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.

Statue 71 meanwhile...

only stands and waits.

Crosby Beach.

Been to Crosby Beach again today. I took loads of photos but unfortunately can't seem to upload them more than one at a time. So, here's one to wet the appetite whilst I try and sort out the problem.

I went with a mate Vanessa and we walked virtually the full exhibition length (approximately two K by the way). The beach was wonderful, the exhibition superb, the weather loverly and the public loos grim. About that I'll say no more.

It was impressive to see so many children, adults, even dogs enjoying the statues. On statue 99 there was dog pee which I thought typical. You expose them to a bit of culture and if they can't eat it, fuck it or wee on it then no meaning is possible. Dogs, can't live with them... er, can't live with them.

The Mersey was busy with big ships coming and going, most probably related to the high tide that occured as we arrived. Not that I'm implying the tide had anything to do with us, oh no.

Back in Manchester I now think of that tide carrying ships into port, its steady swell easing ships out of port, it's gentle waves washing the feet of statue 99...

Today a structural engineer...

visited my little home to look at a wall crack. Five years ago the gable end to my house was becoming detached and had to be re-pinned. These blokes came round with a van and lifted floorboards, drilled holes, poked things through, twisted metal into brick, secured rods onto joists, one per metre front to back on the first and second elevations. They had certificates and letters after their names, were members of guilds and stuff. One of them arrived today (fulfilling his obligation to their 25 year guarantee of workmanship) and declared my wall unmoved. Said he thought the crack (to describe it as .5mm would be generous) was a bit of shrinkage on some duff plastering I did a couple of years ago. Hey, the man's in a guild, he speaks the truth. It was a relief.

I called the engineers originally after becoming worried the gable end might fall away when I was on the loo. Think of how distressing that would be. A double whammy, house wrecked and eternal shame in one fell swoop. Sod those crushed under falling masonry. People might see me doing my business.

The current crack is situated opposite the loo in the bathroom. I sometimes worry that I'm being watched, maybe through the crack. I tried explaining this to the engineer but he said it was unlikely. Unlikely? I took comfort from the fact he might be an expert on gables but knew bugger all about ga ga.

Sanity has temporarily prevailed...

in Liverpool as the burghers of Sefton vote to reprieve Anthony Gormley's exhibition Another Place on Crosby Beach. Hurrah! I'm going on Sunday to look at it once more but this time with my new Nikon D50 camera that I've finally purchased to replace the one stolen. Boooooo! So I'm happy. Hurrah and a downright almighty Huzzah too!

Not that I wish to appear materialistic but as mentioned passim I loved that camera more than life itself and once stolen it was as if a limb had been lopped from my withered frame. Now I am restored and once again photographs shall grace this old blog of mine. That is, as soon as I can learn again how to use the damn thing.

Mini huzzah!

It's really complicated...

I returned to work...

with a song in my heart. Of course the innards are not quite right but that's innards for you. In my experience innards can be tricky so it's best to take care of them. Take care of your innards and they'll take care of you I'm sure someone once said. Amen to that.

In Catholicism the Sacred Heart is an important icon with which I was often confronted as a small child. Bluntly put, the image is of Jesus chest cracked open to reveal his glowing heart. The holy organ exposed not for gory but glory. One shudders to think of how they'd represent the sacred colon. Some might declare it sacriligous to raise such an issue but pourquoi? Doth the scriptures not proclaim, "No blessed innard shall be higher than another. And thrice nay?"

Or as John Wayne so wisely observed in The Greatest Story Ever Told, "This colon truly was the sump of God."

I'm feeling...

better today. Remarkably, despite being as sick as the proverbial mutt I've not been drawn to daytime tv. Phew, at least the power to live has not yet fled, which probably means I'll be okay and am through the worst. I posted this last year and really haven't changed my opinion regarding the mindnumbing banality daytime television represents. D/tv reminds me of those straws used by ancient Egyptian embalmers to suck brain from the skulls of dead Pharoahs.

Don't get me wrong my criticism is not of the audience, it's of the producers for making this crap.

I'm going to lie down.

Grrrr.

Since Friday...

I've been a sick as a dog. Bleurgh!

I really like beetroot...

pickled or otherwise. I'm a lover of all things pickled except sparrows. Once in Cyprus I happened upon a shop with jars of what I took to be misshapen pickled eggs. The owner said they were pickled sparrows. Returning to the UK I feverishly sought out pickling books but found no mention of the humble sparrow. Recently sparrows in the UK have been in decline, much to the puzzlement of scientists. Hmmm. Might be time to look once more in the pickling section of my local bookshop. Might find an answer, save sparrows, maybe win a prize. Become known as Sparrow Dan.

Maybe not.

My mate...

Jo's cellar is flooded. Me and Sean are going for a tattoo each next Saturday. At a works do on Friday night I told another friend I had the hots for her

I'm currently reading The History of Love by Nicole Krauss because I was struggling to get into John Banville's The Sea. Not sure what the Banville problem is but I'm on page 43 and still haven't got the novel's rhythm. Most frustrating. On the other hand the Krauss caught me on the first page.

Yada yada yada.



Just come across this. Earlier last week Government Minister Jack Straw (one of the architects of Britain's disastrous involvement in Iraq) made a statement saying Muslim women should not wear the chador or full veil. He insists such women who attend his surgery remove their headwear.

I like this response from the Respect Party.


Straw should hide his face in shame
A woman's right to choose. Defend diversity.

Anti-war campaigners will be amongst those protesting outside Jack Straw's office in Blackburn tomorrow (Sat).

And Stop The War founder and, longtime womens rights campaigner, Lindsey German, believes Jack Straw's remarks will do nothing to serve the cause of community relations in Britain. "Nobody could see Mr Straw's face when he chose to "communicate" his views in a newspaper column or again on the Today programme, a radio programme, this morning," said Lindsey.

"He knew perfectly well that we did not see his eyes, ears, nose, mouth or indeed any part of his body to make his uncomfortable views plain. "To expect some Muslim women to make him feel more comfortable by disrobing is both a sleezy and racist attack.

"His own, less than sartorial, dress code does not appear the epitome of good manners to victims of the illegal war in Iraq to which he was so central.

"Britain would be alot better off if Jack Straw were to hide his face in shame!"