Christ Almighty, windmills are fucking brilliant. Imagine actually living in a windmill. You’d be the coolest kid in your street if you lived in a windmill. Yeah, you’d never sleep because of the noise and you’d constantly stink of flour (is that what windmills make?) but it would still be completely amazing. Imagine meeting someone you fancied, getting them a bit drunk, taking them out to dinner, watching “Australia” with them and then taking them back to your place for sex. Then you’d be able to say “Yeah, I’ve had sex in a windmill”. Is there any greater feeling known to man than taking a beautiful woman to heaven and back AND making flour at the same time? I agree with you, there isn’t. After all, didn’t Prime Minister Winston Churchill one say “When killing a man, it costs nothing to be polite in a windmill”? I certainly believe he did. Fuck, I love windmills! I’m like Don Quixote. He liked windmills. Or hated them. I can’t remember. All I’m saying is that I think windmills are really pretty good.
I saw about 20 windmills yesterday on my way to Belfast Airport. That’s way more than my usually quota of windmill sightings per day. My previous record, I think, was one and that was still pretty exciting. It was sad to be coming to the end of my short trip to Norn Iron because I’d really had a great time seeing my family and reading about my family’s history. My Great-Uncle Charles who died recently had started to write his memoirs and they turned out to be extremely interesting, very funny and totally insane. At one point he wrote about a travelling entertainer who used to visit his home town of Greyabbey when he was a child. The entertainer was called The Wild Man of Borneo. Basically he was a man in a grass skirt who blacked up and was lead around the town by his “owner” while people in the street shouted abuse and threw crap at him. You must understand, this was before the internet. Or reasoned thinking. It’s a shame his memoirs ended when they did, I was really enjoying them. They finished before the invention of television which I know Charles said was the single biggest change in his life. He was 101 years old. The Wild Man of Borneo is now represented by Joss Jones at Cosmic Management.
My last night in Newtownards was great, ruined only by two complete pricks. My whole family, except my sister Diane sadly, went for dinner and drinks. It was pretty much a full-on repeat of the two previous nights where we all sat around drinking and talking about the past. It was lovely. Dotes turned up which was good because I realised that there were still a few people from our school that we hadn’t slagged off yet. Then another member of my family turned up. I won’t say his real name because I don’t want to embarrass his mum so let’s just call him Danny La Rue. Danny La Rue walked in and as soon as I said hello he responded with “So, London still full of Paki’s then?” I told him that he could join us but if he spoke like that again he was not welcome. He said something really weird. He said “Are you serious?” in a genuinely surprised tone. I’ll be honest, Dear Reader, I didn’t really want to sit drinking with a racist idiot so I said a very firm Yes. He then turned and left to the sound of his own footsteps. Oh, and me saying “Prick”. I’m still very upset by this for a couple of very good reasons. One, he lives in Northern Ireland. There are very few Pakistanis living in Northern Ireland. He has little to no contact with the very people he hates. How does he know he hates people he’s never met? Northern Ireland should be the perfect place for him. No Pakistanis to hate! Now Pakistan, he’d not like it there. Second, Danny La Rue is English and I get a tad miffed hearing words of intolerance coming from an Englishman living in Northern Ireland. I just think it’s, oh I don’t know, a great big fucking insult. Still, it’s good to know that The Wild Man of Borneo might still have an audience even if it is just Danny La Rue. The good news is that Danny La Rue is very young, only 19 I think, and everyone has made mistakes when they’re young (maybe not racist ones though). Hopefully he’ll grow out of it soon before he gets into trouble, the BNP or married to Jade Goody. It was a shame it happened but it only lasted a few seconds and we could have easily gone back to having a lovely night if it wasn’t for the other prick who wouldn’t shut up about it. That prick was me. Sorry to everyone who was there.
It was still a good trip. I found out that I’m not my Dad’s favourite comedian which does sting just a bit. It’s Dave Gorman. His books are pride of place in my Dad’s collection but mine are nowhere to be seen even though they are all widely available inside my own head. Speaking of comedians, seen Jarred Christmas lately? I worked with him last night at the Comedy café and he was fantastic. Well done, him.
By the way, this is the second time I’ve written this blog because MySpace crashed on me. I fucking hate MySpace now. MySpace needs to buy me a present.