The reason why

The need for clean underwear is the single most reason responsible for pushing men into the vicinity of laundromats. Every other article of clothing can be dealt with satisfactorily. Dirty socks? Who cares, they are inside shoes anyway. Shirts? Hey, what was deodorant invented for? And, wear dark colours. Not that anyone should be peering into my armpits. Finally, jeans are meant to be like that. That is why oil-rig workers wear them. In fact, if I had a chute in my bedroom supplying me with clean underwear on a need-to-wear basis, I would never have seen the inside of a washing machine. Or the outside. Except on TV. But I don't have TV.

I hate laundry.

I realize after writing this that certain aspects of the above paragraph have the capacity to plumb unheard of depths in gutterspeak. I will try not to let that bother me.

Enchanting An Teallach*

You know that this mountain is anal about its privacy, when ten paces up you are faced with wooden fences along with subtle hints in the form of signboards pointing the way home. Your home.



Being intrepid I looked squint-eyed at the skewed signpost and hoisted my backside up the fence. Only to have my path blockaded by the Sheep Guard. All looking directly at me. I am dead.



Thankfully, I was still wearing jeans that had seen several mountains, mud flats and bogs, but no washing machines. The Sheep Guard wished they had had their Darth Vader masks with them. They were, ahem, negotiated, and the moat encircling An Teallach's abode was breached via this sturdy wooden construct.



I finally arrived at the gates of The Great Wilderness, of which An Teallach is the forward outpost (all these war-specific terms are making me hanker for some computer games). This area between An Teallach in the North and Slioch in the South is aptly named thus. There was not a soul in sight, but then again, souls are said to be invisible. This was a country fit to be inhabited by goblins, elves, and other such buck-toothed, green-panted, pointy-hatted, four-foot-nothings. However, in the eight or so hours of my valuable time that I gave to its inspection, no welcoming party, heck not even an advance party, owing allegiance to the Wicked Witch of the North descended to intercept me.

So, unhindered and undeterred I stumbled on past cairns



and muddy bogs with piles of rotting bones



dragging my game leg and carrying my old war wound heroically. Applause and sympathies please. Donations preferrred and accepted. Thank you in post.**

Finally, I arrived at the source of all evil: Water, streaming down into nothingness,



and appearing out of a mountain melting veritably in front of me.



I followed the source of this evil stream to the corrie of An Teallach, where glaciers had hammered their brains out to forge a beautiful repository for gloriously blue cold water.



*Pronounced as 'aan chellak', meaning 'The Forge' in Gaellic.
**Provided you sent in self-addressed, stamped envelope enclosing a Thank-you note.

Bachchan's bovinity

MSC wrote a post chastising Amitabh Bachchan. His gripe is sour because the Bachchan's donated a lot of money to a temple when there are other more worthwhile causes, like saving dying children, or giving them to future penurious academics like yours truly. Anyway that post triggered a few neurons and caused me to turn in a few neat phrases relevant to the monetary activities of said superstar.

1. On why it doesn't really matter whether Bachchan saves a life or two: Life and death, but eternal nonsensical cylces. While the Divine, they are a relentless chainsaw.

2. On why Bachchan's donations make perfect pragmatic sense: If you are a cow, it is better to keep the butcher happy, than save a fellow bovine.

3. On what Bachchan may have thought: "I can run faster than a speeding bullet, thrash ten overgrown toughies, and all at the age of sixty. Yes, I have footage to prove my claim. These children can't get over polio. Sheesh. Darwin, where is thy sieve?"

4. On why Bachchan must be forgiven: Swaying at the giddy heights of six foot three, he is closer to the heavens, and small children appear like so many ants. "Which ones to save, which ones to smite, Oh Lord, why do you try me so." Confess; you all have poured molten wax on ants. At least Bachchan spared the wax (Madam Tussaud* may have required some).

5. What did I do today: Wandered amongst the sixties' hipster leftovers and their drunk followers on Midsummer Commons at the Strawberry Fair.

6.What I dreamt last night: About eating strawberries at this fair. There were none. I was so gutted that I ate too many waffles, so that I am really gutted now.

7. And in case you are wondering: No, I am not drunk on wine, but the Sun shone seldomly in Cambridge in the Summer of 06. It did today.

* If you are confused, don't be. Madame Tussaud put together a wax replica of Amitabh Bachchan.

Heavenly neighbours

There are movies out there that will have you believe that catching a plane is the best possible way to hook up. These are dangerous movies, and should be banned. Or, at least given a rating of T-, thereby indicating that these movies are suitable only for people below the age of Testosterone, as they contain scenes liable to raise the hopes of young men (flying) out there only to lead ultimately to frustration. In seven years of plane hopping I have gathered enough data to conclude that this Holly/Bolly-woodian depiction is unnatural and does not pertain to any characters dead, or alive. I am told that is what the disclaimer at the beginning of every movie says. Unfortunately, I hit the toilets one last time when that (disclaimer) goes up, so I haven't a clue.

I have flown BA, Lufthansa, SAS, Gulf Air and Air India. But did I have equine Anglo Saxon dames, or long-limbed Teutonic specimens, or statuesque Nordic examples, or hijab toting Hoor's, or a dash of dusky Oriental mystique berthing next to me? No! I was stranded with the loud football fan from Warwick, the pot-bellied beer guzzler with the heavy accent from Freiburg, the monosyllabic depressive from Uppsala, the bearded Rapunzel impersonator from Doha, or the India-bashing Indian drunk from Delhi.

One time I did have a damsel next doors, but the fact that she brought along a decible shattering bundle of joy made me pine for the Uppsalan. Another time, finally, I did have an interesting protoype occupying the neighbouring two square feet, but as fate was to have it, I had to finish a take home exam on the ride home. I did get to talk to her, once, when I asked her to lower her iPod's volume as I couldn't hear my neurons fire. I think she gave me a smile. I don't think it was a grimace, or disgust.