My staycation to India.

Today you are surprised to see me immersing myself in Indian ways, cultures and traditions.
But I know what you're thinking. A staycation? To India? Eh?

Andy you've either a hipster doofus, a shitter or a knobhead.
Ha ha ha ha. Actually I simply went to the Diwali celebrations in Trafalgar Square in London, Paris.


There were bands of children who did traditional screeching into the microphone. This was followed by some more children doing some caterwauling.


I wandered round taking a few shots while I looked for the beer tent. Well reader, I was wandering for a bloody long time. Why? There was no arseing beer tent.

I ask you. What kind of celebration doesn't involve a few relaxing straighteners?
I'll tell you.

Diwali.

No wonder these two below look a bit glum.

Hey, we all feel a bit feel a bit like this sometimes, even on Diwali but I'm sure it's nothing a couple of pints of refreshing lager or a Blue Wkd wouldn't sort out.

Take note Diwali organisers.


Below:
The Rawalpindi Shriekers peform their traditional bellowing.

I've fixed my bike.

There was a problem with the brakes. The tension in the cable wasn't quite right. It was about 2.73 pounds per sq inch out. What it needed was some fine adjustment with a micro-calibrated torque wrench to get it just right. Unfortunately I didn't have one so I had to improvise.

All fixed.

My noo camera

One bloke taking a picture of Great Paul's Cathedral and another bloke taking a picture of a lift shaft. I shit you not.

My teddy from when I was a little boy. He looked after me then, so I'm looking after him now.

Great Paul's Cathedral reflected in that temple to mammon. That's right, the shopping centre. A comment on today's secular, consumer society? No. I was just pissing about.

Great Paul's Cathedral. Nice dome.

Today you unearth me lurking in the streets of old London town. Lurk, lurk. Like that.

But don't worry I haven't gone temporarily insane, terminally cretinous or, you know, turned into a big fucking idiot. No. I'm trying out my new camera. I had a terriffic hangover though so I didn't stay out long.

I'd been out to a leaving do the previous night you see. If the truth be known I felt pretty good when I got up but went rapidly downhill until I started to feel really ill. I had to go home before I sicked up on a tourist. I lay on the sofa but in the end I had to take myself to bed. Now, I know you will probably pooh pooh this theory but I didn't drink anymore than I normally do and I'd lined my stomach before I went out, so I'm putting this one down to a dodgy pint.

There is simply no other explanation for it. None. NONE!

I was drinking Heineken (known as Heinequeen for it's gay amount of alcohol) for heaven's sake. Fosters, is my usual quaffing beer of choice due to it's almost complete lack of alcohol. Indeed I sometimes think it is nothing more than light brown, fizzy, horse piss. It certainly tastes like that. And that is why it is known to all as "Foster's. The weakest of all lagers."

I rode home from the pub on my bicycle. I have resolved to fix the brakes. At the moment the application of either front or back brake has absolutely no effect on my velocity. They merely content themselves with making a reassuring, though misleading, braking noise.

I'm Underriver

Not , my friends, what you'd be saying if you'd just carelessly driven your bicycle off of a bridge. No.
In reality Underriver is a small village in Kent. A misnomer if ever I read one because most of it seemed to be located 20,000 ft above sea level. How do I know this? Because I bloody walked to it. From sea level. Yes. I bloody did.

Today you discover me taking a 6 1/2 mile stroll round Underriver. In the rain. With Denise and a terrifically over excited Mungo.






The scores was thus.

Actual distance covered, taking into account some wandering off the path:


Andy: 6 1/2 miles.
Denise: 6 1/2 miles.
Mungo: 27 miles.



Amount of rain absorbed by clothing and hair:


Andy: 2.6 litres.
Denise: 2 litres
Mungo: 12 gallons (per hairy ear)



Rabbits caught:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 0



Pheasants chased at Mach 2:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 3



No. of times bony head bounced off fencing at Mach 2:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 2



Poos :


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 3



No. of rabbit holes thoroughly examined:


Andy: 1
Denise: 0
Mungo: 1,777,324



Words spoken:


Andy: 204.3 (interrupted)
Denise: 3,000,766
Mungo: 0






Expletives deployed (especially the f word):
Andy: 204.3
Denise: 12
Mungo: 0

Bloomsbury Art Festival

This weekend you bump into me at The Bloomsbury Art Festival. Not all weekend you understand, I just went on Sunday and had a wander round. A person can only appreciate so much art before it just starts to get annoying.

Especially when it takes the form of a load of paper birds hanging from a tree that people write their names on. Eh? I don't get it. But then I don't get wheelie cases so...you know...maybe I just don't get stuff.

