Fellatio Lopez? WHAT

If my mother was a Wimbledon umpire, she’d be the Jade Goody (too soon?) of tennis officials; it’d be hilarious, yes, but the players would end up aiming aces directly at her face.

“So what’s the name of this guy Murray might be playing in the quarter final then... Fellatio, right?”

Are you having an effing laugh? I glance over, a bit distressed, equally amused, waiting for her to crack a smile. Was that a little joke on Janice’s part, referring to this professional tennis player as a blowjob? This, surely, must be the pinnacle of his global career.

“Fishano?” I could end this torture now, but it’s just too damn funny as she reels off another gaffe. Rifling through the paper, she eventually finds out it’s Feliciano, turns a shade of crimson, and the matter is most definitely closed. My madre is often a clever woman, but Spanish first names clearly aren’t her strong suit. Manuel becomes Manure, Esteban becomes Oestrogen, and the whole thing is a massive screw up.

Then again, some of these players don’t exactly make it easy; I found a junior in the Boys’ Singles and Doubles with a wonderfully eccentric name. Aslan Karatsev. Yep, read it and rejoice; this curly haired Russian cherub has been named after a lion in a kid’s book. A very heroic lion, that may be, but a fictional big cat nonetheless.

Completely unrelated, but...

I walked out of the house yesterday morning, blinking in the morning sunshine and already sweating like a newborn piglet, when suddenly an introspective fashion drama occurred. I was wearing a Beatles t-shirt.

Now, I do like the Beatles, don’t get me wrong, yet only with a passing interest like most casual fans. Strawberry Fields Forever, Help, Can’t Buy Me Love, Something, amongst others are up there. And yet, can I be considered enough of a fan to warrant waltzing around, declaring my loyalty for them on a t-shirt? It seems a tad fraudulent; I wasn’t there in the Cavern Club at the start of their careers, I didn’t witness Beatlemania, I didn’t scream my ass off at any of their concerts. And then, I see a teenage girl, of about 14ish, flicking her hair in the air like she just don’t care y’all, wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Fake tanned to the hilt with some Pat Butcher earrings on, I don’t think she even knows who Mick Jagger is.

The Beatles related guilt quickly receded.

J Au revoir. x

British Booze Hounds- Anyone For Tennis?

What, you may ask, is the greatest distraction for a young man sitting at home as he attempts to plan a trip to Asia whilst writing something worth publishing?

Is it the internet? Music? The Jeremy Kyle Show? An endless supply of chocolate biscuits as he piles on some mighty bingo wings? Cheap porno (if you’re that way inclined; frankly, I think it’s revolting)... Hehe.

None of these perfectly acceptable answers; it’s tennis. Plain old tennis, the sport played by Russian women built like cage fighters and an angry Scot who has all of Britain hooked, as he moans and mumbles his way through another tedious press conference. What is it about Wimbledon that so transfixes me, as well as millions of other British people who most of the time couldn’t give a rat’s arse about double faults and break points? Patriotism is the easy answer and, let’s face it, probably the correct one; any excuse to dust off the Union Jack flag in the garage and stuff your face with scones is always welcome. Additionally, the Brits love an excuse for a booze up in the hazy afternoon sunshine and, weather permitting, Wimbledon supplies us with a two week window to do so, during the height of summer. Considering we’re a country with some of the worst alcohol related statistics in Europe, the world, the universe, this must be taken into consideration. What more could a borderline alcoholic, sun-deprived, success-starved nation like us want? Nowt, quite frankly. Asides from the England footie team winning a World Cup Final 10-0 against Germany at Wembley Stadium, I can’t think of any other sporting occasion which comes close.

Such was my urgency to rush back to the BBC coverage, with Sue Barker the (almost) silver fox showing a little too much leg whilst Tim Henman definitely tries to suppress a semi, that I neglected my household duties. The point of drying the dishes is in the name: drying. Not shoving them back in the cupboards and wondering why everything is soggy when you come back later to cook dinner. Blaming it on a fictional hole in the roof just doesn’t cut the mustard really, not with my hawkeyed mother. It’s quite strange, being back at home and suddenly domesticated, after spending three years working every hour of the day and having almost total independence. I don’t yet find helping out at home emasculating in the slightest; however, I do draw the line at feather dusting.

Tomorrow I’ll be venturing on my third tandem biking session with Chris Blackabee, which I’m glad to say is rapidly becoming a regular fixture; not sure if I fancy doing it in the Saharan heat we’re experiencing today. I may actually melt into the saddle otherwise. But hey ho, at least I’m fortunate enough to even see where we’re going, so I’ll look on the bright side and keep you posted on our next adventure. Assuming we don’t plough into an oncoming lorry (fingers crossed). Tapping away at a laptop in a full body cast might be tricky.

Game, set and match. G x

Coalition vs. Dalek: Round One

Another day, another barrage of coalition bashing; as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, it’s just one of those things which is becoming ever-present on an almost daily basis in our political society. What with the government u-turns on a range of subjects, such as them claiming not to raise VAT whilst doing so from 17.5% to 20%, as well as the more recent decision to scrap 50% sentencing reductions for criminals who admit their guilt early on, you can’t blame the electorate for getting cheesed off. Personally, I view the coalition’s ability to compromise and evolve their policies as quite admirable, progressive even, as long as it’s not done too regularly. Otherwise, the government will indeed begin to look very foolish; however, it’s a revelation to have someone in charge, a la Cameron, who can be so publically honest about policy mistakes that have been made.

