EMILE ZOLA – “NANA” (1890)

Number nine in the epic twenty volume Les Rougon-Macquart series, ‘Nana‘ examines the seedy world of courtesans in the Paris of 1880.

Scandalous, though not graphically bawdy, the novel charts the career of the eponymous heroine from her translation from the gutter to the stage, and thence to high-class prostitution.

Leaving in her wake a trail of men destroyed through bankruptcy or suicide, Nana’s reverse Midas touch sucks her patrons dry to fulfill her frivolous and wasteful lifestyle of idle luxury.

With barely a shred of genuine feeling for anyone, even her own illegitimate offspring, her reign of destruction comes to a fitting end when her beauty, and her life, are removed by smallpox.

Bleak and heartless though the tale is, Zola’s depictions of the superficial world of courtesans and their well-to-do clients are compelling and believable, although by the close of the novel one can only feel relief that Nana and her siren-like powers are no more.

Further book reviews by me can be found here.

It seems that my feelings about Hollywood cinematic fare being 90% shite these days is true: despite the overwhelming acclaim for James Cameron’s ‘Avatar,’ I found it to be largely uninspired drivel.

First of all, you have to shell out extra for the 3D, and in my case I was handed a greasy and grimy pair of specs that did not make for a comfortable viewing experience. Now I’ve watched 3D flicks before and found them to be mildly entertaining, but for ‘Avatar‘ it was downright headache-inducing with little noticeable benefit once the effect had been got used to.

First, the visuals: the computer-generated backdrop did little to impress, some parts looking very poor indeed, particularly the flat ‘painted’ planets and moons hanging in the sky. Flashy graphics alone do not a good film make.

Next, the story: laughable, unoriginal, ridiculous. Let’s see, there’s some avaricious capitalist earthlings trying to mine some valuable minerals from under the peaceful natives, who are amalgams of Native Americans and Africans imbued with Zen-like symbiosis with nature and a non-offensive blue skin tone. They’re so totally wholesome that they apparently don’t eat or shit, and as for the other, they have no obvious genitalia.

Orcs or Ja Ja Binks?

Now the capitalists are aided by some stunningly one-dimensional evil military types who could have come from any crappy Vietnam war movie. Come to think of it, the whole thing reeks of Indo-China – the jungle setting, and the military craft which apparently have evolved little from 1960’s helicopter gunships.

Then we have the good humans, a bunch of scientists/anthropologists who naturally side with the noble blue savages.

The hero is of course a former grunt who goes under cover among the blues and falls in love with their ways, eschewing his former benefactors and becoming more native than the natives.

Why is everything in this film blue?

Add to this cheesy dialogue and indifferent acting, and it’s very hard to maintain interest over the long running time.

The film’s political messages, while not being in themselves misplaced, and rather to the liking of this writer, were nevertheless  so crassly and obviously employed as to be vaguely comical.

One can only wince at the plethora of gushing reviews on sites like Rotten Tomatoes, and as for the masses who have gone in their droves to see ‘Avatar‘, well, just read Orwell’s 1984 to see how easy it is to keep the Proles subdued by a steady diet of computer-written pap.

SIMON SINGH – “THE CODE BOOK” (1999)

Fascinated by codes as a kid, this entertaining history of ciphers takes us all the way from the Ancient World, where messages would be written across paper rolled around a stick, to the near future where quantum computers will finally provide us with an unbreakable means of encryption.

In between we are treated to many historical asides such as Babbage’s early computer, the decipherment of the Rosetta Stone, and the war-winning breaking of the sophisticated Nazi code machine ‘Enigma‘ by unsung hero Alan Turing, a major chapter in the centuries old struggle between code makers and code breakers.

Rich in detail, bursting with intrigues and eccentrics, Singh makes an already thrilling subject come alive without overly tiring the reader in the often complex mathematics behind the various forms of secret writing discussed.

BRIAN GREENE – “THE ELEGANT UNIVERSE” (2000)

Having thoroughly enjoyed Greene’s second volume ‘The Fabric of the Cosmos,’ I was really looking forward to more of the same in this, his first popular work.

