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!
Saturday, 26 June 2010
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.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Some Random Numbers...
8 - days gone and days to go on this magnificent tour of the Balkans. The third and final day in Montenegro marks the halfway point of our 6 country blitz. With Sarajevo, Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor behind us, the next week sees us leave the mainstream popularity of the Adriatic coast and enter the unknown entities that Albania, Macedonia and Kosova present.
0 - hangovers on this trip so far. Has maturity sneaked up on us? Previous vodka-fuelled adventures in the Russian winter and drunken jungle treks in Central America seem a thing of the distant past as we revel in our discovery of mountain hikes, beach laziness and early nights. Unchartered territory.
1504 - steep steps climbed to reach the mountaintop fortress overlooking the Bay of Kotor and marvel at the breathtaking scenery provided by Europe's southernmost fiord.
3,4 - litres of perspiration leaked by yours truly over the local vegetation during the ascent of the aforementioned mountain, producing an Oscar-worthy performance of an exploding fire hydrant.
1.778, 45 and 23 - kilometres of heavenly Adriatic coastline allocated to Croatia, Slovenia and Bosnia & Herzegovina respectively in the re-distribution of land following the break-up of Yugoslavia. As my lungs fill with the diesel fumes from a 3rd generation German transport bus hand-me-down at Mostar bus station, memories from my previous holiday exploring the Croatian coast flood my mind and bring a large and knowing smile to my face. Soon enough, the bus inches its painful way around the hairpin bends of the high coastal road, precipitous cliffs dotted with gravity-defying conical pine trees fall down dramatically into crescent bays of crystalline waters. Further splashes of colour catch the eye here and there with a group of magnificent pink oleanders in bloom and pretty whitewashed houses sheltered by warm terracotta rooftiles. In all my travels, I have seen no coastline that can compare to this.
1,454,000 - a conservative estimate of the combined total number of inhabitants currently in their home countries of France, Italy and Russia. The rest are distributed evenly amongst the cities of Sarajevo, Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor. If ever there was a time to go and conquer France again, this is it.
17 - number of Australians dining three tables away from us in Dubrovnik, bravely attempting to redress the balance of the previous statistic. No fewer than twelve names overheard during their figurative and literal dissection of their seafood platters ended in the Antipodean nickname suffixes of choice. Thus our own dinner conversation was all but drowned out as Scotty, Julesy, Taylesy, Smithy, Matty, Jimbo, Simmo, Robbo and the rest of the gang performed lengthy crustacean autopsies with the occasional outburst of 'Shit guys, this is real good! I mean it ain't like the shit you get back home, but it's still pretty good shit!'.
93% - my current State Of Relaxation. Five days at the beach and some gentle sightseeing has given me a serenity and peace of mind I have seldom experienced in London. Every single nerve in my body has its own deckchair on a private beach and it is happy hour on Mojitos. The only blot on the spectacular landscapes we have visited was an unsightly, ungodly and quite frankly unwelcome Wednesday afternoon appearance from two horridly sunburnt, long-haired, middle-aged Greek men proving by their unfortunate beach attire that Speedos should be a form of cereal narcotics rather than indecently revelatory swimwear. Brrrr, not a pleasant image.
2 - total number of words learnt and used on this trip, conveniently common to all countries visited. A little slack by my usual linguistic standards perhaps, but for the moment, 'Hvala' and 'Pivo' more than fill my daily needs.
0 - hangovers on this trip so far. Has maturity sneaked up on us? Previous vodka-fuelled adventures in the Russian winter and drunken jungle treks in Central America seem a thing of the distant past as we revel in our discovery of mountain hikes, beach laziness and early nights. Unchartered territory.
1504 - steep steps climbed to reach the mountaintop fortress overlooking the Bay of Kotor and marvel at the breathtaking scenery provided by Europe's southernmost fiord.
3,4 - litres of perspiration leaked by yours truly over the local vegetation during the ascent of the aforementioned mountain, producing an Oscar-worthy performance of an exploding fire hydrant.
