TODAY'S SOUNDTRACK - The yelling pain from my lower back, dangerous amounts of traffic and "Love Rears Its Ugly Head" by Living Colour.
Well, Gaz and I ended up in Tito's on Friday night. Actually, that's not strictly true. Tito's and Mambo's have gone all Tenerife and are, respectively, demanding a HUGE entrance fee and couples only. Fuck's sake. Tito's has armed security which kind of lessens the hippy vibe somewhat. There may have been another reason they didn't want our sort in there - all three of us got 'Holi'd' up near Babute's on the main road. We were walking to Nirvana for dinner - which was perfect as always - when we heard the shouting of drumming, so we went over for a look. The first geezer to clock us came over with a handful of red powder. We thought we were going to have our foreheads discreetly marked, but no. Those fuckers rubbed handfuls on our heads, taking turns to twat each of us. Still, we did look pretty, faces red, green, a bit bluish. Felt a little uncomfortable when it started landing on my food, mind you... All we heard for the rest of the night from locals was, "Nice colours! Happy Holi!" Yeah, nice one - who's gonna get my Withnail t-shirt back to what it was, eh?
So after sacking off Tito's and Mambo's, we ended up in Cape Town Bar (I think), which had free entry and a definite lack of self importance. Danced like twats for several hours, eventualy getting in at about hald four, which is quite impressive for an old cunt like me these days. I was up for staying out longer, but Gaz went all rubbish and insisted on leaving. Wuss.
We were woken at half eleven by a bloke banging on the door to fix the French Door which fell out on to the patio the previous evening while Gaz and I were out and Dad was sleeping. I'd been informed on the phone that the door fixer would be along first thing. Guess they start later in these here parts... But never mind - down to Pedro's for breakfast/lunch.
A couple of interesting things about visiting Pedro's this time - the greeting of recognition is always great, as were the inquiries about the kids, but why do Pedro and Cyril, his right hand man, as it were, have it in their heads that my name is Richard? Gaz maintains that it's because I look like a dick - everyone's a fuckinig comedian... An afternoon down the beach, then, eating great food, drinking cold beer, swimming in the warm ocean and enjoying a generally convival atmosphere. Alas, something always has to come alonbg to spoil one's perfect mood. In this case, we needed to be spared two things. It may well be some horrifically ageist and sexist instinct (in which case, I can't help it) within me, but please, please, please pass a law banning the wearing of bikinis by the over sixties. And then make sure that if they have to wear them, then they keep them on. Jesus, I know that no one's going to sculpt statues or paint portraits of me as a perfect physical specimen, but for fuck's sake, put your leathery, wizened, mahogany coloured tits away, i beg of you. May never get hard again...
Actually, spare me three things - middle aged men in G-strings. What's that all about? Does your arse need tanning that much? This bastard - must be Scandanavian; they always seem to be - was also kind enough to bend over as I was staring at him in fascinated abhorrence. He's also got some kind of stupid skull cap he wears, a silly little pointless pony tail (and a thinning patch on the top of his head, thank you very much) and a wanky little pencil moustache hugging his upper lip. Through no real fault of his own - apart from all of his above actions, of course - this complete stranger who has done absolutely nothing to me, has provoked an instant, intense and irrational loathing. He's clearly also provoked alliteration.