Much better was this tree in Bunswick Square with armchairs, sofas, chairs and the like hanging from the branches. Very popular as you can see from the wonderous picture.

But the best thing was a tour of the old graveyard behind Mecklenburgh Square now called St. George's Gardens. Oliver Cromwell's grand daughter is buried there and the first ever body snatch recorded, was from a grave here in 1777. There's also a brilliant gravestone with a skull and crossbones carved in it. I want one like that when I'm dead. I'll try and get a picture of it with my new camera.

What's that you say? Have I got a new camera? Why, yes I have. None of thes pics are from it but the next lot should be.

He also told us that when Oliver Cromwell died he was buried in a lead coffin in Westminster Abbey. Three years later the Roundheads (snigger) were ousted by The Royalists and a King was put back on the throne. They had Cromwell's body dug up, they put it in the cellar of The Old Red Lion pub on High Holborn before taking it away and cutting its head off. Ha ha ha ha ha. Those crazy Royalists. Royal idiots I call 'em.

Anyway, I'm often to be found drinking in The Old Red Lion with my mate Denise and sometimes Yu.

I thought the beer tasted a bit funny.

Nero's (cont.)

Last week I saw celebrity bellend, Peter Andre in my favourite Nero's up on Theobaldy Road.
What do you think of them apples?

Time travel

Today you find me in the vibrant commuter town of Tonbridge in Kent. Home to a magnificent Norman castle, no decent pubs, my alma mater, quite a lot of fat people and my youth. You see, I have travelled to see dear old Ma Brittain who still lives in the house I grew up in.

She has two projects on the go at the moment. And taking into account that she is 75 years old and , though spritely, unarguably a "little old lady," much of the physical labour falls to me and my brother. My mother is in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision and worrying.

The first project is to bring order to the garden. Over the last 10 years the garden has been allowed to grow "as nature intended." ie uncontrollably, very quickly, fucking untidily and without a thought as to what colours go with what...errmmm....other colours. Or as my mother puts it, "It's a got a bit out of hand."

An understatement of the highest order. A whole new ecosystem has developed and several new species have evolved, the most interesting of which is a tree whose branches have dug their way into next door's garage. It has seemingly evolved a way to photosynthesise using car fumes, old paint tins, blunt saws, mouse droppings and jars of screws.

I killed it.

That'll teach it which way's up. The project has, through repition, gained the name Project Look At That Garden, It's Gone Fucking Batshit. Not pithy, I grant you, but accurate.

The second project is emptying the attic of 44 years of accumulated stuff. This project is entitled Project Loft-be-Clear. It just is.

This project is proving easier than the garden one because 75% of the shit up there belongs to my brother and his wife's. So it's a simple matter of moving a load of stuff he's forgotten he even had, from my mother's attic to his attic, where he can forget he even has it from the comfort of his own house. Easy.

This time Mum was in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision, worrying and gazing silently at pictures of herself when she was a little girl.



I found these old model aeroplanes up there. They fell into two groups.
Group 1 was old broken ones that I had fully assembled in my childhood.
Group 2 were those sad ones who's assembly exactly coincided with my transition from innocent child to awkward, hormonal, angst ridden, priapic, wanker, who was too cool (too solipsistic more like) to build model aeroplanes. They remain partially assembled.

I also found loads of old stuff of my father's which was very interesting and realised that by travelling to Tonbridge I had actually travelled in time as well.

A new world

Today I travelled to a new world. Well for me anyway. The world of tattoos. Went to Exmouth Market and had one stabbed onto my back.

Lots of people have asked me what having a tattoo feels like. Well the process involves having a needle stabbed repeatedly into your skin by an Australian man named Miles, so if you can imagine having a needle stabbed repeatedly into your skin then that's what it's like.

When I die I shall insist that that section of skin is removed and made into a lampshade. Then I shall bequeth it to one of my stupid friends. In doing so I will , literally, light up their lives as I undoubtedly did when I was alive. Undoubtedly.

The countryside and its ways

Earlier on in October I went for a lovely long walk around the picturesque Kent village of Shipbourne with my friend Denise and her daft dog called Mungo. Though his name is Mungo, I like to call him Munjip. But when I do, naturally, he has no idea what the hell I'm banging on about.

It was October but really hot. I didn't ask why, I just kept quiet about it. Denise and I, however, used the heat as an excuse to sit in pub gardens having pints of refreshing beer.

I think you'll agree with me, that it doesn't get better than that.

I had a packet of Twiglets at the pub (The Kentish Rifleman) which are food. Food is Munjip's literally favourite thing (apart from somehow getting his front hand in the pocket of my cricket flannels) so he used the technique of staring at the Twiglets until I gave him a couple. I explained to him that they are just Oak or Beech sticks with Marmite spread on them but he didn't give two shits about the details and ate them anyway. I'm not surprised though. I have seen him eat some pretty weird stuff.

