxY0DIWJmyFU2KamEQZcj1yGlZg2ggREszY78rDnSpyGOdHVE6KCer6kS7LZLsaoKs51cgpNCwzrd-G9UQuBHUxnIDhS1oNRFcUlC5tQEltMrEMWpORV72xDCmY/w640-h290/Xmas.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Christmas Day, 6pm. </i></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I stand at the window and watch soft rain fall in silent, empty streets. I take in the view: the shimmering, wet roads, illuminated by stoic lamp posts, the bushes and trees that shiver as they yield to the weight of the water that runs through them. I touch the glass in front of me and feel the cold that is trapped outside.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I reach up and tug gently at the blind, instantly shutting the night out. I take myself to the kitchen, refill my glass with red wine and retreat to the sofa, where I sink into feather-stuffed cushions. I sip the merlot, feeling it warm me as it slips down. Next to me, my partner sleeps: his breath rises and falls in long, rhythmic waves. I place one hand on his leg that languishes next to me. With the other I lift the remote and squint as the television blinks into life. I flick through the channels and feel momentarily ambushed by an array of discordant, conflicting images. Nothing takes my fancy and so I elect to turn it off, preferring the calmness and quiet that lingered before. As the room fades to darkness, I notice that the rain is picking up its pace outside. It raps at the panes like a stranger demanding sanctuary. I pull a knitted blanket over me and think about my day. It's been peaceful, tranquil, romantic. We have laughed, we have connected, we have celebrated in our own private, beautiful way.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I find myself smiling as I am infused with a deep gratitude. Grateful for a full belly, still brimming with a spectacular dinner and too much wine; grateful for thoughtful presents that left me emotional; but mostly, I am grateful for the man who lies next to me. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I feel happy, loved and as though I belong: to a place, to a person, to a family. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am grateful and I am lucky.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Merry Christmas.</span></p><p><br /></p>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-15378116811333703532023-09-09T02:06:00.006+07:002023-09-09T02:22:59.690+07:00Remembering Mam - 23 Years Later<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL-mgvQHRkFZLtOeQ_wlUrEA0g5U3wOG3pU8wy9rb3e_Y2mX029bAQ7VtRxBdHznvW0IrWKmmORASDFkAH8ZSyAfauk5oBX-H15J51oIwJPZA6rqFkHamgI6uWJ4OrYjKUa-5MTJadOe96kngZAYTkwNEbnbx7CqstHfC1KRR0QqReAd7zRYW5KA9kshH/s530/IMG_7757.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL-mgvQHRkFZLtOeQ_wlUrEA0g5U3wOG3pU8wy9rb3e_Y2mX029bAQ7VtRxBdHznvW0IrWKmmORASDFkAH8ZSyAfauk5oBX-H15J51oIwJPZA6rqFkHamgI6uWJ4OrYjKUa-5MTJadOe96kngZAYTkwNEbnbx7CqstHfC1KRR0QqReAd7zRYW5KA9kshH/w211-h400/IMG_7757.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8FVb58qsMRRMxF0_yicxwAQGnXfX-tMYI8UlcwzkeE5p4qMd53FnXGtJbCfEg0E6mTzWO0Z1AoBDkSYvvQfM-UiyGYMPNH6rtrvSMet_oQ4qGfFSmQuzZbbcsqCYMWBlp7bRUs6oJ3bPZ0JzzwXEj5_rIRxp3wjjnGUienQxXA9M_ZIGB5LHDmU3N2yfl/s530/IMG_7757.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /><br /></a></div><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-625c2b04-7fff-76ed-37c0-6306142bbcad"><div><span><i><span>'Don't let memory play games with your mind</span></i></span></div><div><span><i><span>She's a faded smile, frozen in time,</span></i></span></div><div><span><i><span>I'm still hanging on, but I'm doing it wrong'</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span><i><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Madonna - Promise To Try</span></span><br /></i></span></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today marks twenty three years since my lovely Mam passed. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty three years. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty. Three. Years. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I repeat this to myself over and over until the words lose all meaning. I was also twenty three years old when she died, so this anniversary feels slightly momentous as I find myself straddling the horribly odd cusp of being motherless longer than ever having had a mother; my maternal bond stretched, yanked and pulled out of all recognition, but still there. I still grasp for a secure base that no longer exists.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, it’s easier now. There were times in those early years when my Mam’s swift, shocking death left a chasm so great that I never thought I’d know happiness again. For a while it seemed to get harder, especially in that horrible first year, when grief propels you into a particularly vicious form of insanity; when I had no choice other than to wade through thigh-high emotional dung. I can’t say exactly when it started to feel easier - when thoughts of my mother started to liberate laughter and smiles, rather than hot tears and a sense of being punched in the guts. For the most part, I suppose I'm at peace. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the most part. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, there are times that I still feel robbed. I still struggle. I still ache. I’m still haunted by those terrible memories of seeing my Mam hours after she died, all waxwork-esque and strangely regal. I can’t hear the song <i>American Pie</i> without being transported back to the time where me and Becky flew up the M1 in her Fiesta in the pissing rain, a couple of hours after my Mam had died. I had no idea what sort of fresh hell awaited me: family members suddenly at war, directing their numbness, confusion and grief into an anger that was easier to project into each other rather than face up to Mam’s premature departure: gone, never to return. Soon after, Aunty fucking Eileen, the perennial harbinger of death itself, swept in uninvited and asked, all too optimistically, if we’d thought about a funeral - four hours after death. And then Uncle Bill’s similarly awful response: ‘Bloody hell, Eileen. She’s not even cold.’ I sat there, silent. Raging. Murderous. Full of confused venom and a need to evaporate.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Onto the funeral. Low, grey skies. Intermittent rain. Awkward silences with my brother and sister, resolved by the passing around of a whiskey bottle at 9am. I recall opening the front door and catching my breath as a black hearse dragged its heels and the sepia coloured, flower-decked coffin reluctantly came into view. A woman, dressed in black walked in front of the car and all I could think was, <i>how do you get a job like that? </i></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t remember much about the service other than it was standing room only and that I wanted to punch my cousin for throwing herself around me as they clumsily lowered Mam into the ground, leaving me traumatised. I thought it would go in all smooth and gracious, but oh no. What we got was a Lidl version of the Chuckle Brothers. To me, to you. Down she went, rocking back and forth as they let one side out first and then another. All jolted and jarring and huffy and puffy. All I could think about was how her body would be banging about like unloved luggage - oh, and that my cousin needed to get the absolute fuck off me, otherwise she would be following her into the ground. That would’ve made the wake a tad awkward, eh? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty three years. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty three years dead.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty three years motherless.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t quite believe it. </span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-23237244842632962632023-08-23T23:34:00.002+07:002023-08-23T23:44:33.965+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 15: And Now, The End Is Near...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqoFv4HzZ6gA8tF2uOJCIW0zWt8IQkZoSz6ImVq9YjBy6qgs4pxjFtfrM6yPkp19R3EE_BZ3-B_9oIzSLbdL0ffZNGb-dAADReH06J5cy4kRUOT5DIZccMCjdBjgWCpvMWHQrkVs0m-irtm_uPSXeMXEpOkmZwFeOKRMcKulpLQbjXSCnKN3YQWZ3EXSq/s275/RoadTrip.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqoFv4HzZ6gA8tF2uOJCIW0zWt8IQkZoSz6ImVq9YjBy6qgs4pxjFtfrM6yPkp19R3EE_BZ3-B_9oIzSLbdL0ffZNGb-dAADReH06J5cy4kRUOT5DIZccMCjdBjgWCpvMWHQrkVs0m-irtm_uPSXeMXEpOkmZwFeOKRMcKulpLQbjXSCnKN3YQWZ3EXSq/w640-h426/RoadTrip.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-b7d37890-7fff-7e8a-acea-03faa6acdd4c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m sulking. I’m radiating the spirit of that awful kid off the telly from yesteryear as I demand my own way - ie. stay on holiday forever - by promising to <i>scream and scream and scream until I’m sick</i>. Although I once tried this tactic with an unimpressed mother who had no time for my shit and got a clout around the back of my bonce. I retaliated by threatening her with the might of Esther Rantzen’s Childline only for her to counter with hearty, bitter guffaw and an offer to call her on my behalf. Checkmate. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. I’m in a grouchy strop. I’ve got a massive cob on and I’m being a moody, mardy arse. And why? Because it's time to go back to England. And I don’t wanna. Don’t make me go back there, etc… </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not feeling remotely patriotic as the ferry carts me England-wards. I mean, what’s great about a Britain that constantly votes in a scummy, corrupt Tory Government and where the most popular ‘news’ papers are </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Sun</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Daily Mail,</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> neither of which I’d wipe my arse on, thanks very much. A place where everyone is getting increasingly - and confusingly - hysterical about pronouns, immigrants and vegans. Where a tin of beans in my local Tescos is nearly two quid and they’ve had to put anti-theft devices on tubs of butter and thimbles of cheese? Where the cost of heating is so expensive that the answer to the old joke, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What’s blue and fucks grannies?</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is no longer just </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hypothermia</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> but also </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Conservatives - </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">w</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ho said grannies generally vote for. In which case, it serves them right. Fuck 'em. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oooh, hark at me. I’m on one. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually about now on my holidays, I’m ready to go back, but this time I’m struggling to muster any enthusiasm for reality. Can you tell? I knew I should have thrown myself at that toothless, twat-eyed farmer as we crossed into Normandy. I didn’t take my chance though. