Hash Running

‘Have you ever done a hash?’ my host Anne asks me. The indefinite article in her sentence throws me momentarily off guard before I answer with a cautious negative. ‘No?’ she continues in the same casual manner, ‘you should try it, there’s one at 2pm today.’

Thus it is that I find myself forming a loose human circle with an eclectic group of international expats in a litter-strewn car park at the bottom a hill beneath Erebuni Fortress, 6km outside downtown Yerevan in Armenia. A 50 something German engineer with a zeppelin paunch that hints at a casual fondness for beer and bratwurst takes a bottle of Armenian brandy out of his backpack and passes half-filled cups around the circle. The drink is downed with a short song and ceremony and we set off on our run, following a chalk-marked trail prepared earlier today by the local group’s Grand Master. These are my new friends for the day, proud members of the Hash House Harriers, a self-styled ‘worldwide drinking club with a running problem’.

As would befit a social organisation founded by a group of terminally bored British officers in 1938 colonial Malaysia, the concept is endearingly simple: thirty to sixty minutes of strenuous exercise in the form of a cross-country run followed by a few hours group socialising over a beer or three. Troubled governments of the world could do a lot worse than follow the organisation objectives detailed in the 1950 Constitution of the Hash House Harriers:

- To promote physical fitness among our members
- To get rid of weekend hangovers
- To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
- To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel

Relating directly to the fourth objective, I survey the mountainous course with a mixture of apprehension and brandy-imbued excitement. Although the terrain seems steep, a touch too steep perhaps for an urban office worker with a recently cancelled gym membership, the pace is gentle as the emphasis is firmly on running as a group. Regular checkpoints and false direction markers ensure that pacesetters and backmarkers are frequently reunited in the relaxed and orderly manner of a school orienteering exercise. As we run through cattle and poultry, alongside long-abandoned factories and over the never-ending trail of litter that is sadly such a frequent sight in all former soviet states, I cannot think of a better way to have started this new trip. A glance at my watch tells me that I have only been in Armenia for seven hours.

The run finished, the hashers regroup at the starting point and several car boots are opened to reveal chilled containers filled with ice-cold beers for the adults and soft drinks for the children. A financial contribution is collected from every participant, except for me: as a hash virgin, the brandy and beers are my welcome to the community.

As the drinks are handed out, the Grand Master summons us all into another circle. After a semi-serious critical appraisal of the quality of today’s trail, a number of hash etiquette violations are punished with an enforced slug of brandy in the middle of the circle. Next to me, Axel the German engineer has made the contents of another half litre bottle of local lager vanish, his third in the space of fifteen minutes. From the smile on his face and the spectacular belch that shatters the peace, I suspect that he favours the socialising over the running.

All of a sudden, all eyes are on me as the Grand Master announces the induction of a virgin into the hash community. With a sheepish smile and feigning horror at being handed a full mug of beer, I take my place in the centre of the circle as my new brethren sing me into their bosom. As the last verse begins, I quickly despatch the contents of the mug and turn it upside down on top of my head before the song is finished. I have made it: I am a hasher.

Mine is not the closing ceremony, however. Today is a special day for the Yerevan hash community and for one person in particular. Nathan, an American student with Armenian roots and a recent hash regular has earned the right to be given a hash name. As he steps into the circle, a bag of flour is passed around from which everyone grabs two handfuls. The Grand Master then blows his whistle to announce the beginning of the naming ceremony and lucky Nathan gets pelted with enough flour to turn him into a human baguette.

As the sun starts to set over the hills of Yerevan, the parents amongst our group take their children home whilst we head back into town, to Hash HQ where more beers and chicken kebabs await. In accordance with my own initiation, I am now being addressed by my virgin name of NoNameMarc, but I get the feeling that this may change in the very near future…

Real sportsmen drink brandy before a race...

Snapshot of the scenic route

The finishing line is in sight

Etiquette violations are dealt with very harshly

NoNameNathan becomes Spank Me Daddy

War & Peace

The Marks & Spencer shop has an awning that I can hide underneath for a few minutes, not to get dry - all the furnaces of hell would not help my current state of saturation - but simply to shelter myself momentarily from the monsoon that has so rudely usurped the popular reign of this morning's sunshine. It all seems so familiar: on the roads before me, cars are driving on the left; the grey skies and relentless rain above appear all too familiarly British; and back at the hotel, my mobile phone is charging with my normal three-pin plug. Yet this is not the UK that I find myself in, but the Mediterranean island of Malta - temporarily relocated to the North Atlantic, it would seem.

