As soon as I turn the laptop on, and write the date my mind empties, why does that happen?
I’m in Wales international travel fans, I’m perched on the second floor of an old victorian terrace, overlooking the shingly beach at Aberystwyth, the bar is full of couples who don’t want to talk to each other; the lady with a book, the bloke flicking through his phone, checking out the Screwfix catalogue on line, and mentioning how it would be a good idea to buy plastic widgets instead off wooden as they’ll last longer.
The music is the same, I really don’t know why bars play such lame tunes all the time, as though stuck in a time warp of Coldplay, U2 and the lighthouse family with a sprinkling of Phil Collins (against all odds) to boot. Utter laziness, its like Steve Wright, the only member of the BBC DJ’s of “that” era still uninvestigated by Operation Yew Tree. Its like the music is a shitty slime dripping of the fingers of the DJ’s as though it’s secondary to their awfully back slapping self congratulationary interviews with equally awful celebrities eager to plug their own book, ghost written by a proper writer, crying on the inside as he or she pens this detritus as the celebrity pisses himself in the McDonalds ball pool.
I hate Steve Wright, even though he wished me and Mrs T Happy Wedding on Saturday 14th June 2003, on the radio as we drove to Polruan and Fowey for our first honeymoon, we are incredibly posh, arrogant and rich beyond all your wildest estimations, that we had 2 honeymoons. Get us. The first one for 5 days with mates in a cheap cottage we hired, and the second in Paxos sitting on an inflatable credit card.
I’m sitting in my room, the curtains open and the sea crashing into the shore, inky blackness would be permitting the room were it not for the damn street light out side, I wonder if it’ll stay on all night, do they turn off when everyone goes to bed these days? Bankrupt Britain apart from in London where everything whizzes round at an alarming rate of knots, now I sound like my Mum.
I drove through the most amazing countryside to get here, the Elan Valley, I took the mountain road; no sides, scrambled edges to the roads concrete and I turned the stereo unto 11 as I got over excited and took corners slightly too fast, you tend to get ahead of yourself because you can see vast stretches of road ahead and no cars to speak of, only once I reached Devils Bridge, the crossing point for Satan when he visited Aberystwyth back in the olden days, those golden days when the powers of good battled the powers of evil like in Star Wars, exactly like Star Wars.
I keep forgetting to mention, I met a really interesting bloke yesterday, he was, is an Urban Explorer, a chap who breaks into old buildings and finds tunnels and more tunnels and well, tunnels. He let me know he’s possibly found the Bewdley tunnels which connect various civic and public buildings allowing dignitaries and smugglers and condemned men to move around the town with out arousing unwanted attention. He’s got my number, I told him of a few secret places he’d not heard of yet, maybe he’ll call me and take me down a tunnel (this whole section sounds fairly suggestive to the wrong ears and eyes, its not meant to sound like that, I just thought it was a pretty cool thing to do.
The last thing before I go was that I saw load of Murmuring Starlings tonight as dusk approached, swirling around the bar at the end of the pier, I was there, glued to the window as the swooped and darted in glorious random uniformity, surrounded by the birds.It was a wonderful thing to see.