Why do we constantly seek context? Whenever I sit to compose myself and let spill a little of my essence (textually speaking) I always find myself beginning “I write this…” or “I’m sitting here…” I suppose it comes from reading/seeing/listening to too many travelogues – I have a kind of literary dysfunction – I tend to fall into the cliché of whichever style I am writing – If contributing to a magazine I write like a broadsheet columnist, if a report is required I am the driest and most analytical reporter you could wish for, if writing corporate material I can bullshit with the best of them. I’m still struggling to adjust to blogging – is it a journal? Is it a tool for self-branding? Is it some quasi-ritualistic clutching at ethereal validation (I know somebody somewhere is reading this and enjoying it…even if it is only one person…) I wonder…if Sartre or Camus were alive today, would they blog?

Anyhoo, now that I’ve successfully opened this entry with sufficient piffle I can give some context. I am currently somewhere between Estonia and Finland on my way for a short respite in Helsinki before my main man Markus’ wedding next weekend. I’ve just come from the Viljandi festival in the South of Estonia and very nice it was too. There’s something about sitting in the dirt with a load of wasters listening to a mixture of improvised didg, throat singing, djembe and some kind of keyed, bowed fiddle type thing whilst drinking tasty brews (I never rated Estonian beer until this weekend – Saku to me is no different to the Latvian Aldaris…a generic lager type drink that is refreshing when served cold but has no real character). I may have a lot of issues with the English (stealing our land and money, culturally oppressing us, and so on and so on) but they do make some excellent ales (anyone with the opportunity, seek out Badger Champion, Old Speckled Hen, St. Peter’s Golden Ale or leaving the English behind, if you’re in Wales, go for the gravity-poured Felinfoel Double Dragon straight from the keg. In fact if you can, go to the Black Horse in a little village called Meinciau not far from Carmarthen – it looks just like somebody’s house except it has Cwrw (welsh for beer) written on the wall outside. Inside you’ll find 2 kegs of ale, a row of single malt whiskies and 2 old ladies that look like your grandmother behind the bar. Not to everyone’s tastes but an experience that must be tried at least once). Before I lose myself in digression – the Estonian beer is called Saaremaa – a light, crisp lager flavoured with juniper berries. I was dubious but on a hot day its just the ticket, trust me.

As always I had so many things to say and when I come to sit and write I find myself devoid of worthy material. Instead, seeing as I’m confined with a boatload of Finns, I’ll talk about drunks. I love drinking. Not to excess (very often) but there’s something oh so lovely about beer, wine, whiskey et al. However, one of the very few things that makes me truly angry is a drunk (along with cruelty to animals, needless bureaucracy and English people who even after being shown the facts continue to say “Yeah, but it’s all just England though, isn’t it. Why are you making such a fuss?”). I should qualify this – its not drunks per se that make me angry. A happy drunk can be great fun, an argumentative drunk can pass the time, a dancing drunk can truly be a sight to behold. What I have a real problem with is drunks who have lost control. The loud, stumbling drunk who thinks they’re funny. The belligerent drunk who wants to fight the wall. The stinking, slurring drunk who thinks they have the charm of Oscar Wilde – these are the objects of my ire. I know many people can tolerate them. I recognize this may be a failing on my part but I cannot. I can’t help but always, when approached, give the witty response of “Fuck off!” Maybe it’s because I grew up, in part, with an alcoholic. Maybe it’s because I’m a closet control freak and can’t help but feel contempt for those who can’t control themselves (It was funny to say “I have no idea what I did last night” when you are 14. When you’re 30, 40, 50something – you have a problem my friend.) I have to say, the British have a reputation for misbehaving abroad. This is true. They are an embarrassment. They drink too much. They have no cultural sensitivity. They are unquestionably boorish, but at least when at home they generally have the decency to keep it confined to the pub or at home. The impression I have gained, certainly in Latvia, but also in Estonia and Finland is that the drunks are everywhere – in the street, in the shops, in the parks and especially wherever I am. Alcohol can be a wonderful social drug, loosening inhibition and stimulating conversation. I can’t understand how bad people’s lives must be for them to rush to oblivion at every opportunity. If anyone out there can enlighten me as to how this is pleasurable, please let me know. If I don’t hear anything I’ll just assume I’m right and everyone else is wrong (for a change).

np: Valley of the Sausages from the album “Trouser Jazz” by Mr. Scruff