Part one of the book covers the familiar territory of cosmology (the macro world as described by Einstein) and quantum mechanics (the description of the sub-atomic world), both of which theories are in themselves correct and demonstrable for their own realms, but which are at odds with each other.

So far, so good: nothing that I had not encountered before, and I found Greene’s lucid explanations helpful in reinforcing my knowledge and understanding of these areas.

The problems begin, however, when Greene moves into String Theory, his speciality, the main contender for a new universal theory which will be able to explain away both the micro and macro worlds which have hitherto appeared totally incompatible.

Perhaps it is my admitted lack of ability in following logic, but it was at this stage that I soon found myself hopelessly lost and bewildered, not being able to comprehend the main thrust of the argument.

This is regrettable, since the book is an attempt at presenting this difficult theory to the layperson, which in my opinion fails, in stark contrast with the ease with which I could work through ‘The Fabric of the Cosmos.’

Indeed, my lack of comprehension eventually resulted in that rare event for me, the abandonment of the book before the end.

Very disappointing.

A year ago I damaged my hearing while attending a Shonen Knife gig in Osaka. While I couldn’t really think of a nicer bunch of ladies to lose my ears to, it was a bit of a blow to someone whose life has revolved around music for the last thirty-two years.

Back home, after a series of frustrating visits to non-English speaking doctors, and with no real idea of what had happened or what the prognosis was, one thing was very clear – I could no longer listen to music.

That’s right, goodbye iPod.

For three months I couldn’t listen to any kind of music at all, not even on speakers. It was painful and distorted. And not only my Napalm Death albums: I mean everything.

I had to use my noise-blocking Sennheisser earphones to block out the piercing shrill sounds of everyday urban life that hurt my ears, rather than for music.

Raging tinnitus twenty-four hours a day. Even the voices of interlocutors sometimes caused me to wince in agony.

Imagine that, for a man with 18,653 songs in his iTunes library and a passionate desire to create music as a major driving force and means of expression in his life.

Twelve months later and things are immeasurably better.

I am rarely troubled by the horrendous distortion that previously afflicted me, and the tinnitus in my left ear is barely noticeable, even at night.

Recently I’ve found I can listen to the iPod again, albeit at the lowest volumes.

Some chart thingy designed to show something about hearing loss...

I can sit down and enjoy music on speakers again. The first time I found I could do that I cried like a baby.

My hearing is still not as it was – I suppose it has been permanently damaged in some ways. I can never go to concerts again. I still have to put earplugs in at the cinema. Some frequencies, particularly bass ones, are still problematic.

One surprising, and positive, consequence of my sonic difficulties has been my return to the techno genre as my main channel of musical creativity.

Stephen Patrick's astute observation...

See, like Beethoven, there was no way hearing damage was going to stop the muse from visiting me. And fortunately just before my ears were shredded, I’d started to get serious about learning Apple’s superb Logic Pro 9 music software. Beats Beethoven’s old Bechstein any day.

Even at its worst, I found that I could still compose using this software without having to use headphones, with just the minimum of volume over the iMac’s internal speakers.

Recording the kind of alternative rock I’d been doing for the last decade or more was out of the question, since this necessarily involves headphones and relatively high volumes to enable backing tracks to be audible over amplified guitars or bellowed vocals.

And so I was forced out of necessity to return to techno, a genre I had been an early convert to, but had not dabbled in since 1997.

And so do old deaf bastards...

How great, then, to be able to discover once again the sheer joy in the organic process of creation that is in many ways much more fluid and open-ended than the composition and creation of guitar-based rock.

What’s the difference? Well, in rock you are pretty much bound by the need to fully shape the song before you begin recording. Only then can you begin to program the drums, followed by the rest of the instruments and vocals track by track. Once arranged, there’s little scope for experimentation.

Not so techno. Here, the composition is simultaneous with the recording : you actually write the piece as you go along, taking whatever twists and turns you feel like along the way.

Logic Pro's ES2 synth, not a spaceship's control panel...

The starting point is different, too. Instead of working up from a set of lyrics or a melody, in techno your inspiration could be anything from a particular synth sound, a drum beat, a bass line or a sample.

