RELAX UNITED KINGDOM GUN AND HUNTING LAWS
As undoubtedly vital and valued as every single cent, peso and pence relinquished by visiting tourists may be, the rehabilitation of our fragile economy must not come at the expense of Londoners' rising blood pressure. An ambitious programme of visitor extermination is to be implemented in order to facilitate the legal culling of irritating tourists in a humane and non-discriminatory manner.
To this end, a small percentage of each Londoner's council tax contributions is to be funnelled into a small arms & weaponry fund that shall furnish every resident with a big game hunting rifle, a temporary shooting permit incorporating extradition immunity and two rounds of ammunition for every year lived in the capital city. London Underground Zone 1 shall henceforth be known as The Reserve and acceptable grounds for reducing visitor headcount include the following:
- Ignoring 'Keep Right' signs on any London Underground escalator during rush hour. It is called 'rush hour' for a reason. No excuse. No mercy. BLAM!
- Sudden halts whilst walking in areas of high pedestrian congestion, resulting in unsolicited mutual introduction of my nose and tourist backpack. Making me look stupid = not good. BLAM!
- Clapping, cheering, donating money and any other form of encouragement afforded to street performers of any type. Living statues are below protozoa and immediately above amoeba in the natural order of things. BLAM!
In order to deter aggressive xenophobic behaviour, no more than 2 (two) specimens of any one nationality may be culled by the same Londoner during open season.*
* With the exception of Saturday mornings on Portobello Road, where a fire-at-will policy operates on Italian nationals.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Saturday, 26 June 2010
One Down, One To Go
Two distinctive races of people now populate this strange little universe I find myself in. There are the 'Still In' people and the 'Knocked Out' people. One by one, the 'Still In' people lose their identity and transform with brutal rapidity into 'Knocked Out' people until there is one lonely but happy 'Still In' person left. The transformation is irreversible and recognisable characteristics of the newborn 'Knocked Out' are the immediate acquisition of a one thousand yard stare and the loss of the jaunty sunshine-filled early morning skip so familiar to the 'Still In' populace.
Tonight, on this fateful tail-end day of June, one disconsolate half of me has made the unwelcome and permanent transition from 'Still In' to 'Knocked Out'. I stared one thousand yards and sighed one thousand more. I commiserated with my fellow sufferers and we immediately laughed, cried and denied the finality of the moment. But the truth is that it matters not one bit. After the initial contributions from rival supporters consolingly questioning the virtues of fate, chance and crap defending, I am despatched to the great mulching compost heap of loserdom.
To my great and almost certainly temporary relief, however, and in what can only be regarded as a great testament to my respected father's remarkable chatting-up skills, I have still got one other iron in the fire. Indeed, as I must lay to rest the ghost of the impotence of the Swiss national strike force (but not my father's, thankfully), I gleefully clutch at the straw gifted to me by the English rose that brought me into this world.
My stare disappears, replaced by a new flame of hope and anticipation. I am 'Still In'. As I look around me in disdain, I no longer recognise this forlorn rabble that I embraced in despair not a moment ago. Confident and determined is my stride as I depart, hurrying back to base in order to banish my Swiss jersey to the suitcase and indeterminate exile. As the red shirt disappears, failure in its every weave, so the white one emerges: hic sunt leoni - here be lions!
The odds are not in my favour - I must admit - and I cannot help but envy my fellow dual citizenship football prostitutes that have both Spanish and Brazilian passports enjoying a cosy siesta in the top drawer of their bedside table. But I must take what I was given, and do so with pride.
Come on England!
Tonight, on this fateful tail-end day of June, one disconsolate half of me has made the unwelcome and permanent transition from 'Still In' to 'Knocked Out'. I stared one thousand yards and sighed one thousand more. I commiserated with my fellow sufferers and we immediately laughed, cried and denied the finality of the moment. But the truth is that it matters not one bit. After the initial contributions from rival supporters consolingly questioning the virtues of fate, chance and crap defending, I am despatched to the great mulching compost heap of loserdom.
To my great and almost certainly temporary relief, however, and in what can only be regarded as a great testament to my respected father's remarkable chatting-up skills, I have still got one other iron in the fire. Indeed, as I must lay to rest the ghost of the impotence of the Swiss national strike force (but not my father's, thankfully), I gleefully clutch at the straw gifted to me by the English rose that brought me into this world.
