Hola Argentina! Welcome to Trish-Trash and thank you for reading. Jeremy Clarkson? No, I don’t know him, personally, but I do enjoy his humour – his sarcasm, shall we say – and I am sure he did not mean to offend … Confused? Well, I happened to log into Google Analytics, last night, to find a huge spike in readers on Wednesday, 5th August. The best part is that there is a world map detailing the location of said readers and it is nothing short of hysterical to see the extent of mine! Trish-Trash has reached the USA, Canada, China, Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore, United Arab Emirates, Poland, Sweden, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Austria, Netherlands, Ireland (hope I haven’t left anybody out) and, now, Argentina. Thirty-five readers last Wednesday! Two words: how and why? I, actually, had to go back and read that particular post in an attempt to ascertain the sudden attraction. Superbly written? Tick. Funny? Of course! Tick. Containing any content of interest? To me! Tick. Five minutes of escapism? Most definitely. Tick. So … all good but Argentina? Please believe me, I am flattered – as I’m sure Nicola would be, too (if she knew), featuring quite heavily in that particular post.
Thirty-five readers, suddenly, in one day? I mean, one, perhaps but thirty-five! Technological malfunction? Invasion of little green men in search of intelligent life striving to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Tiger Lily? Who knows? Argentina, though, is a coup in my book. A country I would love to visit, it lays claim to majestic mountains and beautiful wide-open spaces; a vibrancy akin to Latin American countries, abound with colour and handsome polo players! I think horses, ranches and Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kidd. My friend, Jeremy’s favourite film, he even stayed the night in Butch’s former ‘shack’ in that episode of The Grand Tour! Suffice to say, my ignorance is tangible but I know enough to be sure that Argentina is on my bucket list. Just think, I could make it one of my stops on my world-wide tour: Trish-Trash touches down in Buenos Aires, on the final leg of her mammoth promotional tour, to great acclaim. Her loyal thirty-five readers were there to greet her as, understandably exhausted, she emerged with her customary humour and good-nature, happy to sign autographs and pose for photographs. It has been a stratospheric rise to fame for this blogger (hate that word) and author from Scotland who insists that, despite her accent, that is her country of birth. Apparently, contrary to media perception, Nicola Sturgeon is not representative of all Scots. Who would have thought?!
Oh, the fun! A boundless imagination … or just a pipe dream. Talking of pipe dreams, St Andrews was predictably heaving at the weekend. Screwing our courage to the sticking-place – à la the advice of Lady Macbeth – however, we parked and walked through town toward the cathedral and harbour, and East Sands beyond. People! People! It was completely mesmerising but more of that later. En route, past the ruins, we happened to spy a ‘For Sale’ sign next to an old, rot iron gate on which was the name St Regulus. Peeping in, there was a long path up to the dilapidated cottage which looked as though it had been uninhabited for some time and was in desperate need of some TLC. Set back from the road, however, the location was enviable and we vowed to look up the details on our return home. This could be perfect. Not by any means an old, stone cottage, the price would reflect that and its dire need for modernisation. Seemingly in need of the works, this could be a project and it would just be lovely to walk out the gate down to the harbour or the castle and The Scores on the other side … We didn’t have to wait until we got home, however, as we sauntered past the Estate Agents on the way back to the car. There it was in black and white: offers over £1,100,000! Were we seeing correctly? Could that price be more ridiculous? Could we laugh anymore?! Honestly, I refer back to John Cleese and my whole-hearted support of his inevitable conclusion regarding the world today: Why There is No Hope. He is, merely, stating the bleeding obvious! As St Andrews is lost to its own, affordable only to the gluttonous rich, those who hold it dear are being pushed to the periphery. Once a town of character, of history and beautiful buildings, beaches and surrounds, what we witnessed on Saturday was a town over-run by a public who might even struggle to spell history! St Andrews? Great ice cream and fish and chips. Oh, and it just happens to be the Home of Golf and boast beautiful beaches. Anything else?
Sipping a glass of wine on the pavement – not literally – watching life go by, my lasting image has to be of this obese mother pushing a pram while struggling to balance four pizza boxes! Honestly! Branded an obese nation, it is old news but take a closer look. Coronavirus is not the only pandemic! This is serious stuff. I’m not sure there is any way back. Fat parents, fat children. Uneducated and lacking in self-esteem, the cycle is unbroken. No exercise other than hand to mouth and the fingers operating a keyboard or touching a screen. Step up! Step up! Come and observe the Superior Race. Human beings. So superior they have all but destroyed the planet and their fellow creatures. Delivery robots in Milton Keynes? Tip of the iceberg! The scope of human intelligence is such that we are hellbent on rendering ourselves useless. It is utterly laughable. Whoops! Are we allowed to laugh at our own, self-inflicted demise? To be honest, who knows whether I’m laughing or crying behind my Liberty mask!
Come back, John Cleese! Take another shot of courage. We need you!
Meanwhile, the lyrics of one of my favourite songs, ever, leapt to mind on Saturday as I observed. I can still hear them …
‘Who will provide the grand design, what is yours and what is mine?
‘Cause there is no more new frontier, we have got to make it here.
We satisfy our endless needs and justify our bloody deeds
In the name of destiny and in the name of God.
And you can see them there on Sunday morning
Stand up and sing about what it’s like up there.
They call it paradise, I don’t know why.
You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.’
Eagles, The Last Resort.
‘You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye …’.
So sad. So true.
This is Trish, signing off.