Midnight Callers...

January 26th was a fateful day in history. By sailing the First Fleet into Botany Bay, Captain Arthur Philip not only doomed this Albion nation to the better part of a century's heartache at cricket and an eternal locust-like Antipodean infestation of West London, but also pretty much guaranteed yours truly monthly mobile phone bills larger than the Gross Domestic Product of Antigua & Barbuda.*

Let us paint this portrait with vivid brushstrokes. It is 11:35pm on a Thursday night. Your stomach is playing happy landlord to six of the establishment's finest tipples, you are still wondering how you managed to tsunami yourself when washing your hands in the toilets and there is a momentary lull in your thrilling conversation about the faux-chintz décor of the velvet curtains. It begins as a gentle whisper, trickles into a rumbling murmur before exploding into an almighty roar of inspiration: let's call friends in Australia on our work phone!

Why? Just why?

My mother is English. My father is Swiss. My grandmother was Italian. I went to school in France and studied in Germany. Why by the Beard of Zeus, Odin's Great Raven AND the Knights of Columbus could I not befriend and pester telephonically the kind folk of these countries? Short of joining the London Club for Fijians About to Return Home (LCFARH), I could not possibly pick a longer-destinationer long-destination country to call after a few cheeky ales (until New Zealand gets telephone masts).

The not-so-lucky beneficiaries of last night's philosophical ponderings were Ash and Erin, two of my nearest and dearest friends. Before I continue, please consider the following point: not once during their far too brief stay in our fair and wet country did I contemplate calling them late at night when slightly intoxicated (by 'slightly' I in fact mean 'absolutely' and by 'intoxicated' I mean 'battered' - Editor's Note). Now that they are back in the land of sunshine, marsupials and VB however, they have become what is known as 'fair game' and are henceforth strongly advised to use the silent feature on their mobile phones between the hours of 6:00am and 10:00am. Not together? No problemo, I'll just call both of them! What made last night's ramblings even more amusing (i.e. just above zero on the international scale of hilarity) was that my partner in crime Tim decided to get in on the act by calling Ash's brother AT THE SAME TIME! Ha! How funny are we?**

Thankfully, the figurative blood, sweat and tears that went into my passionate conversation with one of my closest friends were justified when I received the following message in my inbox this morning:

Hey mate,

I just spoke to you on the phone, and I wanted to give you a run down on how you are going to feel tomorrow:

- after waking up: breath smells like death and want to go back to bed
- after shower: thought the shower would make you feel better, but no go
- waiting at tube stop: wondering why the fuck you drink
- waiting at overland stop: wondering why the fuck you work on overland
- on train: hoping no-one can smell the beer burps you are doing
- sitting down at your computer at work: devastated when you realise you have 8 hours of work left!

Enjoy your day at work today!!!

He is right every single step of the way of course. Spoken from experience no doubt...



* £117.85 - 2005 figures
** Not at all

Intervention

I want to write. My hands hover impatiently and my fingers are anxious to type, yet they remain cruelly suspended in mid-air, frozen in a barren wasteland of uncertainty four inches above the black keyboard that is rapidly becoming a symbol of my failure. After a raft of recent ponderings from the murky depths of my deranged mind, including offering to the world my transcendental observations on decapitated pigeons, all cerebral activity appears to have ceased. Like the hollow shell of a discarded frozen lemon sorbet in the bin of a backstreet Chinese restaurant, my brain is empty, totally and utterly devoid of creative thought.

I. Have. Nothing.

As if to twist the knife and scrape the bone in this already deep mental wound, dear old Microsoft Word has just autocorrected my harrowing 'I. Have. Nothing.' cry for literary help into a Roman numeral paragraph header. I am seconds away from creating an indentation of my own on my keyboard before realising that my work colleagues can hear the grinding of my teeth and are gently but purposefully pushing their chairs backwards towards towards the exit. I attempt a soothing count to ten, but do so in German by mistake, further fanning the flames of frustration and arousing in me an uncontrollable urge to invade and conquer the neighbouring offices without warning. Scheisse!

Calming myself down by thinking of Ron Burgundy's many leather-bound books, I briefly consider a light-footed hop, skip and jump to the nearest 'Razorblades R Us' superstore in order to put an end to this literary flatline that has turned the contents of my head into twice-pickled Polish cabbage. But I don't. I am stronger than this.

Literary Flatline

Can it be that nothing of any significance whatsoever has happened in my life over the past two weeks? Having experienced a phenomenal football trip to Euro 2008 in Austria and Switzerland as well as a superb CouchSurfing weekend in Brighton with a crew of eight under one roof, can it be that the one paltry idea for a blog entry that I have had is about a song that has blown me away by its haunting poignancy. Yes folks, a song. Most of the people who know me think I am a reincarnated crack whore as it is without having to have my review of the Top 40 drop into their inbox on a Wednesday morning. What next? Jean-Marc Knoll speaks to the world about the mating patterns of the Arctic Tern [Part 2 - Foreplay], puhlease...

Next I'll be writing about writer's block...

Monday Bloody Monday

Monday 8:41am: my train from Putney pulls into Teddington Station one minute late and I mutter under my breath "This would never happen in Switzerland, heads would roll...".

