Persian Gulf

God Almighty. Usually they find me, but this time I can blame no-one else for my ill fortune. The Devil held out his foul odious hand and I snatched at it greedily - hungry for a new place to live in a nice area. That much I got, but as is often the case when you sell your soul to Vincent, the deal came at a Price.

I'd be lying if I said alarm bells weren't peeling incessantly the first time I visited my new place in Greektown, just off the famous Danforth Avenue. Not for the area itself, you understand. A more leafy suburban district you couldn't hope to find and initially it seemed like the ideal antidote to the festering pustule I'd been living in for the last few months. Even the local crackheads outside the subway station (Chester) appeared a cut above the rest, offering a welcoming pasty near-death grin when I first arrived - little did I realise that although legless, penniless and carrying with them the concentrated scent of a thousand rat's crotches, they were actually the lucky ones. In fact, I'd have gladly shacked up with the hopeless and toothless had I been offered the alternative if I knew then what I know now. My new housemate, Affas. What. A. Cunt. I'm sorry, Mum, I know you read this, but even cunt seems like a tame description of this capital cockmunch.

My first experience of him should have told me everything I needed to know and in my defense I did go back to the halls (oh dingy infested halls, how I miss you) and tell everyone he was a bit of a dick, but that would turn out to be the understatement of the year. Before meeting up at the flat I had spoken to him briefly on the phone and had gleaned from that short exchange that he was British, quite posh, from London and a pretty confident guy, so when the door opened I couldn't have been more shocked. What I had expected to see was a well-groomed youngish chap, maybe even in a suit, and instead what stood before me was a terrifying figure who could easily have been the bastard offspring of a sinister liaison between Saddam Hussein's uglier brother and a mangy old goat. Affas Massumi. 37 years old, of Iranian descent, about six foot tall and one of the world's truest examples of an arsehole. Not the colloquial insult version, you understand, but actually the living embodiment of a stinking puckering ring of flesh meant only for squeezing shit out of. Bloody hell, that's strong, even for me - but read on and I reckon you'll make the rusty sheriff's badge connection all by yourself.

After a cursory glance around the flat and what it had to offer - very nice, actually… dammit! - Affas suggested we go outside onto the roof terrace so he could, 'get a flavour'. Jesus, what was I thinking? I've been trying to come up with the best way to describe the way he speaks. He would probably tell you it's along the lines of Nigel Havers or Daniel Craig, but the truth is far more like a well-to-do David Brent. There are different pitches as well, depending on what the subject matter is. It's an excruciatingly lackadaisical drawl when he talks about himself - his achievements, successes, accomplishments, 'has anybody checked out me, by the way? - but it lends itself a much more disturbing and feverish quality when he drools on about women. Now I like a beer and every now and then I can enjoy a game of footy - God knows, I've even been known to mime kick-starting a motorbike while squeezing out a little Tommy squeaker, but all of this sinks into the quagmire of insignificance when compared to the laddy intensity this guy has when describing women. On these occasions he instantly becomes much more animated and starts to gurn and clench his teeth as he looks at you intently and tells you exactly how it is. 'She's got a great arse, Andrew, right? One you just wanna squeeze so tight it leaves a fucking bruise, yeah?' Actual quote from first day. I mean, what do you say to this? 'She has the kind of smile that makes you wanna smash her in the face with a table leg'? Oh, Mama - what have I got myself into?

Anyway, so still on the first day of meeting and we're back up on the roof terrace again. 'You'll probably see this at some point', he says rolling up a sweaty sleeve and pointing to a tattoo of a heart with a name in the middle (mmm - classy) The name in the heart is that of his dead dog (his dog?) but the more important issue is that as he points to this it suddenly becomes very apparent that he's flexing his arm muscle and looking directly at me again. Does he want to bruise my bottom, was one of the first things to cross my mind, but I quickly ruled that out. The only man he's ever loved looks back at him in the mirror every day with finger pistols locked, cocked and ready to rock. In fact, just when I thought he couldn't love himself anymore I was taking my first poop and glanced up to the wall to see framed pictures of himself and articles cut out of newspapers about the coffee shop he used to own. I've heard of insecurity, but this bloke is more insecure than shares in the new Baghdad-based china and glassware emporium. I just don't think mummy paid this one enough attention. In fact, that brings me to my next quote. After telling me the story about his dog - how it died young, how he spent a fortune trying to save its life - apparently he's not as God-like as he'd hoped - how he got the tattoo to commemorate the dog passing (his dog?) he went on to say, 'that was the lowest point in my life. I can safely say if my mum had died I wouldn't have felt as bad.' Now I love my cats in England. Pat and Dave have provided me with years of scratchy and furry fun, but if it came to a Sophie's Choice-style decision as to who would have to go out of them and Mummy Dearest, they'd be in a shallow grave under the apple tree before you could say, 'which way to Cat-Mart?'. Surely his are the ramblings of a mad man - I mean, his dog?