For this is not rain, these are biblical floods. Wading valiantly up and down Valletta's urban rapids without paddle or canoe, my thirst for exploration is being well and truly quenched and my outside chance of participating in the London Olympics has received an unexpected and timely boost - albeit in the as yet unapproved New Umbrella Spoke Inversion discipline. I have to tiptoe around each street corner to ensure that I will not be flushed out of the city and into the sea by one of the veritable torrents that are gushing down the freshly cleansed stone floors. By the time I reach the city gates, I am truly exhausted and my brain struglles to ponder my next move: do I wait for a bus, catch a taxi back to the hotel or simply sit down in a puddle to contemplate an alternative career in water divination.

And yet it seems strangely right that the weather is not what it ought to be, reflecting as it does the quirky personality of this island nation and its 400,000 inhabitants. These are warm people, so very Mediterranean in their customs, cuisine and complexion. They share much with their Italian neighbours, cleverly counterbalancing a suicidal sense of road awareness with profound religious belief as they drive around the 120km of potholed roads like heroin-addicted one-eyed pandas with glaucoma, relying only on a superglued dashboard crucifix and some rosary beads to save them from an early grave. They can rightly lay claim to the fast-track divine intervention they seek, too: with 98% of the population Roman Catholic and the only European constitution to declare divorce illegal, Malta can justly call itself the most devout nation of all.

And yet a strong and undeniably British influence permeates through each and every level of the social structure. Education and entertainment are taken from the most recent colonisers as are business customs, making Malta the most progressive and professionally reliable of the southern European nations. Most importantly of all, however, the bastion of civilization that is daily teatime is served in the only correct way - brewed lovingly in a teapot and served with milk. This is truly a melting pot of civilizations ancient and new, a Mediterranean minestrone of multicultural influences and nothing illustrates this better than the country's national language.

Bearing the unusual distinction of being the only semitic language written in the Latin alphabet, Maltese combines medieval sicilian dialect with a subdued non-guttural variation of arabic to create the most incomprehensible sequence of throat-clearing catarrh that has ever had the pleasure of passing my ears. To compound my confusion and frustration at my sporadic recognition of some phlegm or spit the Maltese enjoy interspersing random English words into their sentences, as witnessed between an elderly couple in the hotel lobby this morning: 'Inti ista 'tħgin bl that big suitcase darling?' 'Of course ħabib, fejn tridu.' How sweet.

'This is the worst weather we have had for a long time', the little old lady next to me informs me helpfully as I take a seat next to her on the #62 bus. Sitting in its warm confines, I assess the damage. With my canvas shoes waterlogged, jeans saturated to the knees, and the marrow inside my tarsals and metatarsals soggier than a tea-dunked biscuit, I would push the King of Drowned Rats to abdicate in my favour. I feel miserable, this is not how this business trip to Malta was supposed to be. I want my company's money back. Ahem.

It has drizzled, it has rained and it has also poured on me today, and yet my intuition tells me that my trial by inundation is not yet over. I am not mistaken. At the bottom of a hill, the Msida marina roundabout has flooded and is under a foot and a half of water. the bus aquaplanes briefly, slows to a crawl, or possible breaststroke, and finally stops. Through the glass, we can see that the water is a good twelve inches above the level of the doors and I have to convince myself that the shadow that just rushed past was a traffic cone and not the dorsal fin of a tiger shark. The situation is mildy amusing rather than concerning, for now. Then, as so often occurs in this great amusement arcade of life, the inexplicable happens.

Possibly smarting from a humiliating defeat by his youngest son at Monopoly or being 2011's first Maltese victim of an elaborate Nigerian banking scam, the bus driver decides to share his misery with me and my motley bunch of co-passengers - by opening the front doors. Three seconds of both muted and deafening silence precede the most expansively multilingual volley of expletives ever loosed on this or any other Mediterranean isle. If I had only been able to commit to paper this inspirationally creative parade of crude invectives, I would now be able to swear in at least three dozen new languages. I look artound hopefully to see if any of my fellow passengers have shopped for tar and feathers, but it seems as though the driver will be fortunate on this occasion. Grocery bags, souvenirs and feet are hurriedly lifted into mid-air as a miniature tsunami is unleashed within the bus. All but sealing his candidacy for an instant lobotomy, the driver then closes the doors and drives off again, leaving our custom-made paddling pool to alternate between front and back sections of the bus. I am tempted to allow the sweet old lady sitting next to me to get up and speak to the driver, as she seems keen to do. But her grip on my arm is a steel vice and she is foaming at the mouth. In the interest of humanity and the driver's family, I pacify her with a gentle hush and gently encourage her back into the seat.

