Les Boules Des Chiens

Banned twice, responsible for the deaths of 38 people, the deadly game of Boules has a checkered past indeed. So it was with some trepidation that I joined Au Savage and friends for the 'Boule D'or', a bare knuckle bout of ball hurling and piglet crushing which soon took its toll on us all. La Cicciolina of the ladies team was the first to fall, suffering a vicious ankle injury which sorely hampered her usually stellar form. Having observed her discreetly from behind a bench, I cunningly mimicked her elegant stance and added a few stylistic flourishes of my own. The final look was what I'd call 'la teapot petit'; one hand behind the back for balance, the ball hand extending trunk-like ahead of the body, boule cupped downwards in the palm to facilitate back spin. While this may sound fairly ridiculous to observe, I'm confidant I blended into the crowd, as all around me were crouchers, danglers, mincers and swashers of varying degrees of skill (including my own team mates, like the gurner pictured here). Having made short work of the ladies, Team Chien took on two other crews, but sadly choked in both games and carelessly tossed away their chance for glory. Probably just as well, as the pub was growing more alluring by the second and our enthusiasm waning horribly. Needless to say, a jolly time was had by all. I must also take this opportunity to point out that the ham rolls were most delicious and without a doubt saved the day, ahem! I did notice on Sunday morning however, an unfamiliar aching in my left tricep which has now been diagnosed as 'boule arm'. This severe affliction adds to the historical litany of pain and disaster that haunts this game. I just hope I'm able to lift a glass again, otherwise the cheese eating surrender monkeys will be hearing from my lawyers.

B

Yes, a dog, in a window

Every blog needs a dog. Here's mine. Oh alright, it's a flimsy premise for a post, but I'm under pressure here and I like this dog's face. It was extremely unfazed by my attention and didn't move an inch as I pranced around its portal (No Spencer, not that portal). Why this creature was resting in the window of a carpeting store, I know not. Perhaps, this is how they entice custom in Manchester. Perhaps it's a sort of interactive thing; you get to see how easily dog hair comes off their fancy carpeting right before your very eyes. Perhaps it is an extremely high-tech animatronic security camera and if I'd lingered for a second longer, its eyes would have emitted an intense beam of concentrated light which would have cut me in half. Perhaps I have watched one too many episodes of Battlestar Galactica Season II in a row.

B

That warm feeling

Sunday afternoon, 6.30pm. Sigh9 and myself board the Northern line towards Bank and ultimately Liverpool St, our destination, the grammatically challenged Gramaphone. We quickly realise, along with our more compos mentis fellow travellers, that there is a curious river of liquid running along the floor. All eyes quickly turn to the gentleman in the corner, and the remarkable stream of urine cascading forth from his jeans. Anyone who has ever relieved themselves in the ocean or the school pool, knows the iniquitous delight of pissing in their pants (God Forbid I'd every promote such behaviour, ahem.) Sadly this man was too far gone to appreciate the warm primal glow of the voluntary soiler. He probably awoke to a chilled crotch and the gentle ministrations of the London underground staff, hurling him into the street. We took this as a sign to keep our beer consumption within reasonable limits and went on to enjoy some hearty Teutonic banging (No Spencer, not that sort of Teutonic banging) care of Marcus Hartmann (The Siamese twin with the chiselled cheek bones) from Pulsar Records in Berlin. At the end of the evening, as a special treat, la Sonje led Strcprstskrzkrk and myself a merry dance around the city streets in search of that holy grail of bus routes 'The 35'. Naturally we failed dismally in this quest and found instead a series of small walls knocked up by some Romans or something. Two days later we got home just in time to miss 1st look 'Lost', nice. Ah well, apart from the minor detour around London's tourist hotspots, a very successful outing indeed. I come over all warm just thinking about it.

B

God is watching

As depictions of Christ go, this has to be my favourite. There's a particular quality to his sightless stare that wavers between the benign and the malevolent. Just the sort of look you'd expect to get from your Deity of choice. No open arms, no suppurating palms and flowing locks, this guy's got his eye on you and you'd better prepare yourself for judgement. This bizarre sculpture lurks at the back of St Micheal's (I think it was) in Highgate, taken with my first camera phone, the hefty Nokia 7650. He vaguely reminds me of Gort (who also rocked a particularly swish silver speedo, which I wouldn't mind seeing Our Lord and Saviour sporting at the next reading of the Magnificat) That's probably why I like this so much. It brings a much needed robotic nuance to the whole Son of God(TM) thing.

B

Phew

What a relief, a luverly pair of daffs. Don't get more jolly than that. Rinse your minds of previous horrors, bask in the glory of these humble horns.

B

No Spencer, not that sort of horn

Craterface

The scorched earth landscape of my skin, ravaged by the twin terrors of African sunlight and chronic acne.

Kids, wear hats in Summer. Not much you can do about acne though. They say there's no link between acne and genetics, I hope not for my child's sake.

That's the problem with having a camera you can turn around and point at yourself. You get tempted to go for the close up. You shouldn't see the inside of your body and you shouldn't see your skin close up.

Ah well, next time I will post a picture of a flower, this is all gone a bit noir. Still, phone cameras, you can't knock em.

B

Au Naturel

The Peak District is a hotbed of depravity and salacious behaviour as any fule kno. You can't move without stumbling into the Devil's Arse or coming across priapic pagans, mashing exotic mushrooms into their faces and prancing around obscene outcrops of ice age rockery in the altogether. While the rest of my earnest group of budding landscape photographers were fiddling with their f.stops and peering into the haze to capture the definitive shot of a wall, a tree and a sheep, my eyes were strangely drawn to the rocks and their saucy ways. The Roaches are the Peak's slightly inferior answer to the The Matopos and would be lovely if they weren't covered in the blood of failed rock climbers and suicidal sheep. After Peaking for four days it was nice to come down to the relative sanity of Manchester and the questionable sanity of the relatives. Nothing like a rousing game of full body contact netball to get the blood racing (out of various gaping wounds). I'm particularly grateful for being included in the ancient family tradition of cremating the dried out Christmas tree at the first Barbie of the Summer(TM). I'm sure those burn marks on the second floor will disappear with a lick o' paint and the neighbours weren't too alarmed by the six foot column of fire randomly whooshing up over the fence. I also thoroughly enjoyed the loving exchange of cups of water in the face between two of the brothers, a curious way to express one's affection some might say, but who am I to question familial customs.

B