So the real question is why? Why did I take the flat after all the evidence put before me? And the answer is, genuinely, I was desperate - desperate and lazy. This was the first place I'd looked at since knowing I was gonna be evicted from Neill Wycik and as the deadline drew closer it just seemed like it would be easy. I wouldn't have to hang out with the guy, I thought, and it's only for a few weeks. Where's a flux capacitor when you need one? He's turned out to be more intrusive than a colonic and now that I've spent a whole week with him I definitely know that I've made a monumental mistake. Never mind, at least it makes for (hopefully) good material for you people and has also been a key factor in the rekindling of an old love affair between me and my old self-harming knife, Stabby. Sweet, sweet pain makes it all better. I've been writing down almost everything he says (mostly in disbelief) but have chosen only to post a couple of highlights as I think I was becoming dangerously obsessed with the whole situation. If you want to hear some more crackers let me know in the comments and I'll stick a couple more down in next week's posting, but for now I'll leave you with one of this week's more clench-worthy efforts. Pointing to his bedroom he has assured me with a knowing smile, 'I know what I'm doing in there.' So do I, Affas - it's called masturbating, probably over a picture of yourself.

Little extra bit here to say thanks again to Stoxie and Rob who revisited the comments page last week and left some more sterling efforts. Cheers for that, lads, and it just goes to prove my theory that the blog is a lot like crack and Othello - very moreish. It should also be noted that I've changed the name of the knobcheese cos I reckon he probably Googles himself a few times a week and if he saw this I'd be on the receiving end of one of those powerful arms - that is simply not an option. Ta ta.

(PS Congratulations Keith and Ruth - Baby Elliot James was born on 22nd August and by all accounts sounds like a cracker. Can't wait to meet him!)

Global Warming

One question: Have you accepted Jesus Christ into your life? It's make your mind up time and, I'm sorry to have to inform you, the wrong decision will result in spiky perverts sandpapering your skin off and dipping you in boiling mace while stapling your eyes open and forcing you to watch them wear your favourite pet as a Satanic cock glove - for all eternity. Get the picture yet? You're going to Hell, sunshine, where they dish out 3rd degree burns for breakfast, 2nd degree murder for lunch and dine heartily on a 1st degree with honours from Cambridge in hot poker insertion for dinner. I am, of course, speaking in reference to the revelations (no pun intended) that lie within the life-changing literature I acquired on a shopping trip recently - the bone-chilling front cover of which you can see in the photo above. On first glance you could be forgiven for mistaking the pamphlet for an Indian restaurant menu, but don't be fooled - this writing could very well save not just your life, but your afterlife life. For me, the most crucial of the life lives.

It's important you understand exactly where these particular words of God came from - this should allow you to make your own mind up as to the validity of the bubbling brimstone rhetoric that lies therein. You may be familiar with the various techniques those known in the business as 'soul winners' use to try and, well, win your soul - some may approach you on the street and suggest you repent your sins gently, others may actually come knocking on your door with their arms filled with Lord-based literature insisting you join them on the road to salvation. The owner of my new favourite way-to-avoid-hell manual has a very unique method whereby it's not just the writing that induces fear in his audience.

Making your way down the hustle and bustle of Yonge Street (the longest street in the world, remember) can be trying at the best of times. In the summer it's hot, busy and full of focused shoppers all hungry for bargains with their eye on a much-reduced prize. There are people playing enlarged chess (?) painted statue 'performers' and people drawing massive blown-up versions of classic paintings - all craving attention and, more importantly, a quick buck from us. Intermingled with these artists are the obligatory religious representatives all trying to convince you that their's is the one true Almighty. These God-botherers are fairly regularly placed, peppered as they are between the street performers and the street dwellers, and their position really makes quite a lot of sense when you think about it. If you manage to fend off the other hands held out for money from you, maybe your guard will be down and you'll be more receptive when someone is actually offering something to you. This is a logic employed by all the God Squad reps - all but one. Walk a little way down Yonge and just before you come to a pedestrian crossing, just outside the huge Eaton Centre Mall that dominates the high street, you may see a strange sight. Every so often the group of shoppers that find themselves waiting patiently to cross leap into the air in perfect unison.

