Sad to relate, but I was shortchanged about 30 minutes ago by the chap behind the bar. I bought a 1.90 euro small glass of beer and tendered a 20 euro note. My change amounted to 13.10 euro. Hmm. Walking back to my table I realised as much, but being an embarrassable Brit, I didn´t want to count my change there and then, so I marched off to the loo where there I counted it. I know I was shortchanged because I also had 2.50 euro in my pocket, but didn´t pay for my beer with that because I wanted to keep the small change to be able to access the internet to write this blog and keep you my readers (only bloody two of them so far, but fingers crossed) informed of the minutae of my sojourn here in Ibiza.
And what does recounting all that mean? Are Spanish barmen thieving scum who wouldn´t know goodwill and honesty if it bit them on the bum? I´ll have none of that. My tale and the time and good money I have spent posting it here on this blog mean just one thing: it´s still fuckin raining.
On a lighter note, my evening is planned. It is now 17.27 (5.25pm in old money) and at six I shall go upstairs, having finished one last small beer, have a shower, come downstairs again, have supper (no wine this time as I shall be drinking beer later on) then amble down to Cala Llonga town to a bar with Sky to watch Manchester United beat the living shit out of Wolverhampton Wanderers. And if, of course, I meet those two women and if, of course, the blonde one invites me back to her place for a minute or two of unbridled sexual passion, so much the better.
All of which should alert the astute peruser of this blog (Mail readers Steve and Doreen Smugg of Wincanton, Somerset) that when next I look out of the window at the local landscape, I shall establish beyond any doubt that it is still fucking raining.
God bless you both (the religous sentiment courtesy of two and a half pints if Ibiza´s finest lager. I´m not a big drinker, though in all matters bullshit I can match the best).
PS Barry, if you like history and reading, which I rather think you might, do get yourself a copy of Zinn´s A People´s History Of The United States. It is very well, written, very well sourced, very well argued and is, I should think, not particularly popular among American capitalists who will undoubtedly wrote it off as working-class, Jewish polemic. If so, have none of it. It is very, very good.
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Feeling a tad guilty
The sun has made its first appearance today, and I have spent the past hour chilling out on a sunbed next to the sea doing fuck all. And my more relaxed state got me thinking about my possibly uncharitable description of me fellow hotel guests. So, might I point out that in a previous entry of wrote - and consciously wrote - 'scrum' not 'scum'. The 'r' is all-important here, and means that I can look forward to merely being regarded in some quarters as a prat rather than burning in socialist hell.
I have resolved to smoke another cigar. Yes, I know I shoulnd´t and that a blocked nose and furry mouth will result, not to say what damage I might be doing to my heart (although Barry insists that nicotine is said to prevent heart attacks and claims, rather more dubiously that the health service is sponsored by Philip Morris) but, damn it, why not?
NB Almost all the others here, apart from being retired folk, seem to be from the North. Why? I should add that I am better inclined to Northern folk because they have a sense of humour, unlike the idiots in the 'Home Counties'.
I have resolved to smoke another cigar. Yes, I know I shoulnd´t and that a blocked nose and furry mouth will result, not to say what damage I might be doing to my heart (although Barry insists that nicotine is said to prevent heart attacks and claims, rather more dubiously that the health service is sponsored by Philip Morris) but, damn it, why not?
NB Almost all the others here, apart from being retired folk, seem to be from the North. Why? I should add that I am better inclined to Northern folk because they have a sense of humour, unlike the idiots in the 'Home Counties'.
. . . remorselessly cheerful
Must be getting old. Although I DO like optimism and find pessimist piss me off, I also get a little irritated by remorseless British cheerfulness. Got them through the Blitz? Well, all I can say is more's the pity. Don't get me wrong, please, and don´t think me snobbish. I don´t look down on anyone for any reason except their appalling behaviour towards other (and I wish more Brits would follow suit on that score). What´s so bad about condemning vandalism, a baffling, but widespread British practice? But one of our freedoms is to choose what company we keep. That is surely not snobbish?
Message to Kate
Kate, less hope of a shag than you might think, and I must admit I am rather whistling in the wind. It was raining yesterday so texted, hopefully, suggesting a drink (I was on the ball enough to get a mobile - cell - number) but have had nothing in reply. By the way, can´t seem to find your email address. I was going to email you to congratulate you on your engagement. Could you send it to me, assuming you still have mine?
