The Sound Of A Drummer

"You could write a book" they all told him.

And "they" all seemed genuine and sincere when they said it. They figured he was being modest and bashful when he said he couldn't. They didn't understand him like he did, which was obvious really as they weren't in his head, listening to the voices.

He devoured the written word like a fat white tourist at a five star hotel buffet on the first night of his holiday, one with a yellow all inclusive wrist band and as much alcoholic drinks, though locally brewed only, as he could manage.

The more he read, the more he realised how hard it is to write. Paradoxically, the more he realised how hard it is, the more he thought he might someday be able to do it. He knew he had a hat, a funny one, not like a clown's one either. It was the hat he wore to look at life; quite shallow and with a tendency to make him laugh at the most inappropriate times.

He was never the sort of person who could see the funny side to a serious situation and then maintain an earnest and solemn face on the exterior while cracking up with laughter on the inside. Over the years he'd developed a half smirk, half lip biting, half I don't know much about fractions faraway look that only succeeded in convincing strangers that he was in deepest thought and fighting off a sneeze and the second coming of his lunch at the same time.

Everyone else, the people who knew him, would see that look and know there was a joke, sometimes even a funny one, on its way. Overall, was a bummer. He'd never make it as a spy, a drug smuggler, a conman or a politician.

He had friends who could write. The ex soldier friend could take a picture and paint it with words to make it more vivid and more poignant. The Gypsy could write with language so deep and full of feeling that the reader felt like they're swimming in a pool of words, immersed, bathing and splashing about in them, never drowning but often swallowing a mouthful or two of the delicious and refreshing water.

All writers are rich with inspiration and he had that by the bucketload. The passions were clear; his kids, Sri Lanka and music. He had C, who made him feel as though he could do anything. He'd be happy to spend all of his time with them, talking about them, talking to them, just being, just doing. Yet there was a problem, that spark of creativity, the one that all real writers had, was missing.

He knew he could take an average story from yesterday and turn it into something humorous, not because of any great talent, just because he always saw things in that light. The thing he couldn't do was to look at tomorrow and create a story out of nothing. Imagination, they called it.

After all the years of reading, admiring, envying and wishing it hit him, like a sledgehammer flying out of a cave in the dead of the night.

Those authors he admired so much, the writers with the imagination and creativity. Well all they did was to write about themselves, their own experiences and the things they'd seen in their day to day lives. They invented characters, plots and adventures, heroes and villains but really they were the things and people they'd seen and lived through.

All he had to do was write about his own life, ideally in the third person.

Hmmm...... perhaps it just might work. Maybe he could try a short story as a start.

But what would he come up with, how would it begin and where would it go?

How about a little thing about what he was thinking, what the voices were saying?

No, that wouldn't work. Would it?

What Would The Buddha Think?

"Is it ok for producers of the music video, to use a Buddha statue in the backdrop of that video?" asks VIC in his post on the subject here. Mr Mahasen Bandara goes on to answer the rhetorical question with "no, not at all". What exactly is a rhetorical question anyway?

Here in the UK we have rather strict employment laws. They're complicated, expensive to comply with and I'll be buggered backwards with a large fish fried in batter and a touch of chilli if I can understand them. But, the one thing I do understand is that sexist language, racist talk and most offensive behaviour is in the eye of the beholder.

I can go up to a member of my team, call them a "stupid Indian fuckwit" and, if they or anyone else isn't offended by it, then there's no issue. On the other hand I can ask a person to do something politely, add the word "darling" to the end of the question and, if that person is offended, all hell can break loose. One person's witty banter is another person's hurtful sexism.

Yes, it's all about whether one causes offence or not. Subjective, I believe is how intelligent people would refer to the matter. And it's the same, in my humble o, with regards to religion and Buddhism. Here in the west we have Buddha bars, clothing and all sorts of imagery, as documented by DD here, used for purely commercial purposes. Just about every other white person's garden has a statue of the Buddha, available from most garden centres, peering out from behind the plants.

Most of the statue buyers would no doubt be horrified if they thought they were offending Buddhists throught their actions, I doubt there's any intended malice. To them it's a nice looking staute, a cool looking bar to hang out in or a trendy pair of jeans. The kids who wear the jeans will hang a cross around their necks because they think it looks good, the parents will make every effort to get their child into a Catholic school, not because they're Catholics but because it's the best school in the area.

The west, for the main, has an opt in attitude towards religion. People choose a religion if they so desire and then practice it. The eastern way is different, most are born into a religion and then choose to opt out if they want to. When I compare Sri Lanka with the UK one of the biggest differences is that religion is a backdrop to so many aspects of life in Serendib in a way that's not so here.

Which is better, which is worse?

I have no firm opinions on this. I've brought up my daughters with the western approach, hopefully trying to create an awareness of religions and faiths and a level of tolerance in all of them. I know that the reality is that they'll probably grow up as people who don't practice any particular religion. I'm okay with that.

VIC asks in his post for a yes or no answer to the question, "is it ok....to use a Buddha statue in the backdrop of that video?"

My answer is in the affirmative, with some conditions. I think it's okay, that doesn't mean that you think it's okay. I'm not trying to persuade you either way, if you're offended by imagery like that then that's your right. If Mr Akon wants to gig in a Buddhist country then perhaps it wasn't the biggest act of sensitivity around to put that in his video.

Am I offended when people here put Buddha statues in their gardens? No.

Am I offended when I see kids wearing crosses for decoration? No.

Was I offended with the Danish cartoons depicting the prophet Muhammad? No.

But those are just my opinions.

I wonder what God or Buddha would think about the matter?

Come On, Who Was It?

Who stole my moving tag cloud?

It's gone, vanished, disappeared mysteriously, probably carted off in a unmarked white van or something.

Own up. I just want to know if it's safe.

If it was you please hand it in, no questions will be asked.

It's more than just a moving tag cloud, it's been with me for a long time.

Music For Girls

I had an urge.

Not like that, this one was music related.

I felt a need to buy some newish music, and by "newish" I mean new to me, to put in the car and soak up and enjoy in the coming days and weeks. You see, one of the things about being a musician, even a lowly drummer, is that it's important to keep listening to things I wouldn't normally choose. It's all about broadening horizons and influence, being open to new ideas and whatnot.

Abandon me on a desert island, tell me that I can only take a few objects and I'd choose some funky stuff and a bit of hard rock, probably some Thin Lizzy and Foo Fighters and some real old school James Brown or Meters or similar. Those are my natural favourites, but I like to find new artistes and genres too. Although I'd be smart and just say that I'd like to take my iPod, with charger, laptop and wireless of course.

Just for clarity a desert island is different to a dessert island. The former is an island with sand, scantily clad women, Robinson Crusoe and a huge reality TV crew filiming some sort of cross between a survival show and a gameshow. These islands are always referred to in the feminine gender for, as everyone knows, no man is an island.

The latter is a free standing counter in a five star hotel buffet packed full of pineapple fluff, chocolate biscuit pudding and strange looking things featuring jelly and chocolate. Each dish is made with about fifty per cent more sugar than would be used in the west and it's Sri Lankan law that each label must contain at least one spelling mistake.

Where was I? Ah yes. So I was in HMV, desperately trying to find the chart CD section. It's a sign of the times here that the layout of music stores is now geared towards DVDs, blue tack, or whatever this new fangled thing's called, Nintendo Wiis and iPod accessories. Somewhere out of the way is the chart CD section and it's habited by old blokes like me. I should add, for the sake of credibility, that I use iTunes and the iTunes store frequently. I wouldn't want you to think I'm a luddite, whatever that actually means.

Once I saw the CD section I ambled over there, gave my id to prove I'm over forty and was let in to look around. The first thing to catch my eye was the new Gorillaz offerring. A friend was raving about it to me the other day and, as I think Damon Albarn is a musical genius, there wasn't much thinking to be done and I chucked a copy in my basket and continued to peruse. The truth is that I didn't actually have a basket so I just carried it in my hands but you don't need to know that.

There wasn't much to grab me. Nor was there much I wanted to grab. And then I saw it.

I ask you, how hard is it to spell the word "bubble"? It's pretty easy isn't it? It should have been a danger sign when I saw it spelled as "buble", but if it was then I missed it. I picked it up and read the blurb. This Bubble chap has been getting a lot of attention lately. A, my fifteen year old, loves his most recent single and the snippets I'd heard of his sounded okay, in an easy listening sort of way. Sorry about the amount of words in this paragraph with Bs and Ls in them, it just happened, I really shouldn't babble so much.

