As we all know commuting to work adds a certain drudgery to the day’s proceedings; the stuffy, crowded train carriage where you rattle to work with your head lodged into somebody’s armpit. continue reading
I once heard an estate agent* say to a client (in a bright yet, sincere manner) ‘…it never rains here you won’t need any’. He was of course answering a query as to the lack of guttering on most of the old houses in Central Portugal.
He was obviously elsewhere several years ago when it rained for 12 weeks straight, flooding the entire valley and washing half of the roads and bridges away. It was the type of Biblical downpour that only a man with good boat building skills and a penchant for bestial matchmaking could appreciate. He must also be busy hibernating every spring and autumn when ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly in…’ well in Portugal apparently. There’s a reason it’s so lush and green around here.
The same estate agent** was then queried upon the lack of central heating in the aforementioned houses. This question was unfortunately posed during the balmy heat of the summer months, so it was impossible for these hapless house viewers to imagine a potential drop of over 40 degrees celcius during the few months leading up to Christmas.
In real life it gets proper cold up here in the mountains. Cold enough to need thermal pants and woolly socks. Cold enough to really need central heating and certainly cold enough to cause irreparable damage to the procreational prospects of a copper/zinc alloy based Simian.
I didn’t surf today. Too f**king cold…
*please feel free to insert one of the following words to replace ‘estate agent’: Shark, Scheister, Weisenheimer.
**at this point just ‘tool’ will do. Or any other idiomatic term for the male genitalia.
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As we all know commuting to work adds a certain drudgery to the day’s proceedings; the stuffy, crowded train carriage where you rattle to work with your head lodged into somebody’s armpit. continue reading
As Kelly Slater wins an unprecedented 11th world surfing title at the Rip Curl Search event in San Francisco, hope for all middle aged, balding men surely has to augment. continue reading
Last week I watched all of my surf videos. Even Blue Crush.
It started as an attempt to lift my spirits – to whisk me away to foreign shores where perfect waves meet perfectly placed boards in an inspirational aqueous ballet. continue reading
I have a blog. If you’re reading this and you weren’t aware of this fact then something is wrong…
In fact I have three blogs. And a Twitter stream (again, in reality there are 3). I also have a plethera of facebook pages, mostly lying comatose in the dank and dusty corridors of a virtual hospice. continue reading
Day 13:
Quarantine is not so bad when you have the social life of Captain Virgil Hilts. Another few days and I’ll know whether my scotum will balloon to the size of a Spacehopper continue reading
‘Size doesn’t matter!’… a puzzling phrase that my father used to mutter to himself a lot whilst rummaging in his man-shed. Very true of course in many respects… continue reading
It could be said that ‘sunburnt and surfed out’ is the perfect state of being. In an ideal world that would mean you’ve spent half the day getting rockrush over a Bali reef, hooking into headhigh screamers and the only shade you could find is a coral blue crystal curtain feathering over your sunkissed brow… continue reading