Why would you jump off a cliff? Fire, flood, rabid zombies or door-to-door salesmen coming to get ya?
Or maybe the big kids just told you to.
How about because you've attached yourself to a 30-foot-wide stretch of flourescent-pink fabric and are paying good money for the privilege of said emergency clifftop departure? Sounds good to me, I had a crack at it a few days ago, and boy, parasailing is FUN.

It didn't go quite as planned though - I hadn't planned on the hike up to a 250 foot high cliff carrying half the parasailing gear on my back in a 35 degree+ midday heat, for one thing. I was almost dead when we got to the top, I sounded like an athsmatic Darth Vader and felt like I was wearing that bloody gimp suit of his to boot - I'm not sure I have ever been quite so immensely tired in such a short space of time before in my life.
And the path we took, which was quite special, was probably about twice that length (maybe 500 feet long) in order to negotiate the convenient clumps of thorn bushes, razor grass and friendly jagged rocks, only it wound left and right as you would expect so to compensate for this deviation from the direct route it was nearly vertical, in order to make it as short as possible. How thoughtful.

Actually `path` is a bit of a glorification of what is really a goat track used only by the most foolhardy or terminally miserable goats, in truth most goats probably wouldn't touch it with someone else's but this is nothing to deter crazy Dutch parasailing instructors like Andy.
The route was very attractive but wound between such local features as wispy grass and sharp rocks, sharp rocks and thorn bushes, cacti forests and sharp rocks, and wispy grass and sweet-fuck-all; there wasn't an actual `side` to much of the route just a foothold on some half-flattened soil hanging over the jagged rocks below, with their sharpness and their spiky-jaggedy stone-rockiness, and pointy deadliness and so on (See The Simpsons; Professor Frink ).

Dutch Andy, as mentioned in the last entry, is the parasailing chappie on the beach here in Arambol and, while he's a thoroughly lovely bloke, I suspect he used to be in the French Foreign Legion or the SAS or something similar (okay, partly because of his haircut I have to admit. It's a bit Jarhead [See film; Jarhead]) because he ran up that path like an overambitious Ibex on steroids (I did find out later that he's a mountaineer - not a climber but a proper, 100-Kg-backpack-in minus-temperatures-without-sticks kind of mountaineer - and that without a team of huskies and a full seasons-worth of survival gear in his rucksack, and no yetis threatening any incursions, these little paths are to him what flat ground is like to the rest of us).
Still, I made it, even if it did cost me the use of my legs for the next 2 days and a small portion of my soul in hastily cut deal with satan while overhanging a nasty ledge.

After all that, the flight, while thrilling, was a bit of a disaster because we went off the edge (catching a kneeful of thorns en route) just as the wind chose that instant to switch around and blow more or less parallel to the cliff face; this kind of thing depends on winds hitting the cliff face at 90 degrees to the direction it (the cliff edge) runs in in order for it to create strong updrafts. That, combined with the Tubby Traveller here made it impossible to stay up for much more than 5 minutes so we had to come down pretty sharpish, and almost did so in the lake which would have been kind of cool, but mostly kind of lethal so it was nice we avoided that one, eh?

Best part of the whole thing? Landing on beach in front of scores of onlookers. How James Bond did that look I can hardly even imagine. Sweeeeeet...
I really wish I'd rented a Tuxedo just for this, even though the climb would have turned it into so much torn and flapping material. Still there's always next time - and next time is tomorrow!!

I want to go up and stay up for about an hour, as planned last time but as likewise scuppered by the wind. My legs have just about recovered now (seriously. Only yesterday did they feel normal, I went for my first try on Monday I think? Yeah probably Monday, although keeping track of days isn't easy here with no watch ) so that should be cool.
Rs 3000 (Rupees) is the deal I've done for an hour's flight - having only paid a nominal fee last time because of the shortness - which comes to about £38. If someone would care to make an enquiry into the rough cost of parasailing in the UK and post it in the comments box that would be great, the computers here are painfully slow and cost a lot (pro rata) to do any real searching on.

ALSO - *COMMENTS* If you didn't know, look at the bottom of each post and click the link labelled `Comments` to post a comment, a couple of people have asked me how to do this, so, there you go You have to fill in a few boxes then post your comment, or you can just join Blog.co.uk as a member and leave yourself logged in to make it even easier

Onwards...
I'd like to give an idea of the comparative cheapness of stuff here in Goa for anyone who is maybe thinking about coming out here - a couple of things I have already worked out:

>
Bottle of Rum (yes, the pirate theme continues) can be bought here for Rs 120 - that's exactly £1.50
One pound Fifty Pence for a full-size bottle of rum. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Amazingly I actually haven't bought one of these yet, believe it or not - and don't kid yourself this is good rum either, basic dark rum, non-spiced, but serviceable nonetheless (I've had the same stuff in bars).

Packet of cheap (Indian) cigarettes - Rs 24 which is about 30pence. Bit of a difference without all that tax, eh?
Expensive cigarettes (Marlboro etc. - Rs 90, about £1.10p

Food - main meals in restaurants from Rs 60 to Rs 250 on average, although of course there are some lightly cheaper and some up to double that top price in certain places (mixed seafood sizzlers and whole fresh fish tend to be top of the range).
Those prices above give you a main meal from about 75pPence to £3, and meals here are usually VERY generous.
By and large, anything costing Rs 100 or more (£1.25+) is going to fill you up for at least half a day, and the bread is cheap as anything and is hugely filling.
Even eating in restaurants every day you could get by on stuff like onion kulchas - (usually 2) naan-like breads made with onion - for about Rs 15, or just 20pence.

Accomodation is the expensive thing and having a nice room (like mine) with it's own bathroom - with real sit-down toilet, no less - is going to cost you about Rs 300 a night even though it's not on the beach (it's only a ¼ of a mile away or less, and I walk down the main street of about a mile in length probably four times a day anyway) which is the same as a beach hut, and although the huts make life easy for beach stuff you have the faff of mosquito nets (not needed in most guesthouse rooms) and the complete lack of security of a hut that is, essentially, made from palm leaves.
Rs 300 is about £3.75, which is the average cost per night in the tourist season (November to March).

Men's shave, usually Rs 30 or around 45pence. I had one of these literally the minute before I wandered into this 'net cafe, and hot damn it is smooth!! And slightly terrifying. I have a bit of a `thing` about getting my throat cut (thanks in part to various movies, and in part to a certain person holding a knife at my neck at some tender and vulnerable point during my childhood; you know who you are ) and it was pretty worrying at times because they use the proper old-fashioned cutthroat razors, just to make sure you fully shit yourself before you can leave.
Still, nothing ventured nothing gained, and I didn't lose anything either; ears, large quantities of blood, consciousness etc; which was nice.

