Saturday, April 24, 2004


Hello, good evening and welcome. Christ...where did that come from? Oh, yeah! I saw the drawling one hamming it up with the rest of the cast in a late night showing of The VIPs on TCM the other night...screenplay by Terence Rattigan no less...complete turkey of course, but interesting if only for the opportunity of a peek into what MGM thought would interest the cinema going public of the time. Burton and Taylor...the Posh and Becks of their era? Anyway, it should provide you with an insight into the state of the Kan mind that I should sit through such drivel in preference to burrowing under the quilt. It's an ex-pat thing. We get so starved of hearing even half decent English that we buy up the entire English language stock of the local book shops, ending up with a complete set of Agatha (I'm not a fascist and I really like Jews) Christie and watch any old gubbins on TV as long as it's in English.

Anyway, old fruits and sundry will, no doubt, be thrust into empathic ecstasy as I inform you that I am under no contractual obligations until 9 am on Sunday when I am due to translate an 8 page contract into the language of Milton, Byron and Shelley with the able assistance of one who has recently converted to Islam as part of the on-going process of ensnaring her Tunisian boyfriend. Honestly, the lengths some people will go to. I would need at least Natalia Imbruglia sandwiched between Jennifer Lopez and Nastassia Kinsky with half melted walnut whips beginning to flow down the curves of her breasts and a generous helping of Vanilla ice-cream starting the journey south from her navel before I would even consider abandoning my pantheistic world view. Mind you, thinking about it...given the conditions above...t'would probably all be over in about three tenths of a second anyway. And no, I don't mean taking deep breaths and apologising...rather sending for the local priest, hold the holy water, padre but make free with the communion wine, old chap. Oh, and put the confession on hold, would you? I have to explore the depths of my depravity with these three nubiles first. Oh, and by the way, help yourself to a choirboy...there's a bevy of them in the stalls over there.

So, yes folks! (and you're quite right...well spotted...that was a Neddy Seagoon impression) Tonight's the night Kan goes completely pear-shaped...three sheets to the wind and devil take the hindmost. Any complaints concerning the deterioration in the quality of the writing from here on in, or up to now come to think of it, can most usefully be addressed to Stella Breweries Inc and the Laphroaig distillery...a conspiracy between the two of which I have been the victim of on occasions too numerous to mention. I rather fancy I shall lay off the Booker's bourbon tonight as I plan to include it in a taste off with my remaining stocks of Islay malts in a future blog. I am fresh out of Bruichladdich by the way, should anyone fancy sending a tartan cross parcel my way. Just a thought.

So, whither the frond the spool the noo? Your perspicacity in phrasing such a question is a source of wonder to me. Pray allow me a few moments to consider.

Despite my rather heavy workload recently, I have made a point of strafing my usual haunts with what remained of my attention and have been moved, yea verily, by that which I encountered therein. Please excuse me...the call of the fridge.

Now, where were we? Oh, yes, cheesy bloglets...what? Freudian slip, dear hearts...of the Clement variety obviously...diagnosis...need right back.

Oh, still here? Such a patient readership. I am truly blessed.

Well, Roger has provided several titbits as usual, not the least of which is his continued diatribe against our automotive society. As the owner of a yellowish Trabant, an off-white VW Passat estate and a Yamaha XV750 Virago, I feel it incumbent upon me to offer some sort of response. As "Eat my fumes, eco-warrior!" might well be construed as being just a trifle uncaring, I have been racking my brains to come up with a more reasoned argument. I considered the compensation theory but a quick downward glance reassured me that, despite the fact that the Trades Descriptions Act would probably prohibit me from assuming the nom-de plume of Ivor Biggun were I to follow the example of numerous Hungarian fillies and enter the porn trade, I was sufficiently well endowed not to need loadsa bling, a souped up Ford Cortina, a pit bull cross and/or trophy girlfriend so I had to look for other justification.

And none did I find. Not a jot. A whisp of a reasoned argument escaped the net that I cast far and wide. And yet...some small niggle in the farther recesses of my lobes would let me not alone. Good god! Six Stellas and I assume the speech patterns of John Major...quick! Someone apply the coup-de-grace now...relieve me from further suffering. No, scratch that...solution...a right back.

