'Sundays are for mimes' and Other Stories

It has been a mad couple of weeks of gigantic hope, breathless excitement, shouting, running around, a swelling sensation of pride in the stomach being British, and creating our very own dead bodies' competition. Ah, you thought I was talking about the Olympics... Terribly sorry, but I feel there has been enough coverage of that, and rather superbly done. Suffice to say bravo indeed to all the athletes.

No, I speak about the event which has occupied my mind for some time now: the arrival of my Catalan putos calaixos friend. Look up the word 'inappropriate' in the dictionary and there is a fair chance of finding a picture of us two grinnning idiotically or striking some, well, inappropriate pose. This is the girl who phones up a restaurant and makes a reservation under the name of 'Miss Nipple'.

And so Liverpool John Lennon Airport was subjected to a monumental display of homoerotic hugging. Irreverance and tasteless remarks ruled supreme. My particular favourite was the invention of a game while we were meandering around the Catholic cathedral in Liverpool: BattleSaints. The principle is based on that of the splendid game of Battleships - 'B4, you've sunk my submarine, you bastard' - with some minor modifications. Of course, the main one is introducing saints to the board - 'B4, you've sunk my Saint Bridget, you bastard, now all the dairymaids will die!' The only possible improvement to the game would be if the saints themselves sauntered on down to manifest their spiritual being on the board - 'Saint Swithin...we meet at last.'

At Carlisle Castle

At Carlisle Cathedral

 Then there was the Dead Body Competition, naturally. Suggested by aforementioned friend, we agreed that the winner would be the one who picked the best dead body spot in the best dead body position.


 These pictures are the only pair of examples because the best photos are not yet in my possession. And even if they were, it would probably be sage of me not to put them up here considering their...location.

There is one thing of which my friend is very respectful: Sundays. Not to go to church or anything religious like that, oh, no. Sundays are far too sacred - they are the days which belong to the Silence. Noise (particularly pedestrian traffic light bleeping) is absolutely prohibited. Then I pointed out that mimes could reap the benefits of Sundays, since she had neglected a clause pertaining to action. To which her reply was a panicky and harrowing: "Noooo! No imaginary animal balloons!"