Taxis - these cost a small fortune, as in any country. If you come here, whatever you do, never get a taxi in a tourist resort from anyone whjo asks YOU if you need one. Go into any hotel or guesthouse, even if you're not a customer, and ask them to call one for you but still GET THE PRICE FIRST.
Taxi men on the street will charge you Rs 2000 for a journey that should cost Rs 500 if you don't agree a price before you get in, totally guaranteed, and even if you do it's likely to be about Rs 1000 they coax out of you. Taxis and autorickshaws contain the most opportunistic Indian people you will find, if you don't arrange it first, they've got you over a barrel and as far as this culture is concerned you therefore deserve to get conned

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And, that's about it for me today.

Oh, yes, I also went for one of these hippy-esque massage/healing thingies a day or two ago and, despite the fella (an American who clearly suffered greatly at the hands of the 1960's) advertising his services as Reiki and Pranic healing he actually also has a good grounding in NLP and various general re-education/non-ridiculous therapy techniques as well.
Aside from a painful yet brilliant Swedish massage (and that's just a regular, conventional massage to those who haven't had one, nothing kinky folks ) he had a lot of good stuff to say, especially once he realised I wasn't going to give the piles of crystals he had about the place any creedance.
I've been reading quite a lot of this stuff myself lately, and basically, it all works without the need to believe in anything even the slightest bit unusual or mystical or `new-age`, and it all reinforces each other. A long steady road ahead is what I see, improving lots of things takes time but it's great to hear that what I trusted is what actually works, and to hear it from lots of different sources. Nothing too hippy here don't worry, just good psychology (and I mean that in more sense than one).

Anyway that's it bar a few minor observations, be off with ya - and someone please have a quick look into the parasailing or hangliding costs in the UK, one day course or single flights or whatever, thanks very much!!*

*Cookies will be distributed appropriately upon my return.

I already wrote all this. Forgive me if I get a little pissed off for a second.

1500 or so words that were, I thought, really quite readable and in any case were unscripted and irreplaceable, the spontaneous result of a whole week of not writing anything.
Saved on a computer because the internet failed mid-flow, saved in two seperate places to secure their survival against accidental deletion and deleted purposefully the next morning - from both places - by some unthinking person who used that machine before I got back to use it.
They cleared the recycling bin too; I just can't imagine quite why? How exceedingly stupid and pointless.

Hey ho - here we go again!!
>

I was ill last week for 3 or 4 days, and when you get ill here it's something quite spectacular, I've lost weight to the probable tune of around 10 pounds and most of it was briefly decorative, I'll say no more. It also happened to stop me drinking for 3 days though which was a pretty sweet bonus, and I even held off the alcoholic urges for 3 days afterwards because it felt so good to wake up sober!
Not bad going in a place like this, where the pasttime is to basically get leathered every day and every night (much like back home in fact but in a sort of licensed way: "it's my holiday and I'll poison myself if I want to" sort of thing).

As a result, I have learned some great things about the good Doctor Death in the village: he is not only accessible, friendly, properly qualified and happy to dispense affordable narcotics but is in fact helpful, knowledgable, speaks better English than almost everyone else and is two people.
The good doctor(s) also know an impressive amount about modern brand names for various medications and he (they) has (have) the exact same malaria tablets, for example, needed by yours truly. So I wont be dying like a quinine-deprived Victorian gentleman explorer after all, you'll be pleased to know

So I have been passing my time* playing beach football (once), eating at the best restaurant in town (twice), not playing volleyball as everyone seems rather good at it (bugger) and climbing hills and the odd cliff face (rewarding and very painful). Also lots of time, far too much time, has been spent at another restaurant, The One That Shows The Movies.
Many new and old films have I seen this week, and as well as working my way through their tragically bad menu (a Hamburger is, in fact, a square of Spam DEEP FRIED and served within a bun between two undisclosed and vaguely congealed sauces, the origins of which I would rather not enquire too deeply.
They more than make up for it with their sand-coated pool tale though, which increases the skill of all who play on it by dint of it being impossible to sink a single fucking ball without laser-guided precision in making it reach the very centre of any pocket.
Also excellent is any time spent talking to AJ, the Del Boy of the East and general manager of the whole place.

He looks like Del Boy, he has the same haircut and portly silhouette, he bahaves like Del Boy treating favoured (i.e. regular) customers with charismatically warm welcomes and insincere gestures of friendliness, and he has a curious talent for making the same kinds of mistakes.
Despite knowing people quite well, he is always ready to ascribe to them a different country of origin than the right one, a Dutch bloke from the parasailing place on the beach is, apparently, Australian, an Austrian guy who's staying near me has switched allegiances overnight and become a Spaniard without knowing it, and, in the eyes of AJ, a fella called Jason who couldn't be more Irish if you painted him green, stuffed a potato in his mouth and pints of Guinness in each hand and shoved a bunch of shamrocks in his ears has magically become Italian without anyone (bar AJ) knowing about it. Jason is in this bar each and every night and has dropped the name of his country into the conversation many times, to no effect whatsoever.

Even celebrities are not exempt from this xenomania: among others, Mel Gibson is English, and Jodie Foster is Russian. I do hope no-one has told their legal people.
I'm quite sure that I'm French or Mongolian or Japanese or something - it doesn't matter much, it's just amazing how well he has the character down pat

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I've also been reading a fair bit and, apart from the book in the footnote below, I've worked through The God Of Small Things which won the Booker prize a year or three ago. It's set in Kerala in Southern India which is where I plan to spend a good deal of time myself. As long as I don't encouter any of the characters from this work I'll be set: it is a most depressing book in places, and confirms some of my most cynical suspicions about human nature. Extremely well written and well paced however, it invents it's own language and style of language along the way and is an impressive piece of work, worth reading if you can withstand the gloomy overtones and supress the desire to throttle one of the characters in particular!

I've done one or two other things that are more interesting (for those of you whose brains have turned to cottage cheese reading this, I apologise. The last version was snappy, concise and far more interesting but some total son-of-a-bitch deleted it, so now we all have to suffer) but that's gonna get written up in a little while.
I shall leave you with a passage from the God of Small Things, because it's so bloody well written, that describes one aspect of India and of human nature, in how easy it is to forgive small hardships when you have better things to think of. I my case at the moment it's coconut palms, beaches and the English Stiff Upper Lip (SUL) that I'm leaning on, but the things I am forgiving are (perhaps not surprisingly) exactly the same

"The view from the hotel was beautiful, but here too the water was thick and toxic. No Swimming signs had been put up in stylish calligraphy. They had built a tall wall to screen off the slum and prevent it from encroaching on Kari Saipu's estate. There wasn't much they could do about the smell.

The trees were still green, the sky still blue, which counted for something. So they went ahead and plugged their smelly paradise - `God's Own Country` they called it in their brochures - because they knew, those clever Hotel People, that smelliness, like other people's poverty, was merely a matter of getting used to.
A question of discipline. Of Rigour and Air-Conditioning. Nothing more."