1.778, 45 and 23 - kilometres of heavenly Adriatic coastline allocated to Croatia, Slovenia and Bosnia & Herzegovina respectively in the re-distribution of land following the break-up of Yugoslavia. As my lungs fill with the diesel fumes from a 3rd generation German transport bus hand-me-down at Mostar bus station, memories from my previous holiday exploring the Croatian coast flood my mind and bring a large and knowing smile to my face. Soon enough, the bus inches its painful way around the hairpin bends of the high coastal road, precipitous cliffs dotted with gravity-defying conical pine trees fall down dramatically into crescent bays of crystalline waters. Further splashes of colour catch the eye here and there with a group of magnificent pink oleanders in bloom and pretty whitewashed houses sheltered by warm terracotta rooftiles. In all my travels, I have seen no coastline that can compare to this.
1,454,000 - a conservative estimate of the combined total number of inhabitants currently in their home countries of France, Italy and Russia. The rest are distributed evenly amongst the cities of Sarajevo, Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor. If ever there was a time to go and conquer France again, this is it.
17 - number of Australians dining three tables away from us in Dubrovnik, bravely attempting to redress the balance of the previous statistic. No fewer than twelve names overheard during their figurative and literal dissection of their seafood platters ended in the Antipodean nickname suffixes of choice. Thus our own dinner conversation was all but drowned out as Scotty, Julesy, Taylesy, Smithy, Matty, Jimbo, Simmo, Robbo and the rest of the gang performed lengthy crustacean autopsies with the occasional outburst of 'Shit guys, this is real good! I mean it ain't like the shit you get back home, but it's still pretty good shit!'.
93% - my current State Of Relaxation. Five days at the beach and some gentle sightseeing has given me a serenity and peace of mind I have seldom experienced in London. Every single nerve in my body has its own deckchair on a private beach and it is happy hour on Mojitos. The only blot on the spectacular landscapes we have visited was an unsightly, ungodly and quite frankly unwelcome Wednesday afternoon appearance from two horridly sunburnt, long-haired, middle-aged Greek men proving by their unfortunate beach attire that Speedos should be a form of cereal narcotics rather than indecently revelatory swimwear. Brrrr, not a pleasant image.
2 - total number of words learnt and used on this trip, conveniently common to all countries visited. A little slack by my usual linguistic standards perhaps, but for the moment, 'Hvala' and 'Pivo' more than fill my daily needs.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Two Bridges
BREAKING NEWS: 37 Bosnian youths were admitted to the Psychological Trauma ward at Sarajevo General Infirmary in the early hours of this morning. Initial reports are as yet unconfirmed, but this just in from Ana Ivanovičeva, a 21 year old student from Višegrad:
"Horrible. It was horrible, worse than the worst of all war atrocities this country suffered. It was an English man, he was on the dance floor at the Old House discotheque. He was dressed in army shorts and yellow flip-flops. Flip-flops! His moves were terrifying, unlike anything I had ever seen."
A second youth, a 23 year old sociology student from Banja Luka who preferred to remain unnamed, managed just "His gyrating hips, they just...", before passing out, her eyes glazed with fear. Doctors on the scene fear for her sanity.
The fragmentation of the former Soviet Union and Yugoslav Republic may have generated an unexpected upturn in business for cartographers from all corners of the world, but to me it simply means that a new audience of unsuspecting nightclubbing enthusiasts can be subjected to dance moves that would make an arthritic three-legged pregnant water buffalo appear to move as gracefully as Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn performing their legendary Baroque Pas de Trois. As I wreak my path of destruction through the Western Balkans with my Irish travel buddy, I can expect no fewer than 12 new entry and exit stamps from this trip, all in a passport so dog-eared that it may soon require a flea collar and its own miniature kennel.
A last minute pre-trip examination of the Foreign Office's current hotspots left me feeling somewhat cheated as I failed to find a single one of my upcoming destinations rated at more than a moderate level of geopolitical instability. No civil unrest, no rigged elections or seismic activity to report and it would seem as though the keys to the safety of this voyage will be held in the most dangerous hands of all - my own.
