Archive for September, 2008

Damn, Blast, Bother, Knickers and Spit

September 20th, 2008

I am rightly pissed off.

I have been back for a few days now and I can’t get my head into gear.

I’m very happy to be back in my own bed [the French one was unbelievably soft - I couldn't sleep in the fucking thing] and I can have my doze in my favourite armchair.

Sandy decided this morning to forgive us and has stopped giving us reproachful looks at last.  She even bit my face this morning and laughed after, so I know she is back to her old form.

But I can’t THINK.

I put the brain into neutral when we left here and the fucking thing is stuck there. 

There are things I am supposed to be doing but when I start doing them, I go into a haze after the first minute.

I give up.

I need a holiday.

First night nerves

September 19th, 2008

Our first day in France involved the longest single drive of the holiday.

We had to drive from Roscoff in Brittany down to Poitiers, which as everyone knows, is a French town named after an American actor.

I love driving in France.  The roads are excellent, the signposting is second to none and French drivers on the whole are very courteous and disciplined.

I hadn’t bothered examining maps or memorising routes.  Frankly, I didn’t even know what towns we were supposed to be driving through.  I just told Roger up on our satellite that we wanted to go to Poitiers and left the rest to him.  He was brilliant.  Not only did he give excellent directions, but he even warned us of any speed traps that lay waiting for the unwary.

Herself was quite concerned for Roger.  She pointed out that he never seemed to take a break and always seemed to be cheerful.  She said that she wouldn’t be so damned cheerful if she were stuck up on a satellite and that it must be very lonely for him up there.  I pointed out that there were hundreds of Rogers up there all cheerfully giving directions, and that if anything, it must be quite crowded up there.  She was happy after that and went to sleep and snored through most of the trip.

We arrived in Poitiers without any problems.  I will be honest and say that I probably wouldn’t have found our hotel but for Roger.  He knew exactly where it was and unerringly directed us the wrong way up a one way street and into the hotel car park.

The French are great for hotels that cater for the person on the move.  We find they are very efficient and have great facilities and we get exactly what we pay for – a bed for the night and good food.  This time though, we discovered they had fallen in line with the anti-smoking nazis and had banned all smoking in the rooms and the restaurant.  Fuck that. 

We had an excellent meal that evening and afterwards brought our bottles of wine out to the patio for a smoke.

I lit up, and as is my habit, I produced a huge cloud of smoke.  A strange thing happened – all the smoke rose in the air, formed one compact cloud and immediately was sucked straight in the door of the restaurant.  As a result, we were sitting outside in a smoke-free environment, while all the patrons inside coughed and choked on the cloud.  There wasn’t a thing they could do about it!  They had to close all the doors so they baked in the heat while we relaxed.  Serves ‘em right.  Fucking sanctimonious bastards!

There were four other people out on the patio.  There was a Dutchman and his wife and an Englishman and his wife.  So far, so good.  I would have ignored them but for the fact that the Englishman was the type of bollix that I abhor.  He was a loudmouth, thought he knew everything and also thought that he was hilariously funny.  He had to laugh loudly at everything he said and he had a laugh like an asthmatic donkey.  It was hate at first site as far as I was concerned.

Within a minute or two, we [and the rest of the hotel] learned that he was a salesman [quelle surprise] and that he spent half his life in France and was therefore an expert on every place and every aspect of French culture.  He was also the type that believes firmly that if you shout loud enough at any Frenchman, they’ll understand you.

The Dutchman was doing his best to be polite and listen but it was a losing battle.  He had a glazed look in his eyes that I get when Herself is telling me about her dreams.  The Dutchman’s wife was crying softly into her glass of wine.  The Englishman’s wife was sitting with a contented smile on her face but then she had two empty wine bottles and an empty Valium bottle on the table in front of her.

I can only take so much of a bad thing.

A brief scuffle, and peace descended on the patio. 