The reason for this phenomenon stands next to the crossing all day, every day and in himself is not really that spectacular. He's a short old man, probably somewhere in his 60s, with dumpy features and wispy white hair. His clothes are drab and plain and a little dirty, but other than that you wouldn't really give him a second glance - and that's his secret, whether he knows it or not. To be honest, I'm pretty sure he doesn't. This incognito allows him to infiltrate large groups of people without notice and when they're all gathered he let's rip with his one word sermon. 'JESUS!'. Let me tell you, when you're next to him, as I have been on more than one occasion, having the son of God's name screamed out at that kind of level is truly a religious experience - most people there repeat His name, at the very least. You should note at this point, though, that it's not 'Jesus Christ', or 'Jesus be praised', or even 'Jesus is coming, look busy', just simply 'JESUS!' and I think that's why I like him so much. Apart from his occasional roar, the little man is quite unassuming. He shrieks Jesus and then (it's the methodical nature I love too) his eyes looking thoughtfully down at the street, his arm bends slowly towards the crowd much like an expensive tape deck opening and in his hand he holds out the reason for his outburst - the pamphlet. As you can imagine, given the madness that preceded its arrival, I had to have a copy of this, if only to write about it for you guys (I'm always thinking of you) but I'm not sure who was more shocked when I made a grab for it, the people I was with or the little mentalist himself. I actually think he only had the one copy with him, so I may have made history that day by taking it - I like to do my bit when I can. Turning round when I got to the mall doors he let me know he was better prepared than I thought though, as I saw a brand new group of unsuspecting pedestrians all launch into the air simultaneously.

Take a moment to look at the front cover - if you click on the photo above you'll get a much bigger version of it. What can you say to that? 'THOUSANDS OF DEGREES HOT - And not a drop of water.' Do people actually believe this? I can definitely accept that a crazy old man who stands on street corners shouting 'Jesus' at the top of his lungs takes this kind of thing as gospel, but are real humans actually capable of accepting a man with horns, a pencil moustache (a pencil moustache, people! Is there anything more indicative of evil?) and a remarkable likeness to Vincent Price sits nonchalantly beneath the Earth on a throne made of, I don't know, kitten heads watching over the systematic, perpetual and eternal torture of sinner souls? I'm just not buying it, I'm afraid. I mean, a pencil moustache?! Along with the enticing front cover the pamphlet reads like a one-to-one with David Koresh. We're talking fire, brimstone, sulphur, damnation, horrific acts of hellish proportions all raining down upon the non-believers - but, curiously, all related in a strikingly familiar manner. Here's a passage which I think illustrates this quite well:

'You will be crying and begging for one drop of water to cool your scorching tongue. But it will be too late! How about it, friend. Is HELL the place you want to spend eternity?'

Hmm. Don't feel obliged to answer this, although it probably wouldn't take you that long to formulate an opinion on it at the very least. I, personally, would have to say no. There are countless other examples of scare-mongering hyperbole within the pamphlet, as you can imagine, but rather than spread the word of the, frankly, bonkers I think I'll leave it there.

I feel like I should add a disclaimer here. I really don't want to offend anyone with strong religious beliefs - but I think everyone, religious or not, would agree that this kind of offering from any kind of denomination gives religion a bad name. Don't get me wrong, I love Jesus - and unicorns and Care Bears and all those guys. Anyway, thanks to Amanda for her comment about Ontario - I know it's not all depraved, but those are the crowd-pleasing parts and I have to give you what you want, right? Bye then.

The Filth And The Furry

That's it, it's over. No more drunken stumbling down Memory Lane for me, I've left Neill Wycik student halls and my looniversity days are finished - again. In a similar vein to South Central LA, members of our gang have been dropping like flies this week - only instead of being shot in the face they've been leaving on planes back to their respective countries, today signalling the last of the 16D compadres heading for home - and then there was one. Me. We've been truly international at the halls over this summer and nights out have included Mexicans, Columbians, French, Irish, Scots, Americans and, of course, good old Canadians and I have to say, I'm gonna miss it. Elements of the experience will be slightly less easy to miss - say, for instance, the mounting smell in the fridge (what the hell was that?) the perpetually sticky floor, the mouse and all its various excreted gifts and the wanky jobsworth security who actually smelt your drink in the TV room. But let's face it, an experience like this is only as good as the people you share it with and in this respect, I reckon I've been pretty lucky.