You record a bar, then loop it, then think what else would go well with it. Rinse and repeat, and the piece unfurls almost magically, new sonic ideas and discoveries sparking the imagination to further experimentation, cutting and pasting to taste.

Rinse and repeat - you dirty long-haired fuckface

Rather than a formal composition, the techno track is more like a free-form collage unbound by rules or convention, spontaneously created, morphing as it grows, finally reaching completion at that mysterious moment when it just suddenly feels ‘right.’

Does that mean I’m done with alt rock?  No way! The ears can now perhaps stand a bit of headphone usage, but for the time being I’m happy to remain within the anarchist-friendly medium of electronica.

Hiatus – that’s a weird word, innit? Sounds sort of medical and ominous, as in, “Mr.Smith, I’m afraid you have a hiatus – we’ll have to eviscerate.“

Well, here I am, back, on Christmas Day, which is by tradition in my household utterly depressing, and this year is no exception. In fact it has outdone itself spectacularly this time around, but enough wallowing in misery – otherwise some of it will spill over the edge of the tub!

Because how can the world be a totally dark and soulless place when you have a Nikon D90? Yes, I have recently relinquished my trusty entry-level D50, which has served me well these last four years, and acquired one of these beauties, and here I am to share with you some of the first fruits.

I haven’t fully mastered the advanced features of this fine machine yet, or even some of the basic ones, but still the results are pretty good, especially the monochrome.

First up, a colour moon shot taken with a 200mm zoom lens, sans tripod:

Here’s a nice portrait of a certain Mr.Itoh, who may not be named for legal reasons. Doh!

Next comes some humble apartment lights made interesting by angle and monkeying with the white balance:

Back to the BW for this next effort:

More clouds taken on the same day as the previous shot:

Here’s another experiment with high ISO and weird white balance, transforming a regular park bench into something more arty:

Finally back to the moon:

Not bad, huh?

Took the little folding Dahon bike up to Kabe today on a sudden impulse. I hadn’t been out for a few weeks, and this morning the weather looked somewhat dodgy, but I really needed to get out and do something physical, and seeing as how neither Gurdijeff nor Ouspensky were around to hand me a spade, the bike was the natural choice.

The Kabe run, one of three I have developed, is flat and scenic. No sweaty panting up inclines wearing stupid-looking helmets, no, it is casual and easy. I ride down to my local station, fold up the bike, then get out at Hiroshima, from where I proceed north along a rather pleasant river valley to the town of, er, Kabe. Pleasant by Japan standards, I mean. So the frequency of vending machines slightly diminishes, some green hills emerge, and the tonnage of concrete within the one’s vision is marginally reduced.

This time I made a nice discovery, and went past the town itself into an even narrower and rather charming valley following the old disused railway line, circling back a few kilometres later to drop in at my customary pitstop Mosburger, there to fill my gut with all the calories I’d just burned off in the form of fish burger, fried chicken and chips.

Then back along the same route, hitting Hiroshima station at 4pm after a ride of 54km all told. As luck would have it, just as I was turning into my road, I spotted the Delivery Man at my gate, and grabbed my Apple store package containing Logic Pro 9, the latest software for my Mac-based recording studio – huzzah!

 

 

W.G.SEBALD – “AFTER NATURE”

Published posthumously, this slim volume follows in the footsteps of Sebald’s previous works, taking us on a guided tour of unfamiliar European byways and backwaters and in the process illuminating forgotten or little-known details of intriguing minor characters from the past.

The major difference here is that this time we are pesented with a three-part prose poem, the format stripping down Sebald’s already sparse writing to a disciplined and succinct summation of the lives of a sixteenth-century painter and a nineteenth-century botanist, as well as a final autobiographical sketch.

Despite the unfamiliar format (for me), this final tome works its usual magic, blurring boundaries between fact and fiction and forcing us to contemplate the flow of time and the power of nature.

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY – “THE ADOLESCENT”

Having worked my way through much of Dostoevky’s oeuvre as a teenager, I was surprised to discover that there was a major novel I (and apparently nearly everyone else) was totally unaware of.