I figured that a fellow like the Bubble would probably have the best musicians money can buy on his songs so I looked at the track listing and I was right, the list of drummers; Vinnie Coluiata, Josh Freese, Peter Erskine and more was a list of the best drummers in the world. I added the CD to my basket, the one I didn't have.

I was a bit embarrassed on taking the CDs to the checkout. The trendy chap serving me gave me that look that they do to old people. It was clear that he thought the Gorillaz CD was a present for someone and the Michael Bubble one was for me. I felt that need, you know the one, to tell him that I'm a drummer, a real one in a band, and that I wouldn't normally buy stuff like that. I didn't though.

Later that day the new CDs got put into the multidisc stacking thing in the car. If nothing else I was eager the check out the artistry that I knew I'd hear on Mr Bubble's work, the Gorillaz album I knew would need some more intense listening, far less of a singalong thing, more of a listen to it loudly when I'm on my own, or driving home in the rush hour type of thing.

Well, after some persistance I've concluded that Michael Boobfuckinglay is a ponced up club singer. I'm sorry for the strong language but there's no other way I can express my sentiments, what with my limited vocabulary. There are some fantastic classic songs, like All Of Me and Cry Me A River, but it sounds as if they're all time classics being covered by a perfect singer. And that's the problem, he's too perfect. There's no imperfection, no character and no grit to his voice.

The musicianship is first class, in a Singapore Airlines rather than Sri Lankan Airlines first class sort of way, as is the production. It's just not happening for me.

On further listening I realised that this really is music for girls. I'm sorry if any girls are offended by this but it's a sad fact. If there are any men out there who like Michael Bubble, men whose name doesn't begin with "D" and end in "inidu" that is, I want to hear from them.

I love music, I suppose I collect it, I've even got the Milli Vanilli CD somewhere, but I think I'll give this one to A. I know that K will just look at it with scorn, even though she still has a strange soft spot for Celine Dion. I'll probably stick it on iTunes first, just in case.

And, should Mr Buble ever happen to be at one of my gigs and ask if he can sing a song or two, I'll suggest that it would be fine, as long as he can manage to chuck some flat notes in now and again, maybe forget a line or two or perhaps come in just a couple of beats too late occasionally.

Then, and only then, he'll be a real singer my son.

About Time

For sometime, probably about four hundred years, I've been puzzled by a phenom that I've noticed. It's about time. I don't mean that it's about time, I mean that it's about time.

You know when a chap says that 9/11 was in 2001, almost ten years ago, or when a fellow says that it was in 2005, almost five years ago, that Take That reformed? Or when someone talks about the fact that the year is almost a quarter of the way gone already and that Christmas feels like it was yesterday.

Or when you go on holiday and time passes rapidly, running through your hands quicker than a vast fortune through a couple of generations in a Sri Lankan family.

Well why is it that we're always surprised by the reality of time?

You never hear someone respond along the lines of "oh yes, it feels exactly like the ten years / three months / four minutes you say it was, my dear fellow."

No one ever says that that ninety minutes felt like it lasted ninety minutes. Or that it actually feels like it's Thursday, on a Thursday.

Why is this?

Answers on a comment please. Take your time.

Lord Of The Dance

Picture the situation. It was last week, though technically that will depend on when you're reading this, I was in Barcelona, that city of culture and Spanish miscellany, with C and she was perusing a guide book looking for things to do that evening.

"Do you want to go to the ballet?" she asked.

"Um. What?" I replied, using the old buying a bit of time by pretending I hadn't heard trick.

"Do you want to go to a ballet?" she repeated.

"Well, not really." I answered, with all the firmness and assertiveness I'm renowned for.

And so, at six o'clock that evening I was sat in a theatre, waiting for the ballet to start, pondering on my assertiveness skills.

Earlier that day the woman in the box office had told us that the evening's performance was a "children's ballet", only an hour long and "quite good". I'd succumbed, it was a rather picturesque theatre and an hour of watching blokes dancing around while dressed in tights couldn't be all that bad could it? Besides, I could change out of the tights later in the evening if I really wanted to.

Looking around at the other members of the audience made me uneasy. It was mostly women with their children, most of whom were girls. I had a bad feeling that we were about to watch a pantomime, oh yes I did. Perhaps when she had told us it was a children's ballet her English had let her down.

Two people appeared on stage. One was a woman and the other was a man, or was it the other way round? I forget, but it matters not. For about ten minutes they told us things in an animated, children's TV presenter fashion. Every word was spoken with big eyes, bold body language and more variety of tone than a xylophone player falling down the stairs (with xylophone) and having his fall broken by a couple of accordions. Sentences were littered with sporadic outbursts of dancing from our two performers as they explained through dance what they'd just explained through words.

I didn't understand the words or the dancing, which was a bit of a bummer really. But, it seemed as if the friendly couple were explaining ballet, or perhaps bad clothes and their effect on dance moves, to the children. I began to think that maybe this was it; an hour of teaching kids about ballet, getting them interested and hungry for it, all in Spanish, though it may have been Catalonian.

I'm forty four and linguistics isn't one of my things. On top of that ballet isn't one of my things. All in all I felt as if this might be one of those rare occasions when I left before the end of the show, even if it was only an hour. Then, before you could say something quick, the couple left the stage and were replaced by a group of dancers and some music.

I breathed in a huge sigh of relief. It wasn't traditional classical ballet, more a cross between that and modernish dance, clearly aimed at enticing kids into the evil, dark and murky world of ballet. It was quite good.

There were three of four more acts; one was a dance accompanied by an electro sort of soundtrack, another had a seriously groovy tribal thing going on and there was a bit of classical sounding stuff too. It was dumbed down for the kids and suited me perfectly.

The troupe performed their last number and wallowed in the rapturous applause. It was a full theatre and all were clapping enthusiastically, including me. The gang of dancers (probably an oxymoron) left the stage and ran down the centre aisle, giving it some large ones.

I was sitting next to the aisle. A dancer made eye contact with me and held out a hand. She was one of those girl dancers, the sort with a body made from chiselled flesh and probably used by Michaelangelo and other Ninja turtles as a model. It would have been rude to refuse so I countered by proffering my hand and shaking hers. I figured that I was British and a handshake, a well done, a metaphoric pat on the back were what was called for.

Well, I was wrong.

Before I knew it she'd pulled me out of my seat and I was being led towards the stage. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I could see that most of the other dancers had grabbed an audience member too. Now I'm pretty rubbish at estimating crowd numbers but I reckon there must have been around four hundred thousand, perhaps a million people in the theatre and, in a daze, I was onstage, front left, close to the audience.

The dancers were all going mental in a freeform modern dancing way. I looked around me to see the few other people from the crowd who had been dragged up there were dancing too, but all a bit subdued and mild. My dancer, her with the body, was telling me something in Spanish. It was apparent, even to me, that she was telling me to dance.

I figured that I was a foreigner in a foreign land, I was representing both Britain and Sri Lanka. It was a mad moment to consider my identity but I did, though failed to come to a conclusion. Instead I danced, like a total mentalist.

I pulled out all my moves, the ones that A and K would have absolutely cringed at, the ones that I was sure C would be cringing at. Afterwards she told me that she was watching through her hands, whilst they were covering her eyes.

I shook my legs in my best Elvis impression, I swivelled my hips sexily, I waved my arms above my head and spun around a few times, without falling over. I could tell that the dancers were impressed with me, sometimes a chap just knows these things.

Then things evolved into a slow dance, something that's slightly less my forte. And I say forte in a way that a fish can say his forte is mountaineering or BMX biking.

Dancer girl took hold of me and attempted to lead. I followed for a bit, then battled for the lead, changing my left hand position to gain control while being careful not to fondle her bum too much. Once she surrendered and let me lead I realised I didn't have the faintest idea what to do. For what seemed like hours but was probably seconds we did this weird dance. I managed to establish that the music was in 7/8 but she wanted to dance in 3/4 so we settled on 4/4 and went for it.

Then the music shifted gear again, into something I recognised; that Pussycat Dolls version of Sway with me. Again I pulled out some of my smoothest moves. I forgot to do the one when you lift up one leg, bend it at the knee and grasp the ankle with one hand while putting the other hand behind your head and shaking, but the rest were all there. I felt the spotlight on me, the eyes of the crowd and their gasps of admiration and I loved it. There's something about that song that makes everyone want to dance isn't there?

