The Sarlac pit
The spice must flow…

Holy shit!




The day started well, with clouds lower than the mountain tops out back of the house,

though that soon becomes boring, when it is all you see all the way down to the border.

The omens were mixed. We saw a road runner running across the road. Followed by a coyote running across the road. However, there were about ten minutes and ten miles in between these incidents, and the coyote was ill-equipped for the task of meep-meep! pursuit. On the other hand, there was a radio call-in show asking the vital festive question: ‘Are gingerbread men really cursed? Y’know, like a kinda voodoo thing?’ Sadly, we lost the station before a definitive conclusion was reached.
Odd moments of cognitive dissonance en route do not prepare you for the sheer ugliness and stupidity of the border wall – a rusty brown fence – stretching through the middle of Nogales. To cross over, you go down a narrow backstreet with a cardboard sign saying ‘To Mexico’, and then just walk through a turnstile and you are there; on the way back, you queue on foot for an hour and a half to snake through a too-small yet still undermanned border post, where there is not even a pretence of questioning, or examining the papers of, white folks. (Later, we drive through a checkpoint some miles into the US, where the same rules seem to apply.)
Most of the people crossing over live on the Mexican side, but some groceries are cheaper on the US side, where parts of their families also live. It is maddening, on all sorts of levels. The yanquis crossing into Nogales are there for one thing – affordable prescription drugs (and dentistry). On the Mexican side, Nogales is a lot like a seedy old English seaside resort, but for the first couple of blocks, every other store is a pharmacy selling drugs at a fraction of the price they cost in the US.
And the place is full of middle-aged white men you recognise from the TV, buying meds to combat their jaundice – and viagra.
To everyone’s surprise, we got back to Tucson without me spending any time in a Mexican jail or a Homeland Security holding pen…
It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it

Most pointless hobby ever

All your bible/archaeology/impalement questions answered in one place

Of course, it’s not as good as Bite

And just lying there, in the street, on the day Trump finally actually becomes President Elect, the latest casualties of the war on Christmas…

… I live for peril, I vacation at my own risk.








Something is amiss in Bristol.
Badly amiss.
And I need your help to understand it.
Today, on one of my much too-infrequent runs, no cars pulled out blind across the pavement in front of me and into a busy road.
Pedestrians walking several abreast taking up the entire width of the pavement stepped aside so as not to force approaching runners and other pedestrians into a busy road.
Cyclists who had stopped and moved their bikes out of the otherwise empty cycle lane to discuss the route they should actually be taking realised they were blocking the pavement for runners and other pedestrians and moved back into the otherwise empty cycle lane.
And.
This one you really won’t believe.
Cars exiting roundabouts used their indicators to let runners and other pedestrians know that, yes, they were going to take the exit you were about to cross.
Something here is not right.
I do not know what is going on.
Help me.



Check in.
And then head on out.
Kraków has everything you might need or desire.
From wild nights and hot fun to
gay porn cinemas and labyrinths of lust.
Wait, you just want coffee?

How hot do you want that coffee?
You’re in search of romance?

Don’t worry – they have wine.
You want passion? They’ve got that covered.

You want blandly unadventurous straight sex in exotic places? They’ve got that covered, too.

You want something a little riskier?
Come right in.

If you dare.
You want French girl hair?
I have no idea what that even is.
But you can get it.

Whatever you want, whatever your taste – stay safe out there.

There are many kinds of establishment in which to eat and drink in Poland. In some of them the food is very ordinary, just okay, but at least they are honest in their advertising.

Some places are real dives, but you know what you are going to get.

Others send out surprisingly mixed messages.
Kraków is of course famous for its fusion cuisine
and for its cutting-edge experimental fare.

This is in part a legacy of the communist era. A common tactic of quotidian anti-Stalinist resistance was to embrace empty formalism over socialist realism, claiming an ultra-modernist approach to all aspects of social and cultural life.

Another tradition left over from that era is the underground drinking establishment, typically little more than a cellar or pit stocked with potato vodka, raisin jack and moonshine. What once was hidden can now proudly be declared, including such establishments’ frequent ties to organised crime – and related health problems.
There are other kinds of drinking establishment, though.


When it comes to groceries, many local stores are bigger than they look from the outside.

But there are also some depressing trends. For example, in Nova Huta, once a Stalinist workers’ paradise, and later a centre of anti-Stalinist resistance, there stood an amazing cinema.

Now, you guessed it, it’s a fucking Tesco local.
Found in Nowa Huta, the easternmost district of Kraków. Built in the 1950s as a Stalinist utopia to house the workers at the new steel mill, it also became one of the centres of resistance to the communist regime. Which might explain the otherwise inexplicable:
Other conjunctions make more sense.
But to be honest, I can make no sense of this at all.

I think it means find love at the-queuing-for-inadequate-bathroom-facilities-hotspot.