*Reading stephen Hawking's `A brief history of time` has made this phrase tickle me slightly. Read this book, all ye who migh'st question this world, it's fascinating, and more in-depth and interestingly explained than all other rough guides to science that I've read. It explains the `twins paradox` properly for one thing, so now I understand the real thinking behind how one of a pair of twins can be 20 when the other is 60. Gravity affects time, time isn't at all fixed for us, space isn't fixed either and black holes are truly the most fascinating things in this universe.
Read. This. Book.

I was considering going somewhere yesterday, but then realised this would be conformist and might make me some kind of `traveller` or something.
I kind of mean that and kind of don't, but in any case it has been a week of foiled schemes. I tried for about 4 consecutive days to get my hair removed and in the end I was going absolutely stir-crazy, sat in the restaurant attached to my lodgings waiting for the couple, Zoe & Mike, who had lined up to do it. I was a little crazy about the whole affair because on the evening it was set for I got myself invited with a couple of car-fulls of fellow travellers to go to Vagator, to a place called 9-Bar.

Afficionados of the magical herb will appreciate the pun here.

And after that there was a club, and a lot of silliness The next day everyone was feeling so fucking rotten (they occupied themselves that night by sitting around on the beach and drinking in heroic quantities). I think an average of about 2.75 bottles of wine went down each of their gullets, they then fell over repeatedly and hilariously, and lost worrying amounts of fluids from a variety of orifices, such is the nature of drinking wine on beaches in India.
Understandably they were all quite ruined after that, so no-one could bear to wield the brain-buggeringly noisy, wildly buzzing clippers, and I was half-demented myself after what turned out to be a fascinating, troubling, thrilling, terrifying, somewhat beautiful and completely bizarre experience. Oh yes. This is why we go to Goa, kids, although almost breaking your toes merely from dancing so hard wasn't something I thought was even possible, let alone might ever happen to me.

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It has been an interesting week; I finallly managed to get a handle on the game of poker, something I have only ever been embarassingly bad at and probably very annoying at, being so inquisitive and retarded with regards to the rules so most of the poor people I played with before have had to listen to very silly questions all through every single hand, and we were inevitably dtrinking and smoking the whole time so the questions became ever more inane, and irritatingly familiar.

The questions were still asked this time but overall I actually now `get` it, and at some point I had a worthy stack of `chips` in front of me. I use the inverted commas there because we were actually playing for bottle caps, an item every bar, restaurant and probably household has in magnificent quantities - I mean these collections are something special; we asked for a few caps to play with and were given a full bucket of them from a stockpile of buckets uncountable by anyone with the regular number of fingers and toes (given that they couldn't just count like normal people). And once you chase the 'roaches away (and keep a careful light on them while you pick yours out, lest you get a few roaches instead of bottlecaps between your fingers) they're a damn good substitute.

Inevitably I lost in the end and had to fork out a whole 50 Rupees (a stunning 60pence or so) but I wasn't the first to go, and after winning 7 or 8 hands, some with extremely good hands indeed, I had a whole night of gambling for that price. Quite chuffed, I was.
Good job I know well enough not to get too good at the game, you know me and bad habits...

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I’m building up a picture of the whole town here, slowly – it’s not easy really because everything pulls you towards the centre, or at least to certain bars and hut/restaurant complexes such as The One That Shows Cool Films Each Night (The Blue Seahorse. last night was of a Denzel Washington flavour – John Q; The Manchurian Candidate; Training Day. Tonight’s features include something fairly arty containing some Billy Bob Thornton, and Matrix: Reloaded. Well, 4 out of 5 isn’t bad ) or The Place All Those Guys You Partied With Live At, which is utterly inevitable and pretty much forgiveable.

Having said that, I’ve wandered through quite a lot of the little lanes and alleys between places and there are a surprising number of little temples, churches, sunken pools, hotels, wells and hideaway neighbourhoods even in this tiny beach town. Some of them are stunning beyond expectations but I wont be able to remember where any of them really are, but hey.
So, things were pretty staid and stagnant in fact, and expensively so too which is why that planned trip to Kerala must be embarked upon pretty soon!! Wildlife sanctuaries in a state that doesn’t have much alcohol in are gonna be the best possible thing for me I think.

Speaking of which (wildlife that is) once again, the insect life has staged a pretty full-on invasion over the past 5 days or so, and it’s hard to move anywhere near standing water for all the 3” long dragonflies and wading birds with multicoloured feet. And, of course, the ubiquitous dogs.

The dogs here lead a part-private, part-unavoidable, all-noisy life of their own with drama, crises and howling battles that weave in and amongst all the upright monkeys who are at times both fond, and bloody sick of their way of life.
It’s nice to have friendly dogs collapsed under half the chairs in every bar or hut-O-land you wander into, and having something dopey, cute and strokeable always hanging around makes things all the more homely.
But.
They also love to take part in howling matches, pitched street battles and prolonged growling contests at any given moment of day or night when one or more of them meets another, and there are about 40 million of these dogs in Goa, half a million apparently just in my favourite bar.
And they’re all the same dog. 99.995% of them are the same anyway, with the occasional more pedigree-looking pooch to be found, but the dogs of India, from what I’ve seen, must be the benchmark for the concept of the mongrel, as they seem to have all shared around so much genetic material that they are now a totally uniform, generic shape; something like a small Labrador crossed with a longer-legged Jack Russell, and they are to a dog soft, soppy, and far better beggars than the humans.
I think the humans here learned from the dogs in fact.

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Anyway, in further attempts to beat the stagnation and instinct to sit on my arse doing nothing much different from what I did in England, I have also designed another little tattoo and I went and spoke to a very professional guy (the only real tattooist in Arambol) and saw his work, which is impressive, agreed a price, which is no cheaper than a good artist in the UK, and so tomorrow or the day after (whatever day that is, I have literally lost track of that whole `week` thing) I’ll go down and hand over about 4000 Rupees, around 50Quid, for a nice little tribal bit of genius (though I do say so myself) on my leg. In colour, too. Ooooh.

And, I even managed to properly go out clubbing as mentioned at the start. Hey it only took 10 days, gimme a break already
The music was extremely good and the dancing was even better, not in terms of anything other than how much I enjoyed it. I probably looked a twat. I usually do. It amazes me how many times and how many people feel the need to to tell me about these things the following day, and I must have been told that I “Was really going for it” more times than I care to remember. I don’t know how to do it any other way to be honest, and quite frankly it has always amused me greatly how little effort people put in – you’re going out clubbing to basically dance and/or pull someone of your appropriate romantic preference, and chances are the second wont happen so why not enjoy the first all the more? I might have taken this a bit far this though as I couldn’t walk the next day whatsoever. It was a wasted day – I hopped, quite literally, to the restaurant of my guesthouse and that was it for the whole day (bar the return journey).
On examination the little toe on one foot had swelled to about twice the conventional size, and both toe and sock displayed a generous allocation of blood.

It wasn’t broken but bugger me was it painful for a while, I still have to wear socks and big shoes now to get about comfortably, and we went out on Saturday night.