So far, so good. On this, Day 3 of 16, we are nearing the end of our discovery of Bosnia, a country known principally for two architectural structures that have been historically significant in shaping the map of Europe over the past 100 years. Two bridges. The first of unimaginable consequence, Sarajevo's Latin Bridge: the site of the assassination that precipitated the start of a century of nationalistic fervour and war. The second, the Old Bridge at Mostar, a symbol of culture, learning and prosperity for 500 years, then of suffering, death and horror during the Bosnian War, and finally of the reparation and attempted cohabitation of two feuding brothers of different faith.
And what a discovery Bosnia has been. Bosnia, the poor neighbour of powerful Serbia, beautiful Croatia and emerging Montenegro, has truly surprised us. Bosnia, the wonderful aroma of grilled čevapčiči in the evening air, everywhere; the surprisingly pleasant sounds of copper being hammered by skilled merchants into coffee cups, reverberating around Sarajevo's enthralling Baščaršija Bazaar; the entrepreneurial psychopaths leaping from the 21m height of the Old Bridge into the Neretva river in Mostar to fleece tourists of their holiday money; the glorious Mediterrannean climate and cheap beer.
I am on the road again, and it feels great.
"Horrible. It was horrible, worse than the worst of all war atrocities this country suffered. It was an English man, he was on the dance floor at the Old House discotheque. He was dressed in army shorts and yellow flip-flops. Flip-flops! His moves were terrifying, unlike anything I had ever seen."
A second youth, a 23 year old sociology student from Banja Luka who preferred to remain unnamed, managed just "His gyrating hips, they just...", before passing out, her eyes glazed with fear. Doctors on the scene fear for her sanity.
The fragmentation of the former Soviet Union and Yugoslav Republic may have generated an unexpected upturn in business for cartographers from all corners of the world, but to me it simply means that a new audience of unsuspecting nightclubbing enthusiasts can be subjected to dance moves that would make an arthritic three-legged pregnant water buffalo appear to move as gracefully as Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn performing their legendary Baroque Pas de Trois. As I wreak my path of destruction through the Western Balkans with my Irish travel buddy, I can expect no fewer than 12 new entry and exit stamps from this trip, all in a passport so dog-eared that it may soon require a flea collar and its own miniature kennel.
A last minute pre-trip examination of the Foreign Office's current hotspots left me feeling somewhat cheated as I failed to find a single one of my upcoming destinations rated at more than a moderate level of geopolitical instability. No civil unrest, no rigged elections or seismic activity to report and it would seem as though the keys to the safety of this voyage will be held in the most dangerous hands of all - my own.
So far, so good. On this, Day 3 of 16, we are nearing the end of our discovery of Bosnia, a country known principally for two architectural structures that have been historically significant in shaping the map of Europe over the past 100 years. Two bridges. The first of unimaginable consequence, Sarajevo's Latin Bridge: the site of the assassination that precipitated the start of a century of nationalistic fervour and war. The second, the Old Bridge at Mostar, a symbol of culture, learning and prosperity for 500 years, then of suffering, death and horror during the Bosnian War, and finally of the reparation and attempted cohabitation of two feuding brothers of different faith.
And what a discovery Bosnia has been. Bosnia, the poor neighbour of powerful Serbia, beautiful Croatia and emerging Montenegro, has truly surprised us. Bosnia, the wonderful aroma of grilled čevapčiči in the evening air, everywhere; the surprisingly pleasant sounds of copper being hammered by skilled merchants into coffee cups, reverberating around Sarajevo's enthralling Baščaršija Bazaar; the entrepreneurial psychopaths leaping from the 21m height of the Old Bridge into the Neretva river in Mostar to fleece tourists of their holiday money; the glorious Mediterrannean climate and cheap beer.
I am on the road again, and it feels great.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
The Good, The Bid And The Ugly
The small basement room is full this evening, yet I can draw no comfort from the fact that I am not alone in my suffering.
