Here comes the sun
Thank Christ the mornings are getting lighter again. For a week or two I was getting up in the dark and going home in the dark, it was like being a fucking miner except without the canary, Davey lamp and as much free nutty slag as you could fit down your trousers.
I don’t know if the bloke who invented central heating got a Nobel prize, but he certainly deserves it, even if he had to share it with the fellow that invented double glazing. The only problem is that in the morning when you part the curtains you can gauge just how cold it’s going to be by the amount of frost visible on the car roof and the number of foxes frozen to the front porch by their own excrement.
Okay, so that last is a little bit of an exaggeration. Indeed, since I tossed my fox-polluted doormat away (ever seen a wheelie bin pursued by hounds, it’s pretty funny) Mr Fox has not visited. Obviously the big attraction was the sensation of bristle on bum, meaning my fox went to Eton or is a LibDem.
No sunshine since December means that my morning carriage is populated by people that could, if they were not occasionally drinking coffee, be mistaken for Morlocks or albino cave dwellers. Even the suspiciously tanned are pale underneath their tan.
That’s how you tell a fake tan from the real thing. A fake tan is perfect, the colour of watered down HP sauce (budget St tropez method). The real thing is interrupted by two bands of white where the legs of the sunglasses sit and more importantly the owner of the tan has an inner smugness that suggests that, ‘fuck it, JoJo’s too stupid to get into Uni anyway and so we decided to spend her tuition on a week at Chamonix’.
This is the time of year when winter sun appeals. It’s also the time of year when you watch more telly. This means you are exposed to travel programmes but also news bulletins that, because there are so many teevee channels these days, pop up all over.
When did we start getting sixty second news bulletins sandwiched between programmes? Some perky presented, all teeth and hair, takes a breath and says ‘lotsofconflictmiddleeastproblemswitheconomylooniesprotestingbrakethroughdrugsnowboardingkittenehere’stheweather’ and then you’re on to a repeat of ‘game for a laugh’.
The problem with the whole news/travel/what the fuck am I watching is that you can be surfing, see somewhere lovely, start thinking ‘I wonder where that is?’ and then see a bloody big tank roll through it or, more likely, some idiot in a vest, a pair of suspect track suit bottoms and an AK47 blowing the crap out of the last chicken for 40 miles.
One thing’s for sure, holidays in conflict zones should be discounted. Always pack your factor 20 and your Kevlar.
It’s glossy brochure time alright. This has the twin effect of making one happy with the thought of foreign travel, the opportunity to sit on a new loo for three days, leaning to argue about the bill in a new language and try the local ‘beer’ - and yet worried at the prospect of being in a hotel room next to foreigners or even worse, Brits.
I don’t know if the bloke who invented central heating got a Nobel prize, but he certainly deserves it, even if he had to share it with the fellow that invented double glazing. The only problem is that in the morning when you part the curtains you can gauge just how cold it’s going to be by the amount of frost visible on the car roof and the number of foxes frozen to the front porch by their own excrement.
Okay, so that last is a little bit of an exaggeration. Indeed, since I tossed my fox-polluted doormat away (ever seen a wheelie bin pursued by hounds, it’s pretty funny) Mr Fox has not visited. Obviously the big attraction was the sensation of bristle on bum, meaning my fox went to Eton or is a LibDem.
No sunshine since December means that my morning carriage is populated by people that could, if they were not occasionally drinking coffee, be mistaken for Morlocks or albino cave dwellers. Even the suspiciously tanned are pale underneath their tan.
That’s how you tell a fake tan from the real thing. A fake tan is perfect, the colour of watered down HP sauce (budget St tropez method). The real thing is interrupted by two bands of white where the legs of the sunglasses sit and more importantly the owner of the tan has an inner smugness that suggests that, ‘fuck it, JoJo’s too stupid to get into Uni anyway and so we decided to spend her tuition on a week at Chamonix’.
This is the time of year when winter sun appeals. It’s also the time of year when you watch more telly. This means you are exposed to travel programmes but also news bulletins that, because there are so many teevee channels these days, pop up all over.
When did we start getting sixty second news bulletins sandwiched between programmes? Some perky presented, all teeth and hair, takes a breath and says ‘lotsofconflictmiddleeastproblemswitheconomylooniesprotestingbrakethroughdrugsnowboardingkittenehere’stheweather’ and then you’re on to a repeat of ‘game for a laugh’.
The problem with the whole news/travel/what the fuck am I watching is that you can be surfing, see somewhere lovely, start thinking ‘I wonder where that is?’ and then see a bloody big tank roll through it or, more likely, some idiot in a vest, a pair of suspect track suit bottoms and an AK47 blowing the crap out of the last chicken for 40 miles.
One thing’s for sure, holidays in conflict zones should be discounted. Always pack your factor 20 and your Kevlar.
It’s glossy brochure time alright. This has the twin effect of making one happy with the thought of foreign travel, the opportunity to sit on a new loo for three days, leaning to argue about the bill in a new language and try the local ‘beer’ - and yet worried at the prospect of being in a hotel room next to foreigners or even worse, Brits.
1 Comments:
Ha! I've never thought of fearing a Brit next door as it's usually the Germans that make me cringe (lucky for me that my ancestors made it to America)...At least the Brits speak my language.
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