Wey Hey...

cracked Flickr and am now "On top of the world, Ma!"

Me and my mate Sean...

in Barcelona, that's me taking the photo.

I have not superlatives enough (though here's a few) to describe Barcelona. Top city, fantastic food, wonderful folk, stunning architecture, good beer, incredible vistas, world class art and a history of fighting the good fight, of fighting the fascists. Whaddatown!

Bugger Frisco, I left my heart in Barcelona.

Oh yeah, and another thing. I'm gonna crack Flickr cos this old blog of mine just don't do justice to a good photey.

Mind you, as is evidenced, I've solved my earlier photos posting problem. Might have something to do with buying an edition of Photoshop 5.

And whilst I'm going on about Spain and fascism, this afternoon I went to see Guillermo Del Toro's film Pan's Labyrinth which is set in the 1930's after the victory of Franco's fascists. The story is of a young girl whose mother weds a fascist officer stationed in the mountains to fight communist and leftist revolutionaries. Whilst in this unhappy place she is drawn to a fairy underworld where dangerous tasks are set for her by a fawn. The story switches therefore between the menace of the real world and the menace of this underworld. A great movie.

Once again to paraphrase Homer, "Hmmmm Spain..."

Off to Barcelona...

this afternoon. Yippee! Am flying there and no doubt will leave carbon footprint. Take a 7 in shoe size so not expecting footprint to cause much bother. Been wondering if some future archaeologist using a small trowel might dig out my carbon footprint and conclude I was a sociable sort of guy. Maybe end up in museum, have PhD theses written about me. Might even produce artistic renditions of fashionably unshaven hunk with deer over shoulder, faraway look in eye and tight animal skins to show off manly chest.

A square jaw would be nice too...

It's a funny business...

driving through autumn leaves. They lie in the road and under hedges waiting for the wind until without warning are up and away, dancing higgledy piggledy like mad things. At this time of year there's a lot about, it can make a person nervous. For instance what if one gets caught in your eye, maybe just under the eyelid and not the whole way in? A person might crash. Autumn then, a dangerous season if ever there was one.

Been thinking today about...

The Mighty Wurlitzer.

Blackpool's Mighty Wurlitzer is situated in the Tower Ballroom and plays the jauntiest of tunes whilst rising from beneath its stage. The average Wurlitzer has over 2000 keys including pedals. Players are secured to the machine by a series of leather straps that take over an hour to undo. To assist in manipulating the many pedals teak blocks polished by the sweat of selected orphans are attached to the organists feet with velcro. A story denied by Wurlitzer suggests the famously smooth keyboard action is achieved only via the regular application of tears stolen in times of hardship from widows.

One can perhaps see why they might wish to keep that fact secret.

Grrrr, grrrr...

and bloody damn well grrr again. Still can't sort out the photo problem. So, no more photos from the Flynn album until I can persuade my computer whizz kid mate Clare to come and have a look at what's gone wrong. In a nutshell, the blogger photo posting gadget (above) won't open Picasa, it just fills the little box with the Picasa 'C' drive address and... zzzzzzzzzzzz, hhhhrmph, urrrrgghhh. Oops, sorry, nodded off.

Bloody hell, there's dribble down me front now.

Speaking of dribble makes me think of vomit so here's an old vomit joke.

Really drunk guy swaying in street feels sick and throws up on a passing dog. He peers down and says, "I don't remember eating that."

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...

This next one I posted ages ago but here's the joke again because I like it so much.

Old guy visits Dr who says "Mr Johnson I'm afraid it's bad news. You've got bronchitis and dementia." And the old guy replies "Thank God it's not bronchitis."

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, I've gone dizzy...

Once more...

I can't seem to post photos. Took some good ones this afternoon too. Grrrrrrr.

It is my submission that...

gin and tonic is one of the world's finest drinks. A tall glass, ice so cold it steams, gin from the freezer, a generous slice of zesty lemon, tonic water from the fridge and none of your slimline variety either. I consider slimline tonic to be an abomination, the work of Beelzibub, a condition of unhappiness. No bottle of slimline tonic has ever crossed or will ever cross into the Flynn household. Indeed, so poor in gin is slimline tonic that a person might also stab themselves in the neck repeatedly with a huge knife (possibly the same one used on the lemon) and fail to distinguish the two experiences.

As Homer might say, "Hmmmmmmmmmmmm gin... and tonic"

Monday, Mancunian Way....

7.50am and stationary in westbound traffic. Eastbound is moving, cars, lorries, bikes. The bright red of a burning cigarette tumbles over the central reservation and lands beside an upright tyranosaurus rex who collects it, takes a drag and declares Mondays are alright by him. Granted the TR was only 10 inches tall and had most likely been abandoned by a child, or thrown from a car, or both. His fate nevertheless intrigues me so I wind the window open and shout,

"Hey you, T Rex!"
He was American and inquired, "Yeah?"
"Whatchadoin there?"
"Bub," He said, "It's a long story."
"Well?" I said.
And he replied, "I was owned by this kid with a permanent cold. Snot everywhere, alway snot and when not runny it was crusty..."

Ahead of me a lorry's engine rumbled as the driver began to creep forward. So I said,

"What?" And found second gear.

Little forearms pumped like pistons as the Rex began to run alongside, grasping his cigarette, gasping for breath.

"...snot," He said.

"Yeah snot snot, got that." I said and reached for third gear.

He upped his pace, little forearms now a blur, shanks pedalling with speed until he tripped under the wheels of a following refuse and was squashed flat.

Pulling away I thought 'Bugger, there's nothing worse than a tale half told.'

Then I cheered up because he was wrong about Mondays.

Mondays are shite.

Here's...

an aspect of my bathroom. Sans crack.

Oh how the wind blew...

early last Monday morn. During the summer Sean (as mentioned passim) helped transform my yard from a sterile place without hope into a garden of happiness and abundance. We hung wind chimes that tingled and tangled and rang with mellow vibes. However, last Monday at four am a wind rose up, a strong wind, a biblical wind, a wind of vengeance and wrath. This wrathful wind swirled and cantered and brushed and beat and wrenched and rang changes through those summer chimes that were particularly annoying because I never shut my bedroom door and rarely shut the bathroom window located as it is above the yard.

The previous evening I watched 'Manon des sources' a film about betrayal and revenge in rural France.

Nevertheless triumph also visited my home in those early hours with my partner in the female ice doubles when arms raised and bodies extended we skated with grace and poise, spinning once, spinning twice, spinning three and then four times through a faultless loop that reversed into the centre of a barn filled with grain dryers. We held the position... we held the audience... we waited for the... applause, but instead of bliss we got bells and I woke up.

Currently the chimes are in my kitchen where I suspect they'll remain until next summer.

Damn, and we were looking at Gold too.