These are things I have seen Munjip eat,

1) A cricket ball - It was an old Victorain one lost sometime in 1887 made by the esteemed cricket ball manufacturers Duke & Son. Delicious.

2) A bread roll - It was lost sometime in 1978 and was solid as a lump of coal - Delicious.

3) Air - Delicious.

4) The ground - Delicious.

5) All fifteen discarded cherries from one of my famous Cherry Bakewell binges. Bloody delicious.

He also chased squirrels and pigeons and a group of about 11 crows just standing around. The squirrels and pigeons fled at his subtle approach (crashing through undergrowth, ears a'flappin') but the crows didn't move a beak and gave him the jimmy eye. He ran away but pretended he didn't really want to chase them anyway.

Yeah right, my hairy, friend.

I believe you.

Nero's

Pretty much every day I go to Nero's and have a coffee while I read the newspaper. Many people think this is boring. Know what I say to those people?

"Ahhh shut your cakehole."

Yes I do.

Anyway this is what my chin, conk and lower body (or mid section) looks like when I am doing this very thing.

I also popped into the Post Office Museum round the back of Europe's largest Post Office on Mount Pleasant. To go round it took precisely 8 minutes. I know this because I had to sign in

(12: 50) and out again (you've guessed it - 12:58). The signing in ceremony (what with not knowing the date and having to ask the man and then not knowing the time and having to ask the man) took almost as long as my stroll round the exhibits.

I didn't even take a picture it was so lacklustre. It literally lacked lusture. Museumwise I mean. The cabinets were quite lusterous.

14th October 2010

Went to the Tate Modern.

When people walk round there, they adopt a sort of respectful amble. It's really annoying. Amble, amble, amble. Like that. "Get a fucking move on you idiots! I've seen continents move faster than that! It's just a bit of old driftwood poking out of a bucket ya morons. Anyone could do it!"

There was an exhibition called "Money 4 Old Rope" where artists had slung bits of old crap together and sold it for millions of pounds. There were works called "Are you having a laugh?" (a bit of old red carpet hanging from the ceiling) "You've been done like a kipper" (literally some rubbish on the floor) and "Air Conditioning Vent" (an air conditioning vent that I spent 10 mins admiring until the attendent told me it really was just an air conditioning vent) Imagine how cross I was. Yes. That cross.

Anyway I went to see what was in the Turbine Hall. It was a sort of mad installation by artist Ai "Show me the" Wei Wei. Millions of what look like Sunflower seeds. I was a bit peckish so I nibbled on one. It took ages to get into the bugger and it was a bit crunchy. Picture my surprise when I found that they are actually made from china and they weren't real. They were all hand painted by people in China.

Then I went to see Restrepo at poncy art house cinema The Renoir in Brunswick Square.

Altogether quite a poncy day but one in which I think I broadened my mind. Oh and I stole five of the Chinese china sunflower seeds. I think everyone was also nicking them, so the exhibition will be all gone by next Wednesday I confidently predict.

15th October - Emergency Update.

The Tate Modern has banned people from walking on the seeds. Apparantly something to do with the ceramic dust residue floating about in the air like a sort of mad porcelain alveoli shredding death dust for lungs or something.

You are only now allowed to look at it from the balcony. Which, as you can see from my picture at the top, looks no more arty than a big grey carpet. Crapet more like.

But the good thing is no one will be able to nick the little seeds. Making my five worth about £8800 each. There or thereabouts.

13th Oct 2010

Went for a coffee and read the paper at Nero's. I really love this. Sitting there for an hour reading the paper and seeing everyone else at work. It gives me a great sense of wellbeing.

Then I came home, had a nice relaxing poo, donned my frictionless running shorts (high cut) and trainers and went for a run down the Regent's Canal to Victoria Park. And then back again. It's 6 bally miles and I didn't fall in once! Which is a stroke of luck. When I do this run in summer my face reaches a temperature of 3000 degrees Kelvin. I did this run last Monday and when I gasped past a sort of sixth form college in Islington (or Islingbastard as I call it) one of the stupid youngsters standing outside being all cool, ran next to me, making boob bouncing gestures. I dearly wanted to knock his stupid block off but you can't do that. Oooh it makes me cross. Wanker.

I saw this on the way home so I took a picture of it. Two CCTV cameras keeping an eye on each other. Mutually guarding themselves from being stolen. I think there's a lesson for us all here. Friends should look after...no...Friends should look at...no that's not right either....errrmm...True friends are eternally...eternally...errrmm....ahh bugger it, maybe there's no lesson after all.