Basically, I have graduated from my first night out clubbing in Goa with a short list of small but stupid injuries. I fell off a wall through total lack of concentration on anything but the pretty pictures in my head and thumped my back on a tiny, yet pointy bit of planet Earth, the feet were victims of a cocktail of charlie and overenthusiasm, and because I had left my knife in my pocket – a sure sign of a ne’er-do-well were it to be found on one’s person while entering a nightclub – I had to stash it in the only guaranteed place for a guy to stash things while getting into pubs and clubs, and let me tell you that having a razor-sharp pocket knife dangling along with everything else inside your pants for about 7 hours, while you are dancing, manically, is something doesn’t bear thinking about.
Good job I wasn’t thinking about it – I totally forgot. Thought I’d lost the damn thing until I got back to my room in Arambol about 5am and went for a post-clubbing filth-removal shower. Lucky me eh?
Also my legs, upper and lower on both sides, were truly destroyed by all my mincing and I wasn’t much able to walk on them anyway.
A sharp stabbing pain in a knee only hung around for a day.
A horizontal strip of skin missing from my left shin to the accompaniment of both sharp and dull pains also followed me around until yesterday, or maybe the day before.

It was a truly stupid night out – to strat with I only got picked up by the taxi by chance, because while I set off to meet the guys at the taxi rank, their driver had set things going by ignoring their protests to do anything but drive straight from A (Arambol) to B (Vagator), and only when Simon or Alice or Nick must have screamed in his ear as they saw me come up in the driver’s sights (it really is bit like that with drivers here, they actually do aim for you a bit) did he feel like allowing that middle pedal to enter his little world.
After the first place, 9-Bar, we buggered off early because of the bizarre laws here in Goa governing live music – it all has to stop at 10pm by law, no exceptions. Well, no exceptions unless your rich.
We went on to some half-deserted bar where we happily and freely could buy a wide variety of imported and hugely illegal drugs quite literally over the counter, and indeed the table next to ours sported a bunch of, I think Norwegian lads of about our age chopping up lines of Cocaine on the table and doing them in-between ordering their drinks, with the waiter standing happily at the table all along. He should be happy. He had just sold them the Coke.

The second actually club was a blast, and where I picked up all my battle damage; I found that after buying a round in the last place however I had left myself 150 rupees short – the entrance fee for this place is a massive 500Rs but once you’re in all drinks are free (and of a suitably obvious low quality, unsurprisingly).
So, having completely lost the folks I went with, and after trying to haggle with the bouncers to get in along with a group of guys from Manchester; my theory being that about 9 people going in together might be eligible for a little discount and those lads all agreed to contribute to the total therefore compensating for my shortfall; I was turned away, which again is hardly surprising. There are some things you can haggle, and some things you can’t.

So I ended up having to take my cue from countless shitty 1980’s films involving out-of-their-depth yuppies and I sold my watch, to a guy from somewhere in England. Maddening isn’t it? I had no choice to get in (actually I had plenty of choices, just none to get in [tried jumping the walls – they watch it all. Tried skirting the perimeter – it’s built on a fucking spur of rock overhanging the sea. Place is a fucking fortress, the bastards] and I was buggered if I wasn’t gonna go there after all the haggling, traveling and general aggravation) so I sold the only asset I had.
It’s only a watch, though.

So, after a a slightly depraved night out (and all nights out feel a bit depraved here, what with the squat-down toilets and decidedly public wildlife) I caught a bike-taxi back for the 25 kilometre trip to Arambol, and my word that was quite exciting, what with being hammered to hell and sticking both arms out – a feeling as close to actual flight I’ll ever get without specialist equipment or really good acid – was rather fun too. Yes Mum, I promise to behave myself next time.

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And so, it’s an easy old life – and yes, I did shave my head, or rather Samuel did it in the end and I took off most of them with me trusty knife. It was hugely satisfying, and it’s great to get rid of the constant nagging feeling that you are looking out at the world through the underside of a giant evil spider.
But that’s another story, in a way. Y’see it really is all change – I’m only having 2 beers a day now and only that much because I feel like I’m missing something too badly if I don’t; a sure sign things have gone too far.
And they do hang-gliding here – how cool is that? I just gotta set the date and tell my lovely insurance people what I’m up to that day and I can go on a tandem flight, apparently, for about 1200-1500 Rs. Nice.

Right! I have ranted long enough. I’m off to wander back to the guesthouse through the coconut groves, which are something of a minefield as the hefty green seeds themselves are apt to fall whenever ripe, and if they do so on your head then it’s good night Vienna, or whatever the damn fool saying is. Still, they do make a lovely route home

Ahhhhhhhh I’m bald!! Just thought I’d say that again.

Hello hello, how are we all? I'm very lazy, aren't I? Been mooching around the sleepy little towm of Arambol for a week, or at least it will be come tomorrow afternoon anyway, and I must say it's all very agreeable. If I stay here much longer though I am in serious danger of not leaving, strangely enough after just one week (of which I must have spent nearly one entire daytime in my room, getting unfeasibly stoned and falling asleep for hours at a time) it is very clear that I just can't hang about for too long.
This, as I am told every 6 hours or so, is NOT India.

There must be a famous travel book somewhere that, in the section on Goa, sports that line ("this isn't India") and everyone seems to have read the thing except me and all they can recall is just those 3 or 4 little words. I can't help feeling sorry for the poor bastard who wrote it as he's clearly the most quoted writer in the entire state, but no-one seems to know his name. Or her name. Poor fucker.

Anyway, Goa: It's not India, in the sense that here are lots of people here who are doing alright for themselves and I haven't seen a single dead dog yet, nor any slums - in fact even the poorer housing is generally, well, housing, as opposed to a rag stretched between one ramshackle doorway and another to shelter (and I use the term loosely) yet another poor family from the cruel outside world. I mean at least everyone has a hut, or at least a bit of wood to sleep on and a reed matting roof/wall arrangement on 3 sides - in Mumbai an awful lot of people have an awful lot less.
And the number of buildings and their construction is pretty amazing; all around the village there are reddy-brown stone block hewn into rough cubes, they dig the stone up somewhere down the beach and carry it by hand, uncut, into town. There are little guys of about 5-foot-nothing carrying a rock on their skulls that must weigh 45 kilos - I've picked up the cut blocks and they're real stone, each about as heavy as whole armful or bricks, and the uncut things are 3 or 4 times the size... the kids In Mumbai have flat heads from sleeping on stone floors from birth, the grown men here must have skulls like inverted golf balls.
The most impressive thing thiough is the speed ith which these guys can knock up a house - about a day and a half from foundations being laid and they bloody building is there, if they put their mind to it. Most places are bamboo and reed and they take hours to erect with enough blokes, but with a big gang I saw a brick house fly uwards into existence in less than two days. Pretty nifty work.

