Farewell To Arms

So, sometimes the Muse bar (in Nottingham) is a dangerous place to be. What might have started out with say, four people having a civilized drink, can end up in a bacchanalian fiesta of debauchery and excess. I went to see a film last night – it was Italian and was inappropriately entitled “My Bother Is An Only Son” (I say inappropriately because it suggests an angst movie about isolation and exclusion, whereas it was nothing of the sort) and, although it was exquisitely photographed and fabulously acted, there were still too many scenes where the director (or writer) forgot to leave the scene early enough. The final scene was overtly too long and quite possibly unnecessary and – despite the evocative music and (frankly) gorgeous imagery - made me want to run screaming for the exit.

Anyway, after a couple of drinks in the cinema bar, we retired to Muse. This was where the trouble started. How I could have confused a girl – who I had thought was Australian but who turns out, in fact, to be from Surrey – with a trainee psychotherapist, is anybody’s guess. We seemed to be spiralling out of reason and before we could say “Jack Robinson” (I wish I could meet someone called Jack Robinson), we had all agreed to play tennis AND badminton AND squash together. This was indeed a bizarre scenario.

Later, back at my beleaguered apartment, we continued to drink more than we should have, and yet again I will be trotting down to the bottle bank armed with groaning sacks of empties.

I am greatly encouraged that the French provocateurs managed to cause more disruption to the progress of the Olympic torch than the lily-livered Londoners did the day before. This is totally in keeping with the spirit of 1968 and is the one reason (apart from the fact that both of my daughters live with Frenchmen) that I still hold a candle to the Gallic cause (you wouldn’t expect me to do that, given the abuses I’ve suffered at the hands of the Gendarmerie – see previous blog). However, I am even more encouraged by Kevin Rudd’s insistence that there will be NO blue track-suited thugs guarding the Olympic torch in Canberra – he says that only “Australians” will guard the torch, and that only “Australians” will keep the peace. Gung-ho, or what? More power to that man’s elbow, I say.

Now, if you were thinking of taking a picture of the fascinating witches who put the scintillating stitches in the breeches of the boys who put the powder on the noses on the faces of the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus – well, all you have to do is to get in touch.

The Muse bar has a lot to answer for, that’s all I can say.

Horace is on holiday.