This is a pretty indulgent posting - but one I think that's richly deserved. The question is, how can this be done without sounding like the final act of a particularly bad American sitcom? You know, cheesier than the Cheddar branch of a Wosits factory. Well how about this: Aine, Norma, Luke, Clare, Ronan, Romain and Clement - you've made your family and country proud and you've also managed to make living in abject squalor amongst the drug addicts, prostitutes and nut-sacks a real pleasure. And that's no mean feat. As my stiff upper lip begins to quiver, know these two things about me:

1) You'd better leave a comment on this posting or I take it all back.

2) I think it's just something in my eye.

Thanks y'all and keep tuning in for further adventures. Bye for now.

Bum Notes

My days in Neill Wycik are coming to an end and I just realised I've never really described where I live. I know I've written that it's a student halls in the downtown area, but the place really deserves a paragraph or two, to not do so would be missing a trick - something the prostitutes around here rarely do. So, yes, it's a student halls, very close to the Ryerson University student campus and surrounding the building are many college residences and places of study. But what's strange about this location for students is its proximity to one of the more seedy neighbourhoods in the city. We are but a stone's throw from the famous Yonge Street (longest in the world at 1,800km) with all its mall-based and high street shopping, but intermingled with this are pockets of darkness, extreme poverty and smells that make your nostrils go all Kenneth Williams.

Our nearest cross streets are Gerrard and Church and whenever you mention this locality to people it's almost always greeted with a raised eyebrow - sometimes, in extreme cases, two. When we first received our orientation at the lovely Swap office they presented us with a map of the city where they'd outlined, by means of a big red rectangle, the vicinities which might be better avoided because of problems with crime and nut-nuts. Up on Gerrard and Church we sit happily on the cusp of this rectangle and from the 16th floor where I live we're able to witness all sorts of bizarre and sordid behaviour taking place in the red zone below. Almost next door to my building is what I can only think is some kind of women's refuge. At any one time there'll be at least one toothless old crone chain-smoking and squawking something indecipherable. Some of them actually don't look that insane, but don't be fooled, these are the ones who'll normally bark at you as you pass by for standing on their fag butts. During the day there's a proliferation of what I call 'daywalkers'. These are the prostitutes so low-rent that they don't even make it to the more glamorous night-shift and instead hustle for business around the park area near to the halls, deceptively named Allan Gardens. This is no garden and Allan, wisely, has long since gone. One particular daywalker, who I see every time I go for a run (that's right, ladies) is in a pretty bad way. She's about five foot in her heels and has the look of a scraggy marionette being operated by a rage victim from 28 Days Later - if you don't know that reference, the Tasmanian Devil is a close comparison. Crack Whore Magazine are itching to get her story. She's just itching.

A little further down the road, past the insane crone shelter, is a covenant for abused kids. A banner above it reads, 'Sadly it's our 25th anniversary', and outside are nearly always teenagers who look hagged and old before their years. Poor souls. I'll leave that there - turns out there are some places even I won't go. To lighten the mood a little let's talk about the tramps, of which there are a multitude. We have it all. Fat ones, thin ones, hairy ones, bald ones, naked ones, tall ones, drunk ones - actually they're all drunk - high ones, sad ones, happy ones, surly ones… But you get the picture, the tramp fraternity is not in the least bit discriminatory, all you need to join is dirty fingernails, the ability to sleep in open areas and carry with you, at all times, mind, a smell that would make a monkey blush. More often than not, you smell a 'bum' before you see it and now I'm in no doubt as to why they use that word to describe them over here. One specific bum, let's call him Mardy Bum, always shouts abuse at you as you walk past him and wishes you continued misfortune. Usually we pass him on the way to the Beer Store where he usefully suggests we, '...drop the fucking bottles, you fucking bastards!'. I let him know that his contribution has been duly noted and we'll get back to him. He calls me a cunt. Turns out he's remarkably intuitive for a raisin cake. I sometimes see him and the daywalker sitting next to each other and shouting. I'd love to know what they're shrieking about and that reminds me of my one-time idea for a Big Brother style show for tramps. Just put CCTV cameras up around a favourite trampy haunt and sit back and observe the madness. I even had a title for it - Tennant's Super Tramps. Endemol, if you're listening, let's talk.