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Zut alors, mon dieu </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> salop merde on toast</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, as the more potty-mouthed French might say. Well, they might. You never know. If I lived here, I would make that phrase HAPPEN, babes. I say that; I’d attempt to, but as this trip has proved, foreign languages really are not my forte. I might have a go at communicating through expressive dance next time. That might work. Or I might get jailed, in which case, I get to stay. Hurrah!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. Let’s look on the (Mister) bright side. I’ve had another great adventure with my one and only. Together, we have covered over two thousand miles, three countries, twelve cities, two remarkable concerts and about a zillion, pastry shaped calories. We’ve camped, hotel’d and AirB&B’d, finishing up at one of the loveliest places I’ve ever stayed in. I ignited every city, town and commune with the memory of my parents. We’ve laughed all the way, skinny dipped under a blanket of dazzling stars, sunbathed in 35 degree heat, survived epic middle-of-the-night storms, read for pleasure, had innumerable car discos, consumed far too much local brew, made friends with donkeys, explored cities on tuk-tuks, scaled mountains via funicular, kayaked (and capsized), walked a trillion (or so) steps and - AND! - we have healed ourselves at Lourdes - although I’m delighted to report that I’m still a massive gay. God must love us after all. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Can I get an Amen?</span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-78364798549417218592023-08-20T17:05:00.006+07:002023-08-20T17:11:18.338+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 14: Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlkWc3KAqj_56D9bYS_HwwIhiC9J70aGvuFL7kIFux0V_YDGRgsegUNW_PtLxQwdEMbV-lq1naegNcMiQUnnpe1a7yzqSjrfdEjUTQJELR7gYfTmnMwPBOtFDLGkpeZEvZXl-UN4zj80uFSgkqJCfwB7-kOIj_sDQ74EzBnvB7ZanNZxfVv3wKS0uCAkl/s300/Sky.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlkWc3KAqj_56D9bYS_HwwIhiC9J70aGvuFL7kIFux0V_YDGRgsegUNW_PtLxQwdEMbV-lq1naegNcMiQUnnpe1a7yzqSjrfdEjUTQJELR7gYfTmnMwPBOtFDLGkpeZEvZXl-UN4zj80uFSgkqJCfwB7-kOIj_sDQ74EzBnvB7ZanNZxfVv3wKS0uCAkl/w640-h358/Sky.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-913b2202-7fff-383c-55c6-46b84733e158"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am cocooned by the delicious sound of silence as I lower myself into the cool waters of the pool that refresh my skin from the raucous heat. It gently laps around my body, drinking me in before I fully immerse myself and take in the womb-like sensations of being completely submerged: my breath held tight, my skin suddenly gloved, the muffled sounds of the water that holds me. I enjoy a moment of stillness and then rise up suddenly, violently breaking the surface. I exhale and shake away the water from my face before sinking back into it. I am floating; my ears are tucked under the water’s surface but my face rests slightly above. I breathe deep and stare at my surroundings as though I am seeing them for the first time. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A sprawling flower bed lays to my left, where a gang of lavender catches a breeze and dances back and forth. A couple of bees tend to the graceful, purple tips while others dither around the other shrubs. To my right and above me, a range of different trees and bushes offer a spectrum of greens: jades, limes, olives and pistachios form a protective blanket around me. The sky above me is awesome - a beautiful, unending blue, peppered with shape-shifting white clouds. I look intently at them and recognise different images as they twist and morph: I see the outline of various animals, the knee-high boot of Italy and the giant form of Africa, which slowly drifts apart as the sun burns through. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have nowhere to be. No arrangements. No pressing deadlines. In the distant echoes of my mind, I am aware of anxious whispers but rather than surrender to them, I take solace in the sky - seeing the blue as my mind and the clouds as my thoughts. I allow them to come, permit them to drift into consciousness. I observe them, note them and, once acknowledged, I allow them to retreat, to go in peace. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I breathe deep, until my lungs are full to the point of bursting, hold it and then slowly exhale.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I repeat this over and over again, until a sudden rush of sweetness courses through my veins. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I feel aware, I feel alive and I feel invigorated. A smile pulls the corners of my mouth into an arc. I exhale as I feel calm and happy at my core. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun as it veils my face with its beautiful rays.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is Sunday. </span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-46561974498013664212023-08-18T16:38:00.001+07:002023-08-18T16:38:42.796+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 13: Lesturps - Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary… Why do you close the shops?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJ30tWTT39yRu2gp-v9GG3YovWvbQGPw-s1xGxK07U7_FFndHTMlnpvTdRLq897KtZ7-REolPAcqQ2BY2B7wbfk5_8hEihuiKNylLTC8uyHYp6UAdkDAD9JxXtZ_D9Ces8ltOoPM6vsD7ON3wSpvtsQl8RdY6xDRrdGCgOgFMecw7w4Q1viFxST3RBdgf/s300/Lesterps.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJ30tWTT39yRu2gp-v9GG3YovWvbQGPw-s1xGxK07U7_FFndHTMlnpvTdRLq897KtZ7-REolPAcqQ2BY2B7wbfk5_8hEihuiKNylLTC8uyHYp6UAdkDAD9JxXtZ_D9Ces8ltOoPM6vsD7ON3wSpvtsQl8RdY6xDRrdGCgOgFMecw7w4Q1viFxST3RBdgf/w400-h224/Lesterps.