‘The Adolescent’, published before the final monumental work ‘The Brothers Karamazov,’ has been neglected, appearing previously only as ‘A Raw Youth,’ and translated by the venerable (and stodgy) Victorian translator Constance Garnett.

Not wishing to reread any of the other works, this seemed to be the perfect opportunity to reacquaint myself with the Russian master, and at the same time to sample a new translation by the much vaunted team of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky who have been behind a spate of new interpretations of classic Russian literature.

It soon became apparent however, that there was a perfectly good reason why this particular novel has been neglected: it stinks. Perhaps this is just a realisation on my part that I can no longer stomach Dostoevsky, but I found the contrived dialogues full of empty abstract pseudo-philosophical discussion utterly tedious. Granted, the novel is seen through the eyes of a young student, but so little action over so many pages, it was a real effort to get through.

Translators Pevear and Volkhonsky: pants!

This was compounded by what can only be described as a dismal translation. Instead of a new, modern, clear rendering, we are presented with stodgy unnatural phrasing and clumsy epithets more redolent of Garnett than a supposedly new cutting-edge translating duo.

Perhaps they were trying to accurately recreate the idiom of the time rather than attempt a rendition in contemporary English, but endless repetitions of characters calling each other ‘dear heart‘ sorely tried my patience and detracted from what little action there was.

Very disappointing.

More of my book reviews can be found here.

September 11th

Next morning we said goodbye to Madrid and headed off to the train station with our heavy gear.

As we entered one particular Metro station, two cops stopped me and gesticulated wildly at my backpack. Not comprehending, I thought they wanted to search the bag as an anti-terrorism measure, but apparently they were warning against wearing rucksacks as intended due to a spate of highly skilled tea leaves who could razor such bags and remove the contents without the wearer realising it. Thanks, transport police!

The two and a half hour journey was spectacular and extremely comfortable in our brand new high-tech carriage, and this just a humble local train. Are you taking note, Japan, with your crusty ancient austere rolling stock?

Not only did we get a grand view of the arid but compelling landscapes of Castille, but we were also provided with glimpses of the things we had been forced to omit from our itinerary, namely the enormous royal palace at El Escorial and the medieval turreted walls of Avila. Further on, as we ascended into a region which actually had a few trees, we noticed long lines of modern windmills lining distant ridges.

At Salamanca station I opted for a taxi rather than trust my dodgy sense of direction, and soon we were gliding into the heart of this most Spanish of Spanish towns, its fine sandstone architecture glowing in the late afternoon sun.

The hotel proved to be superb – luxuriously appointed bedroom with separate marble-encrusted bathroom that was in itself was bigger than many Japanese business hotel rooms. In fact, so splendid was our habitation that I began to doubt the veracity of the ludicrously cheap price I had got the room for.

In the mean time, the safe didn’t seem to work, which necessitated some fine Spanish ‘mañana‘ attitude from the reception, who eventually sent someone up to check. It was then decided that a technician needed to be called, who was, of course, much later in arriving than had been promised, meaning that I had to hold off  on the big poo that I so desperately needed. When the diminutive fellow finally appeared, the problem was merely a dead battery. I don’t know if Pedro the Engineer Most Tiny was expecting a tip for his troubles, but he didn’t get one.

Late evening, and we headed out to  Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor, the most beautiful main square in all Spain, and pretty nice it was too, all golden sandstone backed by deep blue sky, and with an enormous stage in the centre since it was festival time in Salamanca and the streets were awash with young revellers and all manner of free entertainment.

Getting the zoom lens out again as a figure appeared in one of the balcony windows on one side of the square, I was hoping for some opulent lingerie-clad bit of crumpet, but it turned out to be just a bloke in a string vest. Nice!

At this juncture the roadies began to soundcheck for the night’s gig, and like an old man I had to beat a hasty retreat as my damaged eardrums couldn’t take the volume of the constant stream of amplified ‘uno, dos, tres.’