Returning to my hotel in this mobile washing machine, I half expect to see pairs of animals escaped from our 21st century ark follow me into the elevator. But I am alone, and it is alone that I spend my first evening in Malta, sitting on the bathroom toilet seat with the soothing sounds of the hotel hairdryer attempting to dry my only shoes and jeans - fibre by sodden fibre.

Having failed miserably in my exploration of the country's current capital, I decide to seek touristic atonement by visiting the fortified city of Mdina, former capital of Malta before the arrival of the Knights of St. John who decided to use the natural harbour around Valletta as their strategic headquarters.

A hush. I notice it immediately, it is that obvious: the Silent City, as Mdina is known, truly deserves its moniker. It is as though the high sandstone walls are absorbing every sound as soon as it is emitted; footsteps are muffled and even the conversations of loud Italian tourists are reduced to conspiratorial whispers. With no public advertising, non-existent litter and fewer cars than cats, this city is a living embodiment of urban feng shui perfection: neatly handwritten ceramic street signs welcome visitors into another beautiful narrow medieval alleyway; a soothing orange glow emanates from evenly-spaced wall lanterns; well-tended hanging flower baskets adding an intermittent splash of colour. It is beautiful.

And the walls have absorbed me, too, as I find myself connecting with Mdina in a way that I have rarely done on my travels. The solitude, the silence, the serenity - three factors combined that make me feel strangely at peace in this elegant former capital city. This state of mind may have been overdue and waiting for me wherever I happened to be, but given the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks and the breakneck intensity at which I lead my life, this unexpected tranquility is more than welcome and I gratefully embrace it.

Peace

Wanting to make the most of this heightened sense of mental clarity and relaxation, I wander aimlessly and repetitively around the dozen or so streets that make up this historical enclave. I pause every so often to marvel appreciatively at the harmonious contrast of the magnificent ochre walls against a backdrop of pure azure skies and truly feel as though I am the only creature alive. After a few more minutes walk, and when the moment is just right, I enter Bacchus, a wine cellar I had spotted with growing interest on successive grid walks. Inside, I am the only customer in a lavishly decorated medieval wine cellar. A comfortable armchair beckons me over invitingly from next to a warm fireplace and a beautiful old bookcase. There is no music playing and the manager is busying himself with the reservations folder. With my glass of red wine and 700 years of history to keep me company, I write these words feeling calmer than I have done in a long time. I have a corner to turn.

Fringe Benefits

I am a millionaire, finally. At least this is what the on-screen balance of the cash machine is telling me. I have to scan slowly from left to right in order to read and understand the vast sum of money that appears to be at my disposal, and then my mind takes off: the cars, the planes, the yachts - all shall be mine! But my reverie is as fleeting as my wealth is relative: these are Belarusian roubles that are being offered to me, not the Great British Pound.

Buckling under the intense pressure behind me from a heavy-breathing matryoshka with a fearsomely rugged complexion and hands like rusty shovels, I hurriedly attack the keypad and request the princely sum of 50,000 BLR. Instantly, the six lone mathematical neurons slumbering peacefully in the darkest recess of my brain whirr into frantic action in excited anticipation of five days' usage of the 4,450 multiplication table. I walk away with a grand total of £12.70 in local currency and the dubious record of the highest percentage value of bank charges paid for money withdrawn. Later that evening, as I am handed a 10 BLR note with my change and my net worth increases by £0.002/€0.0025/$0.003, it is clear that - for the moment - my financial aspirations are to remain as grounded as the British Airways fleet after a light snowfall.

