So, I moved to Barcelona...

I live in Barcelona now, come say hello if you get bored.

I decided I needed a change of everything so I sold all my stuff and hopped on a plane, this was about 4 months ago.

I have a Spanish job, a Spanish bank account, a Spanish social security number, a Spanish national insurance number and Swedish furniture (thanks ikea). I speak terrible Spanish and this generally makes everything a huge pain in the arse to sort out, which I love for some reason.

I talk to children for a living, its pretty funny, I get paid about 10p an hour and taxed 25% for being english, it is pretty great. They give me free sandwiches too.

There are a lot of very small dogs here, they even have clothes shops just for tiny dogs.

The only foods available in Barcelona are bread and meat.

There is a beggar with no nose.

I am very tall in Spain.

Our fish died.

Its warm.

Bye.

Psycological toothpaste warfare

I want to talk to you today about decisions, capitalism, self loathing and tongue scrapers.

Now, I would generally describe myself as an intelligent person and I consider myself to have a decent understanding of advertising and the manipulation of the press due to both my degree and my interests.

I know how advertisers mold the world around us in order to make us consume the items they are being paid to promote and I generally keep a cynical eye on the things I am buying.

I am a decisive person, having worked in various businesses environments and also I am good at getting things done under pressure.

Give me a tough choice during a crisis and I will make it.

But I have a problem. An issue. A Psychological foible that ignores all of the above evidence and stuns me, rendering me speechless and immovable.

Present me with a choice between two (or seventy) things that are near identical and I freeze quicker than an earthworm in a tub of haagen daazs.

I am almost incapable of buying a toothbrush.

The toothbrush aisle completely overwhelms me, I can't remember the last time the choice took me less than half an hour to make.

The chocolate bar aisle, the icecream cabinet, petrol station sandwiches; all capable of rendering me inert.

Am I alone on this?

I am alive... just.

Just a quick note to say that I have not given up on the blog, I have just been sick and one of the things I cannae do it stare at screens for very long.

I just spent the night whispering soup rumours into the big porcelain phone and feel so bad that I figured I may aswell write an update anyhow.

In a few weeks I am moving to Barcelona for a while, so things should pick up again then and I also have some reviews of Polish foodstuffs to write.

Cheersthen!

Rhys reviews chys #3 - Gouda

In this series of posts I will be reviewing various cheeses and stacking up the positives and negatives against the strong, proud, English cheddar.

Welcome to round three of this, the cheese to cheese scrimmage and its going to be a gouda one. Gouda one, good one, gouda one, no? Fine.

Today's contender comes to us all the way from the Netherlands and if it is anything like its country of origin, it will be geographically baffling (see below).

Here she is, a fine looking slab of cow muck:

Gouda is of course named after the Dutch god of  folding bicycles/pedantry.

Elbows and unwell-bows

Second year of University, Sunday, around 2pm.

I slowly regain conciousness unsure of where I am, one crusted eye slowly pulls itself open and I breathe a sigh of relief, my own bedroom, my own bed.

I reach an arm across my bed, searching for a phone so I could check the time. My memories start creeping up on me, we drank a bottle, we watched a band, we headed to a club, but then, nothing; a psychological road block. My phone confirms that I was still compos mentis and texting friends at 5am, my memories I figure, stop at around midnight.

I manage to persuade my second (of two) eyes to get in the game, I try to focus and blearily I make out a tall shape, a figure is looming over me, unmoving, silent.

My eyes adjust once again.

It is a tree.

As I regain my senses and my unease grows, I realise something is wrong with my arm. I throw the covers off my body. I am fully dressed, including a pair of soil covered shoes, the arm of my hoody is ripped and blood stains the sheets.

Life in sound #3 - The Day We Caught the Train

As well as being from the third album I can remember owning, this song reminds of budget holidays when I was knee-high to a pig and full of jellybeans.

When I say budget, I mean, collect 10 vouchers in the sun and a family of four can go on holiday for £10.

When I say holiday, I mean 4 days in a camp site run by the cast of the league of gentleman.

When I say camp site, I mean a Welsh field with a toilet in it.

Chiefly it brings up these three memories:

1. At an indoor swimming pool, some seven year old Spanish ruffian stole my inflatable rubber ring whilst I was showing some girls my dance moves by the towel racks (basic robot followed by some body popping). I chased him down (the girls had lost interest during a poorly executed cartwheel) and gave him a ruddy good lesson on English swearwords and British inflatable ownership law.


2. We went to cheddar on one of these holidays and we visited cheddar gorge. About half way through a tour, I got so scared by a mannequin that looked at me suggestively that I cried, climbed my dad like a tree and we all had to leave. In retrospect, I am not entirely it wasn't just Sir Jimmy dressed in a miners outfit with a Papier-mâché hat and ideas beyond his station.