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But anyway, yes, this place eh? Well come along as long as you don't mind the cows - they are everywhere and yes, they're sacred, although not so sacred that everyone using motorised transport isn't willing to risk a little karma by honking the living shit out of the poor creatures whenever they stray into the road, which is all of the time. And onto the beach, although these are pleasantly devoid of cars, vans and bikes and because the beaches are wide and long (gotta be a good few miles of clear sand here ) no-one minds them getting in on the sunbathing too. Hey, maybe even cows feel they need a tan to turn bull's heads, ya never know.

The other wildlife here isn't too stunning to look at, but boy it sounds impressive - whether they are bullfrogs, cicadas, locusts and crickets that play the nightly tunes around here, or whether the locals know what we expect and have a really good outside PA system rigged with a `tropical ambience` CD eternally on loop I don't know, but it sounds pretty wild out there. I haven't seen anything too exotic yet but they do have the cutest, tiniest owls here and I got a photo of one at night, still working on getting the pictures online but it should be possible now I have tracked down a 'net cafe that can read memory cards Gimme a few days to fill it up and then we can rock and roll.

The other great thing are the ants; they come in two sizes:
1) so small that you have to check the pepper you laced your food with isn't shuffling forwards, and
2) fucking gigantic, to the extent that four of them, with a bit of coordination, could carry your chair away with you sittin' in it. I saw one of the latter variety amidst a racing squad manhandling a sugar cube - not a grain, an entire sugar cube - on it's own without in any way slowing down. Remember how many of the little buggers there usually are...

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I have slipped into a vague routine of going to the impressively Bohemian cafe Double Dutch each morning to refresh that part of me that DOESN'T feel like driving an 8litre humvee half a mile to the shops or that likes the idea of chainsawing rainforests, and this place is impressively laid back and disgustingly liberal. They're probably all Communists. They don't sell water but have a massive water-cooler-sized bottle from which you can refill your old one for 5 Rupees (fuck:allGBP), saving the plastic rubbish which is unfortunately very noticeable on every beach up at the tide line. Still it's a start to solving the issue, and like everything else about Double Dutch it's not rammed down your throat, just gently brought to your attention . The public notice board with all the hippy messages and suchlike is actually labelled `the bullshit board` or something similar so it's definitely not taking itself too seriously.
They serve Assam and Earl Grey tea at any time of day. I love them dearly.

In case you hadn't noticed, I am lacking a little Joie d'vivre today but far from being discontented it is purely on accounf of being still slightly stoned, and also because the local pharmacies here have a wonderfully liberal approach to dispensing exotic painkillers and sleeping medicines, notably Diazepam (which isn't that strong, stop clucking Mother) and which I feel perfectly justified in occasionally taking because the mattresses here have more in common with gravel than they do goose feathers, and getting more than 5 hours sleep a night is a novelty I welcome with open arms.
If one were to be naughty (and I'm such a good boy myself, of course) then there is a guy know as Dr. Death who runs the only real pharmacy in town. Despite the charming nickname he is in fact a caring member of the medical profession, and is a genuinely qualified doctor not some crazy man with a collection of halloween masks and bloody knives. I think he just likes to see the kids have some fun, which is why he makes ketamine is available in liquid form, in bottles of about 15 millilitres for less than 2 pounds. Yes, that's a couple of grams of special K (once cooked up, ooh, you naughty naughty junkies) for two quid.
And they wonder why some people never leave.

It would be an attractive prospect, if you bought a house and found something with a bit of purpose to do as, even though it's a little paradise, it would wear very thin after a month or two, unless you became best friends with the good doctore, I suppose.

-

I am giving very serious thought to losing this ridiculous hairstyle after all and I have at least two volunteers to help me with that, kind of reluctant given the time and cost involved already, but fuck it, it's only hair. Plus, less to do is good in my book so the occasional Bic'ing of one's bonce would make up for a hell of a lot of washing, fumbling and scratching. Sod it - it's outta here - next time you see me I shall probably be bald

...and maybe sporting a new tattoo? I have found a place here that looks clean and professional, haven't enquired about prices yet nor come up with a design, but thanks to the overabundance of Vitamin-D-rich sunshine here I've been inspired to put pen to paper once again and have come up with, I don't mind saying, a couple of rather nice designs. Somethign with a lot of colour this time, so I really should find myself some decent colours, must be some here somewhere...
The shpos here invariably sell the same junk as they do, I'm guessing, in every tourist resort ever built. 90% fake antiques or mass-produced `cultural` knick-knacks, 10% travel essentials that the silly foreigners forgot to buy eg: sunscreen. And toilet paper. Thank freakin' [insert deity of choice], they sell toilet paper, but only here I am sure, so once I leave the Western-friendly sanctuary of Goa and into the wildlife reserves of Kerala then I'm gonna be going native, in more ways than one

-

In terms of super-fun activities I haven't been involved with too much, but I did miss the night market in a beach, like, 18miles away or something called Anjuna - formerly THE party beach in Goa, although now much depleted (all the truly mad people hang around there now, you know, hippes who've been to space etc.) and appaently thi market is something quite amazing. Guys from a place I've been hanging out at went and got stopped by the police on the way in, and the way out, and generally the whole thing was a bit of a fiasco.

I DID spend a night camped out on the beach with some lovely folks, a Simon and an Emily, and we did indeed get thoroughly, disgustingly, outrageously plastered and danced around a campfire in the manner of shameless lunatics. I tell ya what, staggering up to the line of crashing surf in almost pitch blackness and letting the warm waters of the Arabian sea crash around your feet in the middle of the night, while wrecked on the Good Doctor's medicines, is something I wont forget for a while. That was a supremely good night all round.

I did find that I made the right choices with my gear though, the knife and torch have been invaluable already and I use them daily, having stuff that really works really well is reassuring, and also makes everything so much easier for you, and whoever you're with. Score some points for Timmy there, methings

-

And finally, there is a seafood restaurant here that shows Western films, constantly, every night. If you need a dose of home then there you are right there, just pull up a char and try to avoid he blandishments of the staff trying to flog of the day's catch before it goes off.
I even watched Notting Hill (in my defence it would have taken a bit of effort to move, and boy, was I stoned by that point) and against all rational thought it really wasn't that bad. I really must be mellowing out here

It's quite a blend of cultures, Mumbai. Despite the fact that you have to squat down to use half the toilets to their full capacity, if you'll pardon the slightly disgusting pun, it's also amazing how many things are instantly recognisable from the street corners of any English city.
In terms of style at least, if not actual content.

Slick western advertising sits alongside native business' boards and posters sporting amazingly direct names, from the simple `Mumbai Advertising` proclaimed in 12-foot high letters all around the downtown area to the gloriously direct `Yes Bank` shop hoardings displayed over and over between there and the cheaper, mass housing districts - in itself that's a name that I suspect isn't wholly accurate. That's one thing true to both cultures, then.

