Hello my collective sweet peas. Back in Barbados for another few days – primarily to watch England v West Indies. A week ago, this was a fruitless game as both teams have now been eliminated, however since Brian Lara announced his retirement from all international forms of the game, we were guaranteed a spectacle. And a spectacle we got, with dickhead Paul Nixon somehow carrying England to West Indies highest total of the tournament, with only a couple balls to spare. By far one of the best displays of one day cricket I’ve seen in a while. Up there with Michael Bevan’s 4 off the last ball against the West Indies around 1998, and the 1999 world cup semi final against South Africa. Allan Donald – you idiot.
Oh, and I’ve been reliably informed that the quality of my “jokes” is rapidly declining. I beg to differ, as I’m of the opinion that my ganja-influenced wit is on the incline, and none of the subscribers to this blog have risen at the same level. I sympathise for you all. But seriously, if I decline to the level of Akhmal, kindly prepare a noose for me. And him.
Anyway, we were only in Barbados for three days this time, so I’ll get out of your hair quickly.
Now, if you want to eat fish, Barbados is the place to come. Last night I ate what is potentially the best meal I’ve had in my life. By far the best fish, at least. I never thought a marinated Marlin steak could be so fucking good. The queue at the “Fishnet Grill” at Oistins fishmarket on Friday nights generally extends to around 80m. It is an experience unto itself. If it were Bunt, he’d be bottling it right now. I honestly can’t describe it, and the chef wouldn’t disclose his secret, so all I can say is get there.
One of those 'you had to be there' kinda moments.
A monkey. His name is Mike Goldman.
The only problem with eating fish here in the Caribbean is that we’ve noticed a direct correlation between eating fish and having bizarre, bizarre dreams. We’ve almost developed a ritual of post-fish dream analysis the following morning. Some of my dreams have included terrorist attacks at cricket games; trying to smuggle heroin and cocaine into the US; Gumby being king (with the Blockheads his servants at arms); being forced to live inside Daniel Johns’ knee; and the Roosters winning a game. So, if anyone can shed some light on why this is happening, do tell. Especially the Daniel Johns’ knee thing.
We managed to score ourselves an invite to Tony Cozier’s beach house for a BBQ, hangin’ with Beefy Botham, Mark Nicholas and co. (note – “and co” actually implies that there was nobody else there of note other than those listed, otherwise I would have continued the list). Tony’s place is located right on the beach (on the north east coast I think) of Barbados. So, naturally another competitive game of beach cricket ensued. This time, a cricket team’s worth of locals, including a handful of cocky, hard-talking kids, challenged us to the game. And they smashed us. If only the West Indies cricket team played the way they play beach cricket. Except for their ridiculous rule of playing ‘two hands one bounce”. My protests were fruitless after being repeatedly dismissed within an over.
Mild hangover grins. Tony Cozier's deck. That's 'deck', not 'dick'.
But we did have a reasonable excuse for getting belted around the beach. The night before, after countless rum and red bulls and sangrias at St Lawrence Gap, was potentially the most intoxicated I’ve ever been. Except perhaps that night at the CSU unibar, when I continually harassed the Jebediah bass player and then spewed in my bed only to roll over and continue to sleep in my own fluids, before wearing the same t-shirt to dining hall the next morning. I hold Symcard accountable for that one. So no, our heads weren’t in the best shape for cricket. Andy spent a decent slice of the cricket game passed out on the sand, being used as a boundary marker, with the locals taking their own personal retribution for centuries of enslavement.
Dunny delivers to a psychotic local.
We had little chance of victory.
Photography. Me.
Red Alarm, at the Reggae Lounge. St Lawrence Gap
I hear that BB8 is about to commence back home?! And are apparently targeting more “intellectual”, older types? Shit. And bloody Gretel. Is she in a walking frame yet? So many crows-feet. So many memories.
Church, priest, tabernacle.
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