I´ve never had it so good. The Spanish bank that tried to take the piss earlier on this year got on its corporate knees and shelled out (this is unheard of in Spain) within 15 minutes of arriving at the branch in question. It´s amazing what you can achieve when you approach a problem with the of icy resolve of Dr. Lector. I´ve also apparently missed the volcanic ash cloud that turned many an Easter break into what for many will have felt like a stint in a Thai prison, so it looks like (though things could still go the way of the Afghanistan war) I´ll be on my scheduled flight home.
On the flip side (because of course for every high there must be a wrist-slashing opposite) I´ve been unable to endure for more than an hour at a time, my irrepressibly morose aunts who have reached the age where conversations (if you can call talking over eachother that) range from the visceral descriptions of their disgusting physical ailments (with roleplay) to food (resentfully scoffed through eternal protestation and yet in copious amounts) to the inevitable plunge into the infintite waters of death. It´s like living with the bi-polar version of The Golden Girls. Plus of course they´re none too bright either though they have the absolute and irrefutable answer to everything, usually moronic and without foundation. I have a suggestion: it involves orifices and brute strength.
Anyway to alleviate somewhat the heavy cloak of sloth and stupidity, I ventured out to see a country/R&B act by the name of Scott R. Birham. Please take note - that you may ensure you never, not even mistakenly wonder into this man´s path. Imagine, if you will The Scene from Deliverance. Yes, that one, add the sickly smell of old man (make him a smoker and drinker) and you´ve just saved yourself 12 Euros. Mind you , it did beat staying home with The Mole Sisters. Within 10 seconds of being on stage, Scott admits to having a horrendous drink problem and being a sex addict before lasiviously eyeing the crowd for willing groupies.
Not to disappoint you Scott, or bring down about your ears the musical empire you´ve spent days putting together but with revelations like that, the numbers aren´t looking good. And, word to the wise - in a country that so recently liberated its women from domestic enslavement (women I might add who make Glenn Close´s character in Fatal Attraction seem positively balanced) don´t refer to then as ´pussy´unless you like being run over by juggernaughts. Just saying.
Outside of that I uncovered a copy of The Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas DeQuincey and I shall be taking very detailed notes.
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