Who is the guy? I was following the progress of your dates on a new blog you started, but that has since disappeared. Get in touch.
Who is the guy? I was following the progress of your dates on a new blog you started, but that has since disappeared. Get in touch.
Well, they said 'till Thursday'
Wednesday, and a new day starts with an overcast sky, the promise of more rain and that remorseless cheerfulness and resignation which the Brits have sickeningly made their own. All this in the 'Sunshine Capital Of The Universe' as Ibiza rather boastfully calls itself in advertising material circulating in Greenland and all points north. What to do? Well, I could do what I did yesterday and carry on reading the very excellent and revealing (to this reader, at least) PHUS. Or I could catch a bus either to St Eulalia or Evissa (better known to British druggies as Ibiza Town.) Evissa is said to have an old town which is one of the original island forts and is very similar to Dubrovnik. St Eulalia is closer, just about three miles, and I could do with the excercise. I bought an umbrella yesterday, so that should not be a problem.
I word about my fellow guests. It occurred to me yesterday that being among them is rather like vacationing in Asda. That might sound unkind. It is not intended to be. For balance, I should also say that I would also be a little uncomfortable surrounded by Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Independent folk, many of home have unacceptable pretensions. The only papers available here are the Mail, the Express, the Sun, the Star and the Mirror. But to put this hotel in perspective, the food, although of necessity partly geared towards the unadventurous British palate - almost all guests settle for meat and two veg - is otherwise rather good. Last night, as one of many dishes, gravilax and squid were available, neither usually to be found on your average British supper table. There is also a wide selection of local cheeses, cold meat, very nice salads and bread. These are, perhaps, regarded more as hors d'oeuvres but, there is sufficient variety for one to be able to make a good meal of it. The house wines are better than any of the shite served as house wines in Blighty, so eating is better than this scrum is entitled to expect. Not that most of them would know the difference were they served up horse shit and chips.
Calm down, Patrick. Is it the rain? Am I despite my protestations, a little miffed that I might as well be sitting in Fore St., Bodmin? Hmm.
Did a bit of googling yesterday and found that Lipitor, the statin I have been taking, can also be responsible for tiredness and muscle ache. So I have decided to stop taking it. I was on 40mg which is apparently a high dose, 10/20mg being more usual. Why the bloody hell should I still be on 40mg? I am one of those who thinks the Western world is drugged up to the eyeballs, and possibly for no better reason than it spells great profits for the pharma industry. I know that sound like standard paranoia, but I was shocked, while researching Lipitor dosages, to discover that 'standard does for 10 to 17-years-olds . . .' What! Dear soul, a healthy diet is what they need, not to be junked up with pharmaceuticals. Why on earth are we prescribing Lipitor to or young people?
I have also stopped the Ramipril, and will give not taking either a week. If this bloody tiredness disappears, I shall re-introduce the Ramipril, no hard-ons or not, because they lower blood pressure and my plan is, if possible, to stay alive at least until Elsie and Wesley are leading independent lives. Wes is now 10, so that should be for anther 15/16 years and I shall be 76/77 (undoubtedly with reactionary opinions to suit). And speaking of Elsie and Wesley, I miss them like fuck. If only Celie weren´t such a pain, we could all come on holiday together. I know that makes me sound selfish and self-centred, but . . . Wesley starred in part of my dream yesterday. He was the age he is now, and we were in some kind of china shop with loads of expensive big and small porcelain, glass and copper vases and other ornaments. Wes being Wes, he was fooling around and knocked over a three-foot china vase. I caught it, so no damage was done. Then he almost knocked over three copper vases, and in stopping them fall over, I knocked over a glass vase which smashed to smithereens. It was on sale for $87 (no pound sign on this keyboard, though it might well have been in dollars), but I was told I would only have to pay $27. In the event, with VAT, I had to pay $35. Then we went off looking for the car. I had previously sent Wes off to park it, and he couldn´t remember where. So there we were trailing around the streets looking for a car I knew I wouldn´t recognise because I couldn´t remember what it looked like. Wes was cheerful about it all and didn´t seem to care, and but I was getting more and more alarmed because if I tried to get official help with trying to find the car, I would have to admit that I had let my 10-year-old son drive off to park it. Catch 22.
Later, because of all that (and we never actually found the car) I was VERY late for work, about five hourse, and had Wes in two because there was no time to take him home. Being late didn´t help my peace of mind and, bizarrely, our desks (although this was not my usual office) had been reduced to the size of trays. Odd dream.