My dancing partner said something to me. I mumbled a phrase that vaguely sounded like "can you speak in English" and she told me I could go back to my seat now. Disappointedly I left my stage, for it was mine by then. I went back to my seat and the other people went back to their own ones.

As I got to my row I could see C, half laughing and half crying. She had the look of a mother who's just seen her child do really badly in the lead role of the school nativity play; proud but embarrassed, kind of hoping the child would go and sit in the row behind by mistake.

I sat down, knowing that I'd done it for my countries. It was good to find out that I haven't lost it. Well I suppose you can't lose what you never had in the first place. At least I know what it must be like to be the singer instead of the drummer now.

I've since decided that ballet's quite good. Though I did only reach out to shake the girl's hand.

You Know You Want To...

Everybody wants to be a cat drummer.

And this.

Is.

Why.

The Case Of The Case (Missing)

Well I'm back from Barcelona and I hope you all managed to behave yourselves while I was away. Indi's back from his travels too, the issue of the Kottu popularity contest remains and we wonder if and how it will be solved.

Spain, Barcelona specifically, was rather fatabulous. I'd never visited the country let alone the city before so everything was new to me. It was a feast of colour, architecture, particularly of the modernista variety, culture and food.

Our (mine and C's) arrival in the city was marred by one thing; my suitcase didn't accompany us, just about every traveller's nightmare. We took two suitcases, we stood at the baggage belt and grabbed one of them almost straightaway, then waited while nothing much happened. I had an uneasy feeling immediately, mostly because these suitcases usually turn up together.

After a while we were left alone at a now stopped rotating baggage belt. There were two stray bags on the belt and neither of them, however much I stared at them and checked, resembled my one. I guess missing baggage is an everyday occurrence, you just never really think it will happen to you.

About an hour after the first bag had appeared we were in the queue for the lost luggage place. I was busily trying to be calm, manly and matter of fact about things whilst battling with a very problematic dilemma. We'd packed our own cases and there was only a slight bit of overlap, the toilet bag being in C's case, so she had all of her stuff and I had none of mine, bar what was in my hand luggage.

My battle was whether to feel pleased that it was my case missing instead of C's or to be a bit selfish and feel all sorry for myself that mine was the chosen one. I settled on feeling sorry for myself but pleased that, if one was to go missing, it was mine. Let's face it chaps, if you go away with a member of the fairer sex and their luggage goes missing, things aren't heading in a positive direction.

The somewhat miserable Spanish woman at the lost luggage desk punched some numbers into her computer and told me, with a certain sense of glee, that my bag was still in London. Against the odds I found myself feeling pleased, even when she added that it would be flying out in the morning and would be delivered to my hotel. As Neil Armstrong might have said, had one of his bags gone missing, it was one small step but in another way quite a big one really, knowing where the thing was.

We trotted off to out hotel, though when I say trotted I really mean cabbed. I had no camera, no fast lens and no spare clothes but toiletries, minus my can of deodorant, were safely ensconced in the lucky suitcase, the one that was with us. Miserable Spanish woman's word that all my things would arrive the next day was my saving grace.

The night would have been a test for any man, even a strong one like myself. For, packed in the stray Samsonite, was one of my top ten Barefoot sarongs, the one with the glowing bright blue squares, gold squares and the darker blue, you know the fellow. And, as I'm used to wearing a sarong in bed, being naked just makes me feel all, well, naked and wearing pants just makes me pleased I was never considered for the role of Superman.

The next morning I changed into my previous day's clothes, it wasn't a major hardship. C kindly offered me her deodorant. I pondered on the issue then declined, figuring that it was better go without than to smell like a girl. Luckily my moisturiser had made the journey in C's bag, so I maintained that clean mosturised look on the RD face, crucial when meeting foreign johnnies was on the agenda. We set off to look around Barcelona, me with the belief that I'd be reunited with the missing item of baggage when we got back to our hotel.

Getting back to the hotel in the evening was disappointing. There was no suitcase in sight and a phone call to the missing suitcase department (Spanish division) of British Airways told me that it was "out for delivery" and would arrive at an unspecified time. Later on it did, though it wasn't actually an unspecified time, it was in fact about eleven thirty.

The reunion was emotional. Me and Mr Samsonite have been all around the world and I was keen to make sure all the contents were intact. They were and the most important thing, the blue and gold sarong, was safe and sound. It was in the case exactly where I'd hidden it, in between the fast, expensive lens and the SLR.

I deodorised myself, threw on the sarong and unfolded and hung up my choice of clothing for the week. I was mightily pleased to regain possession of the clothing, the photographic gear, the shoes and all. But the thing I really had missed the most, that sarong with its blues and golds, was back.

Returning to London, our wait at the baggage carousel was tense and uneventful. All bags were present, correct and together and things went as smoothly as ever.

But I'm not sure I'll ever view the whole baggage and aircraft thing with the same relaxed attitude again.

Vut too doo?

Perhaps I'll pack a sarong in each bag, with one in my hand luggage just to be extra safe in future.

What I've Been Seeing.

A few little snappets from Barcelona.

Hola From Barca

As you can see my Spanish is coming long nicely. I don't know the Spanish for "from" but two out of three can't be bad.

It's pretty damn cool here I tell you. The influence and feel of Gaudi is everywhere, the architecture is totally fantastic, more gothic than Gotham City itself. We've seen the Sagrada Familia once already and I can't wait to see it once it's finished, it will be bit special. I'm intuitive with these things you know.

Yesterday was C's birthday and we went to the local Picasso museum. Now you know me, I'm hardly the art aficionado. Obviously I know about Picasso from his perfume and work with Citroen but that's about the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and that he was a man who had periods too, that's some achievement.

We turned up at the museum only a few minutes walk from our hotel and were immediately confronted with a queue longer than the average one outside a European Embassy in Colombo, it was that long. Our immediate reaction was to reject the idea of the museum, save it for another day when the queue would be less. We trotted off and had a coffee in a place that was strangely similar to the Gallery Cafe in its feel, though we did get served before our flight home was due.

I've taken some pictures but haven't uploaded them so I'm going to attempt to describe things to you. How I wish I'd brought the Gypsy along, she would have been so handy to write all the descriptive bits so that you'd understand and feel things properly.

The area was one of thin alley type passages, quaint and ornate awnings, balconies and railings and a selection of pattisserie shops that felt as if they should have actually been in a chapter from a Dickens book. The weather was only about nine or ten degrees but dry and pleasant enough to sit outside providing one had layers on. I was wearing my new Superdry leather jacket, I haven't told you about it yet, but it's highly cool and trendy.

At the front of the queue, which was withing earshot of our coffee spot, was a geezer playing Spanish guitar. Being Spanish I suppose he'd be called a Jeezer, it matters not. The queue was full of excited but arty people and we changed our minds and decided to join it and wallow in the atmosphere for a bit.

The queuing reminded me of when I was a kid and used to go to watch Wimbledon, standing in line from about six in the morning until midday when we'd be let in to run to the centre court standing area, which doesn't exist these days. You see, that queuing was always good fun and everyone would chat a bit and feel nice and relaxed. This was the same, albeit for only about half an hour.

We got into the museum. C was looking forward to it in that very adult and normal way, I didn't know what to expect but was eagerly anticipating the unknown. I had read that this particular museum houses many of his early and less well known works and shows more about the artist's development as a painter, of his influences and studies.

Then I saw my first Picasso. I can't recall what picture it was, but I can recall the feeling. It was as if I'd been struck by a smallish bolt of lightening, not one of those massive bolts that Thor would dispatch, a smaller one that he'd probably get a minion to throw, but enough to make me glad I'd worn rubber soled shoes. The night before we'd been at the Hard Rock Cafe and I happened to look up and see a drum kit. It was Taylor Hawkins' kit, that for me was a massive lightening bolt moment, released by Thor himself.

Seeing my first ever painting by Pablo Ruiz, as I feel I'm allowed to call him now, was awe inspiring. I gawped at it a bit open mouthed, to be looking at something that had been made by his brush strokes, canvas that had been touched by him and colours and lines that had been chosen by him felt massive. God alone knows how these things must feel for proper art fans.