Lastly we come to the nightwalkers. Those brazen harlots (literally) that swagger up and down Gerrard late at night in barely more than a bikini. Is it illegal here? I'm pretty sure it must be, yet night after night the prossies flaunt their wares for all to see. The fast food joint next to me, called Harvey's, has even acquired the nickname 'Hooker Harvey's' because of the amount of prostitutes that can always be found outside it. Let it be known though, these are no daywalkers. These women are focused on the (blow) job in hand and target potential clients with an aggression to rival that of a Wall Street broker. They're big Valkerie-esque women and their major assets are their major assets - and don't they know it. They wear next to nothing and no imagination is required as most of the time you need to brush past a rogue breast or buttock just to try and squeeze yourself down the street. Whorewatch is fairly routine up in our flat these days and most evenings at least one member of the household will take up position at the kitchen window watching the professionals tout for business, ready to cheer when one finally gets in a car. We've all become pro-whore since we arrived here. On our road, Gerrard, the girls appear to work alone, but just round the corner on Church after midnight, they start to hunt in packs. Walking back after a night out you're inevitably confronted with what appears to be a police line-up of girls all wearing little else but belts and stockings - the irony being that in both the police line-up and the girls imitation, the person who gets picked out gets screwed. Sorry.

So that's it then. A colourful neighbourhood, I think you'll agree. I'm not complaining though, it has everything a good story should. Fear, laughter, drugs, violence and bucketloads of sex. Who doesn't want to see that movie? Thanks again to those who chose to comment - that's the lovely Libby and a student from the States who I don't know. We're getting international, people. Special thanks goes to Rob who read the whole thing in one go after putting it off for as long as possible and even added a comment. I'll try hard to injure myself in the coming months, Rob, as I know those are the postings you enjoy the most. Auf wiedersehen.

Not Working 9 To 5

Turns out working isn't all it's cracked up to be. I shouldn't really complain (however, I think we all know I will) but I am doing absolutely nothing in my job at the Ministry. Now a lot of people use that term 'nothing' lightly and with some license, but believe me when I say that the grand total of my work for the last few weeks has been literally nothing. Let's see what it says in the internet dictionary:

a nonexistent thing.

This is exactly what I mean.

Nothing is an album by Swedish tech metal band Meshuggah.

This is not what I mean. Please don't get confused. Obviously it does have its advantages - I'm able to write my blog a lot more often and in more detail than I've been able to for some time (a double-edged sword, some might say) I can use e-mail all day for free and my progress at online mini pool has been monumental, but, truth be told, it can get a bit dull. Here is a list of some things I do at work when the boredom sets in:

1) Go and whinge about it to some lucky swine.

2) Watch film trailers and get depressed about not being a film maker.

3) Call England for the latest instalment of Rainwatch.

4) Take a dump and try to calculate exactly how much money I made in the process (about $2.20)

5) Turn booth into private masturbatorium and furiously try to get one off before the porn police arrive.

One of these is untrue, can you guess which one? I'll leave it to you to decide. Anyway, there's a brief summary of my working day. Nightmare! Just had this open when my boss came round the corner! Of course she didn't have any actual work for me to do, but wanted to let me know there might be something to do later on in the week. I couldn't close this or minimise cos it would've looked too obvious, so I had to leave it open while she talked to a quickly reddening me. Her eyes kept darting on and off the screen to start off with, but then she began looking at it for longer periods. Think she may have seen the masturbatorium line. Bugger. That's that over with then.

Had my own Lost In Translation experience last night involving a lift, of all things. Regular readers will recognise this particular transportation as one which has caused me anguish in the past and is beginning to take the part of my nemesis in this country. I dunno what it is about the lift - we just clearly have a mutual disdain for one another, I suppose. One cannot live while the other survives. Bonus point for anyone who gets the nerdy but topical reference. Crashing on - I got in the lift and a Japanese girl in her early 20s quickly joined me and as the doors began to close I pressed the button for my floor, 16. I asked the girl what floor she wanted as the lift creaked upwards. She said 17 and all was well. However, when we got to my floor and the doors opened the girl got out in front of me and started to walk away until I asked her, 'didn't you want 17?'. Apparently this is hilarious, as she folded up with uncontrollable laughter at my suggestion and was pointing directly at me. Wittier readers may have already begun to formulate triumphs of comedy involving her pointing and laughing simply because of the way I look, but I'm pretty convinced, monstrous though my appearance may be, that this didn't have anything to do with it.