Billboards blotted out the sun on the way to the domestic airport today, at least on the sunny side of the huge raised highway that stradles the worst of the city's slums; neatly taking all the rich types from the best shopping and beach areas to the business districts without the need for unnecessary poor people to get in the way; and on which the drivers come pretty close to actually using the correct number of vehicles re: the available lanes. Almost. Really quite close, in actual fact.

It is remarkable, seeing as I'm now remarking on it, how much of western, especially American culture is readily absorbed by this city; the first thing I noticed was that all the TV and Bollywood stars paraded around on every spare square inch of plasterboard and signage are trimmed and tailored to look as un-Indian as possible. The typical (no, nothing racist, most country's inhabitants have distinct differences here) features of the Indian face are hardly ever seen in advertisments anywhere, strong US/European looks definitely prevail here and attractively so. Every model, male and female, is startlingly good looking, in a classical European manner.

Locals of all classes in Mumbai seem to want as much US pop culture as is physically possible - preferably yesterday, which again shows what they've picked up so far If they all develop dastardly plans regarding the theft of huge amounts of natural resources then we'll know that the pupil really is now the master

High street fashions and beyond are available all along Colaba Causeway, which isn't even one of the main shopping streets merely the cheaper, traveller's sector street of choice. You can get high fashion for (reasonably) low prices here, although the perceived savings are really just thanks to exchange rates between USD, GBP, and the Rupee, so for anyone who actually lives here they had better be a Bollywood star or a conman because those tags are probably enough to make the average Indian laugh & cry simultaneously.
Mobile phones are sported by everyone in their car, although by no-one on the street. In many areas, the obvious answer is probably the correct one.

This love of all things American, which I lay squarely at the feet of Hollywood, naturally, was most obvious when I was overheard speaking fluent English everywhere in the city, from the slums to outside VT station to everywhere in Colaba - all the kids ask me directly if I am American and the adults, with a little more tact, or at the very least, guile, say `which country?` at about the same lightening speed upon hearing my dulcet (*ahem*) tones.
They all deflate ever so slightly when they learn I'm nothing more than a descendant of those pesky redcoats, but hey. At least the language of diplomacy and negotiotion is still (now) English, making me feel about 20% guilty of this fact, yet still at least 98% bloody grateful.

-

So, now, I have reached Goa. Yay!!!!!!!!!

After a bit of waiting at the airport (their internet was down all overthe terminal, more's the pity) I boarded a plane which turned out to be owned by the same guy who owns the largest native brewery. And who said pilots were drunks, eh? At least it would be a good share option for them I suppose.

Once again I was impressed hugely by the service in relation to the cost, the flight fom Heathrow to Goa was only 290Quid (there's no pound sign on these keyboards, which is why I'm writing `quid` every time ) and the ervice and plane itself were an absolute marvel.
This flight was about 45Quid and took just an hour, and although the planes were older the staff were supremely professional, helpful, friendly and even charming at all times. Kingfisher airlines, check 'em out if you're in India.
I have learned that the cheapest airline out here, if you can find travel agents who use them, is Spice Airlibes or Spice Jet, not sure which, but maybe that'll help one of ya someday!

There was an additional entertainkment in the form of an outrageous self-big-upping infomercial thingy where the said owner of airlines/beer manufacturers made uproariously grand and hyper-promotional statements about all passengers being guests in his home when they fly with him - whether this makes us drunks on his toilet floor every time we get pissed on his (not indiscreet 8% ABV beer) I'm not totally sure. In any case, I seemed to be the only one actively uproaring; I can only hope everyone else thought I was having a fit or something.

They also pour clouds of what looked distressingly like the poison gas from Goldfinger (you know, the bit when GF whacks all his business partners in that big room with the sliding table and the gas canisters disguised as a drinks cabinet) right into the cabin, which must be something to do with pressurising the thing but honestly, I was wondering if I was about to be led to a car and driven to the scrapyard.

Please watch Golfinger again for all the references in today's post

They say India is a land of extremes and opposites, I suppose every country is if you look hard enough, and I hope to be able to prove that true of many places.
But India hits you hard, in both ways.

I have had a great day, since getting all the aggravation off my chest this morning it feels a little more like I've spoken to all the people who, the first night, I missed terribly. Which is all of you, so pat your own back and kiss your arse, this hippy misses the lot of ya.

Yes, you can wipe away that tear now, no-one saw you

The genuine excitement and all positive feelings were truly killed by getting ripped off that night, and it was even more annoying thatn I mentioned already; I also forked over $30US to the guy who took me from the airport to the `hotel`, he was argumentative as hell and it was the first time I'd paid anything out. I gave him ten bucks and he stopped the car and said `not enough` in a clear, angry voice - looking outside there were about half a million stray and dead dogs ambling about in a suspiciously leprous fashion, and a dozen people clothed in rags either limping along in the gutter or crashed out spawled over the pavement. Some of them may have been dead too. I was not in the mood to have a non-moving vehicle being the only thing between me and apparent hell, so, I paid.

But aaaaaaanyway, this is not how today has been at all, and indeed last night I was in Leopold's bar talking to some lovely folk; a French couple called Carol and somethingsomethingsomething, pretty sure it was georges or gonzalez or something; he wasn't really the talkatiove type. Also a French-Canadian guy called Josh who was the epitome of helpfulness, and who ran a running translation of my semi-drunken rant to the French guys, and what a nice man he was too

The joy of being abroad and somewhere unpredictable and exciting is coming back now and I should have a full tank of happy juice in a day or two. It turned as I was writing this morning, as it happens, as in the cramped but agreeable internet cafe I asked painfully middle-class group of Englanders about any cheap ways they knew about to get to Goa, and understanding at last what I should actually be doing, I took their mildly condescending (and likely well-deserved) advice and just went out looking!
They were travelling in a group 3 so maybe it's easier to be confident in your surroundings when you have people to talk to and bounce ideas off, or then again maybe I'm just being a pussy, who knows
I do know that not having anyone to talk to was my biggest concern yesterday, and the fateful night leading up to it.

So I trundled out of the 'net cafe, and went down Colaba Causeway in search of anything I felt like looking for, which turned out to be batteries for the camera which proved unhagglable and suntan lotion from a charming old boy in a tidy little shop which was hagglabale to a degree of about 30%. Score one for the pasty Englishman!!

And then, having promised you lot plemnty of pictures, I got a taxi (having bloody well got the price up-front, thak you so very much) to the Gatewat To India whic would have been massively more impressive had the formal gardens in front of it not been in the process of being decimated by the local sewage company, or possibly just a group if itinerant navvies who live in a secret underground bunker complex and who just can't help but take their work home.
I'n betting on the former option myself, but just thought I would share anyway

Next up was the Victoria Terminus station (now called Chharatraparvati Shivaji terminus but still better know here as VT) and boy, if you thought the Gateway might be impressive (which it was, I couldn't actually stand back far enough to get it all in the frame! This wasn't helped by the navvies/sewage workers blocking off 80% of the nearby ground mind you, but hey. It's still very very big) then the chief railway station in Mumbai is something else entirely - I had to take a video to get about 3/4 of one side in, and that didn't reach the top!
Talk about empirical might and dominance, this thing looked like a shopping mall in a very empty part of the USA, I dread to think how many thousand lines and platforms it has.
Haven't gone inside, and unfortunately I now wont.
I have booked a flight to Goa tomorrow at midday.

