The Time of Starvation and Binge

Well, we all sloped home in our sharp linen suits, Panama hats and culturally inappropriate breastful dresses. Searching for a seasonally overcharging  taxi through the streets which had now been taken over by the celebrants of the Time of Starvation and Binge...there was no place for us at the abandoned and deserted pool side bar once the Tanzanian muscle made their discreet presence indiscreet and made it clear that the Last Drink must be surrendered as the silvery crescent moon had peeped coyly into view. 'See you in a month' smiled the Filipina bar staff as they joined the scrum to get to the airport for the first time since 2005. It was bizarrely, unusually quiet as the adherents to the Faith had all gone off serenely home or to the mosque to do their thing that we infidels do not have the wit, inclination or imagination to be part of. Same species of mammal but coming from very different worlds. I blame religion but that's for another time...or perhaps not, there is already way too much division even within the ostensibly same set of beliefs. As my fondly feral Yr 8s used to say '...er...duh..' 

At home the TV was on and some of the 4,691 unwatchable (to me at least) channels were being desultorily flipped through as one of the party wanted, curiously I thought,  to watch the Mecca Channel of which I had no idea I was the proud possessor - you might have it too. Quizzical I was for sure, as you too would be for this is the Koran wielding Middle East where no bingo or gambling of any sorts is allowed, and rightly so perhaps. So I thought albeit most fleetingly momentarily that this would be one of those very late-night ones on one of the many unwatchable Freeview channels hostessed by a bored, tired and success-lite unglamour model with an aura of lingering career bitterness who would be urging sad and / or drunken or maybe vulnerable and definitely deluded folk to part with their pitiful amounts of money via a piratical premium  phone line - the sort of thing which should be outlawed too but doubtless such corporate viruses give Dough Ball Dave and clubbable chums a friendly donation. Right Dave?

Not 2001 live from the Mecca Channel - probably on Freeview somewhere

Anyway I digress. No, foolish old moi, this version of the Mecca Channel showed full on live action footage of multi-thousands of the embearded Faithful  praying at an obelisk like thing from 2001: a Space Odyssey which is what I ignorantly mused, of course it was full on religion around the mystical Kaaba.  Even as an infidel it was fascinating and powerful too but also, for me very disturbing to see so much humanity  bowing down in what appears to me to be pre-medieval submission and supplication...but what do I know...? *


The praying and chanting was intercut with explicit hard core war porn from Syria and all sorts of righteously angrily voiced commentary and brutal font subtitles which made me wish I had been taught how to say more in Arabic than the initial Year 7 MFL rubbish in which you get to ask what someone has in their pencil case. How often has anybody ever had to use such pointless language beyond the second week in Year 7? Do something about that G*ve....on seconds thoughts don't, you're an unqualified one-eyed damaging fool.

Anyway to those stumbling across this as they seasonally say hereabouts Ramadan Murbarak.


*...er... I actually do know that Carols from Kings is far easier on the ear but never mind.

...(predicatbly) what a load of balls

Yep, well done to Murray, it might get a monkey and his mother off his back but replacing them are a swathe of dislikeable and objectionable folk crying out to give him a gong for winning a few tennis matches and thereby scrape a bit of kudos by association. Give him a break at least wait until he finishes his career and perhaps does something worthwhile thereafter.

Lurching into Lockdown

Well...the end of the world inevitably lurched  proudly into clear view or so it seemed in this backwater area of deluded Expatland - the rumours of the last eleven months had hardened briskly morphing into the black scab of an unspeakable degenerate truth. The world ends Tuesday 6.30 pm.

To compensate for this irredeemable impending disaster, for that is what it is, desperate (but enjoyable)  Bacchanalian  Dante styled orgies were hastily and lustfully held in the bars and hotels at the weekend and, as the rabid realisation took hold red-veined, gout hobbled Johnny Expat of every hue, blotch and addiction battered down the armour plated door of Al - Oddbins for desperate entry and stumbled and scrambled feverishly  grabbing armfuls of whatever remained on the soiled shaky shelves and broken-doored fridges...even the Pakistani Shiraz and the traditional fermented Azerbaijani aged and fermented dog testicle.

Scenes of feral despair at the booze shop

Licenses had been begged, borrowed and blagged as the whole of jaded Expatland cashed in its monthly ration in a 48 hour frenzy. In the 50 degree heat and humidity queues of Soviet proportions doubled round the block, the shelf-stackers and sales staff struggled to hold back the pulsing crowds needing judicious amounts of pepper spray and freely wielded electronic batons from the Nubian muscle to hold back the eye bulging fearful fretting license waving souls aghast at the incipient Horror.


The crowds were mercilessly kettled and removed by the dead hands of the law and the shutters slammed and sealed at 7.00 to a bitter chorus of ululating, wailing and sobbing. It was truly a brutal sight of degrading desperation, futile frustration, and middle-aged middle class junkie despair as the hour of tomorrow's end of the world  moonrise Horror gets ever and forbiddingly closer.