A rumble random rant about burning bodies in the backyard.

A rumble random rant about burning bodies in the backyard.

The smell of burnt bodies fill the air. The same smell you get whenever you drive past the Borella Crematorium when a funeral is in process. The mild August evening wind takes this smell of people barbequing in backyards everywhere. For someone like me who loves food, strange to be put off by this smell of burning meat. Unfortunately for me, this smell is from association at my dad’s cremation.

I go back inside closing the back door from the burnt body smell. The TV drones on in the background. BBC News. I look up to verify. The Olympics are soon gone. Tomorrows the closing ceremony. Mo’s attempting a double by winning gold at the 5000 tonight. He runs his last 400 meters in 52 secs. I can’t do that first time around forget about running 4600 meters first.

As the Olympics end, the football season starts to ensure peace amongst the housing estates spread across Great Britain. I look forward to a good season, being a MU fan for decades ensures my expectations are always met. But football will also usher in the cold; the windy cold or the wet cold or the both wet and windy cold. The sky this late evening still bright. Soon though even early afternoon will bleak, very like the bleakness in my mind.

Hat Ricks of goals for England and MU by Rooney even will not help relieve the autumn chill and winter freeze from my heart and mind. My external body, I control through regular exercise. But my mind crumbles. My heart aches.

I drink water and keep visiting the urinal until my urine eventually runs crystal clear. Imaginary toxins flushed away, unimagined blood sugar levels become respectable. I am restless. I wonder. I wonder more and more about all the wickedness in this world. Forget about the bigger ones, alike Syria, I worry about individual acts of madness.

I can’t watch anymore:

Please don’t make me watch you arresting a grandmother and her partner for murdering her 12-year-old grand daughter. Her body found inside their house after seven days.

Please don’t you see what I see when I walk down our high street. Everyday a new shop out of business, the neighbourhood bar steel shuttered, all closed for business. The irony of it all seen at the end of our high street, the TESCO superstore. Even they feel it, less and less customers.

Please don’t you wonder how the great people of Great Britain now queue in hundreds to watch fellow great citizens make racist and promiscuous fools of their selves on live TV.  

The list is too long. The wickedness too big. Spreading like the angry wildfire.

‎"Yaam irukka bhayam eyn? Why fear when I am?" Kārttikeyan

Barack Obama.

Ussain Bolt.

Mohamed Farah.

The three people most in the news now. One in an election to select the leader of the free world. The other two Olympic Champions.

Why did you waste away four years Barack when you could have changed the world?

Why?

I am cold old mother please wrap me in blanket and bury me under the old mango tree, the one down Lauries Road. Next to St. Mary’s church.

Finally I will belong somewhere and nourish my mother lanka. I will be peace, for one thing I am sure of, more sure than of the God’s themselves, I am sure of death, when finally you are truly at peace.

It’s twilight now. Cold and windy, rain expected tomorrow.

I am cold old mother. Please take me now. Wrap me in my favourite tiger print blanket, the one that kept me warm in the USA.

Sunday morning at home

Last nights excess is nothing now but a sharp headache. I have taken as much as painkillers medically allowed deadening the pain. The spliff I just smoked helps relieve the hangover. My tongue feels like sandpaper. The carton of soya milk I drank with the painkillers is helping somewhat to calm my stomach. I am hoping all the meds and the spilff will kick in soon.

I reach up to the side table by my bed and gulp down the mug of overly sweetened black coffee and look to see if the paper man has come. The air conditioner drones softly. I am protected from the Sunday morning heat that swells up from the tar roads of Colombo as the sun rises. Soon it will be just too hot to think about doing anything or going anywhere. My three Sunday papers, the Observer, Times and the Leader are unceremoniously dumped on my bed by the disapproving wife. She and the kid are slowly up and about getting ready for their usual Sunday plans. ODEL for shopping and strolling about and then return home for lunch. Always Chinese on a Sunday, always from Chinese Dragon. By then hopefully I have finished my newspapers, showered and feel a wee better. Ready for lunch and back to bed to sleep off any reminder of Saturday night. It was a good night, had dinner with the family at Kolu’s Kiss Kiss bar, dropped them home and hooked up with Paddy at Cascades. Mahesh and Leo joined afterwards and memories of Kiribath at Trans Asia at 5 in the morning ensured that the weekends partying was max.

The microwave beeps me out of my revere. Last night was at Cooka’s house in Ilford for his kid’s birthday. I as usual walk in with my compulsory bottle of booze and thrill all the yummy and not so yummy mummies at the party. ‘Aney Dhammika vut men this is a kids party no?’ WTF…

My kids on concert band tour in Spain, so its just Lems and I, she’s driving and I have the license to party. Ate a load of cutlis, patis and mutton rolls, drank lots of Glenmorangie, smoked some really good shit (mine) and enjoyed the wonderful company at Cooks. Nalin, Lily, Ruwan, Cader, Adrian, Mega and Eggy deserve special mention. Lily as always gave me my Bilal’s lampries to takeaway for Sunday morning. The short eats I ate last night are a weak memory, the microwave beep reminding me the food is ready. I am hoping all the painkillers, spliff and now the lamprie will finally sooth my hangover.