I stood there with a look of bewilderment, transfixed by the bizarre creature as she continued to laugh for what seemed like hours and repeated '17!', as if it were truly the funniest thing she'd ever heard. Eventually I shook off the hypnotic snare of this grotesquely odd situation, realising it was a dreadful miscommunication which I, frankly, couldn't be bothered to rectify. Instead I turned and made my way back to my flat door muttering, more to appease myself than anything, 'this is 16, you daft cow', at which point she decided to try what would have been her equivalent door on the 17th floor and completely lost it. My flat was open at this point and although she had turned now and was looking to me to join in the just weird revelry, I quickly spun round the doorframe and slammed the door in her face. I need explanations here, people. What was I missing? Can anyone offer any light?

That's how for now. Any web pages I should be looking at during my 'down-time' would be gratefully received. All contributions to the usual address.

Sunny Disposition

Man, is it hot. I'm sorry to rub it in, cos I know the vast majority of people (about seven, to be more precise) who read this blog are from England and for you all this summer has been, if you'll pardon the pun, a washout - but over here it's bloody boiling and I don't fare well in these conditions. Being of pink skin (damn you, genes) I don't have the luxury of enjoying this kind of weather on the beach or in scorching parks, instead I have to put on sun factor so high it may as well be emulsion paint and retreat into the shadows hissing and scratching at the sun as it bends its way towards me in terrifyingly open areas. At least I'll maintain a youthful visage, is my mantra at these times as I watch the bronzed figures smugly frying in the heat.

Just to give you an idea of how susceptible my family is to the rays of the big yellow bastard in the sky, my older brother, Richard (God bless you, boss) once burnt his eyeballs on a family trip to Italy and my Dad, chancing an outdoor pool in the south of France - the fool - had a patch of skin the size of a golf ball burnt from his forehead which never looked the same again, much to our amusement. As for me, I remember being poolside in Ibiza with friends at the age of 18 when a girl came purposefully striding towards me. 'Finally looks like the complete lack of exercise and of anything vaguely resembling nutritious food is working out for me', I thought to myself. Her first words, however, didn't reflect my initial feelings. 'Don't go anywhere', she said, 'you make me look more tanned.' She was a ginger. I immediately took to the water after this, gleaming under the surface like a silver fishing lure and now I think you get the idea. I think I'm a winter person. I know that's more a being very white story than being badly burnt, but just suffice yourself with the knowledge that when I do burn I end up looking like The Singing Detective, but without the topless ladies or impromptu dance sequences. More's the pity.

This weekend has a bank holiday attached to the end of it (hoorah!) but it's supposed to be roasting (hiss, spit). It's not that I don't enjoy the summer and God knows I'm the first to moan about the cold (surprised?) - I'm just very aware of getting caught out and ending up looking like a plum - literally. I think things would be different if I went brown and were able to casually stroll in the sun with the other humans, I'm convinced I'd be an excellent sun-worshipper, but as I can't I'm green - or red - with envy and taking this opportunity to have a little rant about the injustice of it all. The irony in all of this is that, when burnt, my brother and I emanate about the same amount of heat as the sun and you can't look directly at us for fear of permanently damaging your eyes. Anyone who went to Richard's wedding may recognise that joke - but sod it, it's mine, I like it and I'm gonna use it again.

Quick word about the Caribana festival to finish off with then. This is another parade and two-day head-first dive into the hedonistic world of carefree Caribbean nationalism. And it's a hell of a party. Approaching the parade was actually quite unnerving with people shouting at you from pavements to buy the obligatory food, drinks and tat and a low penetrating roar, which turned out to be the music's bass, getting louder and louder with every step. By the time we made it to the central core the bass had begun to dislodge major organs and all around were insistent and searching calls for, 'big battam gurrrls!' - needless to say, they didn't have to search for long. I personally saw one girl who looked as though her arse was pregnant - twins, obviously. Unlike the Pride Festival of a few weeks back, Caribana suffers from a poor safety record and as such the parade is actually fenced in to keep the participants free of the stab-happy crowd. This would be fine were it not for the flimsy nature of said fences which eventually cracked under some pretty relentless pressure and many gaps could be found along the way with scores of revellers pouring through into the carnival proper. I'm glad to say we took full advantage of these gaps in security and soon found ourselves in the searing heat, bogling with some weird and wonderful people in outrageous costumes. There's a picture of me in amongst it at the top of this posting. I'm the one in the middle.

That should do you for now. Cheers to you, Glenda, for your insightful comments on the last posting and for casting light on the mystery of who anonymously called me a dumbass in a comment a couple of weeks back. If you wish to abuse me, why not do it in a comment too? You can make me look both popular and unpopular at the same time - a rare opportunity. A bientot.