"Getting the Most From Your Pritt Stick"

The following extract is taken from remaining time Spears and I spent in Comodoro Rivadavia:

With a bus due to take off at 22:45 we had time to kill and so to another grassy knoll we headed, by 20:30 we were sitting, cross-legged (I end up looking like a new born foal packed up into a briefcase when sat in this fashion) under a tree filled with very small parrots that took it upon themselves to drop their faecal bombs of discontent on us, no doubt acts of anger with the fact that we were boiling their unborn relatives. Six eggs we boiled. That's just what we do, boil eggs, act impulsively, eat mani (peanuts) from their shells (as close to hunter gatherer as I'm likely to get) and watch 16 year old boys inhale glue. It is that last point that I ought to elaborate on:

...I'd spotted in my peripheral vision this young chap, sniffing away merrily at this bag filled with glorious glue, and gloriously cheap glue at that; happy as Larry he was. Whilst watching him there, I felt a little sad but also a little connected with that transcendental travelling spirit. Soon, however, little Pablo decided to come spend some time with us and my transcendental spirit evaporated - "be at one with the people metaphysically not physically." The boy was young and high, but by the time he had sat his tiny little legs down on the poo-stained grass I was surreptitiously playing with my recently purchased stainless steel fork; I was to plough it in his left bicep, scream a little, apologise for screaming at such a high pitch, then take flight. I looked across at Spears 'The Heart' Mallis and the following conversation took place...through our eyes only:

"Yo, dude this hobo looks heli-high!" The Heart said.

"Run Spears, run for your life! Leave the eggs, I don't enjoy them boiled anyway."

"Dude, you don't like boiled eggs. Wtf, man?!" He replied, downcast.

"Ignore the gastronomy...and my palate. This boy is dangerous - he's a drug addict and they are all plotting on destroying the economy...I read an article about it, with pictures 'n' all. You take his left bicep. No, take his right, I've got his left. I apologise in advance for any screaming that may or may not take place."

“Mgnudnsudoj,” was the boy's opening line - original and not at all disturbing. The fork remained tightly held in my paw.

Out of courtesy, and to keep him occupied, we made conversation with him. Conversation doesn't last as long as you'd hope with a sniffer of solvents, largely because they can't communicate very well and the effect of this past-time tends to damage the ol' synapses and destroy a healthy chunk of short term memory; such memories were that we were boiling eggs. The loss of this memory led little Pablo, despite our cries of objection, to reach into our pot and extract an egg, then observe it at a closer distance, as one does.

You are granted, when intoxicated, a delayed grace period before your nervous system manages to relay the message that what you did hurt, a lot. The boy's cerebellum soon received this message - this was apparent to us when he looked up at us in child-like horror, as if betrayed by a parent, and spoke the immortal words: “Hot”. The only thing missing was the soothing accompaniment to all documentaries on wildlife: the voice of David Attenborough.

We soon packed up and trotted off into the night, taking what little money the boy had left, in search of the “rich” area. It was not long, however, until a security guard (in disguise) came up to us, revealed his weapon (a baton....a wooden stick....a long...oh, what's the point in trying....yes, he took out is cock, cum on (who), we're all thinking it...are we?) and told us it wasn't safe to stay there. A bizarre city all in all.

I believe I forgot to pipe up on a few little morsels here and there, which struck me whilst enjoying the overwhelming pleasures of Comdoro Rivadavia. The following was scribbled on a napkin I found later in my bag:

...Oh, the irony: This city is a ghastly place (a heady mix of Croydon and Abdijan), however, it does proudly display an old steam engined train that sits on a couple of metres of track, placed in the heart of the city. It would seem this display is a beacon of past development, the foundation and platform from which industrial growth took off. “What? But there are no current trains to be seen in the whole of the city. No means of transport other than car and anaemic horses.”

Therefore, essentially this monument (if we can call it that) serves as a constant, tangible itch in the psyche of the city, reminding them that it has an economy that peaked 100 years ago, almost like telling an 18yr old boy that his sexual peak was in fact 8 years ago. Congratulations.