My stare disappears, replaced by a new flame of hope and anticipation. I am 'Still In'. As I look around me in disdain, I no longer recognise this forlorn rabble that I embraced in despair not a moment ago. Confident and determined is my stride as I depart, hurrying back to base in order to banish my Swiss jersey to the suitcase and indeterminate exile. As the red shirt disappears, failure in its every weave, so the white one emerges: hic sunt leoni - here be lions!
The odds are not in my favour - I must admit - and I cannot help but envy my fellow dual citizenship football prostitutes that have both Spanish and Brazilian passports enjoying a cosy siesta in the top drawer of their bedside table. But I must take what I was given, and do so with pride.
Come on England!
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
The Greatest Show On Earth
It is 00:30am and I am proudly congratulating myself for my superbly mature but completely out of character decision to have an early night: at the wise old age of 35, two nights out in a row present the same challenge as the construction of seven medium-sized pyramids in one working week without overtime. I am just nearing the point when Long Street ends and Kloof Street begins - the official border between Cape Town city centre and the immediate suburbs – when a car pulls over rather abruptly with its stereo set to maximum aural annihilation.
The occupants of this nightclub on wheels do not so much exit as shimmy, boogie and mambo their way out of the vehicle. The driver closes the door, lifts his left leg onto the bonnet and climbs onto the roof of the vehicle, where he is quickly joined by his two passenger-cum-backing dancers. I stop, mesmerised by the spectacle. The car is shaking from side to side. I hesitate for thirty seconds, then the me of old takes over and I walk over to the car. No questions asked, none required and I hop onto the bonnet to strut my stuff. The roof is too busy – alas – but I have my own private dance piste on the front of the car. Rock and roll – literally.
Another car pulls over in front of us and four Portuguese fans – whose team is playing in town tomorrow – get out and quickly join the party surrounding our motorised fiesta. One guy motions to me to help him up and suddenly it is Toyota Night Fever. There are now no fewer than thirty people immediately around the car and a good fifty more watching the show from both sides of the road.
An unexpected and unsolicited siren brings a momentary halt to this free-flowing carnival atmosphere and a police car pulls alongside, blue lights flashing. ‘Howzit guys?’ asks the officer through his open window. ‘Cool man, says John Travolta on the roof, Loving the World Cup man.’ ‘Alright brothers, enjoy yourselves and stay safe’ replies the policeman before driving off without a second glance in our direction.
This is the World Cup and this is why I do this every four years. For one normally so prone to ridiculous hyperbole, I am truly struggling to accurately describe this innocent bubble-world euphoria that I am experiencing with every other visiting football fan.
Every single bar in every single street of this beautiful city is packed to the rafters with good-natured football lovers revelling in the insane and intense appreciation that they are simply… here. The streets are exploding with life, sheer unbridled enthusiasm bouncing around like a million rubber balls, people draped in flags, faces painted with national colours and everyone rejoicing in this fantastic festival feeling. Even supporters of losing teams are consoled by this overwhelming and infectious joie de vivre. A beer shared between victor and vanquished resigns the final score to the immediate past and nearly removes both furrow and frown.
One unexpected but wholesomely relished bonus within the suspended reality of this parallel dimension is my rocket-like propulsion from furious fashion nihilist to sartorial svengali. For four short weeks every two years, I can renounce my part-time Unicef rice sack modelling position and walk proud and small amongst my fellow sporting style antagonists. The stadium concourse and Irish pub are my catwalk and shop window and I can even leave the laces of my smelly Converse shoes out in open view without any vestimental recrimination. No-one cares. Here, it is t-shirts and backpack patches from previous tournaments that are the Armani and Gucci of my footballing brethren.
And if there is one single area where I have earned my stripes, this is it. For all its holes and faded pantone fibres, my World Cup 2002 t-shirt still covets insane religious fervour and attention, my very own shroud of Juventus Turin. As displayed by the disbelieving reaction of a young Mexican supporter this afternoon. ‘Were you in… ?’ but he dares not finish the question. ‘Yes son, I am a veteran of the Korea 2002 campaign. It was tough, but I made many friends’
The occupants of this nightclub on wheels do not so much exit as shimmy, boogie and mambo their way out of the vehicle. The driver closes the door, lifts his left leg onto the bonnet and climbs onto the roof of the vehicle, where he is quickly joined by his two passenger-cum-backing dancers. I stop, mesmerised by the spectacle. The car is shaking from side to side. I hesitate for thirty seconds, then the me of old takes over and I walk over to the car. No questions asked, none required and I hop onto the bonnet to strut my stuff. The roof is too busy – alas – but I have my own private dance piste on the front of the car. Rock and roll – literally.
