La Vista desde el Pueblo

Carefully navigating our way around the deepening puddles, we made our way to a window on the far side of the house, the heavy wooden shutter slightly ajar. My companions, clearly well-versed in local customs, filed in through the muddy portal with me close behind. Stepping carefully down from the windowsill, I found myself in a large room, mostly empty save for a trestle table laden with half-empty bottles, an assortment of speakers, and some beaten-up armchairs. The 'happening' as obviously in its early stages, as there was a mere handful of people, plastic cups in hand, to be seen. After a brief period of repose, I made a beeline for the refreshments. Not having had anything to drink (apart from a nervously sipped can during the ascent), I was meticulous in my inspection of the various beverages on offer. Finally, I settled for what I presumed to be a whisky and coke. 'Let the festivities commence' I thought, as the potent mixture made its presence felt in my stomach.
On further exploration, there turned out to be two main rooms: the first (intended as a 'chill-out' area I imagined), and a larger area next door, resplendent with an industrial heater, floor-to-ceiling speakers, and a DJ booth. The master of ceremonies was himself situated behind what used to be the hotel bar, his 'wheels of steel' lit by a precariously arranged lightbulb (which, due to its position directly in front of his eyes, seemed to be rather more of a hindrance than anything else). The music was pumping - drum and bass (or at least my idea of what drum and bass might be), and there were the usual bunch of misfits gyrating in front (you know, the ones that can 'dance' without having touched a drop, though invariably appearing like they may well have partaken of something decidedly stronger than mere alcohol, or been dropped on their heads as babies, or possibly both). Despite their unprepossessing image, the energy they were emitting was infectious, and soon enough I found myself nodding along to the thumping bass. Within the hour I had progressed to lifting my feet fully off the floor, paired with slow 'kung-fu' style hand movements. I was indeed starting to 'feel it'.
A few shouted half-conversations later, I was overcome by the call of nature, and went in search of a suitable place to answer it. I was informed that the only way in and out was the window, so I duly advanced on its direction. Since we came in there had clearly been a lot of traffic passing through - the floor around the base of the window was covered in muddy footprints. It was great care therefore that I climbed out onto the ledge. The drop down was somewhat higher than I remembered, so, discretion being the better part of valour, I shuffled gracefully along on my arse until I was confident enough to launch myself into the abyss. Landing in a pothole, I staggered to regain my balance. Luckily it was still fairly early on in the evening, so I was still in more or less full command of my faculties. I righted myself and strolled off to find a quiet spot. I had progressed only a few metres when a sudden feeling of primeval dread washed over me. Instinctively, I slowly raised my hands to my face, and, ever so cautiously...sniffed. 
The odour which assailed the delicate membranes of my nose was horribly unmistakeable. It was the stench of all that is foul and pestilent, the smell of childhood days playing football in the local park, it was...dogshit. My previously high spirits plummeted, and I sank into a deep despair. Now, I am no stranger to roughing it, no cotton-wool wrapped prissy fop who faints at the thought of spending a week without showering; but this was something altogether more distressing. I can't fully describe the impotent rage which subsumed me in those dark moments. An hour from home, miles from the nearest tap, hopelessly befouled with canine faeces. I was in hell.
Mustering what was left of my stiff upper lip, I began to gingerly investigate my predicament. Closer inspection confirmed my worst fears - not only had the unspeakable evil left its mark on my hands, but also on the seat of my favourite cords. I racked my brains as to the best course of action. Option one - go back inside, explain my unfortunate situation, and beg to be taken home. This was clearly not viable. As part of a group I could not expect a full retreat purely because some collateral damage had been sustained on my part. Option two...f**k! What is option two? Then, the lightbulb above my bald head flashed on: nature had got me into this (dog's) mess, and, damn it, nature would get me out of it. Scuttling across the car park, I began to search the surrounding area. Like a vision of holy beauty, the dark expanse spread out before me. The mother of all puddles. Taking care not to overbalance, I thrust my hands into the icy depths. Like someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder I scrubbed frantically, first my heads, then the arse of my trousers. I was reminded of those stories where babies get trapped under cars, and their mothers suddenly become bestowed with incredible strength, lifting the vehicle clean off the ground to rescue their imperiled progeny. I now needed to show this kind of super-human fortitude. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Several minutes later I rose tall, took a deep breath (though not too near my hands), and headed once more into the fray.
To my great surprise (and with the help of several stiff drinks), I was soon able to all but forget about the sorry episode. I danced, I spoke, I played bongos (my apologies to the owners of these instruments), I had a good time.
All too soon it was time to head home, the night having been such a memorable one that I was (on several separate occasions) moved to song during the journey. It was with a proud stride that I made my way home through the rain-soaked streets that night. I had looked the devil in the eye, cast my dice and won. Soap and water never tasted so good (in a metaphorical sense of course).  

My creativity, boundless as it is by nature, has forced me to publish some of my previously unreleased prose.

We cannot be lovers (provisionally titled)

We cannot be lovers you and I,

as I am of the Earth and you the Sea.

You swell and shift, your embrace elusive.

I reach out to you, and am broken up,

 in another display of your capricious power.

As swiftly came rejection, you offer a tender caress.

I tremble to your ancient song,

and am no longer cold.

Intoxicated by the whispered promises of your liberty,

I am unchained.

Until by new light your implacable gaze gently forces me back,

to my place of longing.

