23.12.09 San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I line up the camera to get a shot of the "Beer & Tacos" sign just as Victor Bloody Meldrew lurches out of the doorway. He's a cantankerous American nut-job, 65-ish and bald as a toad.
"HEY! What d'you think you're doing!" shouts Baldy, closing the door marked Yuletide Banter.
"I'm taking a picture of that sign", I reply truthfully.
Bald Freak: "You better not be taking a picture of me!"
Me: "I wouldn't take a picture of you if you paid me. I'm taking a picture of that sign."
Bald Freak: "You should ask first if you want a picture of me! I don't want nobody taking no pictures of me!"
Me: "Well, if you quit yapping and get out of the bloody way, perhaps I can get on with taking a picture of that sign, you nutter."
Bald Freak (very angry now): "Ah, stick it in your ear!"
Me: "Stick it up your arse, you nutter!"

As you can see, Baldy ended up actually being in the picture, which clearly, without his intervention, would not have made it onto the internet. Stupid old git. Happy Holidays!
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Songs I would pay a Mariachi band to play right now:
Electric Funeral - Black Sabbath
Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse - Aphrodite's Child
Jailbait - Motorhead.
Guitar chords for all three of these songs are freely available on the intersqueak, and I gots the money. Let's get to it!
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The fellow at the next table has some back on him. Clad in supermarket leather, it's like that of a Basildon rhino. Wide? Sure! His shoulders are such that, were he to attempt to dive into the Manchester Ship Canal, he would get stuck on the edges. His woman is tiny and weak. If the situation should take an unexpected ugly turn, I'm confident I could neutralize any physical threat from her with reasonable speed. On the other hand, unless I rescue her from the Big Lad she'll be crushed to a paste. Below his terrible leather problems there are chinos and cheap slip-ons, on incongruously small legs 'n' feet. Ah cain't do nuthin'. He would shatter me with one punch.
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Christmas Day, San Cristobal

Aside from the threadbare (to the point of being oven-ready) parrots in the courtyard, El Cocodrilo is an excellent bar, right on the main square and cheap like 1989. But! Whoever decided that the appropriate soundtrack to accompany a few lunchtime Margaritas on Christmas Day was Roger Waters, deserves a biro in the sternum. Unless they change the CD in the next 2 minutes, I'm going to hoick out my aorta and inexpertly garrote myself, leading to an avalanche of unfavourable Boxing Day headlines in the San Cristobal Trumpet.
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A quick note of thanks to Roger Waters' mum, who emailed me just now to say that if she was forced to listen to Roger Waters on Christmas Day, she would be tempted to pour herself a large Bleach 'n' Tonic ("Swedish Mouthwash", she calls it). Subsequently her mail becomes increasingly garbled, and eventually so frighteningly obscene that I'm unable to quote from it lest the FBI are watching. Something in there about "kicking my own knees off". Chin up, Mrs W - we share your pain.
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00.01, 01.01.10, Tuxtla Gutierrez

*baaaarp*
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2.1.10, Tuxtla Gutierrez

If you look like you've never been within 500 yards of a hot bath, it's reasonable to assume - I think - that you didn't wash your hands the last time you dropped a deuce. So thanks buddy, but no, I'll pour it myself, and GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS AWAY FROM MY GLASS. Ahem.
What's that? Why don't I go to a different bar, if it's that horrible? Is that what you're asking? Well, having walked 22 blocks in every direction looking for one, I thing I can say with near-certainty that there fucking isn't one.

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