Potential employers should probably not read this post, because in it I reveal myself to be not only crap with technology, but also as someone with the sense of humour of a twelve year old boy. If you think that maybe one day you’d like to hire me, maybe you should go and read my post about... oh. I don’t have any posts that reflect well on me. If you are a potential employer, I swear I’m actually a fairly competent human being most of the time. Some of the time. I have been known to fill out my own tax return forms and I always remember to buy toilet paper when it looks like we’re running out. Does that count?
Anyway.
I went to Logrono last week, which was quite nice. In fact, it was one of those cities that is only really possible to describe as ‘quite nice’. Clean, prosperous, seems like a quite nice place to live. But it didn’t make that much of an impression on me.
But the coach trip to Logrono from Pamplona is lovely, though it takes what is coyly called a ‘semi-direct’ route, which basically means that it trawls through about half a dozen little towns between Pamplona and Logrono and takes about twice as long as it would if it just went straight down the highway. If I’d had some particular reason to get to Logrono it would have driven me insane, but as it was I was happy just to sit on the bus and admire the scenery. It’s always nice to have an outing.
I took a bunch of photos, but managed to delete them all and haven’t been able to figure out how to bring them back from the ether, probably because I am a dimwitted luddite I was recalibrating the feedback on my partition drive to facilitate faster bit acceleration rates when my computer went into a advanced forced failure (yes, that sounds plausible...)
I’m mostly OK with that as it was just pictures of streets, trees, rivers, the usual. How many pictures of churches can any one person possibly need? But there were two pictures that I am very that sad I can’t present to you. They were going to be part of my critically acclaimed series on graffiti. One was a picture of a wicked cool flying horse that was breathing fire. The other was a much more minimalist effort on the back of the cathedral. It took the form of black, two foot-high letters that said
CANT YOU SEE THAT I LOVE MY COCK?
I love it for the obvious and childish reason that I loved seeing a swear word painted on a church – not out of any specific anti-religious feeling, you understand, but just because I imagine that whoever put it there thought they were being terribly anarchic and clever, when graffiti really is the one of the most predictably conformist-rebellious things you can do. Oooh, you painted ‘cock’ on a church. That will show everyone. You’re dangerous.
But I also loved it because it offers so many different interpretations. It seems to me that it was written by someone whose first language is not English, and who had managed to slightly muff the inflection and intent of the question, leaving it open to all sorts of interpretations. Go on, imagine all the different moods you could imbue it with, all of which render it utterly ridiculous, and nowhere nearly as naughty as the artist intended. Stanley Kowalski screaming it under Blanche's window in A Streetcar Named Desire. An arch Noel Coward character with a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, lingering over a piano. William Shatner in just about any context.
Or maybe I’m misinterpreting the whole thing, and this is actually quite a sweet declaration of love for someone with the unfortunate name of Mycock.
I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I was so amused by it means that I need to get out more.
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