So, what was this itch that I couldn't quite scratch? A partial cop-out, I freely admit, but I was struck by the thought that, taken to its logical conclusion, a totally ecological lifestyle would involve a regression that I am not sure even the most environmentally sound amongst us would be prepared to endure. Given that the most environmentally friendly product of our industrial age is probably the brown paper bag, it seems to me that anything of a higher technological provenance is, by definition, environmentally disastrous and, if we are to assume the greenest of hues, must be avoided no matter what the cost.

Let's just take a minute to look around us. The glass in our windows, the bricks in our walls, the paper in our books, the wood in our furniture, every electrical component of every electrical appliance we use, even the clay in my Tunisian drums...all products of some process which harms our environment. The packaging of the food we eat, the waste products of the fuel we burn, of the manufacture of the clothes we wear, everything we use simply to survive from one day to the next...all shitting in our own pot. Fouling our own nests. If there's no such thing as a green car, Roger, then I very much doubt there's any such thing as a green life, either.

But, I hear you all expostulate, we can minimise the impact we have on the environment and you are quite right, we can. But at the same time, you are also quite wrong. We are extremely limited in the choices we have. I use a use electricity from the national grid...gas from the North Sea...milk from cardboard containers...Laphroaig from green bottles...beans from a can. I guess the point is, where do we draw the line and to what extent can we, as individuals, make a difference?

Given a choice, I think we would be surprised at how many people would choose the green option. It's the choices that are lacking. The new Toyota with the electric motor is a step in the right direction but I fear that any green initiatives will have to be taken at company or government level and that any measures we may take as individuals will be but a tiny drop in an immense ocean.

As regards the car, Rog, it is obvious that you a) do not have children, b) live within schlepping distance of a supermarket, c) have never bought anything bigger than a small bedside table and d) are blissfully unaware of the beneficial properties of diesel fumes.

Brockette was pondering upon the meaning of love. Such a brave girl, wouldn't you say? Trying in a very human, stilted fashion to define her relationship with the animator in a way in which we could understand. Such a futile endeavour but bravely and honestly attempted nevertheless. Can any of us honestly explain any of our relationships? Even those with our own family members? Nah, scratch that...those are the most difficult of all.

But love...blimey...such a slippery subject...indefinable, ineffable, in my bed and in my life. Put the kettle on, luv.

I have been "in love", to the best of my present knowledge, four times in my life. A gut wrenching, stomach mangling, brain curdling, fly button straining, emotional roller coaster of a ride that left me in no kind of control whatsoever over my vital signs and life processes. Somehow, the pheremones took over and I was left wibbling along as best I could in the face of their onslaught. I would not have missed it for the world. Those who have not ever had the occasion to enquire, nay, beseech..."What's he got that I haven't?" have missed out on a most formative part of their education and are probably possessant of a most over-inflated opinion as to their own self worth.

But the most mind boggling thing is that none of the females inspiring the above suspension of the normal laws of physics and reaction with no action and 24 hour erections were what one may have described as suitable mate material. Being desirous of shagging somebody's brains out might be a good recipe for an entertaining, if depraved, Saturday night out, but will not form the basis of a worthwhile long-lasting relationship. Those of you who have found both in the same person may stop reading at this point, leave your name and address in the comments and await shotgun blast at earliest convenience.

Although there is nothing to quite compare with the trouser squirming, stomach curdling thrill of a carnal assignation, a lifetime partner needs to inspire something decidedly more. I love white chocolate but an over indulgence of same would, and often does, lead to a communication with god on the great white telephone, a porcelain pizza, a technicolour yawn. It may be devilishly exciting to don the six inch heels from time to time but there is a decidedly more comfortable feeling to be had from donning a pair of threadbare but comfortable slippers in front of a hearth with which one is almost obscenely familiar.

Friendship, familiarity, shared history, tolerance and understanding are far more tangible and long lasting qualities than those engendered by the equally worthwhile but transient feeling of "Have her washed and brought to my tent." I have proved to be weak and unfaithful on more than one occasion but when push came to shove...I'll stay where I am thank you very much. I love my partner and despite my weakness for gaudy and tempting roadside attractions...we do fit. Hand in glove. There is a lot to be said for cosy and comfortable. Maybe one day I'll prove myself worthy of it.

Till then, may you always wake up in your own bed.

More to follow but I'm deucedly inebriated right now and must call a recuperative time out. Ta ta.

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