Months are funny things. They seem to fly right by before you've had a chance to put your pants on and fetch your gun. Some seem to take longer than others. August, for example, should take a leaf out of January's book and hang around a few weeks longer then perhaps January could fuck off to Eastern Russia where I hear they like it cold and boring (the weather, not coitus [although who am I to say]).
Alternatively I could always head back to the Southern Hemisphere where they have quite the opposite problem.
Which reminds me, (and allows me to go off on a wild tangent and ain't wild 'uns the best 'uns?), has anyone heard of the Aymara Amerindian tribesmen from Northern Chile's Andean Mountains? Nope? Didn't think so. Neither had I until I clapped eyes on this gem at www.guardian.co.uk (not that I read the Guardian for I am no yellow-belly):
"Time, as Einstein showed, is a tricky concept to nail down, and all languages resort to metaphor to express it. In fact, with staggering monotony, they all resort to the same metaphor: space."
What he means is that we think of ourselves as being close to (or far from) any given point in time. Your birthday, for example, is behind you even though it can't be. If you turn round, I promise you it won't be there. In fact, birthdays only exist in our heads and they don't even exist at all in my head (Sorry Dad. I've set the alarm for next year). Confused? Pity the poor Aymarans then, who presumably get younger the older they get.
"Rafael Núñez, however, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, who is interested in how we develop abstract ideas like time, now believes that he has definitive evidence that the Aymara have a sense of the passage of time that is the mirror image of his own: the past is in front of them, the future behind."*
I could bang on at length about the mind-fucking implication's of Nunez's research or just leave it with you, which is what I'm going to do because the whole thing is, as previously stated, a wild tangent.
All this babble about time comes not from my blisteringly-hot talent for wasting it, but because I started writing about the concept of 'month'. The term 'month' is significant for two reasons:
- I) A 'month' is about how long it's been since I last updated this blog. Shameful, I know.
- II) A 'month' is almost exactly how long it's been since our persistent friend Mr Honky Tonk phoned me in my capacity as a serf in the complaints department of a well-known broadcaster.
It is with jubilation and relief, therefore, that I am hereby able to update you with his latest mad rant:
"Hello. How can I help?"
"Hello, is that the regions?"
"Yes, yes, this is the regions! Is that you Mr Honky Tonk? How are you? I thought something had happened."
"Well, I've been in hospital for a bit but never mind that. Are you Irish?"
"No, I'm Scottish, as you well know."
"Well, you never can tell with those Irish. Don't trust 'em one bit . The Scots though, they're a different story. All that whisky and porridge. You like whisky and porridge don't you? Or are you Irish."
"I've dabbled."
"AHA! But do you like whisky-porridge or even...porridge-whisky?"
"Sure. I like 'em both."
"Thought so. Bloody Scots. Anyway. Down to business. This fellow who got bitten by a snake. I take it you've heard."
"Umm. I'm not sure if I have."
"Of course you have. The one in the city. You know."
"Which city?"
"Bristol you nicompoop! What other city could I be talking about? Glasgow? HAHA HAHA!"
"Of course, of course. The reptile keeper who got bitten by his own Cobra and nearly died."
"That's the very one. I noticed the keeper had a special instrument to hold the reptile down and I want you to tell the regions that I too have a beautiful thing with a trigger in my house."
"What? God man! You can't be serious. Look I've only ever joked about guns."
"Yes. It has a trigger and little jaws so I can pick up my keys if I drop them. Nothing bigger though. It wouldn't work if I dropped, say, a dog or something like that. A cat maybe. You have to be discreet about these things though. At least I do, coming from a medical family and all that. Now you pass that on to Fatso and Big Ears [Charles Clarke and Tony Blair].
Toodle-pip. Honk Honk."
Line goes dead.
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