No internet in my new place yet. I caught a heavy cold just in time to move house for the 15th time in 30 years. I almost enjoyed the extra misery. I am a man for whom the assembly of shelves rarely happens without a stream of blasphemy.
My new neighbours have heard me cursing the figureheads of all the major religions, as well as some of the more obscure ones. I have cursed everyone’s God. My mouth is an equal opportunities employer.
My best temper tantrum came at the end of a short car journey during which I’d been reading a chapter of a book I got at a Buddhist monastery in Vietnam. The chapter was about achieving peace and calm no matter what the circumstances. Two minutes later I had a messy sneezing fit at a critical moment in the removal of a bulky tv from a small car while a thunderstorm broke around me, as a result of which I said some things that would have offended Jimmy Carr.
Moving is rubbish, but the end result is the reward. My new flat is a triumph of modernity, all wooden floors and white walls. Everything is unpacked; I’m home. I have nothing to move, remove from a box, assemble, plug in, tune, straighten, hammer, configure, or dial for the foreseeable future.
I think Larry David has raised comedy to an artform in season seven of Curb Your Enthusiasm. The final episode is a masterpiece. It exists in stark contrast to the utter shit that the BBC commissions, but that’s another story, and in the time-honoured traditions of Asian travel veterans, I’m trying to eliminate negativity from my life. Speaking of which:
Did the media ever get more mileage out of a non-story than they got out of the British sailors detained in Iran? The coverage was ludicrously over the top. The sailors were sent on their merry way a few pounds heavier after a couple of days. What did they think was going to happen?
Of all the possible scenarios discussed ad nauseam by the talking heads, the question I didn’t hear asked was this: What would have been the likely outcome if the situation was reversed; if five Iranian sailors had inadvertently strayed into US waters? Something tells me they wouldn’t have emerged well-fed and smiling a couple of days later.
Eggs in the morning
I’m always getting the song from that Tropicana advert stuck in my head. You know the one? It’s a call-and-response duet, as if improvised. Girl sings ‘How do you like your eggs in the morning?’; Guy sings ‘I like mine with a kiss’.
I kind of wish he sang ‘I like mine with an orange’. That would bring the song to a swift conclusion and make it less likely to inhabit my subconscious for the rest of the day.
(Nothing rhymes with ‘orange’, right? Apart from maybe ‘door-hinge’.)
Me and Guy got started on a new recording session. We’ve put down building blocks for four songs, all of which sound full of life. The session was fuelled by a keg of German beer, although I was tempted by a drink called Scotsmac.
It’s three quid! It’s a blend of wine and whisky. It literally mixes grape and grain. The vintage is irrelevant, its sole purpose is to provide a quick and cheap solution to alcoholics.
Maybe I’ll try it next time… but anyway. There will be some new music on this site in a few weeks. Yippee, right?
Listen to the new Down I Go song, a Christmas treat on Ben’s blog in which I’m happy to have played a small part.
Mr Kleenex and social tourettes
I’m always blurting stuff out that I immediately regret, but I may be showing signs of improvement. One of my quieter, shyer work colleagues was telling me about getting free tissues outside a train station (yes, that is the level of conversation in my office) from a handsome man dressed as Mr Kleenex.
It was obvious my colleague had been sexually aroused by Mr Kleenex. I started to say ‘Well, Mr Kleenex is, in a sense, fuelled by your bodily fluids’, but managed to edit it into something more innocent at the last moment. Progress.