A seemingly innocent stroll to the shops on Saturday afternoon inched me one step closer to completing my lifetime mission of self-humiliation for the entertainment and benefit of the general public.
I was walking home from the supermarket carrying a multitude of bags containing victuals for the evening's barbeque, when an uneasy feeling came over me. With no belt on, my hands full and gravity working against my cause, I began to feel my shorts slipping ever so slightly downwards.
A quick stop to buy some lemonade from the local convenience store sealed my fate as I was returned my £18.53 change in coins only. Weighed down by the loose change equivalent of Russia's annual iron ore output, my shorts were getting bolder in their attempt to enrol in a rapid and thoroughly undesired southbound relocation programme.
My house was just around the corner, but so was disaster.
I can do this, I thought to myself as I closed the distance from the safe haven of my home to a mere 200 yards. And so I wriggled on, with enough clench in my posterior to render the biggest prune-consuming rhinoceros constipated for eternity. The concentration and determination this gargantuan effort required was making my perspiring forehead displace more water than the Mekong Delta two weeks into monsoon season.
It is commonly known that Shakira's hips do not lie, less so that mine do not grip shorts well. With a delicate slide into eternal damnation and two fingers thrust at my dignity, they finally decided to set sail for warmer climes, smoothly vacating my waistline in favour of my ankles.
Which in turn casually revealed the forgotten yet crucial fact that I had inadvertently gone shopping commando-style, au naturel, or to put it more plainly, without any underwear on.
Oh dear.
The last thing that the couple behind me were expecting to see on a relaxing walk in the Saturday afternoon sunshine was the unsolicited appearance of my two plump lily-white buttocks in their immediate field of vision. A sharp intake of breath was swiftly followed by the bray of laughter of a wild donkey as the man raised his hands to slow-clap my impromptu freestyle stripping act. His companion was doubled up, no sound managing to escape her still-shocked mouth. 'Nice one mate!, he managed to congratulate me in between peals of laughter, 'That's the funniest thing I have ever seen.'.
With a face bearing striking resemblance to an uncooked Polish beetroot, I quietly put my bags down in order to reclothe myself, affording the lucky couple one final unforgettable viewing of my fleshy double full moon impression.
JMK = 50% Swiss, 50% British, 100% class...
Saturday 26 July 2008
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Hidden Treasures
As I draw my unfortunately imaginary KillAllTourists3000 and vaporise an entire tour group of Italian adolescents outside Leicester Square Tube Station ('Butta werra izza Trafalgar??? Whya you shoota me???), I begin to slow-release the permanently festering hatred that I have for the West End. A spaghetti carbonara made from offcuts of Shellys shoeboxes and discarded polystyrene BigMac containers from Burundi maybe? Perhaps Steak & Kidney Pie rehashed from reprocessed lambs' umbilical cords and 14-day old chip-fat gravy? What shall we have for dinner tonight?
But tonight is different. I have a glint in my eye. I am in classy company. It is time to take a risk. No Aberdeen Steak House for us tonight (sorry Erik, you gotta convince me it ain't from your home town), not even the Angus. The corner of my eye has seen something, and it knows best. A hidden gem of a bistro may have just entered my field of vision.
We walk into 'Beaujolais' and get the customary French greeting:
'Hrrmnnn?'
Two please.
'Hrrmnnn?'
Two please, can we sit at the bar?
'Hrrrrmnyesh. Grmmmnfgd.'
As the spoils of the war of our fromage platter are divided (blue cheese for she, smelly for me), we start to take in our surroundings. Or rather our surroundings start to take us in. A stout, portly and one suspects JackDanielsy Frenchman barges into my left shoulder, the bar, and probably an oil rig in the North Sea at the same time; he curses from afar an unfortunate customer who has taken lawful advantage of his bladder-induced absence to rob him of his barstool. 'I'l m'a niqué ma chaise, je vais le niquer!' he bellows, in the absolute certainty that his neighbour - yours truly - would not understand his bold assertion that 'He fucked my chair, I will fuck him!'. As I share this beautiful linguistic nuance with my companion, the owner comes over and shares some of the wondrous history behind this magical venue we have discovered par hasard.
He is truly not mistaken. My friend and I had entered this Narnian enclave within the infernal chaos of Soho with the innocent hope of escaping reality for but a short while. Ethan, you would be proud of me...
But tonight is different. I have a glint in my eye. I am in classy company. It is time to take a risk. No Aberdeen Steak House for us tonight (sorry Erik, you gotta convince me it ain't from your home town), not even the Angus. The corner of my eye has seen something, and it knows best. A hidden gem of a bistro may have just entered my field of vision.
We walk into 'Beaujolais' and get the customary French greeting:
'Hrrmnnn?'
Two please.
'Hrrmnnn?'
Two please, can we sit at the bar?
'Hrrrrmnyesh. Grmmmnfgd.'
