I'll give you ho ho ho

I'm afraid. Christmas lists and mails are flying thick and fast and the gorge-fest that is The Season to be Jolly (tm) rapidly approaches. In-depth discussions clog my gmail, about cheese and beer and breakfast and who's cooking what on which night. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for planning ahead, especially when you're dealing with a multiplicity of mouths to feed and childers to entertain. It's just that it all happens so quickly this Christmas thing and then before you know it you're staring into the frozen abyss of January, the ghostly taste of brandy butter lingering on your tongue.

Perhaps it's the cold and the dark nights that seem to dramatically accelerate the hours (duh William, ya think?) but Christmas in Africa seemed to drag on interminably. The day itself lasted forever. Up with the larks, or in our case, hoopoes, tapping away frantically (no Spencer, not that sort of tapping away) at the dead elms lining our property. (dutch elm disease, tis a bitch) We'd stretch our toes down to the ends of our beds to provoke a delicious rustling from the sack/pillow case of wonderful things nestled there. From that point on it was impossible to sleep. We'd drag on our Sunday finery and make the obligatory trip to our local church to drone some ghastly hymns and shake sweaty paws. In the space of minutes the thermometer would rise dramatically, hats would wilt, ties loosen and all would eye the door with the sort of fervor our Rev could only dream of. Eventually it was off with the nylon trousers/school shirt combo and on with the boxers and the new Willie Worm t-shirt santa/mater had scored me. Foodandpresentsandfoodandmadgameofcricketonthelawn before an afternoon lull to regain our strength. Hopeless really as it is now 40 degrees C and all have been felled by a mighty fist of heat. Time is molasses as the children gather at the shallow end of the pool, cramming watermelon and mangoes into the last available crevices in their bodies and praying for hot fat beads of rain to end their suffering.

Naturally I am expecting something similar in Fumbuckshire or wherever we are gathering (where are we gathering?) except for the bit about heat and perhaps, watermelons. As entertainment rep, I'll be taking my duties very seriously, so all aboard the er fun bus, Chrissie is upon us.

B

Roboten feel no pian

Soon they will rise, soon. In the meantime I will have to make my own banana loaf.

I lack coordination. I can walk and tie my shoelaces and navigate the mean streets of Londres with the best of them, but lose concentration for a second...

I walk into things all the time; door frames have a mysterious magnetic pull and once I've actually made it through, the door-handle will inevitably catch on my shirt and wrench me backwards. I hit my head on cupboards, cut myself, burn myself, crunch my elbows into mantelpieces and stab my eyes with teaspoons. The kitchen is a deathtrap for me and baking, my new temporary hobby, is a sad lesson in self-harm every time I reach for the Hummingbird.

While being blessed with my Father's genetic GPS which allows me to navigate the most confusing city and find my way back to my hotel with nary a glance of the map, I seem incapable of being able to read a recipe. I'm not sure why I equate these two things, I just don't want people to get the impression I'm a complete moron. A work in progress perhaps. My first foray into baking was my Mother's lemon drizzle cake recipe, written out for me on a scrubby piece of paper. Granted I misread 3oz of orange juice as 30, but what idiot would think the sloppy mess I'd dutifully poured into a cake tin was in any way the right consistency for producing a delightful sponge. The resulting lemon tart was perfectly edible though, but had seeped out of the cake tin and all over the baking tins in the draw below the oven. I'd regard this as a failure.

Undaunted I took to the aforementioned Hummingbird bakery book and attempted a banana loaf. I dropped boiling butter on the floor, flicked a muddy arc of batter across the kitchen wall and broke one of the unbreakable measuring spoons. Still, I was fairly pleased with the mush I put in the oven, despite having the niggling feeling it still wasn't quite the right density. This feeling turned to certainty when I noticed a bowl full of flour still sitting on the work surface. So let's be clear about this, I'm baking here, and I forgot to add flour.