I am back. The lamprie was delicious. Oily but delicious and I do feel better. The hangover has reached the stage where it’s now a manageable dull throb somewhere near my temple.

Different weekends, different countries, same bloody hangover.

Khan lost in four rounds to Garcia last night in Vegas. Fights showing again on Sky in 30 minutes.

So I am going now. Bye.

Six Thousand Miles away from Smiles

The incessant drizzle has been hours now. It had ceased for a while when I got home. Just enough for Jaspers run, walk and toilet. Now late summer evening, but unusually dark due to the rain clouds and that bloody drizzle. Like the last drops we squeeze out when peeing, but for hours.

Cooked a venison sausage curry (the joys of the stix – proper venison sausages from the local butcher) and ate with just white jasmine rice. Kids away on head start and Melo’s vegetarian today. So she will be British, something like olives, cheese and biscuits for dinner. Any health benefit spoilt by the Lucozade she chugs afterwards. Busy at work, so she’s not home yet.

I am set up on the sofa. Mobile, Laptop and TV remotes. Although I have left the back door open I don’t feel really cold. I am in a white skinny and my now new favourite, a Paradise Road sarong. Well worn with age I must add. The quick zoot fix for the days ends nicely settling in. One of the reasons I am finding the weather quite mild. When your head feels really heavy, the mild breeze coming in through the door and the Wimbledon on BBC TV in the background merge into this gorgeous feeling of contentment and comfort. My body has sunk into the leather sofa, moulding it to shape.

My mind wonders all the way back to Wattapuluwa, Kandy, and the outside weather adding to enhance my memories.

I can feel the bus shudder and the driver furiously grinding the gears as he coaxes the bus up the Kadugannawa mountain. It is time for me to perk up in my seat and wipe the journey out of my eyes. I am almost home. The silhouette of the bible rock is only an outline on this late Friday evening. I am on a Colombo – Kandy Intercity bus on my way home for the weekend. The worries and heat of the week left behind as the cool breezes of Kandy caress me as they flow through our groaning bus as it climbs the mountain.

All too soon we’re in Kandy. The wonder of mobile technology has allowed me to phone ahead to inform my parents I am close to Kandy. I am one of the quicker people to exit the bus, as I have no bags to encumber me. Quick stretch and I look around for the car. The bright cyan blue, yes BCB, Lancer station wagon is easy to spot as it shines brightly through the incredible clutter of the sights, sounds and exotic and not so scents of Kandy. Huge yellow buses, Red CTB buses, the  KFC double decker, the private intercity buses with their bright plumage of advertising, vendors with their carts brightly lit in glorious fluorescent is a panorama of colour. Nighttime adds to the romance of the situation.

Kumara, our trusted driver, gardener, valet and Mr. Fixit greets me with a big grin as I jump into the car. He does not forget to pull over at a roadside liquor shop for my customary Friday night in Kandy by myself quart. Which is gulped down in three hefty swigs, quick Gold Leaf and I jump back in car. Kumara already has a menthol toffee ready for me to pop into the mouth in readiness for the meeting, worshipping and kissing of said parent now waiting in Wattapuluwa wondering why the five-mile drive to Wattapulwa from Kandy Town is taking us so long. My father silently suspecting it would probably be a tot at an aforesaid roadside tavern.   

Finally we climb the mountainous roads of Wattapuluwa and get home. I jump out to open the gate for the car to take the sharp turn that leads to an incline directly to the top floor living room and front entrance. Everything is bathed in the headlights. Ninja my mothers Alsatian dog’s barking and jumping in delight. My nephews and niece are screaming the news of my arrival to everyone in the neighbourhood. The house lights up with everyone exiting their rooms and my mother who was sitting in the living room switches on the house foyer and garden lights.

There is a cacophony of sound. All blurring into hugs, kisses and screams of welcome. The big Alsatian dog has suddenly been overcome with love and is humping my leg at the same time. I am home.

The TV flickers incessantly very like the rain outside. It’s 7pm, the reminder for the famous US TV program COPS has come up. I switch it on. I am home. In England. The clouds have cleared. I can hear the steady distant drone of an aircraft overhead. We’re directly on a flight path but thankfully really high up. I hear the chirping of birds competing with the aircraft, a helicopter suddenly flies by. I glance up and outside. A blur of white, light blue, grey sky, brown garden fencing, green grass and a bunch of bullfinch are busily feeding on worms the rain has unearthed.

I have to go now, I can hear reality. 

It’s late in the evening…

It’s late in the evening…

Long summer evenings. It’s still light outside. Short nights, long days etc, etc. Summer in England’s still warming up. Never like a F1 engine but in fits and starts, along with the inglorious promise of rain.