We ambled our way through the museum and it felt a bit like walking along the time line of Picasso's life. I noticed that in some of his very early works he's signed his name with the double s's that wrong way around. Then later on he started to write them normally, a good thing for sure as that backward writing just looks a bit crap.

There were a few rude pictures, which I stared at intently, pretending to be serious. I got told off by a friendly Spanish guide woman for trying to take a photograph. I smiled at her, did some kind of universal sign language to indicate that I didn't realise and then went on my way.

There were paintings of Picasso's mother and sister, his father and other close friends and it was rather captivating to read about his artistic development and influences. One set of photographs has stuck in my mind. It was a bunch of three or four taken of the great man and his wife on a balcony in the US in 1957 (I can't recall exactly where). The pictures showed him looking old but happy and rather trendy and bohemian in his attire; stripey trousers and casual sandals.

On this balcony were some birds, pigeons I think, in cages and fluttering around. It was the balcony of a friend of his.

Then, on the opposite wall in the museum were some paintings he'd done of the view from the balcony. I found this quite incredible. It was as if the photographs were true life depictions, factual representations of the scene, and opposite were the great man's artistic interpretations, with all his later life artistic weirdness and unusual perspectives.

That, I think, was my highlight in an afternoon of highlights.

We perused the whole museum, bought things in the traditionally overpriced gift shop and went off to have lunch.

In the evening we went to see a spectacular flamenco and opera performance. It even had a fat bloke in a suit singing, more about that later.

Have a good Monday out there.

RD

Tonight's Set List

Tonight there's gonna be a Breaks gig, somewhere in this town.

The set looks like this. We've got five, yes five, new songs and a particularly rocky and kick arse feel to this one. Then, on Friday I'm off to Barcelona with C. It's all happening you know.

Here's the set, anyone who can name all the original artistes wins an old pair of pants of mine. Second prize is a night out with Dinidu.

Set 1

1. You're all I have
2. Take me out
3. Teenage kicks
4. Sufragette City
5. Last Nite
6. Fire
7. Sunflower
8. Times Like These
9. Molly's Chambers
10. Rebel Yell

Set 2

1. Tempted
2. Starlight
3. Country House
4. Uprising
5. Common People
6. Dakota
7. Poker Face
8. Are you gonna go my way?
9. When you were young
10. Mr Brightside
11. A town called Malice
12. Sex on Fire
13. She sells Sanctuary

Encore

1. Chelsea Dagger
2. Play that funky music
3. Brown Sugar

Very, Very Advanced Cooking Lessons With RD

Continuing along the food theme started yesterday I thought I'd pass on a complex and closely guarded recipe for your pleasure.

There are fellows like Skiz who give us regular tips, recipes and advice on food, that of the Sri Lankan variety, as well as other types. I like these people, but if I was to be brutally honest, the fact is they give us the easy recipes, the ones that management types would call low hanging fruit. I suspect people who work in management of restaurants or fruit producers wouldn't use the term too much. Can you imagine the chaos and confusion?

This recipe was invented by my grandmother and it's never been revealed to the public before. If you're new to cookery I'd suggest you work your way up to this, start on some easy rice and curry dishes first.

Sri Lankan Cheese Toast.

Ingredients:

White bread
Cheap cheese
Green chillies
One Suddha
Salad

The ingredients are all important here. In some parts of the world they use brown (aka healthy) bread and top quality cheese. Well don't. It's as simple as that. Get yourself a loaf of white bread and some regular run of the mill, but strong tasting, cheddar cheese.

Begin by slicing the cheese. Use an old, preferably blunt knife, never a cheese slicer, that's what's used in some of the more bohemian European countries. The rustic approach is crucial here, which isn't to do with Russia.

Once you've done that then throw however many slices of bread you require onto the grill.

Now we can start to slice the green chillies, perhaps the most important ingredient apart from the bread and cheese. As I tour the world giving my cookery lessons I'm often asked how many green chillies one should use and how hot they should be. That's where we use the Suddha.

Simply buy a variety of green chillies, slice them and take away the seeds. Then feed them to the aforementioned Suddha and wait until you get to what we call the biting point. This is the point at which the chap can't bite anything, the point at which he says something like

"aaah fuck, that's so hot, it's burning my lips, my tongue and the whole of my mouth, I need water."

Once you get there, though be careful as sometimes the language might be slightly different and it's important to use your skill in interpreting exactly what is said, you know that the amount of chilli heat will be at just below the minimum required level for the average Sri Lankan to even vaguely detect the presence of the stuff. You're finished with the Suddha so you can now throw him away.

It's best to double the quantity, add the seeds back in and then bung a few more just to make sure.

The toast on the grill should be burning now. Grab it and scrape the burnt bits off, then turn it over, put the cheese slices on the uncooked side and the sliced chillies, with maybe a few more for good measure. Let the toast grill just long enough for the cheese to bubble over enough to make washing and cleaning the grill a total nightmare afterwards.

Then cut the slices into shapes. I like squares, each one a quarter of the slice, they remind me of my childhood you know. At this point it's good to take the salad from earlier and throw it in the dustbin. There's no need for that with food like this. Don't throw the salad in the same bin as the Suddha as they tend to eat the stuff.

Now eat and enjoy.

Put a good nap afterwards.

Next week - Why every Sri Lankan suitcase should have a chilli sauce dispenser and maybe a maldive fish compartment.

Sue She

As a firm rice fan I remain perplexed, puzzled and ponderous on the subject of Sushi.

I can tell you now, cous cous isn't my bag of chips. Rice, as far as I'm concerned, is the best thing since sliced kiribath, not that I'm a huge fan of kiribath, but Sushi just flummoxes me.

It's all the rage over here. Walk into Tesco, M and S or any of the regular places where one can purchase a lunchtime sandwich and you'll also be confronted by a range of Sushi for a couple of quid, that's two of your sterling pounds to you foreign johnnies. It's packaged in a lovely little box and comes with a fish shaped miniature splash of soya sauce, some wasabi and often a couple of disposable chopsticks.

There are lovely colours seducing and tempting the customer. There's the pretty pink of the prawns, the bright orange of the salmon, the green of the cucumber, the black of that skin stuff and the gleaming whiteness of the sticky rice.

And every time I fall foul of this temptation I eat the Sushi and feel as though I'm fighting a losing battle. It reminds me of when I used to smoke and I'd partake of a cigar every now and then. I just never understood the attraction. Every single time I'd smoke a cigar I'd slightly enjoy the taste, the aroma and the sensation, then feel like a cigarette straight afterwards.

Eating Sushi makes me feel like I need a damn good rice and curry, full English breakfast or even a McDonalds, straight afterwards.

The chopsticks are a major factor. I always use them and wonder who on Earth thought they'd be a good implement to use for the eating of rice. One can use a fork, a spoon or ideally the fingers for the task but two wooden sticks with a slightly pointy end, to pick up grains of rice, is the sort of thing these fellows use in impossible games at the fairground in order to grab all our money. No wonder they have to make the rice sticky and lumpy. It's food design gone wrong.

The vinegary and mushy texture of the good grain is sacrilege. A paella or risotto is as far as I can go in terms of cooking and serving rice in ways that God didn't intend. Rice should be served fluffy and light, not weighed down by sogginess and a total lack of flavour. Of course these Japs supply soya sauce and wasabi with the food, otherwise there'd be no taste whatsover, just that faint hint of fish going on somewhere in the deepest recesses of the palate. We don't do subtleties of flavour that well, us Sri Lankans, do we?

I carry on with my attempts to like it though. A, my fifteen year old, absolutely loves Sushi and regularly takes it into school for her lunch. Trendy people go to Sushi bars and eat, using their chopsticks as if they're easy and intuitive like something designed by Apple.

On Sunday morning I ate chicken Sushi for breakfast. I say "ate" but it would be more accurate to say that I fought bravely through it like one of those jungle chaps with undergrowth, a long crescent shaped knife and some natives who'll get killed later on in the film.

I satisfied my hunger only in the way that becoming proficient and getting high scores on Rockband or Guitar Hero equips a person to deal with a lead singer who thinks a crotchet is something to do with knitting and a quaver is a slightly weird religious sect. I was left feeling quite full but wondering how the hell it had happened, as nothing with any flavour had crossed the threshold of my tastebuds.