Getting back from the VT I retained a cab - all of which are modelled after 1950s Fiats and are apparently designed to decapitate/spinally crush anyone over 5'2" tall, or are simply made this way for the amusement of Bombay cabbies - driven by an oustandingly Muslim guy who in turn was very interested in my camera, I took a video of him and the station together and when I showed him he laughed like a drain for a whole minute, he was one happy cabby.
Up until the point when he asked if I was married.

It is a huge cultural creed here that anyone over the age of about 19 without a spouse is a no-goodnik of the highest order: he quoted me with `low-life, no wife` after someone tried to sell me some map or other through window in a traffic jam, jabbing at the culprit with an angry digit.
Apparently their lack of proper job and general oppourtunist nature when it came to selling junk was due to the lack of precious metals adorning their 3rd finger (and the third finger of someone else, of course).
I can almost see what he means, especially in this culture as the `proper people` who have regular jobs (i.e. not selling stuff on the street - stallholders not included in this by the way -, begging, stealing etc. are doing so because they don't have their own family, are not decent enough to have a family (apparebtly) and don't have the associated family morals as a result.
Simplistic view, yes, but broadly one that seems to be held here. I was telling the cabbie how in England, it's not the same and had to refarin from tellin him what a low-life scumbag unable-to-get-a-girlfriend sonofabitch I, in truth, must be

Incidentally, despite him being both muslim and foreign, he showed not the slightest inclination to get aboard a ship bound for England in order to sponge off our taxes. Wow. Colour me surprised

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One thing I have to say I'm universally impressed by is the staff at ATMs - yes, there is a uniformed guard at every ATM/cashpoint, even in the semi-slums (where I had to get money out yesterday).
They are the epitome of helpfulness and when the locals subtly barge into the queue in front of you the guard guy remembers every time, and only lets in the person who's place it really is. Not easy on a busy street in the tourist district of India's second city.

The flight people were also very helpful and polite, and spoke the best English I've encountered so far in the local community, about 45 quid to get to Goa, one hour flight, booked the very day before in mid-class seating. At such short notice I couldn't be arsed to argue and the price really isn't too bad, airline flights are not subject to the same diminishing values as everything else paid for in ye good olde Rupees.

The best part of today really is avoiding paying for anything that anyone actively wants to sell to you, and buying only what you want. The street outside my hotel and the Leopold bar is immensely crowded, with stalls and prowling sellers launcing their wares at you from both sides simultaneously.
Moving down their corridor of enticements you simply have to ignmore every single thing, even when they follow you half a block to try and grab a sale. It's strangely satisfying, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I know, deep down in my soul, that I am better off not owning vast numbers of replica ivory elephants, or sawthes of gold-effect jewellery that would put Mr. T to shame.

The only one who got me today was cunning; he confronted me when I wasn't moving, having just turned back from a mini mall thing on the main street, and he was dressed in saffron robes.
Proffering sweet candy and flowers, and taking my hand to tie a cord around it he launched into a small and pleasant tirade about something or other, ending on a question to which there was but one possible answer: Baksheesh.
Grease of the city's grubby axles, baksheesh is the term for bribery, tipping, the paying of appropriated `guides` who show you to the places you've already spotted and were headed for, more often than not, and anything else involving the paying of small sums for basically nothing at all.
And we all love a bit of semi-legalised bribery don't we?! Yay!!!
He claimed it to be for his Ashram but I'm fairly sure the guys in Ashrams don't go into big cities and hawk candy and flowers on the street for profit - Sarah, if you can shed any light here that would be great!!

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And of course traffic, loving the traffic, it's just like a busy night in London although admittedly even the London cabbies don't use the 3-lane roads they are gifted with as 5-lane racetracks - there are no lanes on most roads and they simply made them wide enough to accomodate an entire marching British military regiment/73 autorickshaws gunning for death or glory in the pursuit of the next fare.

Roundabouts are also direction-optional - if it gets them ahead of at least one other vehicle and the route is at least semi-clear then most of these guys have no problems with cutting off a right-hand turn by going to the right, the wrong way through oncoming traffic, around a roundabout.
Yes, they drive on the left here. Days of colonial empire, and all that jazz.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I'm eating almost totally vegetarian now, it's easier and more trustworthy and I like not having to take an hour to digest my meal. I had something with rice and beef in last night though and, in a statement sure to shock some of you (I'm looking at you, Chris) I felt sick about eating it as I was trying to sleep last night.
Then again it may have been the flagrant mis-use of soy sauce when cooking it, I dunno.

Well that's me for the day, I got a flight tomorrow and I plan to get up and get to the aiprort early to use the internet there to get on with that big article I promised: `What you need to go travelling`, although now number one on the list is going to be "An overly suspicious mind and high level of natural cynicism, for the first day or two"

'Hippy Out!

PS No photos yet but I will find a PC with card reader soon, no worries!

Mumbai, 01:23hrs
Okay, the flight was truly fantastic, never before have I had so many hot towels, nice meals (2 of 'em) and general politeness thrust upon me by airline staff.
I can't say enough for Jet Airways, seriously; thoroughly professional and pleasant all the way, and the technogubbins they had installed in the back of each seat was something I wasn't expecting at all! I got to watch one of my favourite documentary epidodes ever (Planet Earth 2006: Fresh Water episode), from the comfort of 35,000 feet. Sweet.
Also they had a marvellous booking policy where every cluster of 3 seats, 3 of which make up each row, had only 2 occupants so the space afforded to evey passenger was impressively large.

I had a little bit of a SNAFU after that though and I was caught out by a cunning conspiracy of, well, I'm tempted to use another C word here but hey, lets try and be a little bit polite.

When you get to Mumbai airport, as soon as you leave the last passport/boarding pass/other bit of paper check you emerge into a narrow hall with a load of shops, stalsl, whatever, with people shouting at you.
Or rather, shouting at me. You see I stick out like a sore thumb, possibly an entire sore hand, and everyone knows it. They know it so well they can practically count the Rupees about to drift away from me in a wave of confusion as I foolishly believe that anyone being nice to Mr Pasty White Guy fresh-off-the-plane could actually be genuine.

Silly me.

After going to the first place that seemed likely, because he was in a booth professing to be a tourist office, I was given what I knew to be an inflated price for a taxi and was also so told the first of the standard, repeated lies.
"The (insert hotel you are looking for) is/will be completely full. Try this one instead (insert name of scam-happy hotel)"

Next up, after me knowing the price to be way over the top, was the other little gem and is how they catch you out: you have to leave the aiport to get any rupees at all, no ATM inside the building, allegedly.Of course, as soon as you get outside lie #2 rears it's head: "The ATM is broken" Well that's pretty helpful then!
Lie #3 "you can't get into the aiport once you've left"
So  *weary sigh*  you're trapped outside and can't get in, you have no money, and there are a whole hell of a lot of guys all wearing identical shirts milling about outside waiting to pick up idiot tourists (hello!!!) and rip them off.