It’s nice. I am home. Sprawled out on the couch. BBC news on TV provides background chatter. Cooked quick curry for dinner, showered away the days action, in my old P road sarong and a vest. The sport socks the only clash with the rest of the whole ethnic look. But my balls are free, so I feel free. Especially as the small spliff I smoked after my shower is reaching the ‘space’ stage.

Enjoying that perfect mild English evening. I feel fresh as my long hot shower, my Old Spice deo and cologne I splashed on after. The Syrian conflict, England’s Euro Loss, and Cameron’s conservative strategy to cut back on welfare take most importance on BBC news. The rice cooker beeps. Hot basmathi rice and my spicy Chicken curry. Shall open a Publis seeni sambol jar to mark the occasion.

25^th June is almost over. So is the month of June. Midsummer’s day already past. This June by far has been one of the worst months of my too long life. More days to forget, more days to wonder why you still live.

Life’s small pleasures. A hot shower, comfortable clothes, hot food and always the possibility/dream of winning the lottery.

Life’s big pleasures. In my case living in Kataragama. As close to Skanda as I can get. That right now feels almost like my chance of actually winning the lottery.

It’s late in the evening…

DD's Blog: THE ENGLISH FANS - COME ON ENGLAND!

DD's Blog: THE ENGLISH FANS - COME ON ENGLAND!: For the English fans For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles. Fo...

To the English fans

For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles.

For the always skint, 30 something single working mother who works as a waitress at the Harvester who saves half a fag for after dinner.

For those of us who shop at Tesco first thing Monday morning. Wearing of course the Londsdale sweats we got on sale from Sports Direct. Not from the web, we go to the actual store in our retail shopping park.

To the teenage mom pushing her baby trolley on the high street. Tottering a bit as she had a couple of pints at her local.

To Tom, Dick and Harry. Their white vans securely parked outside their terrace home, now quickly putting on an England shirt ready for the pub to watch the game after a hard days work.

His mates already waiting for him at the pub. The ones on benefit. Those whose jobs all the bloody migrants have taken away.

To me mate and patron of purveyor of all goods related to civilised smoking. IT executive by day, want to be ‘rock’n rolla’ after 6pm.

To the old biddies from Manchester, the ones who carried posies all the way by train to hand them Her Majesty on her golden jubilee parade in London.

To the black cabbie that picked me up from Soho, took me to St. Pancras International and back, just to get to Chinatown, and yelled at me all the way to add insult to injury.

To the teenage girls from the English countryside. Those who give hand jobs to the local Moroccan drug dealer in exchange for drugs.

To the guy outside the West Hampstead train station stairs. The one who says good morning to me and gives me a heavy toothless smile in exchange for a few pence. Sir, I admire the collection of fan tattoos you seem to have collected over time.

For the bouncers at the worst pub on our high street, where even your pack of fags is checked carefully for drugs. Their thinking of putting a finger up the patrons butts too if the violence continues.

To the monthly, 25^th of the month binge drinkers. Both men, women and others.

To the English who get into debt just to fly for the EURO2012 to support England. The ones who put on the shirt even if it’s watching an England game on the home telly.

To the real English fans

The ones who breathe and bleed England!

Come on England!

A post untitled for a reason

A post untitled for a reason

If you take what is considered dubious political language, I would be right. Yes, coming from a Sinhala, Buddhist, Govigama background and to add insult, from Kandy, I would be appropriately labelled as a racist nationalist.

But more to the intended post. Quite recently I was called an ‘Egoistical Bastard’ by someone who I considered friend. Maybe the introductory paragraph may have added to this new label. Many times I have been called a fool by my near and dear. A few times that I am proud. Those far and afar popularly call me ‘Crazy’.

You my reader I hope is reading with none of these preconceived theories of my impeccable character.

So egoistical bastard (EB) was quite new. The intended subject of my post. About three months are a past when this piece of information was passed on to me. Once seeing from my trained instinct of the said friend making a motion of kicking me when my back was turned, emotions were throttled due to expectation. Since then three months are past and this label kept going through my mind. But, why? I kept asking myself. So I hope hereafter, as I put pen on paper this is laid to rest.

“I am no different from anyone else. Otherwise this world would have never seen African Americans (pun intended), Israelites or Pakistani British, Jake Brits, Indian Americans  etc. From a young age my parents encouraged me to explore. Beyond Sri Lanka. Everyone in the family believed in a good education opening doors to the rest of the world. I was the youngest. I believed the world was mine. I still do. I have seen more sorrow than happiness, hunger, depression and destitution. All strangely my own doing for my parents brought me up like a prince. Where ever I went, the US, UK, India, Singapore or anywhere I always did as I please. Looking back, I hurt myself and more, my loved ones by these actions. I still make mistakes. Still I refuse to but live life to the fullest. I wear my heart on my sleeve, what you get is what you see and I am one of the most loyal friends someone can have. So my friends are few, but all precious and real friends. People who’ll unsuspectingly lend me money. So racist nationalist I maybe, egoistical bastard, No Never.”

My dog? Yes.