The questions lingers in my mind. Do I persevere with the Sushi or give it up as a lost cause? I imagine JapSach virtually lives on the stuff, he probably goes back to Sri Lanka and makes his rice and curry into little rolls with a bit of bean or maldive fish inside just to deal with the withdrawal pangs.

As for you? I bet you love the stuff.

Or do you?

K and The Boy Z

The time has come. I've been sitting, waiting and contemplating, as the song goes, not that I can recall which one. Enough's enough, even where parental discretion is concerned. Yes K, my thirteen year old bundle of feminine hormones, mood swings and an uncanny ability to wrap her Dad around her little finger, which she gets from her elder sister, has got a boy sniffing around her.

Not only that, but it seems that K likes this boy, who we'll call Z, not because he Mexican, but just because. There have been a few weeks of blatant denial from K, then at some point last week, under interrogation, she fessed.

"Yeah well I suppose we're going out yeah" were the exact words.

"What, so he's your boyfriend is he?" I said, though I was easily the most uncomfortable party involved in the conversation.

"Well, you know."

It's a scary situation for a Dad. I ventured into a brief birds and bees type of talk. With hindsight I think things would have been clearer if I'd talked about men, women and sex, but no, I'd gone for birds and bees. I ended up by having faith in K, her intelligence and wisdom and telling her that she could invite Z round sometime. She did, sooner than I was really ready.

You see, the main problem for me as the Dad is that I used to be a fourteen year old boy. I know what goes through the mind of one of these kids. It begins with S, it ends in X and there's one middle letter. And, before you get all smart, it's not a number either. I don't like the thought of one of these kids sniffing around my daughter, but it's got to be better to check him out than be all strict and ban or injure him or something.

Saturday was the day he was expected. K was on tenterhooks from the time she woke up. She tidied her room, an achievement in itself, she made herself look nice and then attempted to act calm and nonchalant. A, the big sister, was as interested in meeting and checking out Z as I was. K arranged to go into Kingston and meet him then bring him back to RD Towers later. I waited for the arrival and did my own equivalent of pacing up and down impatiently; lying on the settee and watching TV.

At some point I realised that I was nervous. How should I act? Should I play the authoritarian father? Should I look down my nose at him and give him my best "I know what your game is son and you're not playing it with any daughter of mine" look? Or should I take a quiet, Corleone approach and act cool and detached, like a fridge that's not plugged in?

There was a knock at the front door and A let the knocker in. After some grunting and shuffling in the hallway K came into the living room looking awkward. The noises from the hall were a clear indicator that one of two things had happened; either an unknown farm animal had accompanied K in and it was now grazing in the hall or Z was hanging around in that teenage way, not knowing whether he should enter the room or not. As it happens, there were no animals, not farm ones anyhow.

Z was expecting K to be the perfect host, but K hadn't experienced this kind of thing before so she wasn't sure. She was looking towards me for reassurance but I hadn't done this sort of thing before either. Well, I guess I had, but I was at the other end of the food chain as it was not that long ago when I met C's Dad for the first time. He'd decided to play it along the "I know what you're game is son and you're not playing it with any daughter of mine" way so I knew only too well how it felt to be on the receiving end.

Z sort of ambled in. In that way that teenagers, when they've just taken delivery of an adult body but haven't fully read and understood the instruction book, do. He was bigger than me, not really a major feat to be honest, but he wasn't what I'd expected. Somehow I'd anticipated a man, as if it was a scene from Meet the Parents. Instead it was a boy, one who had that floppy hair that, well, flops everywhere. He wore those skater, or sk8ter boy, or boi, trainers and he had a peculiar jowly type of puppy fat going on around his cheeks. I suspect, if I had been his mother, I'd still think of him as cute.

He shifted uneasily from foot to foot and hunched his shoulders as K introduced me to him. In the briefest of moments I realised that the poor kid was nervous as hell and I felt a bit sorry for him. He didn't know whether to shake my hand or wave at me. I resisted the urge to do something mean. I also remembered that K had told me he was a drummer. He glanced over at my drumkit and uttered that important word.

"Cool"

Immediately we bonded.

"Would you like a go?" I asked.

We wandered over to my electronic kit, I showed him around it, played him a couple of things and then he sat down and played a bit. He showed me a groove. I tried it out and was vaguely aware of the girls over the other side of the room being shut out of the goings on. Z asked me questions about the kit and I answered them. I asked him about his playing, his drum teacher and his influences and we very quickly got involved in drummers' talk, a dangerous phenomenon.

I released him and he and K went off to look at her laptop and peruse Facebook for a while. Before we knew it it was time to drop the girls back home and Z went off to meet his mate somewhere in Kingston. K seemed pleased that I hadn't been mean to him.

It's a funny old thing you know. I don't know if this will be one of those teenage romance things that's over and done with by Tuesday, perhaps Wednesday, or if it might last much longer. I wonder how it's best to be the good parent here, balancing the different roles a parent has to play. As the divorced Dad things are different too, I have less day to day contact and influence and often have to sit in the sidelines and wait.

The last thing I want to be is one of those parents who forbids their child to hang around with a boy, but I also want to do my best to ensure K doesn't grow up that bit too quickly. It's a finely balanced act, made a little more challenging by divorce and all that goes with it.

Hmmm...and I wonder what he thought of my drumming.

It's Been A Long Time.....

Well hello there. I haven't written a blog post for what seems like ages, but what is, in reality, about a week.

You'd think that I'd have an abundant flow of ideas for highly interesting and humorous posts, all the things you know me for, and be itching to get back to LLD and regale you with them. Sadly no, I've only got five, maybe thirty nine if pushed, ideas and none of them have even hatched into eggs yet, let alone draft posts.

There's an ongoing saga of K and what looks to be her first boyfriend. Should I tell you all about that or should I keep quiet? If I tell you I can guarantee you'll chuckle more heartily than a heart specialist at Apollo when he writes out his invoices for the week. But, there's the risk of K finding out about the post at some point in the future and then she might kill me. Or worse, she might give me a lot of grief. Not just any grief, I mean teenage girl toward her Dad grief, officially classed as the third wost type of stroppiness in the world.

What are the other two types RD? I hear you bellowing. Well the first is what's known as ex wife about a year before you separate grief. It's not nice, take it from me. Obviously the worst grief to face is something I'm reluctant to mention and put out in the universe. Even though my own one is floating around in Sri Lanka at the moment I know that these things can travel and hit a fellow right between the eyes when he's least expecting it.

Yes, at number one is Sri Lankan mother grief. PG Wodehouse wrote about aunts as the epitome of scariness, all well and good but he didn't have a Sri Lankan mother. Which would also explain why he wasn't called PG Samarasinghe and his first name wasn't Peter and everyone called him by his nickname of Panky. Or didn't call him by that name, you know what I mean.

In general it's fair to say the RD jury's currently considering its verdict on whether to tell you about K's adventures with the opposite sex yet. Well, the one boy, not that I want to even consider adventures, but, as a chap who used to be a boy, I can well imagine what adventures a fourteen year old kid might want to go on.

Reading. The act of, not the nondescript town not too far from here.

I've been enjoying the new Kindle, the e reader I told you about, big time. I look at the debates about e readers and e books with a sense of smugness. I've noticed that people who have an e reader rarely get involved in these arguments. We just get on with reading our devices and any of the many hundreds of books we can cart around with us everywhere we go. People who haven't got an e reader talk about the smell of books, the colour and the fact that e books will never replace proper books.

I agree with them wholeheartedly. But I don't think e readers are there with the aim of replacing paper books. I like both. But, fuck me, and I mean it, though not in a sexual sense, an e reader is such a fanfuckingtastic way to read fiction, as long as it hasn't got the Thompson Twins and a few Sansoni photographs involved.

And, on the matter of reading, I've started to read the Guardian. It's a newspaper, a slightly left of centre one. After more than twenty years of being a Times, sometimes an Independent, man, I've switched allegiances. Why? It's more fun, it's as simple as that. I reckon I've got to a certain level of maturity in which I'm nearly capable of filtering out opinion from fact.

Next week I'm off to Barcelona with C. This is seriously exciting, a load of firsts together. Our first flight together, my first time ever in Spain to name two of them. I've been practicing saying all the English words but adding a phlegmy throaty sound from the back of my throat. I'm told that's pretty much the basis of the Spanish language. If in dire linguistic straits I'll just shout, that usually does the trick.

And I booked a summer holiday for me and the girls. We're Serendib bound and I can't wait.