So as it was just gone half one in the morning and I had no accomodation booked, nor did I know where the fuck I was, I had to let one of these guys scam the living shit out of me so hey, I picked one who was at least reasonably funny. I ended up paying literally ten times the going rate at a hotel that was, admittedly equipped with large rooms, and real, actual genuine toilet paper in the lav, but was also in the middle of a slum area miles from anywhere.
The taxis I took the next day in order to escape were also an experience in their own right.

The first, an autorickshaw, was again out to scam me and hey, like a muppet I feel for it again. 2000 rupees for a 45 minute h\journey. I got out, was accoest by a large group of staring locals somewhere halfway between slumland and Colaba (the travellers district) and then after trudging along the busy roadside for 5 minutes I caught myself a taxi, and an hours journey in said automobile cost only 250 rupees.

That rickshaw driver must have been laughing all day - as we rode around (and the way these guys drive is quite special - it's all about getting ahead and the tiniest little pace is an excuse to charge in headfirst and honk the living shit out of everyone within earshot) he was calling out something like `studenti` to every other rickshaw driver, basically telling the whole world how much fun he was having and wasd going to have ripping me off. Well it's my fault for not getting the price up front and hey, I'd probably do that and far worse if I was in his shoes. Didn't have to take the piss the whole way though ;o)

So I've not really had time to do much about from worry; about money, where I'm going, my luggage, how I'm getting to Goa and how to get it all done without getting done (over), yet again.

Looking forward to that Goan beach I've been dreaming of all year, I have a couple of little things to do first though - like work out how the hell to get there - but it should all be okay in a while.

The day before I leave, the night before in fact, I'm a heady blend of joy and fear and I wish I had got some proper sleep this last week. I know sympathy isn't what I'm likely to get from anyone though, so in an act of penance consider this to be me, tired hungover and a little bit fucking terrified, parading my sorry arse around for your entertainment, ridicule, sharp-stick-poking etc.

Really I just wanted to make a quick note to you all to say I'm gonna miss you all while I'm walking through coconut groves at sunset and across sandy tropical beaches and suchlike, although I could achieve the same effect in your now-infuriated bowels basically by typing out `muahahahaha!!!!` (and that's an evil laugh, if you didn't know) repeatedly. Which is why you might want to get out the sharp sticks.

No really, I'm sorry to see myself go, if you follow me.
I would like to say when I can post up the big (and uncharacteristically relevant) guide to preparing for travelling but honestly, if the hostel I'm going to first in Mumbai (Bombay) doesn't have net access then I may as well try and think of a really funny analogy to finish this sentence, which I can't on account of being dog-tired and hungover, so yeah, somewhen I shall do so, until then take it easy, see you from India, sort of thing!!

*groan* Angry hangover man says:

People who create computer viruses. Total motherfuckers.
How I hate them, oooh I hate them, I do. Because I'm a caring, sharing, hippy type of chap (usually) I have tried, as I hopefully always do, to see it from everyone's point of view.
I've really struggled to understand the mentality of people who create viruses that damage and disrupt people's computers - other people's personal property - for their own amusement, and have only just about been able to see it from their side: all I can think of in their defence (except the ones who nick personal data and steal money, it's pretty obvious what their excuse is) is that they have no way to be respected or really be heard in life, and they feel power and influence in knowing that they've affected people. Infected people. Cost them money and a lot of time, mostly.
In truth though they are nothing but vicious cowards.

Having listened to a few boasts by some of these idiots, read around on a few forums and worked out something of it by inference, I know that a lot of justification is thrown up by these hackers, or whatever they call themselves (the term `hacker` is the subject of much dispute. Don't even ask, it's terminally uninteresting) in that because they know so much about coding, hacking, and computers in general then all the silly little users out there (you, me, and 4 billion others) deserve to suffer their attacks because we don't have the savvy to protect ourselves like they can. A lot of these folks think they should have the deeds to the web, and that they deserve to own it and run it as they like.

Well fine, by that count none of them are allowed to drive cars themselves unless they can rebuild their own engine, and they can't go abroad on holiday unless they can materialise their own passport and international travel permissions out of their arse.
Or, better yet, because they don't know how to operate an agricultural farm or fishery, breed livestock, or process chickens and dairy cattle then they CAN'T BLOODY EAT ANY MORE.

Thought so: stick that in your Trojan_Horse.exe and smoke it, jackass.

There's a site out in the big WWW called MoneySavingExpert.com and it's run purely to help people save money instead of needlessly giving it to their banks, insurance companies, phone operators and the like. What the guy who runs it does is find the best deals possible, pretty much, in very sophisticated ways.
If you've heard of the whole `reclaim your bank charges` thing then this is the guy who did it, and he's saved (and is saving) literally millions of pounds for people in doing so. He's now onto another nasty trick of the high street banks, most of whom announced profits, thats PROFITS not turnover, of between 1 and 5 Billion Pounds last year...
Pretty nice thing to do eh? Kind of the opposite of those hacker types who want only to damage and disrupt things, ya might say.

I just read this:

"MoneySavingExpert.com Attacked! Since last Friday the site has been the target of a massive, deliberate DDOS attack. Put simply, someone’s been simulating billions of visitors to crash the servers; and for three days it worked (read more). It's mostly fixed, but if you find a problem or slowness, please stick with us.

This may’ve saved the banks £10s millions. The attack coincided with the launch of the PPI reclaiming campaign and my ITV Tonight programme (watch it) on reclaiming. Let me make it clear, I don’t think the banks are behind it. Yet I do think it's likely the timing was deliberate to cause maximum damage to the site; and a by-product is it's probably saved the banks £10s millions.

I need every MoneySaver's help. The PPI campaign's momentum has been lost; many 1,000s came for the free template letters and only got an error page. Please spread the word at the water-cooler, the pub, e-mail your mates, at family get togethers. Ask them “have you got insurance on a loan, credit card or mortgage?”. If they have tell them “you may’ve been missold it and could get thousands back…” and direct them to the article. Don’t let those who tried to kill the site win.

Thank you for all the messages of support."

What a bastard. Whoever did that, did double the damage in one fell swoop - excellently timed and massive in it's effect - yes well done have a cookie you complete and utter c*** - but really someone ought to bloody well tar and feather 'em!
And hit them, with something heavy. A building'd be favourite.

Grrrr......

Update: the PC at home was going screwy the morning of this little tirade as well, which wasn't improving my mood or opinions of the people who create malicious code (viruses) and now the machine is totally destroyed and needs formatting, erasing, completely restarting and the technological equivalent of sending in the marines.
Bastards, total bastards, with a capital F.