3. One year we pulled into a jam packed welsh camp site and there was an empty pitch right in the premium first row near what they had rather optimistically dubbed a swimming pool in the brochure. We thought we had struck lucky and spent several hours putting up some sort of quasi  military fabric bunker my dad had borrowed from a family friend. The rest of the day was spent watching my father wage war against the gigantic ants nest we had invaded and triumph over the thriving mass of insects using fire, poison and (if I memory serves me correctly), his bare fists.

Confessions of a lazy banker

I am here today to make a confession.

Something I am deeply ashamed of (and equally amused by) has recently been uncovered by people close to me and I think it is time to share it with the wider world.

All the people at my local bank branch think that I am illiterate.

They think this because I accidentally suggested it and the lie just snowballed from there.

Now, before you start getting on any of the numerous high horses that I have seen casually munching the extremely moral grass in your back garden, I did not mean for this to happen.

About two years ago I went to the bank to physically put some cash into my account (what is this the nineties?) at the cashier window.

I queued politely and eventually the robot told me where to go (cashier number 3 please), I handed her the money and she asked me if I had filled in a "paying in slip" (what is this, the eighties?) and the dialogue went a little like this...

Rhys reviews chys #2 - Gorgonzola

In this series of posts I will be reviewing various cheeses and stacking up the positives and negatives against the strong, proud, English cheddar.

Welcome to round two of this clash of the cheeses, this destruction derby of dairy, this milky match up, this mainly bovine bout.

Today's contender comes to us courtesy of the Italians and if it shares qualities with some of Italy's politicians, it could be a bizarre, slightly bitter and in-discretely right wing cheese.

Sounds like some sort of milky rampaging dinosaur.

Italian Gorgonzola, 200g, £2.00,  ASDA

Packet description: "Rich, creamy and tangy, one of Italy's greatest cheeses made in the Lombardia and Piedmont regions"

First taste:

Upon opening the package I was slightly perturbed by the presence of a little water in the packet as this was also present in the previous cheese I reviewed; A sheep based war crime.

I sliced off a slither of the soft white lump. Well I call it a slice, this cheese has an usual consistency, it was more like a slice of very thick gravy that was doing its best impression of a solid.

Upon jamming the morsel into my talk cave I was met with a familiar blue cheese edge, reminiscent of a standard Stilton but with none of the earthy tones. A creamy explosion with hints of  a sharper blue but none of the ferocity.

This is a damn nice cheese, a strong start for the cheeky Italian.

Day two:

After last weeks shock of finding it only took a day for a perfectly good cheese to evolve into a farmers armpit, I was wary when opening my fridge.

My fears were not necessary as my fridge smelled how it always does; of mystery and children's yoghurt's.

For the second tasting I popped some of the Gorgonzola onto a Ryvita (multi-grain of course) and frankly (and rather boringly as far as this review goes) it was delightful. A little stronger than yesterday but still a creamy treat.

Would be ideal for:

People who like a good cheese as much as the next man.
Cheesy pasta and rice dishes.
An evening spent alone, weeping in your room.

Verdict:

It is nice but hard to slice for a sandwich which is basically cheese 101 so the plucky european loses some points on that round.

Do not eat on a Jammy Dodger.

Is it better than a strong cheddar?:

Nope.

Life in sound #2 - Space, Me and you VS the world

In this series of posts, 'A life in sound', I will be documenting my life so far through an exploration of the music that defines me. Or something. Basically, I like these songs and some of them have memories stuck to the side like old gum.



The above is a song from the album "Spiders" by Space. As far as I remember this is the second album i owned on CD, saying that, my memory is about as reliable as car made of jam.

As you can see, space were an unusual looking bunch. The lead singer looks like he spends the majority of his time feeding change into a fruit machine and I am not entirely sure their keyboard player isn't a 14 year old boy.

I think that space were one of the first English bands I was exposed to who didn't rid themselves of their regional accents which... Wait, hang on; Do they have 'The Sherminator' playing guitar?

Interesting fact, In the year of 1996 when this was filmed, all music videos were required by law to be filmed in petrol stations after a massive but short lived sponsorship deal between 'Shell' and MTV.

All in all, Spiders is a great album; it is surreal, sad, extroverted, silly and altogether very very odd.

It reminds me of a time when I had to buy my CD's from woolworths at the same time as avoiding the sweet aisle pedo, Gary. I wonder how Gary is doing?

NABOO. That's it. The lead singer looks like Naboo.

Rhys reviews chys #1 - Roquefort

In this series of posts I will be reviewing various cheeses and stacking up the positives and negatives against the strong, proud, English cheddar.

Ding ding, round one in the epic head to head knock out bout of dairy products lining up to take the belt from the incumbent RTC* champion: Strong Cheddar.