Unaware of how eerily accurate my thoughts are about to become, I hasten my step so as to be at my rightful spot in front and slightly to the left of the back doors of the first carriage on the 8:45 to Shepperton. I notice that it has taken me 28 steps from the footbridge rather than the usual 32 and put it down to the increased tempo. I am perturbed however, there have just been two changes from The Routine in the space of two minutes. This is going to be a tough week.

As I briefly consider whether to triple salto or double pirouette into the path of the oncoming train in anticipation of another week of 9 to 5 drudgery, my attention is caught by some movement down on the tracks and I realise one poor soul has unwittingly beaten me to it.

There is a pigeon on one of the sleepers. Or rather 7/8ths of a pigeon since its head lies a full six inches from its body. Wait, three inches. No, one foot. A monstrous crow - black as the night and easily the largest I have ever seen - is tossing the lifeless head in the air like a bloody rag doll. Next to it, another raven is pecking at the pigeon's neck with great gusto, scattering random pieces of red flesh across sleeper and rail alike. I am standing no more than one metre from this scene of carnage and can clearly see the dead bird's spine protruding from its torso. A gruesome sight.

I wonder briefly whether it is an omen for the week that is ahead of me. Although there is little chance of any of my work colleagues meeting the same fate, I attempt a minor curse on the accounts department and put my faith in the spirit of the pigeon. One thing is clear though: I do not trust the Benjys food van's offerings at the best of times , but this railway station is too close to their catering centre for comfort and I will not be opting for the chicken and mushroom pie today.

The 13th Month

Every second year, the Gregorian calendar upon which the very fabric of our society has been based for centuries undergoes a subtle and temporary change. An additional month is added to the twelve we are already familiar with.

The 13th month does not challenge or even bend the rules of time and space, it simply functions as a parallel universe sewn onto the hem of the sleeves of chronology. It contains its own units of time measurement and is generally referred to as the "Euro Month" every leap year and "World Cup Month" every non-leap even year.

The Units Of Time (UOT) of The 13th Month are as follows:

- The 'Group Stage' UOT is split into three separate units, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Group Games. Each Group Game lasts the equivalent of 4 Gregorian Calendar days and contains 8 'Football Matches' (also known as 'Soccer Matches' in developing countries). Cholesterol levels increase by 862%, salsa becomes an integral part of the daily nutrition plan and the next 16 generations of the Dorito Family are guaranteed private schooling as The 13th Month gets underway.

- The 'QF' or 'Quarter-Final' UOT follows the 3rd Group Game without interruption. The 'QF' lasts the equivalent of 4 Gregorian Calendar days and contains 4 'Football Matches'. The dilution of the matches/day ratio is compensated by the increased significance of the 'Football Matches'. This is a direct symptom of the 'Knock-Out Phase' effect. Hundreds of cases of partial rigor mortis are reported as supporters lose mobility in both hands from holding beer cans permanently, also known as Playmobilitis.

- The 'No Game Days' UOT occurs between the 'QF' and 'SF' UOT as well as between the 'SF' and 'F' UOT. It lasts the equivalent of 2 Gregorian Calendar days and contains NO 'Football Matches'. Essentially a matrimony-saving period of time and also known as 'Vacuum' or 'Black Hole', the 'No Game Days' UOT induces acute feelings of disorientation, confusion and paranoia. Viewed as a curse by supporters and a blessing by phillistines, the only known remedies to 'No Game Days' fever are 'Goal Of The Tournament' competitions and 'Highlights Clips With Trendy Indie Music'.

- The 'SF' or 'Semi-Final' UOT lasts the equivalent of 2 Gregorian Calendar days and contains 2 'Football Matches'. Generally recognised as the most dramatic period of The 13th Month, the 'SF' UOT is also known as 'The Business End' of The 13th Month. Requests abound for players to be counted after standing up. Several European trade agreements are annulled, and during the half-time commercial break of the second 'Football Match', 162 million fans across the continent recite in unison the words to the Adidas, Canon, Castrol, JVC AND MasterCard adverts.

- The 'F' or 'Final' UOT follows the 2nd 'No Game Days' UOT and is the climax and anti-climax of The 13th Month. The anticipation and excitement inevitably end in disappointment as a 90-minute snoozefest ends in a 0-0 draw and tame penalty shootout. Images of jubilant Germans and crying French children are beamed across the world. Alcoholics Anonymous hire 17 new administration assistants to cope with increased membership applications.

This morning, I very nearly beat the long jump world record as I leapt out of my bed. I sang an entire music festival's material under the shower. I am more energized than the Duracell bunny after 32 cans of Red Bull, 7 double espressos and a good hit of Colombian grade A primo.

I am about to become intimate with 368 players in a footballing orgy of leather, studs and swerving balls. The father/son bond will reach its biennial peak as "Why have you not started a pension plan yet?" becomes "Are you blind? He was never offside!". I will agree wholeheartedly with my mother when she tells me that Romanian winger is tasty.

Today, my hometown of Basel is the centre of the universe and my chest is about to burst with pride.

COME ON SWITZERLAND!!!