As I walk inside, I notice that my palms are already moist, an instant reaction to the harsh neon lighting and the imminent torture that it represents. I approach the loose circle of chairs in this, my purgatorial antechamber.
The shy young computer technician - Robert, I think - is here, as he always is. He affords me the slightest of nods as my glance sweeps past him. We tried to hold a conversation several weeks ago, but it was so painfully awkward that the relief was mutual when the time came to sit down. we have not spoken since.
I can also see Jason, who is beckoning me over to his side of the room. He pats the empty chair beside him, and although I cannot bear the thought of his incessant whispering and nudging, it is the only available seat and I reluctantly make my way around the outside of the group and sit down.
Now that each and every chair is occupied, the group grows silent in nervous anticipation of the next event to occur.
Mustering uncharacteristic courage, and ignoring the familiar shameful weakness in my knees, I stand up. All eyes are now on me, with a mixture of relief and encouragement. I can do this, I think to myself as I address the room:
As I walk inside, I notice that my palms are already moist, an instant reaction to the harsh neon lighting and the imminent torture that it represents. I approach the loose circle of chairs in this, my purgatorial antechamber.
The shy young computer technician - Robert, I think - is here, as he always is. He affords me the slightest of nods as my glance sweeps past him. We tried to hold a conversation several weeks ago, but it was so painfully awkward that the relief was mutual when the time came to sit down. we have not spoken since.
I can also see Jason, who is beckoning me over to his side of the room. He pats the empty chair beside him, and although I cannot bear the thought of his incessant whispering and nudging, it is the only available seat and I reluctantly make my way around the outside of the group and sit down.
Now that each and every chair is occupied, the group grows silent in nervous anticipation of the next event to occur.
Mustering uncharacteristic courage, and ignoring the familiar shameful weakness in my knees, I stand up. All eyes are now on me, with a mixture of relief and encouragement. I can do this, I think to myself as I address the room:
'Hi, my name is Jean-Marc and I am addicted to eBay.'
*****
Having lain dormant for two and a half years, my eBay account recently had its e-cobwebs dusted off during my desperate search for a ticket to the reunion concert of Faith No More. With a generous budget of £100 and my fingers hovering expectantly over the keyboard, I approached my mission with the naive confidence of an ex-smoker taking a drunken puff at a party, forgetting how much junk I had purchased on the site many moons ago.
Fast forward 48 hours and I have added several dozen CDs to the online marketplace and am bidding in an equal number of buying auctions. I have rather rapidly come to question my moral integrity as I discover the sadistic satisfaction obtained from driving the price up on items I have no interest in winning. It is a stupid and risky game that appeals to the purest form of my competitive spirit.
But I also play to win. I bide my time and bid at the very last moment, outfoxing my opponents in Manchester, Moscow and Melbourne. And I buy, I buy more items. Most items I have no use for whatsoever. But I have WON these items, I am a winner!
I am hooked again.
Analysed carefully, I am able to distinguish the differing sentiments coursing through me, a trinity of emotions with each success: the instant rush of victory as the auction closes just after my last gasp bid; the crushing low as I instantly question the validity of the contest; and finally the warm glow of anticipation and expectation as I wait for the glorious prize to be delivered to my door.
For almost four weeks during the month of June, I sold, mailed, bid or re-bid from the crack of dawn to the fall of night. It was only my holiday to Portugal that saved me from descending into full-blown addiction as I realise now how much time I actually spent on the website.
By a strange wringing of the wet towel of coincidences, I opened this morning's Metro newspaper to discover that the British arm of eBay was celebrating its 10th anniversary on this very day. I am but one of the 38.4 million people to have made 964 million transactions during the last decade, to have felt the magnetism and experienced the winning rush. I have luckily managed to wean myself off this cybervice, but how many others are logged on right now, buying one of the 3455 handbags sold very day at the rate of one every 25 seconds?
