IN THE VICINITY OF TRINITY, A HAVEN OF VIRGINITY

Met my old friend Terry Jones last week. By "old friend" of course I mean I don't really know him at all, and by "met" I mean I seen him on the telly.

Well I did see him in the flesh. And I'm not talking about his nudey moment down his hole in "The Life Of Brian". I braved that dangerous terrain that is Trinity College Dublin to see him give a talk; I felt a bit like Luke Skywalker dressed up as a stormtrooper wandering around the death star. I even imagined I heard a sinister heavy beathing and hissing, before I realised it was the collective emanation of hot air from the Trinity Students around me. His illustrious talk on "Who Murdered Chaucer" was the perfect tonic after my "pilgrimage to Canterbury", last week. I liked his talk the same way I liked his book. It had lots of pictures.

On Saturday then I had an "Irish" dinner in Butterfly's flat. You remember her? she was the one who got pissed and tried to steal a map of Dublin on Paddy's day. But wait... what was that? An irish Dinner? Surely that's just spuds and cabbage? Well, yes actually, but beautifully made and had me stuffed right to the gills (well done Courto). You can forget about your Fondue-Savoyard or your coq-au-vin, we got REAL food here. Although, very often Irish dinners can be Beani-ar-an-tost (beans on toast), chincher-suas-an-bother (Chinker down the road) or Ginn-Is-Tru-an-arsehole (Guinness after guinness after guinness). A good night was had by all, and Butterfly got rat-arsed again; fortunately since we were in HER house she couldn't very well steal anything from herself. Maybe she should have a bite of the little known Irish dish: "Cleip-tu-maini-ach".

But I exaggerate, even I can do that on a rare occasion. I fear I've been very mean. I can hear Terry Jones berating me: "he's not a Blog-writer, he's a very naughty boy!"

THE TALE OF SIR FLASH

I was busy killing brain cells like the bejaysus last weekend. I took myself over to Brighton for a few days to meet up with some dear old friends. Brighton is a funny town; it's numerous second-hand shops and peeling white-painted houses gives it that authentic jumble-sale look, while the summer influx of hundreds of weirdos and homeless people make it seem as if Brighton is the last resting place of the unwanted and smelly, before being washed into the sea. Yes, it is a charming place, but also the arsehole of the British Isles. And you thought the arsehole of the British Isles was Jeffrey Archer.

But I love it for the booze. The Royal Pavilion? Brighton Pier? Pah! The only sights I had were double-visioned ones of beer labels and drunken viewings of countless episodes of "Dangermouse" and "Henry's Cat" And there was much rejoicing.

I took a break from my beer fueled reveling by a little trip to Canterbury, not too far away... Sorry should I say THREE trains away! I wanted to take that trip to see what the fuss was all about for all of Geoffrey Chaucer's little characters, The Shrine of St. Thomas of Beckett to be exact. But as the sun was becoming golden as I took my final train from Tonbridge, I began to think I wouldn't quite get there... Just like the little characters from the Canterbury Tales. I had a sudden flashback to January of 2003, the last time I tried to re-enact a medieval story...

The only things I knew about Valencia were, (a) That's where my mad friend Addy lived, (b) it's close to where they throw all those tomatoes in that mad Spanish festival thing, and (c) it houses, somewhere, one of the objects that is purported to be the actual Holy Grail. So my quest was then, (a) to see Addy, (b) to throw a tomato at her, and (c) to seek and to find the Holy Grail, preferably avoiding any taunting Frenchmen. By the time I saw the Catedral de Valencia, the Grail still eluded me, and Addy was tired. Yet I insisted in at least seeing the top of the cathedral, the vista of Valenica would be a tonic against any grail-disappointments. She huffed and puffed and moaned and then huffed and puffed some more as we climbed the ancient staircase, and when the summit was reached, I absorbed the postcard-perfect picture of the city before me. Meanwhile, Addy lay in a heap, spread-eagled underneath the great bell. Unfortunately, it turned Two O'Clock as she did so.

The bell rang out two cataclysmic clangs, the sound resounding throughout the city, and right through Addy's Brain. She moaned some more: "Oh Keveeen I cchave a ccheadache!", before I quickly pointed out that she was damned lucky it wasn't midday.

About a month later I found my ticket to climb to the top on the floor of my bedroom, and I smiled, remembering Addy. My smile faded when i turned the ticket around, only to read IN ENGLISH, "While you are visiting the Cathedral, please do visit the Chapel of The Holy Grail" I was sick as a fucking dog I can tell you. Just like Sir Percival, the knight who was berated for not recognising the grail when he saw it, I was berated for being within yards of it and not opening my fucking useless peepers.

Yet I did manage to see Canterbury, only to find that the shrine of St. Thomas had been removed from Canterbury Cathedral in 1535. I mean, the cheek! No-one told me! It's like going to the circus that they set up at the end of the road only to find out that they'd fucked off 450 years ago.
That Henry the eighth bastard. Wait til I see him, I'll half-realise one of my spanish quests and lob a tomato square in his protestant face.

Note to self: Don't try to do anything, ever.