The Magical Healing Properties of the Tijuana Lollapalooza


Here’s the story of Damien, a taxi, and a head in an oven.

I really hoped no one would see me with my head in the oven, marigold gloves adorning my hands, flip-flops adorning my feet, and a hairstyle that could rival the hair of Farrah Fawcett. Not to mention my grease covered face or Tijuana Taxi playing in the background. That works a lot better if you’ve heard of that song. In fact, you should go and YouTube it now, listen to it, and come back to read the rest of this post. I want that song playing at my funeral. Which could have happened if what that burning smell was didn’t become obvious to me. But at least I’d die with Tijuana Taxi playing in the background, and I can’t think of many happier ways to go. Hmm, maybe only topped by a clown beating me to death. But if the clown was humming Tijuana Taxi, now that would be freakin’ awesome. Did you listen to it? I hope so, because if you’re having a bad day, that will cheer you up no end. And if it doesn’t, and the thought of a marigold and flip-flop wearing me with Farrah Fawcett hair and a greasy face doesn’t, then I don’t think there’s a professional alive who could figure out why you’re so dead inside. Come on, it’s Christmas. What? Jesus was born in January.

Rather than tell anyone, I just have two Christmases. You can do that a lot in life. The Queen has two birthdays. She can make up the rules. I’ll have three and a cherry on top please, but I don’t like cherries, so I’ll throw them at a wall. After around five decades, there’ll be so many cherries on the wall, it’ll look like a piece of modern art by capital crapbucket Damien Hirst. I could sell it for millions to idiots! Just like Damien! Heck, I could tape him to the wall, peel him off after said five decades and call the piece, ‘Hirst Gets What He Deserves the Weird Git’. Is it obvious I don’t like him? I’ll stop now. He may have fans reading, and I really don’t want to upset them. I am very, very sorry for my accurate portrayal of that complete tit. Ooh, what if I put him in formaldehyde? In a tutu! Mwa, ha, ha, ha…

I suppose I had better comfort worried readers who may be ringing the suicide hotline. I was cleaning the oven. I wouldn’t bake my head until it popped like in that movie whose name I’ve forgotten. Mind reading. Lots of death. Don’t really know what’s happening. In the movie. Well, life in general too, I suppose. Hmm, Bambi? No, that’s not it. Erm, Scanners! That’s it! You can’t blame me, it came out nine years before I was born. Anyway, my point is valid. That, readers, is the true meaning of January Christmas. Sorry, what? Oh, right, we weren’t talking about that. Ah. I should really pay attention but I like playing with my toes and it’s easy to get distracted.

Our oven exploded on Friday. It does this quite a lot. It’s like a temperamental housewife. Or, because I’m modern and hip, househusband. Is that a word? Ho, ho, it is! Pip, pip and so forth. There is actually a rather sadder possibility. Maybe the oven is trying to kill itself. We give it so much hell. But that’s its job! To cook! To serve! It’s an honourable life, people! Why, why want out? Oh, what are you going to do, Mr. Oven? Become a toaster? Be proud of who you are. An oven! A sexy oven, I might add. And yes, we probably could do without kicking you all the time, but that’s just because you’re useless. You’re like that dog in Of Mice and Men, spoiler alert coming up if you haven’t read it. Yes, one day we will take you outside, shoot you in-between the eyes, come inside, and clean off the remnants of your brain from our hands, but it doesn’t mean we don’t love you. So please, stop trying to kill us.

Mother and father are away for four days in that London. Mother’s 63rd birthday soon. I got her some money and put it in a money wallet. But it was a Christmas one. I had some left over. Hey, I wonder if she’ll buy into my January Christmas thingamajig.

So came my first day alone. And the oven exploded. Or so I initially thought. I’d been cleaning my room and I’d lost my slippers, so I’d reached for what I could find, my flip-flops and headed into the heart of hell. With the extractor fan on, I donned my marigold gloves, knelt down and stuck my head in the oven. I got scrubbing away. I’m not used to cleaning ovens. I didn’t know what to use. Most of the cleaning equipment in the cleaning cupboard is unlabelled, which is slightly worrying. So I just put it all in. I was there for some time. The oven had a weird affect on my hair. Sort of frizzed it. My hair is just beyond my shoulders in length, so you can imagine how horrific it looked. Ah, well. I got the job done. I looked like a complete pillock, but I got the job done.

Ah. No worries. The world is a lovely place. My cold has gone, the folks are away, all is well. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Prepared my pork chops. In the oven they went. And half an hour later, I went to check on them. Enter the kitchen. Ah, no smoke. Open the oven door. Oh boy…

Vast plumes of smoke billowed high into the air, hit the ceiling and cascaded back down again. The room flooded with a thick white smoke as I fell to my knees, dropped, and rolled. Oh wait, that’s if you’re on fire. I was just some idiot rolling around on the floor in a smoke-filled room…


…Admittedly, this was somewhat of an overreaction. Especially when you consider that the smoke was actually the various chemicals I threw into the oven, to clean it, evaporating. My pork chops were fine. I got up from being on my knees banging on the floor with my left fist and found the window to open to clear the plumes of my pork chop hell. And they were delicious, readers, they really were.

I went upstairs to find a towel from the airing closet to wipe the grease from my face and the tears from my eyes. There were plants growing in there. Hmm. How strange. You don’t see that every day. But when you’re me, there’s a lot you don’t see every day.

I’ve had an interesting week. Found out I’m gonna be an uncle for only the second time. Very happy about that. I got rid of my cold. I have a ridiculous beard growing because my razor is pants and I’m too frightened to go to the shop to buy a replacement because the world is scary for a shy person. But the week ended. In a cloud of smoke and pork chop goodness. I’m still alive. I don’t know how, maybe God is watching over me or maybe I’m a hypochondriac and a maniac. I feel good. I haven’t felt this good in a while.

2014 has finally started for me. Merry January, readers. May the pork chops be with you, and so forth. And when you’re feeling down, remember one simple word…


American musician, founder and participant of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, who wrote and recorded Tijuana Taxi, Herbert Alpert (b. 1935), once said: “Instrumental music can spread the international language”.

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the little bubble on the top right if you are on the Archives Page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post


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