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For those of you who think most modern art adds up to a big ole' pile o' poo, here's a wall of it to confirm your worst fears. On the opposite wall was every meal over a six month period that resulted in the archive of excrement you see above. Is it art? What do I know for shizz. Needless to say, Room 101 was a resounding success and hats off to ML for all her hard work and fantastic yellow mini-skirt.
B
Crazy Bear has very interesting toilets. It has great food and nice booths you can hang in and attracts lots of bootiful people, but mostly it has loos that a) you can't find and b) you can't get out of. They also allow for some dramatic, if slightly hammer house, self portraits.
B
OK, so about 10kms outside Sienna actually, but 'Aaah Sovicille' doesn't quite have the same ring to it. The Wild Australian Boy wet his second baby's head in grand style, shipping out family and friends to a 13th century Tuscan castle and filling them with champagne purchased a few days earlier in Champagne central. The route to the Champagne region was a speedy one, pushing Vorsprung Durch Technik to its limits and eventually resulting in a shredded sports radial on the journey back. We arrived at Pisa airport with time to spare to pick up the star of the show and after a minor sense of humour failure, I was behind the wheel of a Fiat Anon and heading down the Fi Pi Li (Firenze Piza Linovo). Having only ever driven a left hand drive car once (and only then around the block), hitting an Italian highway at rush hour was a baptism of fire, make no mistake. Combining the wrong side of both road and driving position with utterly incomprehensible signposting leads to great panic, but we eventually made it to the old castello and the first magnum of the week.
Five days of pasta, pizza, red wine and getting repeatedly lost within a 12km radius followed. We visited the ancient Papal hideaway of Vitterbo, which wasn't exactly the rustic village we were expecting and walked the cobbled byways of San Gimignano once again, to relive the first magic moments of our fledgling relationship, ah bless!All in all, a jolly jaunt, but now my liver and stomach must rest, at least until the weekend, or Friday, or later this afternoon.
B
Ah so small. Little CEG has joined the hurly burly of Loved One's clan, but like her parents, remains blissfully serene and remarkably relaxed. Which cannot be said for Loved One and myself as we dash from new born to High School Musical party to Marks n' Sparks to Kupahville, to 30th birthday tapas to house party to bed to rise to food tasting to champagne to train to bed. We're pondering a more extensive sojourn in the future to ease the frantic pace of these visitations, but that won't be happening just yet.
Tomorrow begins the Lad's road trip to the ferry to Dunkirk to the Champagne district to Lake Como and then off for a week to some Tuscan shack for a wee christening. It will be an arduous journey but I will be strong.
B
It is a late Grahamstown night. The rugger buggers have finally stopped mauling each other outside my res room door and the last happy revellers have staggered up the hill from the Vic and passed out in their own pooh. The only sound is Ian “Mac” McCulloch's Scouse croon dripping from the tin can speaker of my mono tape recorder.
Fast forward nineteen years (nineteen years!) and that same voice fills the Royal Albert Hall. This is one of those rare occasions where I am surrounded by my peers. I've always been that bit too young to be blending in at those 70's rock gigs (Judas Priest, Motorhead, Alice Cooper et al) and a bit too old to not look slightly out of place at CSS gigs. Here, I'm just about right. The Bunnies (were they ever abbreviated thus? I care not) have kindly trawled through the classics, before having an interval break which allows the entire hall to scrum down at the bar.
When we return, a full orchestra has joined the lads on stage and they play 'Ocean Rain' from beginning to end. Fortunately this album contains four tracks from the greatest hits tape I had all those years ago, so I'm still able to sing along without mugging incoherently in that odd, badly synched way that clearly indicates you've never actually heard the song. Throughout the album set, images from the band's past slowly drift across two large screens and the crowd falters for a moment as a young and beautiful Pete de Freitas stares down at us with a small sad smile. The pictures start me thinking that sometimes the mere act of documentation is enough. It doesn't matter how good these pictures are (a lot are crap) or any pictures for that matter, it is the capturing of the moment that is important. It is with this profound revelation that I realise both I and Mr.Incredible are enormously drunk. We stagger out with the joyous crowd and make our way home via that evil pasty shop in Waterloo Station.
Next week, I will not drink anything, no really.
The only way is up, baby, as Yazz once said and how right she was. As this is a new year and new beginnings, I'm returning to this whole blogging business with a new attitude. An attitude of utter indifference. Y'all just have to accept that (all six of you).
For those of you who think most modern art adds up to a big ole' pile o' poo, here's a wall of it to confirm your worst fears. On the opposite wall was every meal over a six month period that resulted in the archive of excrement you see above. Is it art? What do I know for shizz. Needless to say, Room 101 was a resounding success and hats off to ML for all her hard work and fantastic yellow mini-skirt.
Nothing like turning around an executive board freebie in record time. This crystal cube, complete with master code running all around it, is made up of 27 little cubes, all branded with individual board member's company names. The concept being our code has been represented by a cube for the last two years, they all collaborated to create the code, and now they get to take a piece away at the end of their slap-up meal, ah bless. So it's a bit hokey, but not bad considering we're in the middle of our busiest show ever and really didn't have time to be fiddling about with giveaways for a bunch of individuals who could collectively buy most of Africa, but there you go.
Crazy Bear has very interesting toilets. It has great food and nice booths you can hang in and attracts lots of bootiful people, but mostly it has loos that a) you can't find and b) you can't get out of. They also allow for some dramatic, if slightly hammer house, self portraits.
Ah so small. Little CEG has joined the hurly burly of Loved One's clan, but like her parents, remains blissfully serene and remarkably relaxed. Which cannot be said for Loved One and myself as we dash from new born to High School Musical party to Marks n' Sparks to Kupahville, to 30th birthday tapas to house party to bed to rise to food tasting to champagne to train to bed. We're pondering a more extensive sojourn in the future to ease the frantic pace of these visitations, but that won't be happening just yet.
It is a late Grahamstown night. The rugger buggers have finally stopped mauling each other outside my res room door and the last happy revellers have staggered up the hill from the Vic and passed out in their own pooh. The only sound is Ian “Mac” McCulloch's Scouse croon dripping from the tin can speaker of my mono tape recorder.