That's my news, I promise to write and tell you about it very soon.

RD

The 2009 Lankanosphere Awards - The Closing Ceremony

I suppose we've got used to these awards in the last couple of weeks and it would be unfair to just finish things without a little round up and a word or two of thanks.

So, here are the categories for this year's awards and the winners:

1. First up, hence the number 1, was the best overseas blog. Beating off the competition with a stick and emerging victorious was JapSach with Just About Anything. My sincere thanks to Tiger Woods for his kind bit of guest judging in this category.

2. The Best Newcomer - Won by Chavie for See Chavie Run, his rather eclectic mix of a blog. Thanks to Indi for the guest judge duties and responding at such short notice.

3. The Fashion Police Are Coming For You Award - A new category this year, one that may or may not return next year. It all depends on the availability of suitable candidates. It takes a special person to be nominated for this one let alone to walk away with the first prize. This year that special person was Sanjana, with this footwear related fashion crime. Guest judge Java Jones gave us some privileged insider information on Sanjana's tastes. He's kind like that.

4. The Innovation Award - Another new category, won by the man himself, Cerno for his Top 100 Sri Lankan blog post book project idea. Everyone agreed on this one and we hope it might still see the light of day at some point. Guest judge David Blacker is to be thanked for the speech and also for putting up with me asking him endless questions about Sri Lankan life on FB chat.

5. Best News and Current Affairs - New category number three. The motherland is nothing if not interesting and news and current affairs are a reflection of the huge diversity of opinions, political views and mindsets that exist, when they're allowed to. The winner here was DBS Jeyaraj and thanks go to another intellectual heavyweight for the guest judging, Ms Britney Spears.

6. Best Photoblog - With Sri Lanka being as picturesque as she is no Lankanosphere awards would be complete without a photoblog group. Us diasporic types must spend many hours gazing longingly at the fantastic photoblogs as we sit in our respective places, as differing as they are, and become united with our pining for Sri Lanka. This year's winner was the London based Aufidius with Tableaux of Aufidius, his pictorial gallery of light from all around the world. The master himself, Dominic Sansoni, looked at the goings on and wrote some nice words.

7. Funniest Blog - This year, it has to be said, the number of candidates was disappointing but, the standard wasn't. The winner was Makuluwo with Cerebral Ramblings, a blog funnier than one of those youtube clips of old people falling over on ice. Seriously. Guestingly judged by DQ, my own personal comedic hero, well apart from PG Wodehouse.

8. Best Written Blog - One of the real big boys of the awards and carried away by everyone's favourite Gypsy, the Bohemian one. Our Gyppo faced some really stiff and brilliant competition and emerged triumphant. Or should that be triumphantly, I'm not sure. I was rather delighted to rope in Ashok Ferrey as the guest judge here and he had some highly complimentary things to say of all the candidates, high praise indeed. Thank you Mr Ferrey.

9. Blog Of The Year 2009 - The fourth winner of this, the most coveted award was our good Lady Divine for A Glimpse of Lady Divine's World. Last year she was nominated but didn't win, this year she grabbed the title and ran away with it, a bit like a shoplifter in Majestic City to be honest. She joins the roll of honour alongside Darwin, Cerno and The Missing Sandwich. I managed to tempt TMS out of blog retirement, just for a few minutes at least, to write her guest judge speech for this one too.

So there you have it, another year over, a new one just begun.

Thank you for reading and keeping up with the proceedings.

Thank you to all the judges for their input and for putting up with me hassling them, asking for a speech, then saying that I need it in about four seconds time.

And lastly thank you to all the bloggers whose blogs I continue to enjoy and have made my little connection to Sri Lanka so much stronger in recent years. I think I'll take a break from blogging for a few days. Nothing dramatic, just a short one. I always think I'll do it and never do, let's see how long I last before I'm slapped in the face with that urgent need to tell you something.

Have a good weekend all.

RD

The 2009 Lankanosphere Awards - Ze Big One - Blog Of The Year 2009

It's been a long couple of weeks but thank you for holding on and standing firm, if you have done. We reach the climax, the big one, the title that everyone really wants, whilst pretending that they're pleased for all the other winners.

How does a blog get into the list of nominees for the Blog Of The Year Award? Well, in order to answer that you need to start by putting objectivity aside. It's all about blogs I read, people I like and things that fundamentally make me smile. There's no rhyme or reason, it's really just the blogs I find myself returning to time and time again.

Of course one of the major influences in this is the frequency of posting. Some blogs are fantastic but kick out a superb post every once in a while and then languish lazily in the recesses of Kottu for months before they put out the next. I crave satisfaction on a far more frequent basis than that.

Then there's the question of identity, blog identity, not the whole "is he really a Sri Lankan when he lives overseas and doesn't wear jeans with turn ups?" thing. There are some blogs that change their name, look or address more often than that Anarkali woman. That's all well and good if you are that Anarkali woman but it's not going to win you the Blog Of The Year Award.

No, I like to be able to read archives, to look at history and to not have to hunt for a blog's URL like a rare bird making its first appearance in Sri Lanka for several hundred years, finding that Amila Salgado has gone to the cinema for the afternoon and having to look everywhere for him.

The smiling thing has to happen too. Make me (and the guest judges) smile. It doesn't have to be cracking up with mirth and merriness smiling either. It might be a wry smile, like when I do a fart in my office and I'm the only one aware of it, or it might be a smile with a nod of the head for a bit of intelligent writing that I understand. Rare I know, but it has happened.

If I tell you that the previous winners are such legendary bloggers as Darwin, Cerno and The Missing Sandwich, then you'll have an idea of the high standards involved. So I will tell you. The previous winners are Darwin, Cerno and The Missing Sandwich.

I think that's enough rambling, I can get a bit excited sometimes. This year the nominees are:

1. Cerno - Yes, the winner of the award in 2007 is back and better than ever. Cerno's one of the old school now, but age only makes him better at blogging and giving us interesting things to ponder on. I've never actually met Cerno but, if I ever do, I'll be in awe and probably won't be able to talk properly. This post is proof of his genius. From the layout and look of his blog to the content itself there's something wonderfully imaginative and quirky going on there. He remains one of my heroes.

2. Ephemeral Ruminations - Or Java Jones as we know him. Or, to use Sittingnut's intelligent and eloquent approach, Chickenshit bitch Java Jones. Now I know Java and I can tell you that he's one of life's good guys. He's the sort of fellow who, were I living in that sort of environment, I'd allow to sleep with my girlfriend, assuming she wanted to of course. That's how nice he is. Really. Somewhere in there is a joke about wives and girlfriends, you know that insinuation that a fellow might have both. I'm not going there though, due to some thin ice re my previous statement.

On the blog side his outpourings are that delightfully witty yet slightly nutty with a woody aftertaste recipe that we've all got so used to, like woodapple jam actually. He makes me think does Java, with posts like this when he asks a relatively simple question and posts like this when he gets cleverer than a British MP filling out his expenses which are then going to be checked and authorised by a Sri Lankan one.

3. Life In Taprobane - I plead guilty here. Guilty to never having put a link to this blog up from mine. I don't know why, as I read it avidly, eagerly awaiting a new post like a dog with a bone being dangled just above its mouth. Serendib Isle, the author, is a divorced father of two who lives in Jeddah (I think). He's Sri Lankan and writes a lot about the motherland in that very diasporic way. As a fellow divorced and diasporic Dad I feel a great affinity towards him. This post is one such example where I really could relate to the feelings and thoughts described. Or have a glance at his post about Lebanon for an example of one of those make you think about things type of posts.

4. A Glimpse of Lady Divine's World - Our Lady D was pipped at the post last year in this very same category. How is a chap to describe her and her blog? Well, I hope she takes this in the good and positive way it's intended. She isn't the best writer out there, she doesn't tell the best stories, she's not the funniest nor does she take the best photos. But, put it all together and she's consistently one of everyone's favourite bloggers. She's got the X factor, though I've no idea what the X factor actually is. She's the Kylie Minogue of the Sri Lankan blogosphere.

It might be her honesty, the heart on sleeve element that goes on. I don't know, but check out her post about getting pissed and blood tests to get a dose of it. She just has this very clever way of living her life and making all of us, her readers, feel as if we're strolling along next to her and watching everything going on. Natural and cool I say.

