Dear Blog,
Every time I come to a new city I wish you had arms to hold me with, Blog. Seem to get a tad lonely in a new place traveling all by my lonesome. Jim Morrison was right about strange places. I know, we barely know each other and this has been a very one-sided relationship; will I ever find a message from you in my inbox?
Had a dream the other night. Shouldn’t have been scary really, but I sat up and screamed, actually screamed (then hid under the covers, hoped the Russians in my dorm room thought it was the guy in the bunk below me). I was being chased by a pigeon who was bent on pelting me with shit. In the dream that is. Been racking my brain as to what it all meant. The only thing shit-tossing brings to mind is blogging… so here we are.
The last while has been more about visiting with friends than seeing the sights. I have some kick ass quality friends, and it’s a shame that I have to cross the pond to see them. Oh, and they have arms, Blog, to hold me with.
London. The Big Ben fiasco ended well. Met up with my friend eventually. She being from Slovenia and I being from back-scratchin’ Saskatchewan, we hadn’t seen each other since the Garifuna days on the northern coast of Honduras, of course. And why not meet up in London? Makes perfect sense.
Spent time ’round Bricklane, Camdentown. Some funky hang out spots and a few vintage clothing stores. An entire day riding the Underground in search of a piece of Banksy’s work. No luck whatsoever, but the chase led us to some areas I’d have not otherwise seen. An immigrant neighborhood with a busy marketplace. Burkas, socks and sandals, a BBC shoot, shady salesmen, buskers, cilantro, semi-legal sim cards, Indian food. It was great, but even better to catch up with Tjasa (the Slovenian Bohemian).
Thame. Left London to visit the family Mackenzie. Made me miss Ellis (the ten pound nephew). Incidentally, watching the potty-training process is quite entertaining, particularly when the little guy looks spot on like his father and speaks in a British accent. ‘Daaaady, I’ve poop in my pants….’ Other memorable smells include beer puke on the back of the bus to Oxford. Not from our troath’s, mind you.
Felt like home, and it was quite nice to spend time with three generations of a family that made me feel like one of the clan. Families, I read not long ago, are like brownies. Mostly sweet with a few nuts. To the kids I must have been the nut; ‘Mummy, where is the silly man?’ All in all it was nice to see the parents Mackenzie who, fortunately, have not changed one jot since the messy didgeridoo-days on Waskesiu beach.
Bournemouth. Hit up the south shores of England to see an old classmate who has been living in these parts for about seven years. To be frank, I wasn’t too sure as to what to expect from it all. Our days studying all things Audio/Visual were nearly ten years back, and we weren’t exactly thick as thieves back then. Dear God Blog, I haven’t laughed so much in ages as I did those few days in Bournemouth. It was grand, as they say, and I needn’t have worried.
Went on a couple driving tours of the area. Corfe Castle, I’ve concluded, must have been named after the noise pneumonia makes when it’s mad. Destroyed by Henry VIII after too much Jesus Juice, I’m told. Highcliff area, where we saw some surfers and the product of inbreeding (which is not in any way exclusive to Highcliff). Great conversations and tasty wine, a bit of Spinal Tap and even a two-person dance party. Eighties Brit-pop is severely underrated, really gets the illiac wings going. It was tough leaving but had I stayed I may have developed some serious smile wrinkles.
Glasgow. Back to the lonely hostel life and frown wrinkles. Glasgow is home to Saskatoon’s most popular barman, Grant Martin. I have to be honest, the city didn’t really do it for me. Didn’t give it a real chance though, the bird dream had me dodging pidgeons the entire time. Went to King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut for some live music (this is the primo joint to go to for such things I’ve been told.) The warmup acts were brilliant, but the headliner was about as pleasant as scab salad. Also, you should be aware that putting 400 Scots in one room smells a lot like B.O. and rank vagina. I digress. King Tut’s is where Oasis first got signed to a record contract. I found this particularly humourus as I’d just read an informative article called ‘How to Punch Oasis in the Face.’ You’ve come a long way, Oasis.
So I now find myself in Edinburgh, and I like it (sorry Grant). Thank God I’ve finished this damn blog, Blog. I can now go out and do things without fretting over cramming it all into one letter. I’ve already edited out the Kazakhstanis and the gymnasts. Another time perhaps.
Keep it real, Blog,
theroyalwee
Dear Blog,
Money can’t buy you love, but if you drop 30 quid on an umbrella in London it will stop raining instantly.
Was meant to meet up with an old friend today. Our wires got crossed and it never panned out. On the positive side it gave me the chance to spend a few hours pacing a small stretch of street whilst waiting for her to not show up. This is now my part of London (simply because it’s the one place I’ve spent the most time at thus far in the Big Smoke.) I was the only person not moving somewhere and it seemed I began to elicit some sideways glances from walkers-by and coppers.