The bananas are ripening, I've acquired a bigger mixing bowl, the signs are good. Hold off on that robot Loved One, I think I've got this cake thing beat. (ahem)

B

Stadtkind

Berlin greets me with a cold wet smack in the face as I head down towards the U-Bahn and Rathaus Neukölln (or Rat-house Newcolon as I like to think of it), location of Cruiser's new flat. This town oozes coolness and kultcha from every pore. Walls and doorways are splattered with street art and stickers promoting a hundred different parties, exhibitions and groovy happenings. There are ramshackle bars on every corner; scaffy, makeshift holes-in-the-wall with minimal decoration and minimal beats scratching out of some crappy sound system in the corner. Cruiser and I attempt a quiet first evening by going on a crawl of these local sprechen, erm, easies. Alas, Berlin has chosen to not only ignore the smoking ban, but carry on as if it were never implemented in the first place. By bar 3 I've got that old familiar carcinogenic reek about me and our quiet evening is rapidly spiraling down the neck of a never-ending bottle of beer.

Dawn breaks around 11 and despite some healthy muesli action and a hearty interface of apple, carrot and ginger, an air of fragility pervades our brains. We make a half-hearted attempt at shopping, but as a whole new brace of adventures stretch ahead of us tonight we opt for a strategic nap instead. Fortunately Berlin only comes alive around twelve at night, so we have time to recover, eat a crap burger and hang in a gay co-operative for a glass of cidre, before it's off to the Nightmare Party. This gig takes place in what was once a youth indoctrination centre, a venue which seems to have happily swapped one form of brainwashing for another. There's a DJ in every corner and the place gradually fills with louche kinders embracing the Halloween vibe in a variety of blood soaked costumes. I'm sure I saw a Zombie Nazi from Dead Snow and there's quite a heartening air of indifference the kids show towards this whole period of their history. They've moved on even if no one else has.

Much banging takes place and I'm pleasantly surprised by how good I feel come six o'clock, having abstained from drinking the whole night. It's crazy I know, but you can actually go out and not drink, who would have thort it?

Saturday evening we devote to the Illustrative 09, an exhibition of the finest graphics and illustration Berlin has to offer. I'll post a flickr link of this exhibition shortly. Another cool venue and the usual hit and miss of design; some pieces were brilliant, others looked like poor course work from some third year art class. We headed back home to cook a jolly dinner for Heinz 57 and Clarabow and managed to hit the sack before one, making the ghastly pain of rising at six to get to the airport a little more bearable.

Those of you in London on Sunday may have noticed it was quite windy. Now imagine being in a weenie Easyjet airplane attempting to land at Gatwick. We are thrown about violently as the pilot is forced to do an emergency abort of his first approach. He comes in slower the second time, but the entire craft is yawing and bouncing from side to side and there is much weeping and lamentation from all. We finally break cloud cover and appear to be approaching the runway sideways. The lamentation level increases dramatically. The pilot wrenches us around at the last minute and we skip and slide to an eventual juddering stop. A brief silence ensues before everyone bursts into relieved applause. Without a doubt the most disturbing air experience I've ever had.

Muchos gracias to the Cruiser, your hospitality knows no bounds. London, it's good to be back (in one piece).

B

Green Day

Taking a turn around Tony's Tent, or, as it is now known, the O2 Arena, one is reminded yet again of the ginormous waste of money and effort this big top acid trip represents. That it has become the weekend venue of choice for marauding bands of East End slappahs bent on alcoholic annihilation, seems only fitting. Especially when you consider the idea for building it could only have been conceived at the end of a particularly ruinous and depraved New Labour drinkathon.

No matter. We are here now, T Psych and I, to immerse ourselves in the three chord clatter of California punk puppies, Green Day. By puppies of course, I mean grizzled hounds. Perhaps out of denial of my own advancing years, it hadn't really dawned on me how long this band has actually been around. Frontman Billie Joe Armstrong soon puts me straight as he dashes across the stage like a demented Emo Pixie yelling,

'We've been doing this for fucking twenty years now, and this shit never grows old.'

Ye Gods, twenty years! I fumble for my fisherman's friends and turn down my hearing aid as the first single off the new album that sounds like the last single off the previous album, jangles into life. Bless his skull n' cross-bone socks though, Billie Joe sure knows how to please his demographic. He's constantly pulling up kohl eyed kiddies from the front row, taking pictures of them, encouraging them to stage dive and generally treating the whole thing like the end of season talent show at Butlins. He even comes over all lay preacher at one point, demanding children be brought before him so he can lay hands on them in some profound metaphorical way that possibly related to the song he was singing, but utterly went over my head and probably those of a number of slightly disturbed parents too.