It's just all gone a bit Benidorm, at least in Calangute which, I know, is not representing of Goa as a whole. It's all Brits with skin the colour wooden furniture, guts the size of sheds, elderly Yorkshire accents, if they're not Russian, that is. It just feels as though something's been lost, somehow. Where are the groups of young people (careful, Conrad, you're showing your age), looking for the parties, off their skulls on every single thing they can lay their hands on, sleeping around willy nilly? I'll be honest, it may be the last part I miss most. Is it progress? We could almost be in Aiya fucking Napa or something, and that really hurts. Nothing stays the same, I know - how can it? - but it feels as though someone's stolen this place from me. And I want it back. Also, there are lots more Indian holidaymakers here, especially at weekends, as if they've now discovered what a Hell of a place they have. Perhaps that's down to a new youthful affluence, I don't know. I'm not knocking the Indian tourists, you understand, just making an observation. Sorry to say it, though, but Goa has changed and I'm not convinced that it's for the better. It's hard to define, this feeling, but it can most certainly be felt. Once people start telling their friends about this great place they've been to, wherever in the world that might be, then it stands to reason that more and more people are going to go there - Palolem in southern Goa is a prime example of this. What was once a beautifully tranquil beach is now just the same as everywhere else and that is a genuine shame.
Mind you, Newton's Supermarket in Calangute must have the most beautiful work force on the planet. Blimey, Charlie. When you're in a place where Freida Pinto wouldn't stand out, you know you're in the right place.
I was also lucky enough to see a dirty great big punch up on the beach yesterday. I was walking past a group of Indian lads (all wearing Goa t-shirts, clearly tourists) when a life guard ran up to them. He put the stuff he was carrying on the sand a launched a haymaker at one of these lads, and there was about ten of them. Next thing, it all kicks right off. Other life guards came out of nowhere - for all I know, they came out from the sand, because they just appeared, like that - and began to wade in, swinging their floats about, feet and fists flailing around everywhere and everyone was shouting. Eventually, two life guard jeeps came tearing down the beach to try and sort it out. When I left them to it, it was far from over, but the thrilling violence had come to an end and I couldn't be bothered to listen to an argument I couldn't understand. Would have been interesting to know what triggered it all off, though...
And now, yes, my back has gone on me. I had to leave Gaz and Dad early last night because of the pain and I had a dreradful night - pain and terrifyingly bad dreams. I may go down to see Oliver at The Kismat later, because this just won't do. I've taken fuck knows how many pain pills and I'm curtailing this. There's barely even been a mention of the dancing Hippy at the night market with his smugly ethereal expression who was only missing a set of finger fucking cymbals.
Anyway, boo ya!
Well, Gaz and I ended up in Tito's on Friday night. Actually, that's not strictly true. Tito's and Mambo's have gone all Tenerife and are, respectively, demanding a HUGE entrance fee and couples only. Fuck's sake. Tito's has armed security which kind of lessens the hippy vibe somewhat. There may have been another reason they didn't want our sort in there - all three of us got 'Holi'd' up near Babute's on the main road. We were walking to Nirvana for dinner - which was perfect as always - when we heard the shouting of drumming, so we went over for a look. The first geezer to clock us came over with a handful of red powder. We thought we were going to have our foreheads discreetly marked, but no. Those fuckers rubbed handfuls on our heads, taking turns to twat each of us. Still, we did look pretty, faces red, green, a bit bluish. Felt a little uncomfortable when it started landing on my food, mind you... All we heard for the rest of the night from locals was, "Nice colours! Happy Holi!" Yeah, nice one - who's gonna get my Withnail t-shirt back to what it was, eh?
So after sacking off Tito's and Mambo's, we ended up in Cape Town Bar (I think), which had free entry and a definite lack of self importance. Danced like twats for several hours, eventualy getting in at about hald four, which is quite impressive for an old cunt like me these days. I was up for staying out longer, but Gaz went all rubbish and insisted on leaving. Wuss.
We were woken at half eleven by a bloke banging on the door to fix the French Door which fell out on to the patio the previous evening while Gaz and I were out and Dad was sleeping. I'd been informed on the phone that the door fixer would be along first thing. Guess they start later in these here parts... But never mind - down to Pedro's for breakfast/lunch.