*Really tasty cheese

Now I have exhausted my meagre boxing terminology it is time to introduce this weeks cheese and let the contender weigh in (there we go, I knew I had another one, maybe I will take up boxing punditry):

French Roquefort, 100g,  £1.50,  ASDA

ASDA description: "Irresistibly tangy, fabulous crumbled onto warm crusty bread"

This is a picture of some cheese on a lovely little plate.

First taste:

I lifted a small yet adequate cube of the cheese (making sure to include a little blue, a little white) into what can only be described as my mouth hole and was pleasantly surprised.

Look, I am not sheep racist but this cheese is made of sheep juice and that concerned me.

It needn't have been as my taste-buds were met with a crumbly, tart, blue, with a cheeky creamy edge, reminiscent of a Stilton smushed together with a halloumi.

Stilloumi.

A strong start for the French contender.

Day two:

"Why does my fridge smell like a farm? It couldn't possibly be that delicious cheese I ate yesterday, let me hock off a chunk and sling up my food chute."

Mother of god, what happened?

In the 24 hours I have owned this cheese, it has evolved into something all the more sinister. It now has all the flavour of a farm. The whole farm.

It is like licking a sheep and then trying to get rid of the taste using the beasts straw bedding as a rudimentary tongue cleaner.

Each mouthful explodes like a grenade specifically designed to inform the victim that this is in fact made of sheep batter.

Would be ideal for:

• Old people with memory issues who want to remember the family farm.
• People with severely damaged taste nodules (Nodules? What? I am no scientist)
• Hurling across the channel with a trebuchet/ballista.

Verdict:

Like being sucker punched in the tongue by an unwashed sheep farmer.

Is it better than a strong cheddar?:

No.

Myth blasters #2: The office

In this "Myth blasters" series of posts, I will be examining common myths and cultural misconceptions we have about various areas of day to day life.

This article will cover business as a whole and some of the more common delusions about the lifestyle's of businessfolk as well as highlighting some fun facts you may find useful in the future.

1. Ties are actually a primitive method of communication known only to those who work in offices. The selected colour, knot and pattern convey different messages to your co-workers:
   
   Red spots with a double Windsor:  'I am looking for promotion and will happily take on extra work'.
   
   Silver striped tie with a relaxed single Pratt knot: 'Gary has been masturbating at his desk again'.


2. The high price on printer ink is actually controlled by the greater business community to stop "any bloody commoner" being able to afford to print important business documents.


3. Black printer ink is made from 'the sooty clothes of the poor', white printer ink and vintage champagne.


4. Hand shaking is seen as a way of asserting dominance in high level business. A power handshake can last for several hours with each businessman trying to impress with the strength of his grip and endurance levels.
   
   Two years ago a handshake between the CEO of Japanese entertainment conglomerate Okamoto industries and US oil tycoon Chuck Willis lasted for over 6 days after which both men were hospitalised for severe dehydration, lack of sleep and 'really sore hands'.


5. The professional manner of office workers is only displayed when in the public eye. Inside an office, most managers like to run their organisations as semi feral "tribes"; each responsible for a department of the company. This does wonders for inter department competitiveness but leaves corridors littered with the snivelling husks of the weak and office walls are often daubed in faeces conveying stark warnings and primitive office gossip.


6. Photocopiers existed for several years before photocopying was actually technically possible. The earliest models were simply the familiar outer casing containing a short person with a camera, a laptop and a small inkjet printer. The loud hum of a photocopier actually serves no purpose and was initially a sound recording played to hide the sound of a very small man eating corn on the cob during breaks in photocopier use.

Electric brain soup

Things have been a bit quiet on the blog front as I have been suffering from migraines for the first time ever (Do I get a badge?) and looking at bright things makes me feel like my brain is a very irate chinchilla.

That being said, there is not much that can be done about it for now so I am filling myself to the brim with painkillers and going forth.

Apologies if my posts get a bit obscure or my grammar suffers at the hands of a brain full of narcotics and what feel like pointy and inquisitive eel folk.

Myth blasters #1: Rural life

In this "Myth blasters" series of posts, I will be examining common myths and cultural misconceptions we have about various areas of day to day life.

This article will cover rural life and some of the more common delusions about the lifestyle's of country folk as well as highlighting some fun facts you may find useful in the future.

1. Horses should not be fed apples, despite what cartoons say. Apple consumption is a major cause of horse flu, which when transferred to humans causes involuntary trotting.


2. Cows are often depicted as slow lumbering animals but can actually reach speeds in excess of 50mph and have been known to nest in low trees.