I was relaxing at home last saturday evening (you know the type of thing: a well-stocked cheeseboard, an couple of ounces of quince and a full-bodied red), anticipating a quiet night of sedentary gastronomic excess to recover from last night's festivities, when I receive a message informing me of much the same type of activities being in progress at a friend's flat and would I like to join them. Well, not wanting to seem like the anti-social type, I duly quaffed my claret, picked up my coat (see "My magic new coat" for details), and headed out into the cool, lamp-lit Catalan night.
It had been a while since I had seen these particular friends, so, ever the dandy I vested myself in some of my favourite attire of the moment: that is to say, I put on the same t-shirt and cords that I've been wearing solidly since I bought them 3 months ago. To top off this extravagant outfit, I solemnly took down my fine new coat (see "For f**ks sake, I'm not going to click on this just to find out about a new coat you've bought" for details) and, stopping momentarily to admire my reflection in the french windows of my kitchen, set off into the warm, shadow-filled Spanish evening.
I was singing a little ditty to myself as I wended my way through the narrow passageways of the old part of town, at ease with the world and looking forward to nothing more than some good conversation (or at least someone to direct it at), and perhaps a hand of cards or two. Imagine my surprise when, having barely crossed the threshold, I'm informed that we (the assembled quartet) are not to be partaking of the refined pleasures I had envisioned, but that rather we are going to...a rave!
Now, having recovered from the initial shock of this unforeseen proclamation, I cast my mind back to the first (and only) rave I had ever had the misfortune to attend. It took place in a field somewhere outside Cambridge, approximately two and a half years ago. I had been lured to this location with promises of xanadu-like decadence, exhibitionism and general debauchery of the most torrid variety. Gripped by the conviction with which I was relayed all this, I took little persuading in getting into a "Panther" cab and weighing anchor out into the hot, shrouded Cambridge twilight. Now, a lesser man might have been disheartened to discover, some thirty minutes (and £15) later, that the location of this bacchanalian orgy was, shall we say, not quite as straight-forward to find as some of the party had previously believed. Strangely enough, none of the revelers which we encountered on our search (when all pretence as to knowing the way had been given up, and we had had to resort to the ignominy of stopping to ask every passer-by) seemed to have the faintest idea what we were talking about. Eventually, we seemed to be on the right track; our tenuous trail of clues leading to a small, damp field about 5 miles outside the city. Taking a leap of faith, we abandoned the relative comfort of the taxi to make our way into the searingly hot, pitch-black South-Eastern witching hour. Several minutes, and a few bramble / nettle-related altercations later we emerged, triumphant, ready to rave like several young adults had never raved before. At first, my companion's remark of, "There aren't many people here - it must just be getting started" sounded so full of hope. This was a hope which was swiftly bludgeoned to death by the rounders bat of cruel reality. What we had found was, in actual fact, 23 people between the ages of 14 and 17 who had somehow got hold of a generator, a microphone, and the record collection of a mentally-handicapped infant. I was later informed that the incoherent shrieks emanating from the speakers were, in fact somebody's attempts at "Freestyling", and not the aforementioned 'special' child's attempts to regain their stolen vinyl. Bearing in mind that the highpoint of the evening was the 5 mile walk back (in persistent drizzle) to Cambridge, I feel it would be fair to say that the whole experience was indeed, 'Unforgettable', for all the wrong reasons.
Despite then, the warning bells sounding in my head, I was determined to make the best of what the evening had to offer. So, once again I set out into the frankly by now inconceivably brutal heat of the impenetrable inky-blackness of the autonomous region of North-Western Spain now so late that it was technically the next morning.
After what seemed like hours of torturous progress through the rain, we began to climb up, well, right up the side of a sh***ing mountain. The howls of protest from the peugeot's engine became mixed with my own, as we flirted with certain death, weaving up the thin track, precipitous drops on either side. It was with great relief that I kissed the ground (a la His Holiness Adolf Von Nazi-c**t) on leaving the car alive. Upon raising my head from the floor, I caught sight of a grand, somewhat dilapidated hotel. Some of the downstairs rooms seemed to be emitting flashing lights, and loud music (of a type that one's father might describe as "A mindless racket"). This rave was already proving to be quite different from my previous one...(to be continued)

I've not long finished reading a rather enjoyable book: 'How to be Idle' by Tom Hodgkinson.

Here's a bit that I've stolen from it...

According to the Chinese, there are various ideal conditions for the enjoyment of tea:

When one's heart and hands are idle.

Tired after reading poetry.

When one's thoughts are disturbed.

Listening to songs and ditties.                                                      

When a song is completed.

Shut up at one's home on a holiday.

Playing the ch'in and looking over paintings.

Engaged in conversation deep at night.

Before a bright window and a clean desk.

With charming friends and slender concubines.

Returning from a visit with friends.

When the day is clear and the breeze is mild.

On a day of light showers.

In a painted boat near a small wooden bridge.

In a forest with tall bamboos.

In a pavilion overlooking lotus flowers on a summer day.

Having lit incense in a small studio.

After a feast is over and the guests are gone.

When the children are at school.

In a quiet, secluded temple.

Near famous springs and quaint rocks.

So, next time you feel like a nice cup of rosie - be mindful of this advice. It will taste all the better if you know you chosen just the right moment (my favourite is the boat one).