In a final act of tweenie fan heaven, he calls on any young drummers, guitarists and bass players to show themselves, then selects three budding musos to take over from Tre Cool, Mike Dirnt and the other dude playing guitar whose name eludes me. Never has a child been so gifted from on high as BJ sing along over their brave efforts and every adult in the room go' Ah bless.'

T Psych has staggered back with four more pints thank G and we are able to reinforce ourselves for the inevitable encore. Or encores I should say, as the greedy buggers have the cheek to go off and on twice. This is a stoning offense in my book, but Lo, all is forgiven as BJ take to his acoustic and do a soopa medley of 'Time of your life/ When September ends', reducing all to blubbering wrecks, tho perhaps that was my distended bladder placing pressure on my eyeballs.

We're finally allowed to leave the building after being told we are a much better audience than any American one, which seems a tad of a betrayal but never mind. A cheeky beer/depissing in one of the many faceless drink o' mats residing under this tatty canvas, then it's the last tube home for us.

Ta muchly to T Psych for his great generosity and ebullient company, perhaps just the one bottle of Sake next time, we have been doing this shit for twenty years after all.

B

Jobs I could do Part 1

Now, this looks like the sort of gainful employment I should be seeking out. Taking in the noonday sun, a band of panting 'best friends' round my ankles, the promise of a jolly gambol on Clapham Common ahead of us. With an enterprising spirit and lots of 'boggle' bags, (as the Wild Australian Boy used to call what I prefer thinking of as 'shit sacks') I could soon become the Barbara Woodhouse of the South.

Unfortunately, I see it all going wrong very quickly. Being given responsibility for someone's pet in this country is right up there with watering their plants or weeding their allotment; you don't take the task lightly. If it was their kids you were coddling, sure, you can slack off a bit, but mess with precious little Colin's walkies...

I'd cope for the first week or so, but repetitive, inane jobs atrophy my little brain, causing it to wander into subversive territory quite quickly. I'd then become obsessed with the idea of attaching micro-cameras to each animal and streaming these collar-cams live to the web. 'Dog days of our lives' would soon develop an audience of millions. People would jump from collar to collar, goggling away at unexpurgated views of tedious and feral British life, as seen through the eyes of the one creature they all thought they could trust. The outcry would echo across the azure fields and brute retribution of the tar and feathers variety would follow swiftly. Worse yet, it would be back to the old job centre for me (after a short stretch in chookie).

Fine, let's tick that one off the list.

B

It will have blog they say, blog will have blog

No need for fanfare, or any form of ticker-tape parade, Billsworth is back. Slightly revamped and sporting a jaunty new cap, the blog that never really gave much, returns to serve up even less, as it regales you with tales of daring-do from the world of the employmently (and perhaps grammatically) challenged.

Not being one to make a fuss, I've chosen this astounding piece of kitchen sink realism to be the first new image to grace these pages. That said, it is an elegant lesson in plastique minimalism which brings a smile to mien fleshy facial protuberances, every time I look at it. uPVC is a ubiquitous beast that many an impoverished homeowner has been forced to invest in due to the crippling cost of double glazed wooden sashes, but dammit it all, I think it looks good. Its twin went into our en-suite bathroom, and new doors now grace the rear entrance and the balcony. I've had the Mondrian hung in the West Wing and faithful Farnsworth is polishing the Buconium chandelier in the Bassoon Hall as we speak.

Being as I am, a man of enforced leisure, I get to dip my toe, and in some cases my entire body, into the dark and murky waters of the Day Borne Dead (TM). Those that wander listlessly through streets and supermarket isles during the daylight hours, desperately throttling time, while time gently and methodically chokes them back. I could of course slide into utter catatonia by suckling on the cankered narcotic teat of day-time telly, but this is an end of days activity; a point (I'm fairly sure) I haven't reached just yet.

So instead, I shall blog. Who knows, perhaps the novel everyone keeps banging on about, lurking dormant in some primordial recess of my brain, will lurch and stumble into action. Hell, it sure beats watching Jeremy Kyle.

Follow the light, the light will guide you

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).

I'll try be more diligent, but really, it's not easy, this thing requires perseverance, and frankly I'm slightly distracted at the moment. Let's take this slowly shall we?

B