As the spoils of the war of our fromage platter are divided (blue cheese for she, smelly for me), we start to take in our surroundings. Or rather our surroundings start to take us in. A stout, portly and one suspects JackDanielsy Frenchman barges into my left shoulder, the bar, and probably an oil rig in the North Sea at the same time; he curses from afar an unfortunate customer who has taken lawful advantage of his bladder-induced absence to rob him of his barstool. 'I'l m'a niqué ma chaise, je vais le niquer!' he bellows, in the absolute certainty that his neighbour - yours truly - would not understand his bold assertion that 'He fucked my chair, I will fuck him!'. As I share this beautiful linguistic nuance with my companion, the owner comes over and shares some of the wondrous history behind this magical venue we have discovered par hasard.
We are sitting at the bar, au zinc if we were in France, and in front of us lies a discrete brass plaque commemorating the life of Tony Hogan. We are told in a very reverential and respectful manner that Tony, local patron of more than 20 years, was THE archetypal English gentleman, favourite guest, and that he had passed away recently. Up on the wall, we are shown a members' board, complete with each local's In/Out sliding marker. Tony's is at the very top, set to Always In. We understand immediately how much this person means to everyone here, all four barmen stop to describe Tony as a local legend never to be forgotten. It is a very touching moment.
We are but new people in this bar full of past, present and future. That the owners take a shine to us and care to explain the significance of the place we are lucky to be in is more of a crowning glory than a mountain of chantilly crème topping on a rich chocolate mousse. Which makes part-owner Jean-Yves' words all the more special after we have enjoyed a fantastically entertaining soirée of cross-Channel banter. He waves regally at his clientèle and turns towards me. 'This wine bar has been here for 30 years and there are only locals here.' he whispers, his salt and pepper (avec hint of Brie) beard rustling and bustling nervously as he leans towards me and continues 'You will be locals, I know it...'.
We are but new people in this bar full of past, present and future. That the owners take a shine to us and care to explain the significance of the place we are lucky to be in is more of a crowning glory than a mountain of chantilly crème topping on a rich chocolate mousse. Which makes part-owner Jean-Yves' words all the more special after we have enjoyed a fantastically entertaining soirée of cross-Channel banter. He waves regally at his clientèle and turns towards me. 'This wine bar has been here for 30 years and there are only locals here.' he whispers, his salt and pepper (avec hint of Brie) beard rustling and bustling nervously as he leans towards me and continues 'You will be locals, I know it...'.
He is truly not mistaken. My friend and I had entered this Narnian enclave within the infernal chaos of Soho with the innocent hope of escaping reality for but a short while. Ethan, you would be proud of me...
Wednesday 2 July 2008
When Doves Cry
3:30am - two more gunshots echo. I am lying on the floor of a hotel room, flattening myself against the wall beneath the window in order to offer as small a target as possible to the psychopath shooting at me from a nearby rooftop. There is glass everywhere and I realise distractedly that I have a deep gash on the palm of my left hand. It is the least of my current worries. Where am I and what the hell am I doing here? I have no recollection of the previous five hours. "Shit man, that was too close, let's get the hell outta here!" a voice behind me says, somewhat too excitedly. I am not alone. "Get up bitch! They're coming". The stranger opens the door, motions impatiently for me to follow him. Unable to think clearly, I do so.
5:30am - My right leg seizes up. Every muscle, tendon and joint in my body is aching and my lungs are burning with the very fires of hell itself. We have been running for days, it seems. I pause for breath and lean exhausted against a rusting locomotive engine. I want to scream, to release this rage that is in me, but more than anything I want to cry. "Move it NOW asshole, or you're dead!" the stranger hisses at me as he shoves me to one side before setting off at pace again. I hear the dogs barking in the distance and quickly follow this man I know nothing about.
As we weave a ragged course towards a thick copse beyond the railway yard, I can barely make out the minefield of obstacles waiting to put an abrupt end to the death chase. Rails, sleepers and boulders, I dodge them all panting and sweating like a rabid animal. The dogs are gaining on me, aware that their quarry is tiring and excited that there will be fresh meat for breakfast. A shot rings out. As I turn my head in time to see the stranger felled by a bullet in the back of his neck, my foot catches a root and I fall hard, knocking myself out on a flat rock.
6:30am - I wake up, although not in the local morgue but under a blue polka-dot duvet in my bedroom in Putney, London. Not quite under actually, half of it is on the floor and the pillows are nowhere to be seen. The dogs are not in my room, neither is the dead body of a stranger.
Another night, another crazy dream...
That bright old doyen of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud believed dreams to be a disguised fulfilment of a repressed wish. Whilst much of his research is rightly revered to this day, I nevertheless have to question the validity of his statement. There are many achievements and wishes I hope to fulfil in this lifetime, but finding myself in a seedy hotel room with a random bloke is not one of them, and neither is running like a rabid lunatic for TWO HOURS with said random bloke before being chased by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds in a disused railway yard.