3. Miniature ponies do not actually exist, they are just much further away than regular horses.


4. Farmers 'fork' their hay to check for rural tramps living below the mound.


5. Roosters do not wake farmers in the morning, in fact it is quite the opposite: The roosters "cocka doodle doo" is actually not found in nature. It is a shock response to spying the ruddy arse of a farmer through a window of a morning.


6. The mud on a farm is mainly made up of discarded gravy, carelessly tossed from open windows after the daily 'Sunday lunch'.

Life in sound #1 - eels, beautiful freak

The following is a re-post* from a previous anonymous blog 'A life in sound', documenting my life through the music that defines me.

*Saying that, I have re-written it because I write better now and I am not trying to impress girls by acting super deep.*

* I am well deep though, ladies.




I start with this song (and the album of the same name) because it is one of my earliest musical memories.

Beautiful freak was released in 1996 which would have made me ten years old when I heard it. Up to this point I think my record collection consisted of "The Smurfs Smurf Christmas", "Mr Blobby's death cry" and "I guess this is the best of the Wurzels".

The jump between multi coloured character pop and the vapid output of overconfident farmers to the outpouring of a man destroyed isn't typical for a ten year old but initially I think I just liked the slightly unusual depressed jauntiness of the album.

At some point in the following years as my brain realised there was more to life than micro machines and plastic trumpets* and despite my largely care free childhood I started to hear the record in a different light.

Regardless of my own simple and happy childhood I could feel the pain of a man I had never met through his words and his art and my musical conciousness was born. This is in essence where this series of posts begins, as a ten year old version of myself looks down the barrel of his future and is content in knowing it will have a decent soundtrack.


*PhhhwwwwwUUuuuurrrrrrmmmmmmp!

The 5th Spice girl - Winky Spice

This is what happens to your eye if you blow into a tube of chilli powder.

In the immediate aftermath of shouting for someone to 'GOOGLE CHILLI IN THE EYE!" and finding out various milk and water based remedies, this represents my efforts in stemming the immense pain in my eye:

My bathroom smells milky.

You win this round, ingredients.

Whatever happened to Dave Benson-Phillips?

Recently I have become overly interested in the opinions and lifestyle of 90's kids TV 'presenter', Dave Benson-Phillips. I feel like a young, digital, David Attenborough; Tracking a rare beast and documenting it's movements.

I put his title of presenter in inverted commas as he didn't so much present 'Get your own back' as force the show through your eye and ear holes like brightly coloured plasticine with his 'voice fists'.

For those who do not remember the assault on the senses that is DBP (as he will be referred to for the rest of this article), here is a picture:

*Don't get too close, he can smell fear.

Now, a little while back, maybe 6 months ago, I decided that DBP would be a good person to follow on the social networks and by Boy George's ghost, I was not disappointed...

Take That - The flood

"Although no one understood, we were holding back the flood,
Learning how to dance the rain.
We were holding back the flood,
They said we'd never dance again"

Now, wait a second, can we look at that first line please.

"Although no one understood, we were holding back the flood."

Something is wrong here, are we pronouncing flood as 'fluud' or understood as 'understud' to make this work as a rhyme?

Come on lads.

Lads?

Review: Stewart Lee, Carpet Remnant World, Hall for Cornwall

“If I was Cornish, I wouldn’t like the English either, after what we have done to you; we destroyed the tin industry, made smuggling illegal and now were taxing your main source of food” – Stewart Lee

It took ten minutes of surprisingly accessible topical material and some localised banter about Cornwall and pasties before Stewart Lee turned on us.

As a fan, there’s always a worry that you will find yourself in an auditorium of people not accustomed to Lee’s post ironic deconstruction of his own routine or the acerbic, condescending and repeated assaults on the intelligence of his audience members, however it was obvious after just a few minutes that I was in good company.

Things my doctor finds funny:

Not funny:

Jokes about doctors
Impressions of famous doctors
Me claiming I am a Doctor
Dancing

Funny:

Colourful socks.

Madness? THIS. IS. BLOGGER.

Welcome to my blog, I am a blogger, doing blogs. Blogs blogs blogs. Blog is an ugly word which only gets worse when repeated thrice.

I have been running several blogs over the years under many psuedonyms and I thought it was around time I started again, from scratch, under my own real life identity (20 something moron).

This blog will mainly serve as a toilet for general thoughts that fall out of my headbox which in the past have just collected in the upturns of my skinny fit jeans like soup.

I will be pulling in some old content which hopefully I can seperate out using some tags or something, hashtags? People love hastags. I am going to put millions of hashtags all over this because I think you get better traffic if you have lots of hastags. #HASHTAG

One of these sections will explore the music that has defined my life, this one is fairly depressing sometimes so watch out for those ones comedy lovers!

Anyway, hope this blog makes you laugh at some point.

Rhys

#thingstonotsaywhenyoumeetghandi