The rain poured down all afternoon. I was stuck in the lounge of the hotel with nowhere to go (it's just underneath the Zanzi-bar, the bar with the funniest name and the most mirthless atmosphere in the world - the name uses up too much mirth, that's the problem). I was reminded of those childhood holidays when a downpour would imprison me in the games room at the campsite, generally playing pinball or ping pong. There was a similar atmosphere of disappointment mingled with a kind of excitement. It was really raining hard. Gave my sunburn time to heal a bit at least. Though for the last four days in the main part of the hotel they have been playing the same CD over and over again. It's got the same five songs on a loop. They're African songs over an enfuriating electronic drum beat. They are all very repetitive. I thought for a while that an afternoon of it might send me insane, but it only drifted into my consciousness every now and again.
I didn't mind begin trapped inside too much at all as I was reading an excellent book. Michael Palin was finished this morning and left me with memories of listening to the Monty Python records as a kid and my brain exploding with the comedic possibilities. How old was I then? I must have only been 10 or 11 as I remember being devastated that I wasn't allowed to see "Life of Brian" in the cinema. I had first heard them on my brother's "Live at Drury Lane" tape and that was that. I was hooked. Thanks to Palin's diaries I can see his side of all these incredible events in my life and see that he wasn't always as excited by them as I was. Fuck pop music, Monty Python was my band. These were my idols. I became embarrassed by them in my 20s, but I was wrong to be embarrassed. Now I want to get home and watch all that old shit again. Just not quite yet.
But the book I read today was one of the funniest things I've seen for a long time. It's called "What's Not To Love?" by Jonathan Ames. It was a gift from Stewart Lee either last Christmas or maybe the Christmas before and has lain forgotten and unread in a bag in my house until about two weeks ago. It is shameful that I had forgotten, but perhaps fate, that non-existant whore, had realised that I had to wait a while to read this. You can say what you like about Stewart Lee (and please the worse the better as far as I am concerned, I will not ask you to tone it down), but he not only has incredibly good taste, but an uncanny ability to discover the best in all kinds of media. I don't know how he manages to keep up with all the branches of the arts or where he finds these things, but whenever he lets a little nugget of his knowledge fall to the ground to be pecked up by the lesser birds, you can be sure it will be brilliant (or if it's terrible, brilliantly and interestingly terrible). This honest, disgusting and oddly moving book had me laughing from beginning to end. I can see why he gave it to me. There are some parallels with my own recent works, but Ames is much more deviant and adventurous than I could ever hope to be or at the moment be prepared to admit to. It's scatalogical, Oedipal and revolves a fair deal around his fascination with transexuals, but it's human and funny and I think probably all true. There's a great story about how his son was conceived. It would be kind of cool to know the details of your conception (you know up to a point), but Ames's son would know that if he cares to read this book.
It made me want to write even more honestly (about the stuff that I keep private from your idiots and I am certainly not giving it away for free on here) and to try and experience more stuff. Plus it made me think very fondly of Stewart Lee for introducing me to another great writer (he also introduced me to Bukowski who is one of my ultimate favourites) and for giving me such a thoughtful and hilarious gift. Even if I was thoughtless enough only to discover it now. The fondness will fade, but it was nice to have it for a short time.
He gave me two Ames books as it happens and I left the other one at home in case this one was shit, so I've got that to look forward to as well. Not that I am desperate to get home you understand. Just there's some fun stuff to do when I get there.
Later as I saw a huge snail enjoying the damp path. Snails are considered beautiful but they are just slugs with property. Do slugs envy snails? Do snails look down on slugs? Or can the slugs see that the spectacular shells may look good, but they crush very easily beneath a foot or a wheel and don't really afford the snail any protection against anything but the rain? Which slugs like anyway.