Mildly amused by my mathematical idiocy, I pause to take stock of the situation: it is 7 o' clock in the evening of my 36th birthday , the thermometer outside is registering a cool fourteen degrees below zero and I am standing all by myself at Moskovsky Bus Station in Minsk, Belarus. Life is good. I am attracting more than a few glances from the local populace, possibly wondering like so many back home what it is exactly that I am doing here. The 'pretentious prick'* in me would no doubt seek to expansively describe a lifelong interest in communist sociology and reveal acute and sincere concern for the plight of the endangered European bison native to the plains of southern Belarus. The simple truth is that I am here because I have not been here before. In my quest to visit every single country on this wondrous planet, today and for the next four days it is Belarus' turn to be put to the sword of my global conquest.

The preparation for this trip was uncharacteristically straightforward, for Belarus is not a land endowed with touristic riches. A cursory internet search yielded very little of sightseeing interest beyond the obligatory churches and two vast national parks. Even the Lonely Planet, global barometer of genuine travelworthiness, spares it a mere 27 pages in its Eastern Europe travel guide, whilst East Timor, Bhutan and Antarctica each merit their own book despite their combined human and penguin populations being barely one fifth of that of Belarus.

A promising brochure obtained at the Embassy of Belarus in London provides more entertainment than enlightenment thanks to some rich vocabulary and syntax assembled economically using Google Translate. Page headers such as 'Adventure Foretaste and Movement Excitement', 'In Reflection of Profane Rites and Christian Wisdom' and 'Listening to the Steps of History' do more to excite my lust for restaurant menu mistranslations than wonders of architecture and natural beauty. Nor are my taste buds salivating with anticipation as I am informed that '... the Belarusians love beans. Boiled beans with garlic and linseed oil are a traditional Belarusian dish.' or that I might get to drink '... kvass made from birch juice, sometimes bread crusts are added for extra taste.' Licking my lips I am not...

If Belarus does not actively promote tourism, neither does it encourage it. At a prohibitive £75 for a single entry visa and with the cheapest direct flight from London costing a painful £250, one really has to want to visit the country, and make a concerted effort to get there. Thankfully I do, so I have. My reward is a trip to another outpost of the former Soviet Union that so fascinates me, a magnificent and vastly underrated architectural cityscape and an intriguing current geopolitical context.

Guided as faithfully as ever by the gods of civil unrest, I find that the timing of my visit has again coincided with local electoral discord**. President Alexander Lukashenko has been in power since 1994, Chavezing the law along the way to allow himself indefinite terms of office. Having 'allowed' rival candidates unprecedented access to the media and general public in the run-up to the general election last week, he then proceeded to have them all arrested and thrown into prison the day after he was returned to power with more than 80% of the vote. Upon declaring the voting process irregular and therefore condemning Lukashenko's bid for $5bn of EU aid to failure, the independent organisation responsible for supervising the vote found that its offices had been cleared out and closed when they tried to go to work the following day. Welcome to the USSR...

For now though, it is only the urban youth that looks to the west. They do not do so for a different way of life but simple democracy and freedom of speech. The older generations see no need to risk upsetting the apple-cart: if it ain't broke, why fix it? Unemployment is minimal, every house has electricity and hot water and there is enough food to feed almost everyone. That the factories are producing goods that are simply piling up, unused and unwanted, is irrelevant. The communist model is visibly working on such a small market.

Scratch the surface a little, however, and the foundations for the future do not appear so solid. Belarus' main export and source of revenue is the resale to the West of Russian gas bought at rock-bottom prices. The ideological price of this arrangement is political and social alignment with Moscow rather than the EU. And yet... These are not Zils or Volgas tearing down Independence Avenue, they are gleaming new Minis, Renaults and Fiats. The streets of Minsk are bright with the neon signs of countless cappuccino bars or sushi diners. To my infinite horror, that satan spawn of peasant footwear - the UGG boot - can even be seen warming the ankles of every Elena, Olga or Tatiana. How long will communism and Russia keep its iron grip? Half a generation would be my guess, although the transition may be precipitated should the gas tap be turned off.

I am discussing the fall-out from the elections on a bus heading into the centre of Minsk with my host Dmitry, but my concentration is wavering and my attention distracted. I have just been reminded of one of the principal reasons I am enjoying Belarus and why I am such a russophile. I cannot stop a huge smile spreading from ear to ear as I realise that I am not here to make a political study of this satellite soviet state and paragon of communist conformity, however fascinating it may be. My real field of interest lies elsewhere, in the inhabitants themselves or more specifically the back of their necks and the wonderful and highly unfashionable hair overgrowth that gently rests there.

