web analytics
 

My mates are crap. Not once have I come home from a trip down the coast to find they've plumbed up all the taps in my home to beer kegs. Not once! It's just poor form.

It's a little known fact that the word Parkour comes from the French and translated literally means, "lover's escape". The term was first coined back in 1927 after an episode in Paris' 7th Arrondissement - not far from the Hôtel des Invalides and a mere clove's throw from the southern banks of the Seine - where Cartwright P. Moocjheenie (lover, philanthropist) was caught four stories up, with his pants down.

I remember my first taste of Red Bull. It was the mid-nineties, I was hanging out in a bean-bag bar on Khao San Road in Bangkok watching a dodgy copy of Beverly Hills Cop III, with a bunch of happy Brits and a hippy Dane by the name of Munz. Munz had a massive head. Munz offered me what looked like a medicine bottle with a little Thai script and a couple of bulls in profile, on the label.

The day is hellish. It's as muggy as Hades with a hulking swell and a vertical driving rain that's kept everyone off deck. I'm told - perhaps presumptuously - that we'll probably be barging the bilge through the thwacker before any respite from the starboard for neigh on six. Whatever the fuck that means. By my reckoning we're still making decent time though, pushing on through open water aided by a 45 knot sou-wester toward Sulat Sunda - the passage of sea that separates the Indonesian islands of Java and Sumatra.

I'm an avid, but decidedly average guitarist. Growing up I was surrounded by friends who were wonderful guitarists. My high school seemed to produce them like an assembly line. I got plucked from the line by quality control at a very early age. To this day many of my closest friends can still make a bunch of nylon, steel and spruce, sing like a bird. Despite all my efforts at learning, my music still sounds more like the wailing of an ebola victim than bird-song.

Born of the lack of a quality all you could eat restaurant in 1930's, depression-stricken London, the Astray Buffet first flung open it's doors on Fleet Street in 1931 (in the process, injuring a sleeping drunk who'd set up camp in the foyer, according to the Associated Press). With it's prime locale — merely metres from the Royal Courts of Justice and a short stroll from the Headjob and Handbrake — the original Astray Buffet soon gained notoriety for all the wrong reasons. In short, those who could afford to indulge in it's delicacies — namely, the legal professionals and journalists that frequented that quarter of London — would never get the chance.

Me: So I'm thinking of giving this whole blogging thing a bit of a go. What do you think? My Friend: A blog, what the hell for? Haven't you got like ten web-sites sitting out there silently gathering cyber-dust already? Why not re-vamp one of them? Me: Because I want to write what I want to write, when I want to write it.