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">As the old, somewhat annoying saying goes, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>‘to assume is to make an ass out of you and I…’</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> Actually, can we talk about that expression for a hot second? You know the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>ass</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> bit? Is it an Americanism, bastardising the brilliant word, ‘</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>arse</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">’? Or is the phrase just being racist against donkeys, implying that they’re all stupid? I do hope that it’s the former and not the latter. I love donkeys. Who doesn’t? Apart from those who are DONKEY RACIST? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">What makes our current destination extra gorgeous are the three rescued donkeys that amble about the field next to us, do their random EEE-AAAAWS and just merrily chew everything within their mouths’ reach.Their names are Rodney, Marlene and Juno. No, I don’t know why they picked two names from </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Only Fools and Horses</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> and not a third - but let’s face it, when you read Rodney and then Marlene, did you say </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Mar-leeene</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> in Boycie’s accent? If you didn’t, please never speak to me again. Thanks. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Honestly, donkeys replacing humans as neighbours is the new black. Not that I dislike my neighbours. I don’t really know them despite living next door to them for the last decade. We occasionally nod hello to each other and I occasionally slag them off behind their back when they park selfishly, which is all the time. They particularly pissed me off recently. I went to put the bin out and noticed that they had forgotten to wind their car window up. Rain wasn’t forecast, but I made the same mistake last summer when an absolute c-bomb robbed my car. All they managed to steal was a pair of Nike trainers that I kept in the boot that had cost me £150. I was furious but heartened slightly by the fact that the last time I wore them I had - vom - athletes foot, the most ironic of afflictions, given my lack of athleticism. But there you go. I decided to let my neighbour know about the open window, so went and knocked. I could see people moving about behind the glass door but no one decided to answer. I gave it a minute and then gently knocked again. The woman of the house yanked the door open, irritation clearly etched all over her mush. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">'Did you just knock on this door?' she said in a tone that suggested that I should have absolutely not knocked, no matter the circumstances. I tried to explain but she cut me off mid-sentence, told me that she'd done it on purpose because she was going out again and then shut the door in my face. Next time she can bollocks. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">ANYWAY. Moving swiftly on and back to where we currently are: Lesterps, pronounced </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>LEYTAIIIR</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> by the locals, is a sleepy little commune and we’re here for the final 10 days of our trip. It’s quite a lovely end to the holiday as we’ve smuggled ourselves away in a lovely old mill house that sits on the banks of a river. The place has been renovated so beautifully that it could be the subject of a Channel 5 programme with an annoying presenter who you want to slap. We have our own private pool and it’s all so rustic-yet-high-end that I feel like a minor celeb. And like I said, donkeys for neighbours. What more do you want?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">We arrived a couple of days ago. In fact, we were an hour early for check in so we popped off to the local supermarket for a scout about. I do love a foreign supermarket, don’t you?. Rather than do a big shop, we just bought a few bits for that night and resolved that we’d come back the next day once we knew what was what. And that’s where we went wrong, because, you see, the following day was the Assumption of Mary (great name for a gay bar, no?) and it turns out that everywhere was shut. Can you imagine shops shutting before 10 or 11 pm in the UK? There would be Hell on. Whereas the French, with their 11 bank holidays, work-to-live attitude and casual disregard for starving Brits look for the slightest reason to shut down and go home. I don’t blame them. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">France has done this to me before, years ago, when Becks and I came for a week’s holiday, except when we arrived, it was the Bastille and again, everything was shut. The next day, we went exploring and the car properly blew up. Within 20 hours of being there, we had to go home reeking of poverty and char-grilled Fiat. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Quelle catastrophe! </i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">ANYWAY. We realised our error as we drove around empty streets and that’s another thing - as beautiful as these French communes are, they all seem deserted, even though they’re not. Where do the French people go during the day? Not a single person to be found. We got almost as far as Limoges when we double backed on ourselves and spotted a single patisserie that was open. Two quiches, a couple of baguettes and a few cakes and we were on our way, pleased as punch with our finding. Honestly, I’m such a slag for pastry. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And that’s kind of how we’ve been since we got here. Sleep until we wake, leisurely breakfasts around the pool, bake in the sun, eat more pastry while resolving to go on a diet or wire my own jaw once I get back to the UK, have a little swim, realise that it’s 5pm and open the wine or beer before rustling up a lovely dinner while slowly getting merry. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Lather, rinse, get pissed, repeat. </span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-57021534967069221802023-08-15T04:41:00.004+07:002023-08-15T04:43:35.722+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 12: Thunder and Lightning, Very, Very Frightening Me…<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cpt2oloEBhQt-sa610dF7qgtY0huws9VUi7OChS0uHlzdaAP6jFLCJCUkE7jLpVyTy9BQa7tb9_BkUZ76AcB0StlK-xJGv-ajFGZrMv6SG-zBQPfIzGXBajBEA07EPTmBdThPwqqHwT8DE7TuWyBJMgtlzApk91tG9T5WMvWeO4F7tNj2kon_Fkmn64g/s275/storm.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cpt2oloEBhQt-sa610dF7qgtY0huws9VUi7OChS0uHlzdaAP6jFLCJCUkE7jLpVyTy9BQa7tb9_BkUZ76AcB0StlK-xJGv-ajFGZrMv6SG-zBQPfIzGXBajBEA07EPTmBdThPwqqHwT8DE7TuWyBJMgtlzApk91tG9T5WMvWeO4F7tNj2kon_Fkmn64g/w400-h266/storm.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">So last night was our final night of camping as we now switch to a swanky AirB&B for the last ten days of our Euro trek. And by swanky, I mean private pool. And by private pool I mean skinny dipping babes. Avert your eyes…</span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-e3e8486b-7fff-8a02-fdb6-028400bfb5e5"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But yeah, camping. What a blast we’ve had doing it. Before we came away, I had my reservations, put it that way. I’m clumsy, I’m fussy with cleanliness and I often need a middle of the night wee-wee. Plus, airbeds hate me. They always have. They let me know this at 2 am in the morning, when I attempt to roll over and end up chipping my hip on the hard floor because half of the air has gone on strike. However, I’ve had a fantastic time living like a refugee. It’s added a sense of adventure to our proceedings and we’ve had such a laugh doing it. The air bed (thanks Jen x) was massive - it comes about 3 feet off the floor. A game changer babes. We slept soundly every night and I’m pleased to report that my hips are both still intact. Yes, I needed a wee but we fashioned what we called the RECEPTACLE, because by giving a plastic bottle with its top ripped off a different name seemed so much better. And hand sanitiser. Lots of that. We would spend our evenings sitting outside the tent, chomping on cheese and meats, chugging local wine and giggling, reading and generally being daft. Loved it. Would defo do it again and each time we camped this holiday (3 times in total) we got a bit better at it each time. It’s been great. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can tell tha<span>t the Camping Gods are in mourning for our end too. You know how I know? Because their tears fell in spectacular fashion… There I was, sleeping like Beauty herself at 4 am when an explosion dragged me from my slumber. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of a weird dream or reality itself, but within a few seconds a rolling sheet of crackling thunder passed directly above us, followed by a dramatic flick of lightning that momentarily illuminated the entirety of the tent. There was a sudden whoosh that seemed to run behind us and then the rains came: urgent, powerful, incessant. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When it rained in the night a few days ago, it felt like a rhythmic drum that soothed the soul. There was nothing threatening about it. This time was different: the sheer strength of the storm was both intoxicating and frightening. There was no let up for an hour: almighty flashes and crashes travelled directly over us in all directions. I looked over to K whose arm was draped over my chest. He was awake. We made eye contact and smiled almost nervously at each other. ‘It’s like a show, isn’t it?’ he whispered. And it was: nature put on her razzle dazzle for us. She was impressive, tantalising, terrifying and majestic. And contrary to my melodramatic fears, we were neither struck nor swept away. After an hour, the storm calmed and as the rains eased off, its soothing tempo sent me back to the respite of dreamworld. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I woke up at 8:30 am, expecting to be engulfed in a Glastonbury-esque mud bath - but no. Glorious blue skies had done their job and the tent was as dry as Gandhi's flip flop. We packed up quickly and after a lovely cool shower, we were on the way to Lesterps, just outside Limoges where we’re based for the next ten days. We’ve been so lucky with the AirB&B that we’ve booked. It’s a beautiful renovated cottage with no neighbours for miles. We have our own pool that comes with an inflatable flamingo and the whole place is just perfect, unlike my command of French. I swear, I’m getting worse: as I leave places, I keep saying </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Merci</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - you know, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thank you</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in French. Except I keep saying, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Monsieur</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by accident. Then I realise what I’ve done and basically RUN AWAY. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Imagine it: a strange man enters a shop. He is mute, except for when he leaves, at which point he looks at the woman who has served him and awkwardly exclaims ‘MISTER’ before running off.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sacre bloody bleu, bebe. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Innit. </span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-47240690625436471802023-08-14T01:34:00.000+07:002023-08-14T01:34:42.970+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023- Part 11: Kayaking (and Capsizing) down the Doydogne…<p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-988478b8-7fff-eaaa-d4a0-d9583fdcb3d8"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZqqwQ9mqYQ2ULgbDUahrYVfCw2_qAbcHOcwSzRtps4-XmenBA7ny-fhFjRoKVQGy16O-scPLGd5o0uudihmIz6yiPj-a8tz_hc1ss4Ye9KLWnZCa1EKUB7PXeKVM4uuLIPr21Qqf5GfPfPuS2PQlXw7qXazXc-GqqiiUaiVGF3Sd7yrFgk3yuPyAuTeC/s318/Doydogne.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZqqwQ9mqYQ2ULgbDUahrYVfCw2_qAbcHOcwSzRtps4-XmenBA7ny-fhFjRoKVQGy16O-scPLGd5o0uudihmIz6yiPj-a8tz_hc1ss4Ye9KLWnZCa1EKUB7PXeKVM4uuLIPr21Qqf5GfPfPuS2PQlXw7qXazXc-GqqiiUaiVGF3Sd7yrFgk3yuPyAuTeC/w640-h320/Doydogne.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>You would think that I might have learned my lesson by now, where boats are concerned, eh? I’ve already owned up to the time that I dived head first into nearly a week’s worth of my own ka-ka while aboard the good ship Fungi in my second year at secondary school. Then there was a the time I went on a date with a millionnaire who casually took me on his yacht down the Thames. When it came to leaving the deserted island where he’d moored the boat, I mistimed my jump - thanks to being crap at PE and also quite drunk, thanks very much - and failed to land onboard. What I did instead, is land on the side of the boat - cracking my ribs and cutting my foot open in the moment. I somehow managed to get myself back on to the boat and into his house where I went on to kick a glass of red wine all over his cream carpet… There wasn’t a second date. </span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. You might have thought I would have taken these occasions into account when we rocked up in the Dordogne, where we staying for three nights. It’s our final spot of camping and we’re in a beautiful site surrounded by the valleys and fields that stretch out across the region. The Dordogne River runs through the region (obvs) and peppered along its banks are some of the prettiest villages and towns. Our campsite offers different kayaking missions and being the complete novices that we are, we went for the second trickiest - 13km from the banks of Montignac, past Thonac and St Leon until we arrived back at the site. Before we got in, we were given precisely no instruction whatsoever - I love their utter disregard for health and safety here - but we did sign something in French that basically said, if we die, don’t worry about it, it’s our own fault - vive la France, Joe Le Taxi, let’s all have a jambon baguette and watch Les Mis, etc. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. Again. It wasn’t complete neglect - in addition to a water tight barrel that holds your phones, your wallets, your bits and bobs, they gave us a life jacket and even though it had clearly seen much better days, it fitted, so happy days. After a less than gracious attempt at getting my arse in the kayak, within a few seconds, we were in and off! And it was glorious. It was 11am on a perfect Sunday morning: lovely weather, complete serenity, no work in the morning, no hangover to deal with… There was no one else around for the most part so it felt as though we had the Dordogne to ourselves. We would row and then glide and take in what the river offered us and it was such a treat: clear boastful waters that shone with the rocks and pebbles under the surface; vines dancing to the tune of the current; turquoise dragonflies that would hover over us and then take a moments rest on our arms or our paddles. And then the castles and the communes that drank from the embankment. It was complete bliss.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">AND THEN DISASTER STRUCK.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I blame myself. Only an hour earlier, we had a moment with a rip tide thingy that took control of the kayak, It didn’t matter what we did with the paddles, the current was stronger and after a few effs and jeffs, we righted ourselves and we were all laughter and gas. I reached into the waterproof tub, pulled out my phone and played the theme from Titanic. Oh how we laughed. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was halfway through a LOL when the waters seemed to go really shallow and we hit the bottom. We both tried to dig ourselves out but my ballast wasn’t doing us any favours and so we had to get out and walk the boat over to deeper waters. Within a few minutes, we were both back in and paddling away when another current caught us out. K kept shouting: keep left, keep left, but I don’t know my arse from my elbow at the best of times and next thing you know we were travelling at speed, hurtling towards doom when it was like we suddenly on Catchphrase - say what you can see: TREE! VINES! FUCKING TREE! ROCKS! THAT TREE IS LOW! WE’RE GONNA CRASH! THAT BANK IS ROCK! NEAR, FAR, WHEREVER YOU ARE, MY HEART WILL GO ONNNNNN… As the kayak attempted to connect with the rock face, K had to throw himself to one side to stop a tree branch splitting him in two. As he did, I went with him and the next thing you know, we were in the drink. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I grabbed onto the barrel, K grabbed the boat, but whereas he was in still waters by now, I was still grappling with the current. My flip flops and my paddle had gone for a burton - they had no shits to give as they sailed away like fucking Enya. I saw them being carried off but all I could do was hold on to the barrel - it had all our important bits in. The current dragged me about 50 meters down the river and even though it wasn’t that deep, I was at the mercy of the water. It didn’t help that the soles of my feet were suddenly unprotected against the jagged jewels that lined the Dordogne. In the end, I managed to anchor myself, but as I was holding onto to the barrel with our belongings in it, I couldn’t do much else - I couldn’t stand up as the current was too strong and K was stuck holding the boat so at this point, I was trying to work out the French interpretation for ‘fuck you, Celine Dion!’ when a bloke spotted us, saw what was going off and came to our rescue. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was so lovely and all I did was thank him in Spanish. It turns out that the kayaking community are really kind - within twenty minutes, both of my flip flops and my oar had been found and returned to us by fellow kayakers. The only thing that was missing was K’s cap but as we hit our final kilometre, the original French Angel who came to our initial rescue suddenly appeared, having hot-caked it down the river. ‘Iz ziz your kap?’ he said, holding out K’s soggy head wear. We were so overjoyed, we nearly capsized again. Honestly, sometimes, humans are bloody ace. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ANYWAY. Despite the brief flirtation with a watery grave, I’ve had the best day. This area is stunning and to see it from the river was a blessing: the castles hanging over the bank, the eroded rock sides, draped with lazy emerald vines; crystal clear waters that glimmered with treasure; glorious wildlife that made you smile.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yes, we ended up nearly sinking, but come on, that was always going to happen, wasn’t it? Now all we have to do is clean the shite off the clothes…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Celine Dion 0-1 J&K.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-49896511018830079422023-08-12T21:48:00.000+07:002023-08-12T21:48:49.188+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 10: Moving on up! Moving on out! Moving on up! Nothing can stop us, etc - Bergerac<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgcItAidk4vDbMBKzTO8s_v1vBqPFvU0X-X-2CjYbndxDvZk1daOQWy53dL81cxXP-Vme20X7xS5v33scy1q-6_4O8NwIjF3NBig-VTTSY06EamMY-Z99c4Mq-nnRJURI7AfAbTcoC1AxC2fTEswBDdKabH3o_9a6EE0ptpNh1BM885irDnHMDeKmlMHC/s259/Bergerac.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgcItAidk4vDbMBKzTO8s_v1vBqPFvU0X-X-2CjYbndxDvZk1daOQWy53dL81cxXP-Vme20X7xS5v33scy1q-6_4O8NwIjF3NBig-VTTSY06EamMY-Z99c4Mq-nnRJURI7AfAbTcoC1AxC2fTEswBDdKabH3o_9a6EE0ptpNh1BM885irDnHMDeKmlMHC/w400-h300/Bergerac.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">S<span style="font-family: arial;">o there I was, sleeping soundly, when something troubled me at 5:45am in Lourdes: a bladder full of holy, healing water / wine - yay! - when the pitter-patter of unfor</span></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">ecasted rain started to rattle the outer shell of the tent. My initial thoughts were blissful: ordinarily, I love the sound of water but not when it intensifies an existing need to go wazz. Sod it, I thought, as I opened one eye and took in the sight of the DIY wee-wee </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">receptacle</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that I had made out of a 2 litre bottle of water. I’ll hold it a bit longer… I closed my eyes and </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">succumbed</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to the soothing sounds of mountain rain…</span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ed6c4be7-7fff-1ede-aab2-5afd9659346f"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know,</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I thought,</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I’ll do my Mindfulness,</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> which I’m usually crap at doing, despite paying monthly for my daily slice of </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">tranquillity</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">…</span></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I’ll be in the moment</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">… I breathed in and felt the pure oxygen fill my lungs to full capacity. I breathed out, held it for a second and slowly let go, feeling all zen and namast-ey, like. Then suddenly - BOLLOCKS AND SHIT! - the annoying part of my head that refuses to switch off reminded me that our electricity supply was sitting outside of the tent. You know, where it was raining. I rolled off the bed and landed with a plop, before staggering to my feet and galloping out of the tent, tripping on the wires as I went.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disaster averted, I tried to get back to being zen, but in my absence, K had taken up all of the bed and besides, I now definitely needed the loo… </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Long story short: we left later than we intended - again! - but not due to slovenliness - this time it was due to letting the tent dry out before we packed it away. No one should smell of that horrible smell of damp that my old English teacher used to give off. Oh no, babes. There’s nothing worse. Anyway, we got on the road and edged our way north through the rolling vineyards of Saint Emilion before landing in Bergerac where we stopped at a lovely, converted farm house for the night. We headed out into the local village for beer and French style pizza (where they don’t cook the ham - they just lump it on afterwards. That’s not to say it wasn’t delicious because it was, but it was funny nevertheless.