We Had Plans To Ignore You

A selection of cold slurpers and a device that drapes a fine frozen mist over my head and neck and someone playing the soothing end of the Nick Cave spectrum on a nearby marimba if at all possible buttercup, I said in sweltering German to a foamy-bearded waiter who'd come to repair my mojito. I didn't tell him that the largeness of the ice cubes had led to a horrifying inconsistency of temperature within the drink which jeopardised the entire 23 remaining hours of my holiday, because I didn't want to sound out of touch with world events.

Keeping In Touch

The new exciting lunch facility is worth a visit mate yeah. At the entrance you're given a disposable tunic. At the exit you're hosed down and congratulated by a woman with a tattoo of a pricey cupcake somewhere on one of her legs. Before the exit you sit at a picnic table, attacking strips of gifted carcass with your hands and teeth, euphoric slop squirting down your neck and wrists, thinking about Europe.

I Think It Just Kicked In

I saw Beak. It's the bloke from Portishead and two other blokes. The audience was blokes and a few missuses. Someone in Manchester's tag is "Bloke", you can see it up the stairs outside the car park next to Retro Bar. It's a good word. Onstage behind them were two fixed spotlights, which mostly stayed on, so mostly what the room in front of me looked like was black man-shapes and hairy white outlines and a few pink glowing ears, dancing slowly. They were good, the band, and the ears, and the beers, there were free beers at the end, because it's the time of year it is.
I was evaluated, during an evaluation week, which was two days in France with a day's travel either side. The conclusion was: you are very suitable but you have not got the job. I wish they'd told me that before I gave up the Crooked Vultures ticket I had, to attend. I never told them of this wounding and hilarious sacrifice. There's lessons everywhere. Tomorrow I might give up a free ticket to the moon so I can attend a painting-white-lines-with-your-bollocks recruitment weekend, if only I could find out where it's happening.

Off

The baboons, in the grass-and-rock moat surrounding the zoo-fortress, on the hill above Besancon, have good hair. From the drawbridge we watched them, facing away from us and the sun, twelve massive haricuts on legs, shimmering in the breeze, little hunchback Bon Jovies overdosing on Vidal Sassoon. The sign doesn't say who let them get that way. On the other side of the bridge the moat goats clop and trudge, looking depressed and lost. They are Indian and rare and whoever took them off the mountain isn't here to see what they have to put up with.
The other two animals the zoo displays for free are an almost-eagle and a surely-some-mistake "45kg guinea pig", which has a large enclosure overlooking the city and leaves no trace of any existence.
The following week we chugged through the clouds to Geneva, which has tiny brown birds instead of pigeons which come into the bakeries and sit opposite you and your croissant. The city's buildings are like paris's and not unpleasant, arranged around a lake with a million-gallon fountain that hisses at the moon while the wind wafts misty rainbows toward the bridge. They say on a good day Mt Blanc looms brightly over everything and the people say the french for ooh look at that. It was hidden this day but the sun did shine and the clouds did cloud like mountains themselves, squashing the air below, and breathing was like chewing a hot sock.
The seven blocks around the station were an orderless market full of families selling yesteryear's trinkets all curling in the sun. Foodsmoke drifted around the people and rolled into the lake and large and colourful swiss money was spent on mexican treats and the news. Later in Fnac it was a choice between The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and 2666. I bought the former and it's hideous like it was written to provide headaches. I thought I was saving nine francs.

Today The Sea Will Not Cover This Car Park

Thanks, Europe, for your age discrimination at popular tourist attractions. I agree that EU citizens over the age of twenty five should by now've had enough time to save a spare eight euros and fifty cents for excursions. What I don't understand, however, is why we don't take the idea a bit further: those over fifty should surely have to pay seventeen euros. Those aged seventy five or over should be charged twenty five fifty and made to sweep up at the end. It's only fair. Especially in a place such as Mont St. Michel, which has a lot of stonework and attracts dust, and was built by people who are so old they're dead. It's nothing to do with those of us born yesterday, thanks. Let the clog-poppers take care of it.