But I´ll say it again: I miss Elsie and Wesley. I really don´t like being away from them.
Just turned 11am, and I must soon decide whether to walk to St Eulalia or stay here and make further progress with PHUS.
Not much luck with the shagging project. Texted yesterday suggesting we three meet up for a drink, but there has been no reply. Oh, well.
Decision time. I need some fresh air, I have an umbrella, so I think I shall bugger off to St Eulalia.
I word about my fellow guests. It occurred to me yesterday that being among them is rather like vacationing in Asda. That might sound unkind. It is not intended to be. For balance, I should also say that I would also be a little uncomfortable surrounded by Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Independent folk, many of home have unacceptable pretensions. The only papers available here are the Mail, the Express, the Sun, the Star and the Mirror. But to put this hotel in perspective, the food, although of necessity partly geared towards the unadventurous British palate - almost all guests settle for meat and two veg - is otherwise rather good. Last night, as one of many dishes, gravilax and squid were available, neither usually to be found on your average British supper table. There is also a wide selection of local cheeses, cold meat, very nice salads and bread. These are, perhaps, regarded more as hors d'oeuvres but, there is sufficient variety for one to be able to make a good meal of it. The house wines are better than any of the shite served as house wines in Blighty, so eating is better than this scrum is entitled to expect. Not that most of them would know the difference were they served up horse shit and chips.
Calm down, Patrick. Is it the rain? Am I despite my protestations, a little miffed that I might as well be sitting in Fore St., Bodmin? Hmm.
Did a bit of googling yesterday and found that Lipitor, the statin I have been taking, can also be responsible for tiredness and muscle ache. So I have decided to stop taking it. I was on 40mg which is apparently a high dose, 10/20mg being more usual. Why the bloody hell should I still be on 40mg? I am one of those who thinks the Western world is drugged up to the eyeballs, and possibly for no better reason than it spells great profits for the pharma industry. I know that sound like standard paranoia, but I was shocked, while researching Lipitor dosages, to discover that 'standard does for 10 to 17-years-olds . . .' What! Dear soul, a healthy diet is what they need, not to be junked up with pharmaceuticals. Why on earth are we prescribing Lipitor to or young people?
I have also stopped the Ramipril, and will give not taking either a week. If this bloody tiredness disappears, I shall re-introduce the Ramipril, no hard-ons or not, because they lower blood pressure and my plan is, if possible, to stay alive at least until Elsie and Wesley are leading independent lives. Wes is now 10, so that should be for anther 15/16 years and I shall be 76/77 (undoubtedly with reactionary opinions to suit). And speaking of Elsie and Wesley, I miss them like fuck. If only Celie weren´t such a pain, we could all come on holiday together. I know that makes me sound selfish and self-centred, but . . . Wesley starred in part of my dream yesterday. He was the age he is now, and we were in some kind of china shop with loads of expensive big and small porcelain, glass and copper vases and other ornaments. Wes being Wes, he was fooling around and knocked over a three-foot china vase. I caught it, so no damage was done. Then he almost knocked over three copper vases, and in stopping them fall over, I knocked over a glass vase which smashed to smithereens. It was on sale for $87 (no pound sign on this keyboard, though it might well have been in dollars), but I was told I would only have to pay $27. In the event, with VAT, I had to pay $35. Then we went off looking for the car. I had previously sent Wes off to park it, and he couldn´t remember where. So there we were trailing around the streets looking for a car I knew I wouldn´t recognise because I couldn´t remember what it looked like. Wes was cheerful about it all and didn´t seem to care, and but I was getting more and more alarmed because if I tried to get official help with trying to find the car, I would have to admit that I had let my 10-year-old son drive off to park it. Catch 22.
Later, because of all that (and we never actually found the car) I was VERY late for work, about five hourse, and had Wes in two because there was no time to take him home. Being late didn´t help my peace of mind and, bizarrely, our desks (although this was not my usual office) had been reduced to the size of trays. Odd dream.
But I´ll say it again: I miss Elsie and Wesley. I really don´t like being away from them.
Just turned 11am, and I must soon decide whether to walk to St Eulalia or stay here and make further progress with PHUS.
Not much luck with the shagging project. Texted yesterday suggesting we three meet up for a drink, but there has been no reply. Oh, well.
Decision time. I need some fresh air, I have an umbrella, so I think I shall bugger off to St Eulalia.
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