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a restful night, we woke up and had a lovely breakfast in garden before going for a wander around Bergerac, where we found a barber and had a little trim thanks to the help of Google translate. I was a bit weary, as Google translate doesn’t always do what you want it to. As he whipped his cape around my neck, I was slightly concerned that ‘High skin fade and a bit of a trim on top’ might be translated as ‘Give me the look of a third-world borstal escapee circa 1974. You bastard.’ Fortunately, he got the brief and we left Bergerac looking considerably fresher as we drove on to our next destination: the deepest Dorgdogne. </span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4642004465465397516.post-49918456821235480362023-08-10T03:37:00.000+07:002023-08-10T03:37:49.438+07:00Euro Road Trip 2023 Part 9: (Evil) Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves - Lourdes<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60iaMgNbeVobWebNTulkOFXUjXHmxFjJJ2HxGreBoz8tZh_ZcDeojRzI43D3ZHxboVxAtLdDUNqSeWxsPURCOuwTaINRhVTpzrtob0ZlgSw6EsipQ_3oVmHaxOMS9ZNw4gjKd7Df5pbgwzyrghBimRSriwakKMy7G1hXM35s5dM-7tD9KEpSALoX4YTV4/s275/Lourdes2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60iaMgNbeVobWebNTulkOFXUjXHmxFjJJ2HxGreBoz8tZh_ZcDeojRzI43D3ZHxboVxAtLdDUNqSeWxsPURCOuwTaINRhVTpzrtob0ZlgSw6EsipQ_3oVmHaxOMS9ZNw4gjKd7Df5pbgwzyrghBimRSriwakKMy7G1hXM35s5dM-7tD9KEpSALoX4YTV4/w400-h266/Lourdes2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>There’s something sinister about nuns, isn’t there? Have you seen <i>The Magdalene Sisters</i>? If you haven’t and you’re all like, ‘Whoopi Goldberg and her mates were groovy in <i>Sister Act!</i>’ then I implore you to watch the true story of T<i>he Magdalene Sisters</i>. Or <i>Philomena</i>. Both are amazing films based on true stories where nuns are baddies and yes thanks, I’m going to judge ALL nuns on the basis of cinema. It might be a bit small minded of me, seeing as though I have existed for 46 years (<i> </i>) in a largely nun free environment, but when my path has crossed with a nun, it’s never ended well. I got hissed at in Rome for no good reason. I got elbowed by one in Bucharest - again for no reason. Perhaps I expect too much of the clergy, but if you believe in God that much that you’re going to dedicate your life to the Church, then shouldn’t you be, you know, fucking lovely? And if not, then, you know, hellfire awaits, no? Doesn’t it say in the book itself: Be nice and <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">don’t be a massive Tory twat?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Yes, I’m paraphrasing, but you know what I mean. </span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4117c022-7fff-f281-bb28-53e2bd97505d"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, we crossed paths with a sisterhood of nuns (yes, I did just look up ‘collective noun for nuns’ via the Google) and guess what? One of them really pissed me off. In Lourdes, darling! The holiest of places. I’m going to call her Sister Pisstake, because, well, if the habit fits, then sour-faced Sister Pisstake shall wear it. Just because she was wearing a habit, she thought it was okay to jump the queue. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone was sitting patiently, waiting to be let into the healing waters bit - it was all a bit strange. There was a huge sit-down queue (presumably because lots of people have mobility issues) but because they were getting through people quite quickly, as soon as you sat down, you were up again or bum shuffling across depending on your preference. Three rows in front of us sat a load of nuns: <i>Sister Mister</i> (looked like a man), <i>Sister Blister</i> (terrible acne, poor bitch), <i>Sister Fister</i> (looked like a boxer, you pervert) and <i>Sister Kissed-Her</i> (kept kissing things, the pervert). Anyway, they were all sitting there nicely, like the rest of us, taking their turn. Very Godly, etc. Sister Pisstake had clearly gone rogue as she came swanning in on her own and sat away from the rest of them. She was on the row behind me, I know this because I’d spotted her when she came in. Sour faced. Pure evil. As you can imagine, the crowds of pilgrims are long and lengthy and it takes a while to traverse the queue. Obviously too long for Sister Pisstake, who, seeing the rest of her harem get to the front, decide that she was too good to wait and suddenly made out that they were her best mates, saving her place. I wanted to say something, but Sister Fister was a bit scary. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Uft…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, cheating nuns aside, it’s been a great day. Yet again, our plan to be up and out by 8am proved to be laughable as we finally schelped into Lourdes at just gone 10am. It was a ten minute walk to the grotto over questionable terrain but once inside the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Petit Couvent,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> a sense of peace came over me. It was quite beautiful watching groups of pilgrims come together for something so meaningful and significant for them. There were several times that I felt quite moved. Firstly when I lit a big candle for my parents and secondly when K and I were served the healing waters. We went in together and were presented with a lovely woman who invited us to pray or ruminate and then gave us water three times: once to wash our hands; once to wash our face and once to drink. I can’t quite describe it, but it felt special and even now as write this, I’m feeling a little welly-uppy-eyed. No, you’re crying, etc. </span></p><br /></span>Johnny Red Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06703720174670108084noreply@blogger.com0