Having felt quite smugly content with the sparkling originality of this post's introductory scene, I watered the seed of my own doubt by Googling 'eBay addiction' and was rewarded with a kick in the creative cojones as I discovered that it really is a recognised form of Internet Addiction. Reading the recollection of a recovering addict ('It was 5am and I couldn't log on, I had a complete breakdown, I started crying. That's when I realised I had a real problem') and remembering the countless hours tucked up in bed with my laptop, I realise how easy it would be to succomb to the siren's call once again.
Fast forward 48 hours and I have added several dozen CDs to the online marketplace and am bidding in an equal number of buying auctions. I have rather rapidly come to question my moral integrity as I discover the sadistic satisfaction obtained from driving the price up on items I have no interest in winning. It is a stupid and risky game that appeals to the purest form of my competitive spirit.
But I also play to win. I bide my time and bid at the very last moment, outfoxing my opponents in Manchester, Moscow and Melbourne. And I buy, I buy more items. Most items I have no use for whatsoever. But I have WON these items, I am a winner!
I am hooked again.
Analysed carefully, I am able to distinguish the differing sentiments coursing through me, a trinity of emotions with each success: the instant rush of victory as the auction closes just after my last gasp bid; the crushing low as I instantly question the validity of the contest; and finally the warm glow of anticipation and expectation as I wait for the glorious prize to be delivered to my door.
For almost four weeks during the month of June, I sold, mailed, bid or re-bid from the crack of dawn to the fall of night. It was only my holiday to Portugal that saved me from descending into full-blown addiction as I realise now how much time I actually spent on the website.
By a strange wringing of the wet towel of coincidences, I opened this morning's Metro newspaper to discover that the British arm of eBay was celebrating its 10th anniversary on this very day. I am but one of the 38.4 million people to have made 964 million transactions during the last decade, to have felt the magnetism and experienced the winning rush. I have luckily managed to wean myself off this cybervice, but how many others are logged on right now, buying one of the 3455 handbags sold very day at the rate of one every 25 seconds?
Having felt quite smugly content with the sparkling originality of this post's introductory scene, I watered the seed of my own doubt by Googling 'eBay addiction' and was rewarded with a kick in the creative cojones as I discovered that it really is a recognised form of Internet Addiction. Reading the recollection of a recovering addict ('It was 5am and I couldn't log on, I had a complete breakdown, I started crying. That's when I realised I had a real problem') and remembering the countless hours tucked up in bed with my laptop, I realise how easy it would be to succomb to the siren's call once again.*****
'Hi, my name is Jean-Marc and I am addicted to eBay. I have been clean for three weeks.'
Monday, 13 July 2009
That Johnny Cash Song
22.11.2008: Swatch Group International HQ - Biel, Switzerland
Catalogue Coordination Manager: The print deadline is this Friday, how are we doing?
Senior Graphic Designer: Well, the images are all prepped and templated, but final text is waiting for your approval and has to go to the printers tomorrow.
CCM: Have you run the new collection names past the translation agency?
SGD: No, we're already over budget for the catalogue, we'll have to do it in-house this time. It's only the duty free magazine in any case, and we used last year's copy for the basic translations.
CCM: That sounds reasonable, leave the text on my desk and I'll proof it and get it back to you by close of business.
SGD: Great, thanks.
01.07.2009: Seat 7A - Flight TP387 from London Heathrow to Porto
I can barely contain my annoyance at having had my holiday enthusiasm deflated by a two-hour delay to our flight. I need a pacifier or there will soon be a hail of toys flying out of my pram, I need to find something to occupy myself fast. But what? Two carefully selected holiday books are gleefully gathering dust, lying forgotten on my office desk, my iPod has taken a vow of uncharged silence and dinner is half an hour away.
Faced with no viable alternative to alleviate my frustration, I reach for the in-flight entertainment world's equivalent of a full frontal lobotomy: the duty free magazine. Indeed, no sooner have I contemptuously flicked the first three pages than my brain commits itself to instant hibernation, pausing just briefly enough to wonder how on earth 102 pages of cosmetics, perfume, chocolate, alcohol and tobacco can be crammed into the narrow trolley that the cabin crew are wheeling down the aisle.
