Had I only come for one week, I would have been flying home this morning. But wise beyond my years, there is another week to come. So first off, the weather. Not great, I'm afraid (as if either of you two care, but still). Today is as should be for a holiday in late September in the Med: cloudless sky, bright sun, tho' not too hot, a breeze and a moderate temperature. This is as the weather forecasters predicted. Tomorrow, Saturday, they promise us more of the same, tho' with more cloud. Now for the rub. From Sunday until next Thursday - according to the forecasters - it is thunder, lightening and rain all the way. The next promised bright day is Friday, which is, unfortunately the day I am due to fly back to Blighty. In view of all that, I did consider ending my stay here in glorious non-sunny Ibiza early and spent several minutes looking up easyjet, Ryanair and other flights departing for London (I have to pick up my car from Earls Court). There are, as you would imagine, several, but all cost at least 270 euro which, at the present rate of exchange, is about £269. And that, dear friends is simply not worth it. So I am here for the duration.
Today, however, and I have already told you about the improvement in the weather, has been, so far, quite enjoyable. A Thomson Gold operative called Margaret, does walks in the countryside, and there was one today, which I joined. It was good to get the exercise. We all - about ten of us - including a guy who warned us at the outset that he had bad hips but who completed the trek - set off at 9.35 and arrived back in Cala Llonga at 12.55. We walked, according to Patrick (another Patrick, not me) who had one of those gizmos which measure distance travelled, about five miles there and back. I enjoyed it a great deal. It was rather like being let out of one's cell. Can't quite tell you where we walked to (though here is a piccy) but the exercise was very welcome. On the way back fell into conversation with Jean, a one-time Liverpudlian and Patrick's wife - Jean - who was quite entertaining. We agreed, for example, that liver-lilied southerners do not have a sense of humour. She and her husband live in Basingstoke and are now both retired. He, surprisingly, is 80 on his next birthday. She is in her late 60s (I think). At the end of the walk, we stopped off for a drink in the bar owned and run by Margaret's son, and we three stayed for lunch. (All of us had a cheese and ham toastie, info for those of you - two - who might be interested in such trivialities.) Being the nosy sort and being the type of guy that can, apparently, get others talking: Patrick and Jean have a son, Guy, who is 42 and who two years ago left his wife of 12 years and who he had known for 20 years, for Becky. Becky was in an unhappy marriage, works with Guy and left her husband to set up home with Guy. Becky already had two children and she and Guy are expecting their first child together in November. He is much happier. Now divorced, he and his former wife, Pam, have no children, tho' Pam had a miscarriage a few years ago. She sound like a handful. The couple, Patrick and Jean, Guy's parents were not at all judgmental, but I gather she, an only child, was rather spoilt and personally unsettled. She now works in HR ('human resources' for those unacquainted with the jargon of modern business) and is four years older than Guy. Her father was very old when she was born, and died early in her life. Her mother is rather wealthy and spoilt Pam, the upshot being that Pam paid a great deal of attention to herself and her appearance, but gave rather less attention to her household. Anyhow, Guy, according to Patrick, his father, is now much happier. Jean, who despite everything apparently got on well with Pam, is not quite reconciled to the situation and worries, but also agrees that her son is happier. I pointed out that it is inevitably the children (in this case Becky's) who lose out in such situations, and Jean agreed, but it seems Becky is a good mother. Her ex-husband, tho' I can't say whether or not she had now divorced him, did not quite take his visitation duties as seriously as he might, so, for example, when he wife left him, he had to take in a lodger, and because the second bedroom was taken when he had the children to stay, his young son had to sleep on the sofa. Becky, understandably, took exception to this, and now will not let her children stay with their father. Right? Wrong? You decide.
All that over a pint of lager and a toastie and asking questions.
Having ruled out an early escape back home, because of cost, an early escape back home to spend the remainder of my holiday with my family, I must now plan what to do on the 'rainy days'. I think a little exploring of the island is due. Ibiza Town, Evissa, to the Spanish, is drug heaven to those who come for that kind of thing, but also has an ancient old town which is worth a visit. Then there is Santa Eularia (which is how it should be spelled, not as I have spelled it so far) which is said to be the culinary capital of Ibiza with several very good Spanish restaurants. I shall also go there, tho' the rain will put paid to my plans to walk there (it's only about five kilometres away a good distance to work up an appetite) and I shall go by bus. There is an hourly boat service, but if it is raining, that would seem to be a little pointless.
Note for techies: this is being written in the bar with a lager and my cigars at my side. The idea is to save it in some format on my memory stick which will allow me to cut and past it into an email.
Kate, congratulations. I know you are old enough to make your own wise decisions, so if you have settled on Dr Jim, you obviously have and please accept my very best wishes. Tell me when the wedding is due. I note you have also changed your address. Does that mean you have moved in? Bought a house together? Is your daughter still living in the old house? You might have read that I am reading Howard Zinn's A People's History Of The United States which, it has to be said, is an unashamedly socialist left-wing book, tho' none the worse for that. Mention is made several times of Pensacola where you used to live and where Gina still lives.
Barry, you might already have read my email wishing you a pleasant night out with at the OS AGM, so by the time you read this, you will have been, so I hope you enjoyed yourself. Bombarding you in this blog with my impressions, bilious views and other comments on vacationing in Ibiza with the dregs of Saga, I seem to have forgotten to ask you about your situation. Are you still looking for work or have you reconciled yourself to a life of retirement. Even for someone like me, a little bit Tory, a little bit lefty, it is so easy to preoccupy oneself with one's own life and, if the truth be told, to ignore the circumstance of others, and as I do know a bit about your situation - living in your mother's old flat which your brother wants to have sold, surviving a heart bypass and being ignored by all and sundry employers despite your very respectable professional background, it seems I have given rather too scant attention to your difficulties. Please accept my apologies. I remember, with a little shame your phone call to me when, you not knowing, I had gone to bed very early indeed, and my less than gracious response. Sorry for that, too.
Anyway, that is enough for now. Lager and my last cigar of this packet calls. The cigars, by the way, although being inexpensive, are very nice indeed, and with every drag is dedicated to the two of you.
Ciao.
Christ do I miss Elsie and Wesley.
Friday 25 September 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009
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.
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday 23 September 2009
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.
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