I must have looked quite a fool, pacing impatiently and looking at my watch every two minutes as if to say- “I’m loitering for a reason. I’m waiting for someone. I’m one of you. Look at me… I’m checking my watch… again!” After about one and a half hours, which would be the forty fifth glance down at the wrist watch, the irony set in. I’m standing underneath Big Ben, possibly the worlds most famous clock, yet had not once thought to look up for the time (and possibly blend in with the crowds?)
But hey, at least it wasn’t raining right Blog?
theroyalwee
Dear Ellis, my ten-pound nephew,
A few gems for you in case you find yourself across the pond:
1) Don’t start smoking. This applies anywhere.
2) Try the black pudding.
3) DO NOT ask what it is made of.
4) Never trust a redhead. Most of them do not have souls. You will not learn this in school and people will tell you it is not true. You may even find yourself in a discussion regarding the essence of the soul and whether a soul in fact exists or not. Disregard this. Redheads are to be avoided at all costs.
5) In the event that you have disregarded gem #1, do not ever believe it is possible to quit smoking in Europe. You might as well be shaving with a wet noodle.
6) Along with redheads, avoid budget airlines that peddle gambling. Any company whose main objective is to defy gravity ought never be in the odds-making industry. Today a flight attendant wanted me to buy a lottery ticket. Rather than enjoy the English countryside below me I, for the first time, read and re-read the emergency landing instructions. It’s just not right Ellis… dammit.
Your doting Guncle,
theroyalwee
Dear Blog,
Sorry I haven’t written, Blog. Been awash in Irish hospitality. You must understand that I’ve never owned one of you before. I’m not even sure what I’m meant to feed you- of course I assume you eat words and so, well, eat up B-boy. Please tell me Blog, are you covered in hair or feathers? Do you feed your young at the teet? Warm or cold blooded? Do you lay eggs, and if so, perhaps we could swap words for eggs? I’m hungry myself.
So much to say. Been staying with a lovely couple in a village just outside of Dublin. Beautiful area. I’ve been hauled up mountains and in and out of pubs by my new ambassadors here. Needless to say it beats wandering aimlessly by myself. To be honest, I don’t really want to leave. Think me might be Irish. People here have been so incredibly friendly, beyond putting a roof over my head and feeding me there was even talk of finding me a nice local lass. Can’t beat that kind of hospitality now can you?
Piece in the Middle East, Blog,
theroyalwee
Dear Blog,
Feeling better today. Woke up at about 6:30, which means I’m still not quite accustomed to this time zone. I’d never get up that early unless it entailed fishing or a fire under my mattress. Wandered aimlessly about the neighborhood. Tons of pubs, Irish pubs incidentally. Who knew?
My cold morphed into a fever last night so I dipped into my first aid kit and took what I think was aspirin… I bought a French first aid kit apparently. Found a pharmacy this morning and got some more meds. I got this great stuff you put in water and it makes the most delicious orange drug-drink. I want a second dose purely for the taste of it. It’s like KoolAid with crack in it.
Met a couple of nice girls from Ohio who might join me later tonight. Going to check out the comedy festival that’s happening here in Dublin this week. Apparently Chris Rock is here. Blog, Is he Irish? I had no idea.
More news- heard from my Slovenian friend who, coincidentally, is in London town for the rest of the month. Another reason to head that way. Dublin is great, but I’ve no friends here and would really like some friendly company.
Must have been talking in my sleep last night. Woke up with the feeling I’d just spouted off something or other. The Norwegians next to me had a look of fear in their eyes that I, in a bit of a daze, chalked up to nothing more than Norwegian sleeping customs. Maybe, like sharks who sleep with eyes and mouth open, the Norwegians tend to sleep with eyes open and a look of disgust on their faces? This morning I’ve gotten a few strange looks which makes me that that, maybe maybe, my dream about chasing unicorns through the West Edmonton Mall might have been shared with everyone in my dorm room. Oops. Needless to say, given the large amounts of mucus oozing out of my nose, my cough, and my performance last night, it may be a good idea to move on soon.
Take care, Blog,
theroyalwee
Dear Blog,
Landed in Dublin today. Realized my hostel is situated in the heart of touristville. Surrounded by Canadian wankers. Was going to stay up all day to get rid of the jet-lag, but just discovered pints are half the price they were earlier in the summer.
Chorus: Hooray!
Bottle of shampoo exploded in my bag, presumably somewhere over the Atlantic. Couldn’t figure out where the fruity smell was coming from on the 1 hour bus ride into town. Thought maybe these Irish all wore the same fragrance (Irish Spring?). Ooops, just one Canadian wanker apparently.
The Irish men all look similar. Stout-ish, short haired with crow’s beak hairlines, pointy noses and thin lips. Given I have the hair, nose, lips (and a stoutness that seems to be slowly creeping up on me) I’ve decided that I have license to point that out. Handsome devils.
Not used to the hostel life. Changing clothes in front of strange women, language barriers. Punks. Bunkbeds. Strange women…. You know what I mean, Blog.
Later,
theroyalwee