Next stop, a well-stocked supermarket, there to purchase all manner of fine produce for that finest of holiday meals, te hotel room picnic. Plums, cheese, smoked salmon, fresh bread, olives and a bottle or two of beer – marvellous, the food of kings!

September 12th

All day to explore Salamanca’s delights, a town encrusted with architectural gems from a rich past, but at the same time alive with the vibrancy of thirty thousand students attending the Castillian equivalent of Cambridge. Noisy sponging bastards!

First stop, the San Esteban monastery, an oasis of tranquility with only a handful of tourists. No rules and prohibitions here, just a beautiful church with a famously intricate plateresque facade a contemplative cloister, and an exhibition highlighting the iniquities of the Conquistadors in South America – enlightened indeed!

Following this, we crossed the river, gaped at at a road sign which clearly indicated just how near we were to Portugal, then recrossed into town by way of an original Roman bridge, the huge cathedral majestically forming a backdrop.

This gargantuan structure proved to be another great attraction, allowing us as it did to climb up onto the roof for panoramic views of the town and a chance to startle huge flocks of pigeons and perve down upon unsuspecting denizens with the zoom lens.

Equally unusual about the cathedral was the access to the upper galleries inside, from where we were able to gaze down upon a wedding in progress. Outside, the groom’s mates were engaged in coating the bridal car in all manner of objects, not to mention stuffing the interior with balloons. What japes!

Next, the vexing question of where to eat lunch once more. Here we dither spectacularly between street restaurants both devoid of custom, and witness a strange kind of critical mass phenomena.

See, nobody wants to eat in an empty restaurant, since this unpopularity might indicate the quality of the food, but then again, if nobody takes a chance all establishments will remain empty and they’ll be a lot of starving tourists wandering around.

Suddenly a group of locals chose one of the restaurants, which gave us the confidence to try it too, and shortly afterwards, as we sat so close to the passing tourists you could smell ‘em, faces full of gazpacho, the clientele swelled to saturation point while the other restaurant remained relatively empty. I suppose on other days it was the reverse. Now why don’t these places employ folk as fake dinners to ensure that the process kicks off?

After taking a siesta back at our hotel we headed out once more for the sights of Salamanca, but unfortunately the university and its ornately carved cloisters were already shut and we had to make do with the House of Shells and the House of Death.

Later in the evening, after the customary hotel room picnic, I came back into town for a last peek at the city, this time its splendours outlined against the night sky by floodlights, the streets full with drunken festival goers.

Next morning we trained it back to Madrid and thence to the airport for our flight back to the ugly sterile straight-jacket of Japan, a milieu so unpalatable after a superb week of Castillian splendour.

September 10th

Time for another day trip, so we jumped on the AVE high-speed train for a thirty-minute trip up to Segovia.

Now I’d heard that the AVE station was some way out of town and that most people took the connecting bus. Me, however, being stubborn and and an idiot, wondered if walking might not be an option, seeing as how buses in foreign parts are so difficult to use: how do you pay? Do you get in at the front and exit at the back? How will you know when you’ve got to a place you’ve never seen before?

The moment we exited the train station it became immediately obvious that the walking strategy was a non-starter : outside there lay absolutely nothing except scorched pale golden treeless ground for as far as they eye could see. No houses, no paths, nowt, and no indication of the direction in which the town lay.

After a brief vision of some vultures pecking at a small pile of bones in the middle of a desert, we got on the bus with all the other tourists and alighted half an hour later at the edge of Segovia, in front of the amazing sight of the enormous aquaduct that dominates the landscape.

This thing is really jaw-dropping in scale, antiquity and magnificence, even for a seasoned world adventurer like myself. I mean, this giant structure is two thousand years old and was constructed by the Romans without cement or clamps, and was still bringing water into the town a hundred years ago. Amazing to think of the skills that those Romans possessed while the rest of us Europeans were up to our knees in shit in our mud huts. These guys clearly understood mathematics, geometry, gravity and the curvature of the Earth. They had nice uniforms, too.

After viewing this epic structure from every possible angle and taking way too many pictures, we ascend into the city proper and make our way to the main square, passing numerous gorgeous architectural gems making the town a living museum.

