Skip to content

India Blues

It’s a week now since I got back from Goa. This time last Monday, I was standing on Manchester Airport station waiting for the Leeds train to open its doors. My nose was red from the freezing cold and I was jet-lagged after an eleven hour flight. I had a big bag and a little bag and I was worried about getting a good seat, somewhere I could keep an eye on my bags. I was standing a polite distance from the door, which meant that a pig with no manners was able to sidle in in front of me. Bastard, I thought. Typical Englishman.

It wouldn’t have happened in Goa. In Goa, I wouldn’t have left room for a razor blade to get in front of me. With the help of my elbows, I would have been first on the train, first to dump my bags and first to get a forward-facing table-seat by the window. If no train was at the platform, I would have been suicidally close to the edge, maybe even on the track to make my point. That’s how they do things out there.

train3

 

 

 

 

 

 

Testing

testing testing testing 123

Sorry Bout Dat

Sorry about the slight delay in re-blogging, or whatever. If my first blog ever didn’t make any sense, it’s because I had a vague idea for a novel, which has since grown heartily in my undergrowth and given fruit. I’m even more determined now than i was then to write it, but there are a few problems:

Problem 1

The boy. The boy is a big problem. I’ve kicked him out, officially, but he’s always here anyway. He stays with his Mrs most nights, but she goes to work about nine, so he invariably turns up here about ten and starts doing his washing, or something even more distracting and/or annoying. He has a perfectly good flat of his own in Horseforth, the posh part of town, with a perfectly good washing machine – he’s thirty years old, for God’s sake – but, no, he always has to come here every morning to launder his kit, the insensitive, inconsiderate little bastard. From walking in to fucking off again, he can take two or three hours out of my day.

Problem 2

Jag. jag is becoming a major problem. Jagga has MS, requires 24-hour, round-the-clock care, has special needs and thinks I’m the man to oblige. When I first met him, he had just caught MS and fallen out with his Mrs, walked with a stick and had therefore lost his job as a stage hand. Apart from that, everything in the garden was rosy. His circumstances conspired to send him a large redundancy payment and the price of nearly half a house all in one go. I’d just sold my memoir¬†Urban Grimshaw and the Shed Crew¬†to some mug publishers, so we both had shit-loads of cash and ended up going on the piss together for two years.

The money and mobility has since dried up, until now he can barely get from his wheelchair in to his telly-watching chair. He was a good boozing buddy to me back in the day so I don’t blame him for all the evil deeds he must have committed in previous lives to make himself disable. [Based on research carried out by the

SBD

I’ve decided to try and write this blog in the old English. I’ve been learning it on the sly. Always capitalise proper nouns. That’s an easy one to remember. You could almost call it rule number one.