A couple of interesting things about visiting Pedro's this time - the greeting of recognition is always great, as were the inquiries about the kids, but why do Pedro and Cyril, his right hand man, as it were, have it in their heads that my name is Richard? Gaz maintains that it's because I look like a dick - everyone's a fuckinig comedian... An afternoon down the beach, then, eating great food, drinking cold beer, swimming in the warm ocean and enjoying a generally convival atmosphere. Alas, something always has to come alonbg to spoil one's perfect mood. In this case, we needed to be spared two things. It may well be some horrifically ageist and sexist instinct (in which case, I can't help it) within me, but please, please, please pass a law banning the wearing of bikinis by the over sixties. And then make sure that if they have to wear them, then they keep them on. Jesus, I know that no one's going to sculpt statues or paint portraits of me as a perfect physical specimen, but for fuck's sake, put your leathery, wizened, mahogany coloured tits away, i beg of you. May never get hard again...
Actually, spare me three things - middle aged men in G-strings. What's that all about? Does your arse need tanning that much? This bastard - must be Scandanavian; they always seem to be - was also kind enough to bend over as I was staring at him in fascinated abhorrence. He's also got some kind of stupid skull cap he wears, a silly little pointless pony tail (and a thinning patch on the top of his head, thank you very much) and a wanky little pencil moustache hugging his upper lip. Through no real fault of his own - apart from all of his above actions, of course - this complete stranger who has done absolutely nothing to me, has provoked an instant, intense and irrational loathing. He's clearly also provoked alliteration.
It's just all gone a bit Benidorm, at least in Calangute which, I know, is not representing of Goa as a whole. It's all Brits with skin the colour wooden furniture, guts the size of sheds, elderly Yorkshire accents, if they're not Russian, that is. It just feels as though something's been lost, somehow. Where are the groups of young people (careful, Conrad, you're showing your age), looking for the parties, off their skulls on every single thing they can lay their hands on, sleeping around willy nilly? I'll be honest, it may be the last part I miss most. Is it progress? We could almost be in Aiya fucking Napa or something, and that really hurts. Nothing stays the same, I know - how can it? - but it feels as though someone's stolen this place from me. And I want it back. Also, there are lots more Indian holidaymakers here, especially at weekends, as if they've now discovered what a Hell of a place they have. Perhaps that's down to a new youthful affluence, I don't know. I'm not knocking the Indian tourists, you understand, just making an observation. Sorry to say it, though, but Goa has changed and I'm not convinced that it's for the better. It's hard to define, this feeling, but it can most certainly be felt. Once people start telling their friends about this great place they've been to, wherever in the world that might be, then it stands to reason that more and more people are going to go there - Palolem in southern Goa is a prime example of this. What was once a beautifully tranquil beach is now just the same as everywhere else and that is a genuine shame.
Mind you, Newton's Supermarket in Calangute must have the most beautiful work force on the planet. Blimey, Charlie. When you're in a place where Freida Pinto wouldn't stand out, you know you're in the right place.
I was also lucky enough to see a dirty great big punch up on the beach yesterday. I was walking past a group of Indian lads (all wearing Goa t-shirts, clearly tourists) when a life guard ran up to them. He put the stuff he was carrying on the sand a launched a haymaker at one of these lads, and there was about ten of them. Next thing, it all kicks right off. Other life guards came out of nowhere - for all I know, they came out from the sand, because they just appeared, like that - and began to wade in, swinging their floats about, feet and fists flailing around everywhere and everyone was shouting. Eventually, two life guard jeeps came tearing down the beach to try and sort it out. When I left them to it, it was far from over, but the thrilling violence had come to an end and I couldn't be bothered to listen to an argument I couldn't understand. Would have been interesting to know what triggered it all off, though...
And now, yes, my back has gone on me. I had to leave Gaz and Dad early last night because of the pain and I had a dreradful night - pain and terrifyingly bad dreams. I may go down to see Oliver at The Kismat later, because this just won't do. I've taken fuck knows how many pain pills and I'm curtailing this. There's barely even been a mention of the dancing Hippy at the night market with his smugly ethereal expression who was only missing a set of finger fucking cymbals.
Anyway, boo ya!
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