My curiosity piqued, I decide to trawl the internet for possible interpretations of my dream and stumble upon the inspiration that is Dream Central at www.sleeps.com. Confidence in the website's powers of interpretation courses through me as I spot the advertising on the homepage ('We deliver compatible singles to you!'). A biblical reference confirms my worst fears and my seconds of hard toil are rewarded as I open the magical portal that is the.......... [drum roll].......... Dream Dictionary and its universe of platitudes, banalities and life's-what-you-make-of-itisms.
Example:
Doves: The symbol of peace and love herald the end of disagreements. Dreaming of white doves foretell a happy domestic life filled with peace and tranquility. A flock of doves means that you will soon welcome home an old friend, and if you hear doves cooing, your love will be returned, but, if you hear turtle doves, you will soon hear some disheartening news.
Now I am quite prepared to admit that there is a frustrated ornithologist inside each and every single one of us but '... if you hear doves, you will soon hear some disheartening news'??? If I cannot tell the difference between an American and a Canadian, quite how I am expected to spot the single turtle dove in a line-up of regular doves I do not know. No, the only disheartening news I will hear will be a) the soft rumble of the turtle dove's bowels as it releases breakfast, lunch and dinner onto me from a great height and b) the 'Ker-ching!' of the dry-cleaner's cash register, nothing more, nothing less...
As for the interpretation of my dream? I will stick to my trusted self-analysis: I am just weird...
WARNING: READ ON AT YOUR OWN PERIL
PS How does a dove get into power? Thanks to a military coo...
JMK 2008 (TM)
5:30am - My right leg seizes up. Every muscle, tendon and joint in my body is aching and my lungs are burning with the very fires of hell itself. We have been running for days, it seems. I pause for breath and lean exhausted against a rusting locomotive engine. I want to scream, to release this rage that is in me, but more than anything I want to cry. "Move it NOW asshole, or you're dead!" the stranger hisses at me as he shoves me to one side before setting off at pace again. I hear the dogs barking in the distance and quickly follow this man I know nothing about.
As we weave a ragged course towards a thick copse beyond the railway yard, I can barely make out the minefield of obstacles waiting to put an abrupt end to the death chase. Rails, sleepers and boulders, I dodge them all panting and sweating like a rabid animal. The dogs are gaining on me, aware that their quarry is tiring and excited that there will be fresh meat for breakfast. A shot rings out. As I turn my head in time to see the stranger felled by a bullet in the back of his neck, my foot catches a root and I fall hard, knocking myself out on a flat rock.
6:30am - I wake up, although not in the local morgue but under a blue polka-dot duvet in my bedroom in Putney, London. Not quite under actually, half of it is on the floor and the pillows are nowhere to be seen. The dogs are not in my room, neither is the dead body of a stranger.
Another night, another crazy dream...
That bright old doyen of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud believed dreams to be a disguised fulfilment of a repressed wish. Whilst much of his research is rightly revered to this day, I nevertheless have to question the validity of his statement. There are many achievements and wishes I hope to fulfil in this lifetime, but finding myself in a seedy hotel room with a random bloke is not one of them, and neither is running like a rabid lunatic for TWO HOURS with said random bloke before being chased by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds in a disused railway yard.
My curiosity piqued, I decide to trawl the internet for possible interpretations of my dream and stumble upon the inspiration that is Dream Central at www.sleeps.com. Confidence in the website's powers of interpretation courses through me as I spot the advertising on the homepage ('We deliver compatible singles to you!'). A biblical reference confirms my worst fears and my seconds of hard toil are rewarded as I open the magical portal that is the.......... [drum roll].......... Dream Dictionary and its universe of platitudes, banalities and life's-what-you-make-of-itisms.
Example:
Doves: The symbol of peace and love herald the end of disagreements. Dreaming of white doves foretell a happy domestic life filled with peace and tranquility. A flock of doves means that you will soon welcome home an old friend, and if you hear doves cooing, your love will be returned, but, if you hear turtle doves, you will soon hear some disheartening news.
Now I am quite prepared to admit that there is a frustrated ornithologist inside each and every single one of us but '... if you hear doves, you will soon hear some disheartening news'??? If I cannot tell the difference between an American and a Canadian, quite how I am expected to spot the single turtle dove in a line-up of regular doves I do not know. No, the only disheartening news I will hear will be a) the soft rumble of the turtle dove's bowels as it releases breakfast, lunch and dinner onto me from a great height and b) the 'Ker-ching!' of the dry-cleaner's cash register, nothing more, nothing less...
As for the interpretation of my dream? I will stick to my trusted self-analysis: I am just weird...
WARNING: READ ON AT YOUR OWN PERIL
PS How does a dove get into power? Thanks to a military coo...
JMK 2008 (TM)
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