The five of us had a grand evening.  The Dutch couple were very pleasant to talk to.  The newly widowed Englishwoman enjoyed her new found freedom and Herself and myself had a great time.

It was a good start to the holiday.

Dense fog, dense people

September 18th, 2008

The journey to France was quite uneventful.

I had a skinfull of pints which is only right and proper because I was on my holidays, and I wasn’t driving.  If the captain wanted my assistance with anything, he was out of luck that night.

There is one aspect of drinking on board a ship that I like.

Normally, when one has indulged in a multitude of pints, there is a difficulty in the Gents, as the alcohol causes one to sway and to miss the urinal.  However, on board a ship. the whole place is swaying anyway so one sway counteracts the other, and I found myself enjoying unerring accuracy even after the tenth pint.  The same effect is noticeable when walking, so those of us who had indulged were the only ones walking a straight line.  The rest were staggering around like drunken idiots.

Around six in the morning, I awoke and felt the need for a pee and a puff on the pipe.

I headed up on deck to find it was still dark.  There was a faint glow in the east and it was very pleasant if a bit chilly.

After a while I realised I wasn’t alone. 

There was a little fella there who wandered up to me.

“Good morning,” he said.

The sun was almost beginning to show, so  I decided not to be pedantic.

“Good morning,” I replied.

There was no mistaking his accent.  He was as English as they come.  This surprised me as why would an Englishman be taking a ferry from Ireland to France, completely bypassing his own country?

He chatted amiably about the fine morning and the calm seas and then asked me where I was going.

I replied that I was heading down to the Dordogne.

He looked a bit puzzled and then looked smug.  “Ah! Landbridge?” he said. “Are you driving down to Portsmouth tonight?”

I know some people take the ferry to the UK, drive south and then take a ferry across the English Channel, but that isn’t for me.  I told him so.

He looked extremely smug.

“You do realise you are on the wrong ferry?” he said.  “We’re heading for Fishguard.  You Irish will be the death of me,” he laughed.

I asked him why, if we were on the Fishguard ferry, we had been at sea for over twelve hours and still hadn’t arrived.

He snorted and said that the fog had slowed us last night.  There had been thick fog, all right but it hadn’t slowed us in the slightest.

He wandered off, chuckling something about the daft Irish.

I hope enjoyed his visit to Brittany.

Over

September 17th, 2008

It is over.

Despite the best efforts of the French and Irish governments, I am back in Head Rambles Manor.

I have run the gauntlet of electronic warfare, sniffer dogs, automatic machine pistols and a man with a vegetable peeler, but resourcefulness [and bribery] won out in the end.

After five days on the run, I am exhausted.  Someone has removed my brains with an ice-cream scoop, mushed them up with a hefty dose of chili powder and re-inserted them up my backside.  At least that must be the diagnosis of my symptoms, as my arse hurts and my head is fried.

On top of that, my feed reader tells me I have over 800 items to be read.  I have no intentions of reading them all, so I have a favour to ask…

I only want to read the interesting items, so if I read your site, could you please write to me and tell me the things you have written that I should read.

Please leave out the dull bits.

Just tell me about the interesting bits.

It would make my life a lot easier in these trying times.

You won't catch me that easily

September 15th, 2008

This is getting out of hand.

I only came over here for a bit of peace and quiet, and because The Big Man Above tipped me the wink that He was sending a flood of biblical proportions.

I don’t ask for much.

Now I have the fucking Brigade de Renseignement et de Guerre Electronique chasing me from town to town across the country. 

I’m currently holed up in the north, but I’m not saying where.  I have faked my address to look like I’m in Paris, but I’m not.

Even worse – they have brought over Ratzinger to hunt me out.  [I got an e-mail yesterday - he wants an audience. Ha!  I'm not falling for that one.]

Now the Irish government have persuaded the EU to close down the airlines in an attempt to stop me getting back.

I know when I’m not wanted.

I can take a hint.

It’s time to head for my mountain retreat.

Next thing you know, they’ll be planting devices in the Channel Tunnel.

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