Suddenly, however, I notice a strange gentleman following us. See, sometimes being a paranoid jittery bag of nerves has its advantages.

All visitors to the great sights of Europa should be aware of the existence of smelly people intent on relieving them of their valuables, which reminds me of a recent post on Tripadvisor.com where some cretin gave a Madrid hotel a terrible rating simply because outside he’d had his bulging wallet removed from his back pocket by a thief. Doh!

Here’s what you do to prevent yourself falling victim to the pickpockets (and yes, fat middle-aged Americans, I’m talking to you!). Put your passport, tickets, cash and credit cards in your hotel safe. If your room doesn’t have one, either lock these items in your suitcase or put them in a money belt to be worn under your shirt, tucked into your trousers.

Then each day, work out how much cash you’re likely to need and put that in a loose roll in your front pocket. Dress down (easy for me!), don’t flaunt your Rolex, stuff your flashy camera in a bag which doesn’t look like a camera bag, and without being paranoid, be aware of people around you.

The thieves work in teams. A spotter selects a good target, then the gang moves in and one member will attempt to distract you while the others remove your gear without you realising. I know this because I’ve seen it in action several times.

Anyway, there we were on the narrow streets of Segovia and my weirdo/criminal radar is telling me of an approaching nutter. This guy is smiling strangely and seems to be tailing us. We speed up, do a bit of weaving, but he’s still there. Luckilly the main square hoves into view, and there stands a very cool-looking Spanish policeman. Baseball cap, shades, goatee, and a uniform that looks like sportswear – oh, and a fucking great automatic pistol, too.

So we stop and have a casual chat near this suave upholder of the law, and turn to face our stalker, whose strange smile momentarily leaves his countenance upon spotting the cop, and he slinks off to the nearby tourist information office, lurking behind other less-wary visitors, no doubt.

I contemplate informing the officer of this weirdo, but decide that it is not the thing for an anarchist like me to do. Besides, our friend in blue is busy chatting up some strumpet.

Segovia cathedral, enormous edifice of sandy-coloured stone looms in front of us, and wonderful though it is, we decide that after our experiences in Toledo, it is perhaps better to enjoy it from the outside rather than enter and be fleeced by the Papists and suppressed by pedantic and constricting regulations.

So off we head to the opposite side of the citadel, heading for the splendid Alcazar, a fairytale castle built like the prow of a ship jutting out into space.

The Moors first built fortifications here in the twelfth century, but many of the fancy turrets were added considerably later. It pains me to say it, but word is that Walt Disney used it as a template, but don’t let that put you off, for it is an amazing place.

Inside, as well as a comprehensive collection of medieval armour and weapons, there is a museum of artillery and another concerning early astronomy. The castle itself still has strong ties with the military, as evidenced by the large group of uniformed cadets gathered outside who contained among their number a number of young ladies. I was unable to restrain myself from bursting into a mantra-like chant of “girls with guns, girls with guns” before being forced to desist by my embarrassed companion.

The upper levels of the Alcazar are full of chapels, royal apartments and lofty battlements, but the piece de resistance ( or it’s Spanish equivalent) is the central tower. After ascending a knackering and frankly dangerous stone staircase to the top, the views were stunning indeed, and a fine chance to get both the polarisation filter an the zoom lens working.

While all this camera nerding was taking place upstairs, my companion, who eschews all forms of physical exercise, inexplicably chose to hide at the bottom under the stairwell, where I later found her curled up asleep on the cold floor like a cat.

Choosing a restaurant was again a difficult and trying experience. Guide books are no use, since they tend to concentrate on the renowned and hence the expensive. It remains then to spot somewhere that has enough clients that you know it serves half decent grub, but in Spain it was inordinately problematic to do this since we could not figure out the correct time to eat. Rumour has it that the locals eat a late lunch, say between 2pm and 4pm, but in Segovia everywhere looked deserted.

In the end the place we chose, while reasonable, was too full of underemployed flunkies to be comfortable, and the palpable difference in service between us, the set menu cheapskates, and the Spanish family nearby gorging themselves like Kings, made the whole experience somewhat less than satisfactory. The food was shite, ‘n’ all!