5. Just About Anything - The winner of this year's best overseas blog. It's another Lankan diasporic one, this time coming from Japan. There are pictures, stories of Japanese life, stories of Sri Lankan life and the best clock in the Lankanosphere. What more could a reader want? Yes, drums. I know. Other than that it's all good over in the JapSach corner.

Those, my friends are the finalists. They all follow in some awesome footsteps but sadly there has to be a single winner. Yes, the winner, the Blog Of The Year for 2009 goes to............









.........................A Glimpse of Lady Divine's World.

I pass you over to our guest judge, last year's winner of the title who then went on to retire from blogging, it's The Missing Sandwich. She had these words to say of Lady D:

"D has been around the lankanosphere (term coined by RD) since 2006, quietly pattering away on her keyboard about a myriad subjects from mothers to burps, marriage proposals to poetry and the occasional post that delves right into the soul of her, reminding us just how real and passionate a person she is. The 'glimpse' she gives us of her divine world makes me envy her and the ease with which she invites us in to take peek. Congrats LD, you are indeed the 2009 Blogger and Blog of the year. I am not allowed to express my real sentiments, so the enraged exclamations of "give me back my award bitch!" will have to be put on the back burner especially since the missingsandwich is recently retired. Oh and the best part... Shhh! Come closer, I don't want to offend Cerno. Listen velly carefully for I shall zay zis only vunce - please take that bloody 16 tonne olmec head away from me! It was too much. Really. Here you go.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olmec) Good luck with trying to move it. (snigger) "

Congratulations and thanks to all. Tomorrow we wind things up with the closing ceremony.

RD

The 2009 Lankanosphere Awards - Best Written Blog

Until I started blogging I never dreamt I'd be able to write anything that might get read by anyone. Then, I began LLD and found out that writing really is a skill, one that's done by other people. Here in the Lankanosphere we're blessed with a big and healthy dollop of bloggers who write with the delicate yet powerful hands possessed by the most masterful Kandyan drummers. They weave words and manipulate sentences like only a Sri Lankan judge can.

I could go on, sounding arty and chucking our similes and metaphors like a bat out of Belgium, but I won't. Today we celebrate these proper writers, we salute the heroes of the virtual written word and we give one of these buggers the title of the Best Written Blog. Last year's worthy winner was the shy and reclusive David Blacker with the Blacklight Arrow. This year we hope the standard is going to be even better.

I welcome a very new and very special guest judge for this one as well. I first mentioned him in a post here and since then I've become of his most ardent fans. I bunged him an email recently asking if he'd like to be a guest judge and he kindly replied saying that he'd be delighted and all. Of course a large amount of money has had to change hands but I've told him he can pay in installments if he needs to. I'm kind like that.

Yes, Ladies and Gs, our very special guest judge for this award is none other than the best selling author himself; Mr Ashok Ferrey. And I mean it, really, not like Britney Spears, that was actually made up. I should stress that the nominees and the winner weren't chosen by him, I don't feel he's up to that level of responsibility yet, maybe next year.

Let's get this show on the road and introduce the nominees:

1. Brandix for The Black Lullaby - One of last year's nominees has come back for more. Everyone knows him and even more people know his blog. Like DB last year Brandon is a published author and he dishes out quality posts and writings quicker than a Sri Lankan mother dishing out emotional blackmail at a wedding. Last year I was particularly taken by Phlash Fotografy - Klic One and the follow up, cunningly called Phlash Fotografy - Klic Two. Check them out for examples of his best pieces of prose.

Guest Judge Ferrey had this to say of our Brandon:

" The writer with the strongest voice here, and no surprise therefore that he is also a published author. You can imagine this accomplished raconteur sitting across from you, regaling you with humorous stories in that slightly waspish tone!"

2. Portrait - by Electra. She's a bit of a legend is Electra. Hers was one of the very first Sri Lankan blogs I discovered and one that got me well and truly hooked. I was captivated by her infectious passion, her intelligence and very clear blend of love and frustration that she feels for the motherland. Take a peak at this post to see her at almost her best. Then read comment number 5 to witness her writing at its absolute best. You wouldn't want to come against wit and clarity of thought like that in a dark alley, particularly if your surname is "nut"

The Right Honourable Lord Ferrey said of Portrait:

"A painfully honest dissection of present happenings, all the more powerful for being presented, intentionally or not, in the voice of an ingénue. I am amazed at the amount of vituperation the author patiently puts up with. Is this normal in the world of blogs? It actually makes Rajpal sound like Mary’s little lamb. (Or do I mean Mary’s little mutton?)."

3. The Bohemian Gypsy - This isn't the sort of Gypsy who goes around selling clothes pegs and crapping in car parks. This is a girly one who writes rather heartwarming and heartwrenching pieces every now and again. One day I hope I get to meet this mysterious person, but pray that "she" doesn't turn out to be a bloke with a rice gut and BO. Take a peak at this Santa post to see what I'm enthusing about. Or try this one if you want a bit more. It's the detail and the levels of description that grab me every time.

My close friend Ashok, the guest judge said:

"Beautiful use of language, nicely judged balance between the immediacy of journalism and the fanciful imaginings of creative fiction. There is a wistful feeling that runs through the bass notes of the writing, like the subtext of a Chopin Nocturne."

It goes to show that even people like him can make mistakes and spell "shopping" wrong now and again.

4. Dance In A Triangle - Another well known, well read and much loved blog that's been floating around in the Lankanosphere longer than that musty smelling jar of something that smells a bit like Maldive fish but isn't but you're reluctant to throw it away just in case. T's blog has gone a bit private and confidential lately so I'm not sure if you'll be able to read it when this post comes out. If you can't, then take it from me, it's rather good. Actually, I'll tell you what, take it from our guest judge. He read it and said these nice things:

"This blogger is patently a poet in the guise of prose-writer. Her poem Still Here is hauntingly beautiful. Her prose may be a shade too purple for my taste, but please don’t take this comment to heart – it is only a prosaic old cynic speaking."

You know me, poems delude me, I just don't get them. Unless it's got a line about a man from Brazil whose balls shot over the hill it's about seven layers too deep for me. Once I got mugged by a gang of poets, I was so unaware that I didn't see them coming nor could I give even the briefest of descriptions afterwards. But, when the Ashok Ferreys of the world say things like that about T's poetrocity, then I know that it must be good.

Well there you have, those are the esteemed nominees, a set of blogs that continually remind me how much there is to learn.

I am very pleased.......to............announce...........the..............winner..............is.......................








.......................The Bohemian Gypsy.

Thank you to the Gypsy on behalf of all her fans.

And a mahooosive thank you to the special, albeit in a slightly too figure hugging T shirt, guest judge, Ashok Ferrey. I'm sincerely touched that he was so kind and gracious. I leave you with his words on all the candidates:

"I’ve been asked to make a few comments on these winning blogs, and first of all, let me say how very, very good the writing is. I’m amazed at the accuracy of the grammar, the beauty of the language, the poignancy of the content. Should I not be? Well if you had been at the receiving end of as many contest entries as I have, recently, you wouldn’t be surprised at my surprise! What strikes me most is the freshness of the prose, something we writers strive for, but usually fail miserably, for one very good reason: we tend to cook our words too long. Perhaps this is the beauty of blogs though it can also be their failing. When you shoot from the hip you are usually not too bothered about form and structure. This is where these particular blogs differ: there is definitely an underlying structure to most of these pieces that raises them above the ordinary."

I think we'll just leave it there.

RD

The 2009 Lankanosphere Awards - The Funniest Blog

Morning all and welcome to another week in the land of freedom, liberty, democracy and independence. And a big hello to those of you in Sri Lanka as well.

This is the final week of this year's event and the real big boys, the hard hitters of the awards are now looming larger than Sicile Kotelawala riding a rhinoceros and wearing an extra large Chuck Norris T shirt whilst charging towards towards us.

Humour in writing is a strange thing isn't it? When you're looking for it it's hard to find, but when you're not seeking the stuff it can jump out and take you by surprise. That's one of the characteristics of humour; the surprise element is part of what makes us chuckle and spit everywhere. So my search for funny Sri Lankan blogs is a continually challenging one. You can't just google the keywords and find the fellows, it's only when you browse a few blogs that they fall out of the blogosphere and land on the funny bone, which isn't that funny at all. Truth be told it's fucking painful, God knows why they call it the funny bone, which is probably the joke in the first place.