As creatively avant-garde in this field as the Balkans and Eastern Europe may be, no-one quite does mullets like the soviets. Curly or straight, mid-length or cropped, evenly trimmed or wildly overgrown, I have never seen so many mullets in my entire life, they are everywhere. On this packed bus, I do not know where to look, so rich and varied are the styles. I am swimming in a sea of Billy Ray Cyrus lookalikes. To my right, so close to me, is a man whose head is completely shaved but for a layered fringe lightly draped over his shirt collar. Words can do him no justice and his rich contribution to the global mullet scene will remain alive in my mind only.

Meet the Mullets

The credit or blame for this wave of bad taste can be lain squarely on the shoulders - literally - of one man: Dima Bilan. Thanks to this pop star and supermodel, soviet coiffure has not looked back (unfortunately) since the day he burst onto the Russian television scene by finishing second in the Eurovision song contest with an overgrown blow-dried rat's tail hanging limply from the back of his neck . From St. Petersburg to Vladivostok and across 9 different time zones, the rise and rise of Bilan has doomed a nation's already suspect sense of sartorial elegance and signalled the closure of hundreds of barber shops and hairdressers across the realm. It is not only men that have adopted the style: women, children, unlucky pets and even shop window mannequins sport the look that has just made my day, week, month and even year. I am about to discover new cheek muscles and my sides will need restapling after this trip is over. I am truly getting the 'Adventure Foretaste and Movement Excitement' I was promised...

Dima Bilan - giving bad taste a name

Mullet Still Life

* Copyright Mrs Sue Knoll (1974 - present day) - may also be referred to as a familial term of endearment
** See also 'Moldova, Violent Uprisings In (2009)' or 'Ukraine, Student Demonstrations of (2008)'

Things I Would Change If I Were Mayor Of London - Rant #1

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.

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!

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’

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

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.

Rainbow Daze

'No nay, no no,' said the White Rabbit, 'don't drink the potion! It will make you shrink in size. Follow me, hee hee, follow me this way, it's much more fun. Let me take you to this amazing place, follow me. Follow me!'

Alice hesitated, but quickly gave in and followed the White Rabbit down the tunnel, swayed by his enthusiasm and curious for discovery. 'What can there be? What will I see?' she asked herself, fidgeting with excitement.

Running as fast as her new school shoes would allow her, she pursued him desperately, but he hopped and he skipped very fast indeed, too fast for poor Alice. Before she could call out for him to slow down, he disappeared out of sight. There was very little light in the tunnel, and although not cold, Alice felt a slight shiver run up her spine. Wishing she had taken the potion after all, she reached into her dress pockets to warm her hands and... WHOOSH!

When Alice woke up, of the White Rabbit there was no sign, although she did not notice this, so surprised was she by the sight that greeted her eyes. She was in a city, that much was obvious, but the kind of city Alice had never been to before, or even seen, or heard of. Everywhere, a riot of colours, geometric patterns, whirls and whorls of all shapes and sizes overwhelmed her confused sense of sight. 'What a crazy place this is!' she thought.

Every building she looked at (and she looked at many) was painted a different shade of pink or orange or green or blue or yellow or red or any wonderful combination of primary and secondary colours. Here and there, two-dimensional coloured cubes bounced gayly in the midday sun. The whole place radiated warmth and energy, where none there ought to have been, so desolate and poor was this part of the world.

'What is this place, where am I?' Alice asked herself.

Welcome to Tirana, Albania:









Emerging in 1999 after 45 years of grim communist isolation, the good citizens of the Albanian capital must have shared Alice's confusion as they struggled to come to terms with their new and surreal environment and relative freedom. Finding themselves staring into the dazzling headlights of democracy like a wheelchair-bound deer with two flat tyres, they promptly elected a charismatic former national basketballer with a diploma in fine arts from a prestigious Paris school as their new mayor. As one does.

Within weeks of being elected, 6'7"/1m97 Edi Rama had slam-dunked the ultimate cosmetic make-over in a wave of instant change that rapidly swept over his city. Pothole-ravaged streets were repaved and derelict buildings bulldozed; the environment regained an urban footing as 4,000 trees were planted along the central avenues; but most visibly of all, the majority of Tirana's architectural drabness was dramatically transformed by an army of painters on a psychedelic mission to create an ocean of colour on the world's largest blank canvas.