However, this in no way dampened our spirits on what was a superb day out to a truley remarkable location, and once again, as we hurtled back to Madrid on the AVE, we could not but rue the shortness of the visit and the vast number of splendours left unseen…

September 9th

Another day set aside for art in Madrid, and this time it was the big one – the world-class Museo del Prado.

Now you might think that the sensible place to have a ticket counter would be at the main entrance, right? Not so at the Prado. After queueing for a while, and with no informative signposting anywhere, we were asked for our tickets. Er, well, we’d like to buy some, please. No, no, you have to do that at the other end of the building! So off we go, down to the other end, where there are two entirely different queues and again no helpful signs whatsoever, with bewildered folk milling around everywhere around randomly placed disinterested cops. Jesus!

Museo del Prado

Eventually we gain egress, and immediately forgive the Prado for its arcane and East German-like means of obtaining tickets, since the contents are overwhelming and will occupy us until the late evening.

The highlights for me were seeing my favourite painting of all time – yes, get ready to cringe in horror at my 18 year-old student bedsit tastes – Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights.”

Now, most folk like to concentrate on the right panel of this venerable triptych from 1500, you know, the bit where bird-headed demons are devouring men with crows flying out of their arses, people are shitting gold coins and oddly futuresque spacemen are groping young damsels.

I like this part too, but I as I approached the painting I sneaked in behind a guided tour and was amazed and enlightened by the exposition of the English-speaking leader.

See, the middle panel, the biggest part, represents the overindulgence of man after Eden, and as such is little more than a thinly-veiled orgy. There are threesomes, interracial couplings, people touching their private areas from which are bursting forth bunches of flowers or birds, and all manner of weird interaction with fantastical animals.

You are left wondering whether Bosch was really just seeking to warn people of the dangers of indulgence, or whether he just got his kicks from his own perverted inventions, a pornographer if you will.

Aside from a few other Bosches, the same room also held Brueghel’s “The Triumph of Death,” obviously greatly influenced by the former, and likewise revelling in the nastiness of the fantastical scenes it portrays, and a great and powerful work because of it.

Elsewhere I reacquainted myself with Goya, not only the dark images from the horrors of the Napoleonic Wars, but also his celebratedly frank, nay disrespectful portrait of the Spanish royal family, his employers.

In this masterpiece the King looks like a fat pin-headed freak with a big nose, while his wife resembles an ugly barmaid rather than a queen.

Elsewhere, one young lady is portrayed with her face turned completely away, and the royal Granny peers out from the back rows with a gigantic black excrescence on the side of her face, looking like a hideous witch.

Meanwhile, Goya lurks at the back. How on earth did he get away with such a monumental piss-take?

Velazquez outside the Prado

Velazquez – a nightmare to pronounce in lisping Castillian, and largely unknown to me until this trip. A master of capturing accurate facial expressions, his most famous work, prefiguring Goya’s liberties, chooses to reverse the normal perspective of a portrait, leaving us with Phillip II’s view of his daughters and court jesters messing around in the artist’s studio, with Velazquez himself in mid flow with the brush.

The King and Queen are reduced to a blurry image in a dirty mirror on the back wall. Revolutionary indeed.

Lunch was again in the gallery restaurant, where a fine tuna pie and rice salad were consumed with gallons of gazpacho and a beer.

Elsewhere in the restaurant we spotted an archetypal Japanese weirdo – a middle-aged man in unfashionable clothes, sitting bolt upright and muttering to himself.

In a satisfying reversal of what goes on in Japan, there was a wide circle of empty seats around him, despite the place being nearly full.

After leaving the Prado we proceeded to join the locals in the relaxing Retiro park, an enormous expanse of green in the city centre, featuring a boating lake in front of an imposing monument to some monarch or other.

I couldn’t resist making use of my zoom lens to capturing the expressions of the folk out in the little boats, but feeling somewhat uneasy at invading their privacy.

So if you notice your silly mug in the any of the shots displayed here, see you in court, baby!

(More images from this trip can be found here)