As I flick through the latest products from the houses of haute couture and smelly scents, I gradually sense my cerebral activity beginning to flatline when
WHACK!
It hits me like a sledgehammer, I can barely understand and my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.
Successive waves of shock, disbelief, surprise and finally elation wash over me. There it is, right before me: the Holy Grail of inter-linguistic double entendres. I am gobsmacked, both figuratively and literally as I clasp my hand to my shocked mouth so fast that I nearly knock my front teeth clean out.
I turn to show Sarah the source of my side-splitting comedy histrionics but can utter no words as I am still in the delicious ecstacy of pure and unexpected laughter. It is all I can do to hand over the magazine and reveal the full glory that is:
Go on! Do it, laugh out loud! Let rip your snorts, guffaws and sniggers. Marvel at the unfortunate shape of this fine piece of jewellry and then read the fine print for further puerile gratification (hint: a 'ç' is pronounced 'ss'). Most of you will have by now closed this window and moved on to more serious business*, but for those of you who appreciate infantile humour as much as I do, please click here for an extra dollop of cheap entertainment.
€55,00 it may well cost, but in reality it is priceless...
* Except for you, Brooks, I know where you are reading this and this one's dedicated to you.
Catalogue Coordination Manager: The print deadline is this Friday, how are we doing?
Senior Graphic Designer: Well, the images are all prepped and templated, but final text is waiting for your approval and has to go to the printers tomorrow.
CCM: Have you run the new collection names past the translation agency?
SGD: No, we're already over budget for the catalogue, we'll have to do it in-house this time. It's only the duty free magazine in any case, and we used last year's copy for the basic translations.
CCM: That sounds reasonable, leave the text on my desk and I'll proof it and get it back to you by close of business.
SGD: Great, thanks.
01.07.2009: Seat 7A - Flight TP387 from London Heathrow to Porto
I can barely contain my annoyance at having had my holiday enthusiasm deflated by a two-hour delay to our flight. I need a pacifier or there will soon be a hail of toys flying out of my pram, I need to find something to occupy myself fast. But what? Two carefully selected holiday books are gleefully gathering dust, lying forgotten on my office desk, my iPod has taken a vow of uncharged silence and dinner is half an hour away.
Faced with no viable alternative to alleviate my frustration, I reach for the in-flight entertainment world's equivalent of a full frontal lobotomy: the duty free magazine. Indeed, no sooner have I contemptuously flicked the first three pages than my brain commits itself to instant hibernation, pausing just briefly enough to wonder how on earth 102 pages of cosmetics, perfume, chocolate, alcohol and tobacco can be crammed into the narrow trolley that the cabin crew are wheeling down the aisle.
As I flick through the latest products from the houses of haute couture and smelly scents, I gradually sense my cerebral activity beginning to flatline when
WHACK!
It hits me like a sledgehammer, I can barely understand and my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.
Successive waves of shock, disbelief, surprise and finally elation wash over me. There it is, right before me: the Holy Grail of inter-linguistic double entendres. I am gobsmacked, both figuratively and literally as I clasp my hand to my shocked mouth so fast that I nearly knock my front teeth clean out.
I turn to show Sarah the source of my side-splitting comedy histrionics but can utter no words as I am still in the delicious ecstacy of pure and unexpected laughter. It is all I can do to hand over the magazine and reveal the full glory that is:
Go on! Do it, laugh out loud! Let rip your snorts, guffaws and sniggers. Marvel at the unfortunate shape of this fine piece of jewellry and then read the fine print for further puerile gratification (hint: a 'ç' is pronounced 'ss'). Most of you will have by now closed this window and moved on to more serious business*, but for those of you who appreciate infantile humour as much as I do, please click here for an extra dollop of cheap entertainment.
€55,00 it may well cost, but in reality it is priceless...
* Except for you, Brooks, I know where you are reading this and this one's dedicated to you.
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