It works. Isn´t technology the bees knees?

Dear soul, the wonders of technolgy. Here I am in the depths of the Balearics, yet given the wondrous achievements of Innocenzo Manzetti, Antonio Meucci, Johann Philipp Reis, Elisha Gray, Alexander Graham Bell, and Thomas Edison, and others too few to mention, and subsequent technological advances in the nature of what I understand is called by younger folk 'the internet', I can upload illustrations from my 'memory stick' and 'post' them here on my 'blog'. So who says all this nonsense is just for nerds. But enough bullshit. The photo below is just one I have on my memory stick, of my son Wesley when he was about two. Below that is one of Wes and his sister Elsie when he was a little older and she was about five. Christ I miss them.

I've done it again. I thought I was getting just ten minutes of internet time, but I seem have bought 30, which is a pain as I hate to waste them and I shall have to blather on here for another 25 till they are all gone or do something else, such as look up crap on Wikipedia I am not in the slightest interested. One thing I can to, however, is post a picture of my esteemed editor, Mr Paul Dacre, which years ago I go out of the picture library so that I have it made into mouse mats (remember those?) to give as joky presents to my boss and deputy boss (well, you got to get ahead somehow. Don´t be so sniffy). Here it is:

No, it's not. For some reason it won´t upload. Perhaps Mr Dacre's reputation has preceded him here to Ibiza.

Still to come: as many photos of tubs of lard as I can get on my memory stick. Thinking about it, I might even be able to upload video. Lord isn´t technology exciting!

On a far more sombre note, Piers Merchant, the Tory MP who cocked up his career by getting involved in a sex scandal, has died of cancer. Just read it on the Mail's website. I knew Piers rather well when I was a reporter on The Journal in Newcastle. He was the chief reporter, and and we used to sit next to each other for about a year. He was a bit of a nutter even then, but we got on and he and his wife were good company. I remember singing (for some reason) Jerusalem outside a nightclub one night with them tho´ I barely know the words. Poor chap. His wife, Helen, was extremely nice and stood by him when he made a fool of himself with some bimbo or other. God bless his soul.

Damn, another 17 minutes to go. What the hell is there to look up and waste all that time so that I am not actually giving money away, which of course I am.
(Another tub of lard - actually, a tubbess of lard - has walked past. I promise you, I shall post some piccies. Am I being cruel? I bloody well hope so. Is this what we fought the war for? No dammit, it isn´t. We fought the war so that every household in the land would have the choice of at least 40 televisions channels.

PS . . .

I was hoping to upload a few photos, but my plan to USB my iBook to this computer and use it as a remote hard drive from which to upload the pics won´t work as the computer is locked and I can't get at them.
Brainwave! Yes, I might be able to. I have a USB memory stick with me. Perhaps this compute will accpet that. So look forward to some really disgusting piccies of Johnny Bull as a tub of lard.
Amen.

PPS Apparently the Spanish of 'hello' is 'ola'. Now, I never knew that before I arrived here, so why should you?

Grrr.... (rant alert)

Make way for an extended rant, and if you have just eaten or are otherwise feeling sensitive, aviod.
I can´t seem to shake of this bloody sleepiness/tiredness/weariness, which I am assuming and hoping is down to those bloody statins and Ramipril. Felt a little livelier yesterday, watched Man Utd v Wolves last night, got in after midnight, slept like a log, had breakfast, and still felt sodding sleepy. It´s not the exhaustion I felt before I had my heart attack, more terminal sleepiness. I just can´t wake up. However, it has only been two days since I stopped taking those fucking tablets, so perhaps I should give it more time.
Overall, feel in a bad mood, grumpy, low, feeling sorry for myself and about as relaxed after seven days of doing less than fuck all 24 hours a day as a test pilot on speed. Thank God, is all I can say, that I have another week to go. I always say that you need the first week to unwind and the second to enjoy, but as I say unwound I don´t seem to be. Maybe if I met someone who knew me, perhaps they might say: 'Goodness, Patrick, you are relaxed. Where are your trousers?'
Oh, I don´t know. Could do with conversation, but I don´t want one of those which consists of wall-to-wall platitudes and banal observations. And that would just be all I had to contribute to the disourse. And I reckon - possible unfairly - that that is about all I might expect. Mind, I haven´t yet come across any yobs yelling 'Oi, Manuel' to attract the waiter, but I have witnessed, only yesterday, a tearful farewell by one women who insisted the Spanish guy behind the bar who had been serving here for the past seven days was 'lovely, really, really, lovely and we'll see you again next year'. Like hell she will, it will be off to Apartamentos Naxos in Crete or somewhere where she will say the same to Stavros and quite possibly even fall in love.
The weather has, however, improved and although it is not exactly heavy sun, it was pleasant and there was a nice breeze. Spent the large part of the day lying on a lounger next to the sea reading, dozing, then dozing and reading, but around half three, I suddenly had a yen for a cake and coffee. Wandered off into the resort and found both, but yet again was horrified at how so many Brits are so obese. This isn´t just me being nasty. These people, many of them, are seriously fat, and to compound it, the guys wander round in just a pair of shorts, tits hanging down to their bellies and bellies hanging over their belts down to their ankles. Ugh! Walking tubs of lard. And everyone these days seems to have a tattoo. I spotted one, actually rather pretty, twentysomething on the beach with a huge, intricate tattoo over her arse i.e. in the small of her back which spelled out 'Robert'. Talk about a hostage to fortune. She´s going to regret that when, inevitably, she goes for a divorce. ('On the grounds of mental cruelty, m'lud. He looks like a tub of lard and expects me to be happy with it.')
In the next seven days, I think I might explore the island little. Asked how much it was to hire a scooter and was told 29 euro, plus it has to be back by 7.30. Well, that´s a little pointless, so I shall make do with busses and see what I can see.
Tonight? Well, I have been sticking to Spanish lager (rather nice) and wine with supper, so I might bugger off, have a shave and a shower and then treat myself to the first gin of this holiday. Trouble is, I tend to overdo the gin and wake up feeling less than bright and breezy as I a few times at the beginning of August when Gerald, Wei Hsui and Ann came over for the blessing at St Breward church. I do like my gin. Goes down a treat.
Have I cheered up these past few minutes letting off steam? Well, it feels like it a bit. Maybe a bit of a rant does you good. Tomorrow some women who has lived on Ibiza for the past 25 years is leading a walk into the hills with the promise of tapas in a village and, I should imagine, a glass of wine. Oh, at least - and for this I thank the Lord - there has been none of that 'traditional dancing lark' for the delectation of Brit tourists but bored young fold in costumes. But there has been some excruciatingly bad cabaret acts. I sat in on five minutes of one and heard the same old tired jokes and a song by some biddy of 55 dressed like a 25-year-old. The guy was her guitarist, tubby and balding. Their publicity shots must have been taken in 1985.
Last night, as I was coming in, I heard a cellist and a violinist murdering a couple of show tunes. Sadly, so far no magician.

FAO Barry: Jewish slang

Hi, got to be fast because I have only three minutes left on this coin. Look up, or you might already know about polari, gay/Jewish slang. Example: NAFF - not available for fucking, supposedly what gays called straights at times. Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick built an act in Round The Horne etc on polari. Also a lot of non-gay slang comes from Manchester merchants. It became very trendy in the Sixties to become pseudo working class and use a lot of that slang.

It must still be raining because . . .

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.