Last night I was talked into attending my first ever foam party. 

The foam party takes place every Friday at probably the only real night club in the town – Coyote´s disco pub. We all know what that means, right?  Old recollections of 'The Venue' in New Cross, 'The Works' in Canterbury etc. and you would be so wrong.  These places are better!

My arm was well and trully twisted when my new pal 'TorquayDD', said "So, are we going to the foam party later?"

I found myself saying "Yes, it's going to be a real laugh."  And although so wrong, on so many levels, I was right. 

In Costa Teguise there are a few places the British like to hang out, and at times I had best confess that, being British, I have in the interests of research investigated them all. 

Obviously I have taken these distasteful forays with a purely scientific approach to understanding how other tribes (within my own tribe) live, with their different cultures, different customs etc.  One question still unanswered is that I am still not quite sure why people come to a place like the rock only to sit in a bar eating fried food, drinking beer and tea, watching the x factor surrounded only by Brits – I think this is really odd.  It is just beyond me, but I am trying.

Back to the point.  The foam party can only be described as carnage.

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The foam is generally cold and sticky.  I have been reliably informed that this is normal for foam parties.   Clothes get saturated.  In all the hullabaloo my feet were trodden on and my flip flops which have served me so well since the 22 March were broken.  Boo!  If one put a drink down, it was almost immediatly stolen.

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The lights were good and despite my ears perpetually feeling like I have a pair of fingers stuck in them, the music was so loud, there was a physical effect as the heavy resonating beat forced itself through my bones.  I think, without wanting to exaggerate, my knee might just have occasionally bent in time with the music thereby creating a strange effect of a wobbly tall person badly imitating what a minority of people could possibly describe as a dance!   This went on for about 90 minutes.

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So the conclusion, having seen a bunch of people who were either too young or in my opinion in some cases too old (insert my name) to be there smearing themselves with ash-flicked bubbles and alcohol induced vomit-fuelled foam:

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I am sure that some who were there enjoyed it.  For me it was purely entertainment seeing how hedonistic people become, given the introduction of a drop of fairy and a big hair drier.  You must obviously empathise how I am just above all this sort of thing, operating on a higher plain.  Of course, it was a real chore seeing a writhing mass of wet dancing bodies all looking to meet new and interesting people.  

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So the recommendation?

If you don't fancy seeing a group of people get wet and dance to the point of drunken exhaustion and if you don't want random people coming to talk to you in a slurd way, telling you why they want to be your friend.  Don't go.











This is the first of several dance routines filmed at Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center that I will be uploading.

For more information about the CPDRC  CLICK HERE  (opens in a new window)

I sent a letter to Razor care of the Sheppy Prison Cluster the week before last.  I enclosed his glasses and asked if he could complete a visitor order, which I now know is the protocol.  To date I have heard nothing back anf my time here in the UK is running out.

I fly to Lanzarote on Sunday morning to start my Scuba internship with Calypso Diving.

I don't think I am to get my guitar or hat back which is a shame.

Over the last week my house has had a makeover, with assistance being provided by dad's wife, my sister and a new vagabond pal, who has made her way around Africa and South America over the last seven years.  All have worked really hard to clear out my gaff.

Ultimately six boxes of precious things made their way into the attic, whilst 22 black bags of belongings (from downstairs alone) were taken to the tip.

I loved the hat for all it and its feather symbolized which I have already described to you in previous articles.  I also loved the guitar, remembering Loz, Christina and others playing it in the Petts Wood House after mum died when I got drunk for a week, following Loz's dad's wedding. 

The guitar also brings memories of Dave singing 'the Duck song' and the only song anyone has ever written about me, 'Lloyd stole my midget' – brilliant!

It is concluded by all and agreed by me (the rational side of my personality anyhow) that I do have some 'letting go issues'.  "What's wrong with that?" my alter ego screams inside my head?

Maybe the hat and guitar are just two examples of this and maybe its karma that 'Razor the hat thief' does not write back, maybe without the prompts I my memories need to be relied upon more for what they are – glorious memories, whilst life moves on.


I find myself knowing the things that I knew

Stranger things have happened but for the past three days I have found myself listening to a whole spectrum of music, some good, some lame. 

“Why is this relevant? So what?”

The following demonstrates how deeply one can change and how change however small can take you by surprise.

Now my lost love had a number of music ‘phases’.  When we first hung out she was mostly listening to “The concretes”, as time went on top spot was taken by “The Magic Numbers” played over and over again for weeks/months at a time.  I got into them and quite liked what I was listening to.

Then Joanna Newsom entered my life…..

She too was played again and again with no let up, over and over again; at home, in the car – everywhere. For whatever reason, I just found her quirky voice resonated in my head in every conceivable wrong way.  It became an ‘issue’.

We would barter what was played in what order so that Joanna was heard sufficiently to satisfy and that anything might be listened to as a break between Joanna tracks to that I did not end up cutting my wrists. 

At one point I bought (as a pathetic joke) a Halloween sounds CD from the supermarket to complement Joanna’s album, with cats screeching and ghouls chuckling to the background of squeaking doors and thunder. That joke did not go down very well as you can appreciate.  Even though it was a silly joke, it really did seem to offend, which was never the intention.  Looking back, for this I am sorry.  I know that at the time I did not realize how hurting this must have been.

Anyhow, over the last week whilst clearing the shelf above the TV in preparation for the renters to move in to my house as I am off, I have been listening to a host of random (mostly rubbish music).  I suddenly found myself upstairs on the laptop listening on iTunes to Joanna. 

It occurred to me that even though I thought I was not keen on her, I actually profoundly missed her in the background and foreground of my life.  Bizarre I know, but truth.

I listened to the 20 second extracts and knew all of them, they had settled into my subconscious as familiar as old socks rediscovered at the back of the drawer.  I bought the album (The Milk-eyed Mender).

Milk eyed mender

It’s been playing this morning and it’s a fact that there are some tracks I prefer over others (This side of the Blue/Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowie). 

Generally her voice has not grated as it used to and I have even found myself listening to the language in the lyrics.  Lyrics I had previously been completely oblivious too.  In fact although unique, her tone is ethereal to me. 

I just don't know what to make of it all.  It could be another olive occurrence.  You know, the kind of thing that you hate at first but then cannot get enough of.  Maybe Joanna's voice is like a big sweet delicious acoustic olive (Although Cassiopeia is still just a little too bitter for my infant-like palate).

I suppose when I was first immersed head long
into the world of Joanna, it was done forcibly and against my will.  I suppose too that my head was not in the right place to be ‘hearing’ her.  My head did not need her.

Now, as if a switch has been flicked, Joanna is medicine and I celebrate the harp which in my mind is equal to the clarinet as my preferred instrument of choice.

Maybe in time I will be rid of this affliction and become normal again.  Who the devil knows?

"A Minor Incident"

There's nothing I could say
To make you try to feel ok
And nothing you could do
To stop me feeling the way I do
And if the chance should happen
That I never see you again
Just remember that I'll always love you

I'd be a better person
On the other side I'm sure
You'd find a way to help yourself
And find another door
To shrug off minor incidents
And make us both feel proud
I just wish I could be there
To see you through

You always were the one
To make us stand out in a crowd
Though every once upon a while
Your head was in the cloud
There's nothing you could never do
To ever let me down
And remember that I'll always love you

Lyrics of song by Badly Drawn Boy featured in the feature film About A Boy