Another car pulls over in front of us and four Portuguese fans – whose team is playing in town tomorrow – get out and quickly join the party surrounding our motorised fiesta. One guy motions to me to help him up and suddenly it is Toyota Night Fever. There are now no fewer than thirty people immediately around the car and a good fifty more watching the show from both sides of the road.
An unexpected and unsolicited siren brings a momentary halt to this free-flowing carnival atmosphere and a police car pulls alongside, blue lights flashing. ‘Howzit guys?’ asks the officer through his open window. ‘Cool man, says John Travolta on the roof, Loving the World Cup man.’ ‘Alright brothers, enjoy yourselves and stay safe’ replies the policeman before driving off without a second glance in our direction.
This is the World Cup and this is why I do this every four years. For one normally so prone to ridiculous hyperbole, I am truly struggling to accurately describe this innocent bubble-world euphoria that I am experiencing with every other visiting football fan.
Every single bar in every single street of this beautiful city is packed to the rafters with good-natured football lovers revelling in the insane and intense appreciation that they are simply… here. The streets are exploding with life, sheer unbridled enthusiasm bouncing around like a million rubber balls, people draped in flags, faces painted with national colours and everyone rejoicing in this fantastic festival feeling. Even supporters of losing teams are consoled by this overwhelming and infectious joie de vivre. A beer shared between victor and vanquished resigns the final score to the immediate past and nearly removes both furrow and frown.
One unexpected but wholesomely relished bonus within the suspended reality of this parallel dimension is my rocket-like propulsion from furious fashion nihilist to sartorial svengali. For four short weeks every two years, I can renounce my part-time Unicef rice sack modelling position and walk proud and small amongst my fellow sporting style antagonists. The stadium concourse and Irish pub are my catwalk and shop window and I can even leave the laces of my smelly Converse shoes out in open view without any vestimental recrimination. No-one cares. Here, it is t-shirts and backpack patches from previous tournaments that are the Armani and Gucci of my footballing brethren.
And if there is one single area where I have earned my stripes, this is it. For all its holes and faded pantone fibres, my World Cup 2002 t-shirt still covets insane religious fervour and attention, my very own shroud of Juventus Turin. As displayed by the disbelieving reaction of a young Mexican supporter this afternoon. ‘Were you in… ?’ but he dares not finish the question. ‘Yes son, I am a veteran of the Korea 2002 campaign. It was tough, but I made many friends’
Sunday, 20 June 2010
World Cup Telegramme
Eight hours sleep on the plane. Good start. Luggage fourth onto conveyor belt. Man waiting at arrivals with sign ‘Jean-Marc Knoll – Welcome to Cape Town’. Nice touch. Withdraw match tickets in thirty seconds from machine. Too easy. Buy cheap 1980s-Casio-watch-lookalike telephone for under £10. Ask for demonstration to make sure is not toy. Works. Very surprised.
Found in a time capsule, carbon dating estimate: 45BC
'Is this love, is this love, is this love, is this love that I'm feeling?' radio questions. This is love. Feels great already. First sighting of Table Mountain on journey into town. Big and flat, like a mountain and a table. Weather perfect for southern hemisphere winter: clear blue skies, 16c degrees. Arrive at temporary home for ten days. Meet neighbours - two black cats. Name cats Frank and Roger. Roger not impressed. Tell him to choose between Roger and Blacky. No more complaints from Roger.
Roger did not appreciate having his self-appreciation seminar rudely interrupted by the paparazzi
Go to pub to watch Holland vs Japan. Wearing Denmark shirt. Ridiculed by all Dutch fans for Denmark defeat to Holland. Say am English. Ridiculed for draws versus USA and Algeria. Say am Swiss. No redemption as not taken seriously. Start World Cup diet with beer and pizza. Feel need for variety, so move to another bar for second game. Drink beer. Go to pool hall after game. Win decider with double kiss on black. Good day all round. Testosterone overdose after burger, pizza ,beer, pool and two matches of football in same day. Tell body to toughen up, thirteen days to go. Go to Irish pub for evening game. Denmark win evening game. Still wearing Denmark shirt. Popularity goes through roof. Everyone high-fiving me. Unusual but pleasant feeling of supporting winning team. Cover blown when approached by Danish fans and unable to instantly become fluent in Danish. Stutter and mumble that am erm English and Swiss. Crowds part before me like Red Sea. Alone again. Dance on balcony of bar overlooking Long Street. Meet four Chilean fans. Learn Chilean song. Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le! Chile! Chile! Chile! Fabulous. Teach Chileans Swiss song. Group hugs, high-fives and all-round mutual appreciation. Rodrigo, Rodolfo, or Roberto buys round of sambucas to celebrate. Return favour.