No other vassal of the former Soviet Union had undergone such a radical and sudden political, structural and psychological change since the collapse of Stalin's totalitarian ideology. Yet all this was unknown to the western world, or at least to me. Rama even achieved the incredible feat of being voted World Mayor of the Year in 2004 and one of Time Magazine's Heroes of 2005.

This being Albania, Rama has already survived two attempts on his life since his election 10 years ago, and his most vocal opponent has vowed to repaint the city in lustrous shades of grey if or when he is invited to power. Still running the city, today's mayor of Tirana is currently campaigning to become the country's Socialist Party leader and is a strong contender for Prime Minister in this year's elections. Europe's 2nd poorest country and its 40% unemployed populace can dream of better times ahead.

But this is not about politics, progress or even hope. I feel like the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland, so wide is my grin, so unexpected is this heart-warming kaleidoscope skyline. This is the purest form of satisfaction that travel can offer: the powerful surprise of discovery that surpasses even the most breathtaking beauty.

That my last evening in this architectural crack alley is spent in a 16-floor high revolving bar that draws my gaze over the crazy stripes and pastel hues for one last time at sunset - and in the company of some equally appreciative travellers - is fitting. It truly is.


Of Alice there is no sign however, maybe she has fallen down one of the few remaining potholes after one too many shots of raki...

Different Strokes

'I believe in a purer form of love, where sincerity of sentiment transcends all aesthetic beauty to create an overwhelming rush of blind understanding', my next-table-neighbour announces cheerily to his fellow diner, before delicately popping a rosy sliver of entrecôte au poivre into his eloquent mouth. Only some supreme in extremis control over my oesophagus prevents me from projecting a minor mountain range of deliciously buttery mashed potato onto the partition wall in surprise at this casual conversation opener. 'YOU WOT?', my mind screams.

Meeting this statement with a look of bored insouciance that betrays his nationality, his compagnon takes a slow, measured and savoured sip of his verre de rouge and remains silent. They can be no older than 20.

I am confused. These are multi-syllabled words being spoken here. Where are the Texa Fried Chicken drumsticks and cans of Tennents Super? What is this love that is being mentioned? Love is Tracy on Monday and Jenny on Tuesday and whatever her name was on Wednesday, who cares anyway?

All of a sudden, I remember that I am in France, and that these people are French. They think. Actually, they think. And they do it very well.

Even as I accept, understand and adjust to my new surroundings, I can feel the inevitable change come over me. I am becoming more introspective with every passing minute, as I always do when I find myself sitting alone at a Parisian bistrot with a glass of red wine within lazy reach. France does this to me: it rekindles a fire that has no right to burn in me.

Eight years of French schooling and a lifelong proximity to all things gallic have made me as close as one can come to being French without routinely pan-frying amphibians and perfecting the complex art of subtle retreat. Until the age of 12, I read the same comics, watched the same cartoons and stole the same 1980s additive-ridden sweets as any Thibaut, Luc or Guillaume from Brest to Biarritz. I know the French, I know them very well and feel myself inexorably drawn to their smooth and cultured ways whenever I set foot on Gaul.

And here I am again, in fair Gaul. Having left the safe haven of Queenie's noble shores, it is not long before vague after vague of existential questions batter my uncouth saxon morality: Am I a good person? Will I ever see the bigger picture? What legacy will I leave to this planet? And more importantly, did I really need that last profiterole?

I love France for doing this to me, for challenging the very core of my system of belief and how I function. I willingly give in to my masochistic urges and strip myself bare: here I am, the real moi. I can look at myself in a way I could not even imagine possible from the safety of my comfortable middle-class life in leafy South West London. I am.

But just then, as I prepare to hang my soul out to dry on the clothes line of purgatory, I am yanked back into the realm of reality and saved from certain think-too-much doom by a fortuitous glance at my briefcase. All thoughts of complicated self-improvement vanish in a genial flash as I see the beacon masthead of the Daily Mail smile at me in all its glory.

What truly matters in my life is not here, it is not introspection or even understanding. There are more important things in life than morality and humanity: it is transfer deadline day in the Premier League and the Villa were about to sign a central defender. There is nowt more existential than a change to your playing formation two weeks before the local derby.

I lean back into my chair and relax, gradually fading out the dull sounds of silent debate to my right. My life status improves from good to perfect as I turn to the games page and realise that I still have two Sudoku puzzles to solve.

Bliss...