Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Monday, 21 June 2010

Dear Shazzer....

I just wanted to write and let you know I'm ok. Although I miss you. And I forget why exactly I'm here.

I am finding ways to enjoy my own company. I’m finding pleasure in simple things, black coffee, fresh pastries, morning beach visits and icy dips before starting work, palm trees, ships on the empty ice-blue horizon, diamonds on the surface of the sea and the fact I’m now brown enough to use oil instead of spf - which makes me rather smug!

The drums never cease. I drove back from Space the other night (I had to write a review of the night so it was business, not pleasure) and tuned into the radio. So deep and dark and sexy were the tunes, that when I parked I couldn’t physically extract myself from my car and I sat there enjoying a Space-cadet’s party for one with the engine running, for a good 20 minutes. Then all of a sudden I had a moment of ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ clarity and hobbled home.

Not to detract from my general cheer today, and feeling of well-being, but I do have one complaint. The fucking Spanish and their bloody car horns. They love them. And particularly love sitting in their cars in the street just under my window leaning on the horn ...

‘beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep’ to make a point.

Alright you cunt, we get it! You are irked by something. Now shut up!

Indeed, to borrow the Scroogian cadences of Dickens: If I had my way every Spaniard who goes about beeping repeatedly on his horn would be run over with his own car and buried with one of these up his arse:

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