Last year's winner was the laugh so much I think I might have just shit a little bit inducing Dramaqueen and therefore she's excluded from this year. It's weird but true that women are generally far better at doing the sensitive, emotional and delicate writing but it seems us men are better able to make people laugh. I don't know why this is, just look at groups of people out in bars and you'll see men laughing and telling jokes and women talking earnestly about important things, like why they don't write humorous stuff. Strange no?

Dramaqueen breaks all that sexist mallarkey and cracks up her readership with witty observations and stories that have us rolling in the aisles. If I ever get to meet her in real life I'll be sorely disappointed if she doesn't make me laugh like a monkey with a big carrier bag and the key to the banana plantation.

We have three fine nominees this year. They're three blogs that have had me guffawing, lolling and farting involuntarily (more than usual). They are:

1. ASOB, NQIM - Or, the blog formerly known as A Sort Of Beautiful, But Not Insane Mind. It would seem that everyone knows Jerry. He falls off bikes and goes on trips with many in the Lankanosphere on a fairly regular basis. He also has a gift. It's that ability to take an otherwise everyday and mundane situation and tell us about it and make us laugh. Have a read of this post, his quite famous job interview with Batman one, to see what I mean.

Jerry reckons he has "a water-bed of fluff that I had between me, my mind, and the real world" and this post gives us a better idea of where he's coming from. I don't know about the water bed and fluff and mind business but I do find him funny, with a capital h.

2. Cerebral Ramblings - It's written by a girl, she's called Makuluwo and she's funny in a different and more subtle way. Her blog isn't so much of a rip roaring slap your sides as you laugh kind of thing. It's more that you read it and chuckle quietly and knowingly at her slightly bitchy, very cutting and extremely sharp observations. Check this post out. It's about pants, trousers and boys. And it's about Papareboy's Mum, who gets quite a lot of stick. I don't know her so can't say if she deserves it or not. She's a mother, she's Sri Lankan so yeah, on balance she probably does deserves it.

There's something scary about Makuluwo too. Read this, then tell me that you'd go to her as a friend for advice. No, me neither.

3. Sri Lanka Land Of The Blind - This is most definitely a side splitting thigh slapping laughing out loud blog. It's written by a bloke called Da Blogfather and is a bit on the political side. There are good big chunks of text about the Rogerproxys, I don't know what Da Blogfather means but he says that this is what would happen if they ruled the world. Check it out, it's good and funny, or that's what most will think anyhow. At some point in the future this blog may cease to exist. We'll have to see what happens with the whole censorship issue.


Well as is usual there's but one winner. Choosing has been tougher than being brown skinned and getting quick service at the Galle Face Hotel, but the panel has done its job and made a decision. Yes, the winner is................





...............Makuluwo and Cerebral Ramblings

So much for the bit about men being more humorous and all. This is the second woman to take the title in as many years. It proves something, maybe along the lines of women being better than men at everything except getting kicked in the balls and being crap at multi tasking. Men are extremely good at both of those of course.

Our guest judge is none other than Dramaqueen. She had these heartwarming and hilarious words to say about the winner.

"Not everything is worthy enough of dragging me out of the woodwork, save the chocolate sundae with extra topping from Mcdonald's. But this is rather exciting. I've never been a judge before. Well, technically I have, but that was for the Mr. Sexy Legs competition at a family do, so it doesn't count. None of my uncles are sexy.

Of course, when one is invited to judge something as glamorous as the RD blogscars, one must approach said duties with the seriousness of an eagle contemplating a paraplegic katussa. It is opportunity not to be missed. To be asked to guest judge the humour category and thereafter to consider a blog a delightful as Cerebral Ramblings for first place... well... this just makes me feel like Sarath won the elections.

Right. Niceties out of the way. To the subject at hand...er..monitor.

There is funny and there is funneh. Cerebral Ramblings is neither. The blogger is in a league of her own, one that not many understand or appreciate, save the head psychiatrist at the Mulleriyawa hospital. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then her keyboard far outweighs the tickliest of feathers. She provides the reader with side-splitting guffaws on the most miserable of days with her mad wit and imagination. When Makuluwo blogs, even Gota seems tolerable. To top it all off, she saves puppies, too. She is living, breathing, blogging proof that women can be interesting beyond their curves. A girl after my own heart.

My heartiest chuckle and congratulations go to Makuluwo for keeping my undies soaked in piss everytime I read her. Long live her funny bone.

Dramaqueen."

Congratulations and well done to Makuluwo. Thanks several dozen times to DQ for the guest judging and the untold emails (about 5 actually but that would be telling).

RD

The 2009 Lankanosphere Awards - The Best Photoblog

We end the week, though not the awards, with one of the most hotly contested and sought after prizes, that for the best photoblog. The inaugural winner of the title was Dominic Sansoni himself, only about fourteen at the time but we here at LLD can spot artistic talent early.

He went on to do great things and is now not only one of the world's best photographers but can also be seen frequently in many of Tom Cruises films (sort of). He is also responsible for a large percentage of Sri Lanka's illegal Lamprais trade but doesn't like to talk about it. On top of that he somehow finds the time to sing backing vocals on tour with the Killers, except in Scandinavia where they use a local Swedish bloke because of work permit issues.

Last year's worthy winner is the now legendary Amila Salgado, the scrabble playing bird watching long lensed maestro himself. Yes folks, it's clear that the standards in the best photoblog awards are high, in an entirely subjective way.

Here are the nominees:

1. Aamina Nizar - She's a girl who often appears second, particularly in phone books, when she usually loses out to anyone with the name of Aadvark. As she tells us in her profile she's a Sri Lankan who studies and works in India. Her blog is a heady mix of the delights and sadness of both nations. Her use of depth of field is particularly breathtaking and she has a sense of colour and dynamics that chaps like me take about thirty years to realise we'll never have.

I love the way she can take a cliched scene and make something special from it. This picture of the Taj Mahal is a prime example. It's like a good drum part, it's what's not there that makes it special.

2. Tableaux Of Aufidius - Aufidius is another Lankan student plowing his studious furrow overseas, but this time it's in the UK. He's equally adept at capturing the beauty of Lanka and the different type of beauty of London. It's a shame that the plant people grabbed it first or I'd have used "photosynthesis" as the way to describe that skill.

Some of Aufidius' outstanding pictures are Little Scholars here and Among the Roses here. I've never met the bloke but I reckon Aufidius might be a great comedian as so many people seem to be grinning like the proverbial Cheshires in his photographs.

3. Sean Henricus Photography - I assume this is his real name as it seems an unlikely pseudonym. His profile tells us that he's spent time in New Zealand but is now back in the motherland. Some of his work reminds me of Sebastian Posingis' in that it makes me want to jump on a plane, one of those Sri Lankan ones with an in seat entertainment system that doesn't work, a seat which has a cushion that slides off and lands in Colombo approximately several hours after it was due.

He's got an imagination as well as a camera. Check out these Christmas light shots as examples of his arty side. One of my favourites is this post, the second photograph specifically. There's something about the scene, the dark foreboding cloud and the warm colours in the sky that makes me feel as if I can smell the aromas, feel the heat and hear the insects as they chatter.

But, there can only be one winner. And that winner, of the best photoblog for 2009 is.................




...............Tableaux Of Aufidius

Why?

I must say that I don't really know, it's more of a feeling. Aufidius' pictures give me the most constant butterfly in the stomach feeling of all three nominations, which is ultimately how I judge a photograph. The technical bits all count but it's when you feel things that you know it's all come together nicely.

I hand you over to our special guest judge, the Lamprais smuggling king and Killers backing vocalist (except Scandinavia) himself. He had these things to say of our winner:


"How horrid of you to ask me to write anything. I neither speak nor write.

But.... intrigued by a soul that is as interested in spiders as he/she is in space and light. Early pictures like 'Stairway to my bedroom' have developed into much much more (look at 'Liverpool Dock'). I like someone who makes their own lighting (thank you mr. Mondrian), likes people, and again that insect thing.

'Image from my scrapbook' is a joy - and makes me wonder who this is. I think we have the makings of a good architect here and certainly a wonderful photographer. And the panorama of The London Eye just wishes I was back for a weekend."

There you are, a winner and a worthy one, but also three photoblogs that are worth far more than a passing glance. Thanks to all of them for the images.

Have a nice weekend out there in Serendib, I'll be back with the final three awards and more guest judges next week.

RD