`
Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le! Chile! Chile! Chile!
Legs out of control in dance frenzy. Approached by three well-rounded Xhosa girls and told cannot dance. Offer to teach me. Follow instructions and wave arms from side to side in air with butt moving in countermotion. Told am lost cause after thirty seconds. Atmosphere electric. Car horns blaring, vuvuzelas blaring. Flags of all nations everywhere, on trees, cars, windows, lampposts. Meet fans from Spain, Poland, Chile, Denmark, France, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, Portugal, USA. Find vuvuzela. Moment of trepidation as love/hate decision will make/break holiday. LOVE it. Makes me sound tuneful. Mental note to take vuvuzela to next mailout meeting at work to liven up atmosphere. Walk home. Huge smile on face. Thirteen days of this life remaining. Open door to motorhome. Nearly pass out from old sock fumes. Eat salt and vinegar popcorn and Twix before bed in final insult to body. Instant sleep. Win World Cup in dreams. Happy.
Home away from home
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow...
PLING
I wince and look down at the damp bath towel in my hands to see it shimmering weakly in the artificial bathroom light, this golden hair of mine. Another departed friend, gone, never to return.
Although I am still several months shy of being mistaken for an abandoned ostrich egg, the increasingly frequent and furtive upward glances at my hairline from shopkeeper, colleague, bus conductor, parent or girlfriend speak encyclopaedic volumes that can no longer be kept closed: I am going bald.
Those university photographs that once provoked mirth shall elicit only sighs as I wistfully remember the post-shower brushing ritual of my heavy metal mane. One hundred and seven full strokes of the large-toothed comb. No more, no less.
Such attention is no longer necessary, of course. Where only recently a crude dollop of hair wax was casually messed into my bountiful scalp to create a look of dazzling intensity, I must now tackle each morning's grooming parade with the grim severity of a drill instructor addressing raw recruits. 'You at the back, stand up straight! Front right, get down, down, I SAID DOWN!'.
Like an amateur topiarist on crystal meth, I no longer have any influence over the final outcome of my daily hairstyling but have instead learnt to enjoy the variety of disguises that are randomly assigned to me by my dissident and dwindling locks. Today's Adolf Hitler side parting will give way to the Donald Trump combover tomorrow, with many more tasteful variations available.
Yesterday
Tomorrow
But all hope is not yet gone. I have lost glasses in the past, iPods, wallets, keys and cameras - and many have returned! So why not my hair? Deep down, in the recess of my mind, where leprechauns adroitly jump their unicorns over the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I still hope and believe. Maybe one rainy day in my late fifties, as I trip over a wooden beam in my attic whilst searching for my old Commodore 64, I will chance upon a padlocked jewellery box covered in dust, mould and cobwebs. As the lock reveals itself to be open, I open the lid slowly to discover...
Enough.
I wince and look down at the damp bath towel in my hands to see it shimmering weakly in the artificial bathroom light, this golden hair of mine. Another departed friend, gone, never to return.
Although I am still several months shy of being mistaken for an abandoned ostrich egg, the increasingly frequent and furtive upward glances at my hairline from shopkeeper, colleague, bus conductor, parent or girlfriend speak encyclopaedic volumes that can no longer be kept closed: I am going bald.
Those university photographs that once provoked mirth shall elicit only sighs as I wistfully remember the post-shower brushing ritual of my heavy metal mane. One hundred and seven full strokes of the large-toothed comb. No more, no less.
Such attention is no longer necessary, of course. Where only recently a crude dollop of hair wax was casually messed into my bountiful scalp to create a look of dazzling intensity, I must now tackle each morning's grooming parade with the grim severity of a drill instructor addressing raw recruits. 'You at the back, stand up straight! Front right, get down, down, I SAID DOWN!'.
Like an amateur topiarist on crystal meth, I no longer have any influence over the final outcome of my daily hairstyling but have instead learnt to enjoy the variety of disguises that are randomly assigned to me by my dissident and dwindling locks. Today's Adolf Hitler side parting will give way to the Donald Trump combover tomorrow, with many more tasteful variations available.
Yesterday
TomorrowEnough.
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