I bring up the so called ‘coalition bashing’ because, when flicking through the news reel this morning, I came across some eccentric comments from the former Dr. Who writer Russell T. Davies. Mr. Davies referred to both Clegg and Cameron as ‘savage and evil people underneath it all’; some compliment, coming from a man who used to write about Cybermen and Daleks for his day job. Furthermore, the Conservative Party is ‘lethal as a laser’ in his opinion; now I don’t know about you, but when I look at Boris Johnson, ‘lethal as a laser’ isn’t the phrase that comes to mind. When Boris is stammering his way through another ballsed up speech with his hair sticking up a jaunty angle, he looks more like a naughty schoolboy than some evil killing machine. He’s not Hannibal Lecter, he’s more like Cruella De Vil in a Savile Row suit.

On a less serious note, I stumbled downstairs this morning to be greeted with a leaflet screwed up by the kettle; I assumed it was some crap new cheapo kebab house opening around the corner. Doner meat sold by the rasher for 10p a slice and whatnot, which I must admit, would appeal when highly sozzled. Yet, always being inquisitive/terribly nosy, I de-crumpled it to reveal its secrets. ‘Pilkington Replacement Services’ it read; now, I originally found this the other day. I didn’t realise many people owned a Karl Pilkington (of Ricky Gervais podcasts fame); also, I didn’t know that you could even replace your out of date Karl if it became faulty or troublesome. Is this the new mail order phenomenon that has somehow passed me by? First Thai brides, now this? Sadly, I don’t actually possess my very own Karl but, if any of you reading this do, please remember: a Pilkington isn’t just for Christmas- its’ for life, too.

Have a good day possums, au revoir. x

Boldly/Blindly Going Where No Man Has Gone Before...

If we took a holiday... Took some time to celebrate...

I’m somewhere in the region of Leigh-On-Sea, skidding down a double-parked street and braking like my life depends on it. Sorry, excuse me, I’m still getting used to this; like our lives depend on it.

Just one day out of life... It would beee... It would be so niiice!

Tandem bicycles, I fear, aren’t meant to slow down quickly. The pedals are spinning, I’m losing our balance, and I’ve/we’ve only got twenty yards to come to a halt before a busy main road. A couple of fat chavs express their anger at having to wobble out of our path; then they see that the guy on the bike with me is wearing a luminous vest with the words ‘Blind Athlete’ etched onto it. That shuts them up pretty quickly. All the while, my sightless bike buddy continues to giggle and sing Madonna like he’s having the time of his life, which perhaps he is, despite him being very switched on and knowing we must be going way too fast. The guy’s name is Chris Blackabee and he’s training to do a triathlon. Today, I’m his guide and confidante; we both pedal, but I have the added responsibility of the handlebars, keeping track of our route, braking, changing gears, signalling, as well as generally ensuring we survive. It’s quite a tall order, to say the least.

Now, at this point, you might be wondering several things. Such as: did they manage to brake in time before they reached the main road and became roadkill (I sure hope that’s a rhetorical question, considering I’m writing this). Also, how difficult is it to ride a tandem for 55 miles, safely, whilst ensuring you remain fully focused? Very difficult, but I’ll get to that in a little while. Thirdly, how in the hell did I get into doing this crazy experiment on Father’s Day? Well, a little while ago I came across an article in the Romford Recorder that didn’t relate to toddler gun crime in Dagenham or a rabid parrot eating pensioners in Aveley, which made a pleasant change. A guy called Chris Blackabee, blind since birth, was requesting training partners, who were willing to help him on a long distance run or tandem bike ride; experienced cyclists were strongly advised, of which group I am most definitely NOT a member. The last time I rode a bike was when Amy Winehouse hadn’t even heard of heroin, Tiger Woods was a faithful family man and Tony Blair was still boss in No. 10. Nevertheless, I like a challenge and, after a couple of cancelled meetings, we finally managed to get together yesterday for an Upminster to Southend (and back) bike ride with the local cycling club. Despite extreme chaffing and sore buttocks this morning, I loved (almost) every minute of it.

Any man who worked in the city for twenty years, has travelled the world, is undertaking a triathlon in his 40s aaand buys me a coffee from Costa is definitely on my Christmas card list. Considering Chris has done this without the benefit of sight since birth is breathtaking; add in the fact that he has a keen sense of humour and a real thirst for life, and he’s pretty damn inspirational. Though he cannot sing at all, but we’ll forgive him for that. Anyway, enough of me sucking up to him, I’m beginning to feel queasy.

The bike ride itself was difficult; even the lead cyclist said so, considering we took on two endless hills within the first hour and encountered heavy traffic later in the afternoon. We had to be precise with our movements, often working with little space and damp, slippery conditions. Luckily Chris and I struck up some decent ways to communicate, speaking almost incessantly about changing gears, when to pedal and lay off the gas etc., as well as just generally having a decent chat. The guy doesn’t let anything get him down; when we were swerving impatient drivers on another of the countless roundabouts we went on, he’d just carry on talking about anything and everything. His Belgian girlfriend, his love of curry (a passion we undoubtedly share), how he thinks British Airways are absolutely pony... He’s a completely normal bloke, with one obvious difference, and another more subtle exception. The obvious difference is, well, obvious. However, more subtly, he’s exceptional because Chris doesn’t allow himself to become lazy like most people as they grow older, and he never gives up on achieving whatever goal that’s just out of reach. I very much look forward to meeting him again; hell, if he wants to pelt down a slippery hill whilst murdering Madonna’s back catalogue, I’ll be up for that too.

As it’s time to say goodbye, we shake hands and talk about our experiences that day; we both enjoyed it, we’re both a bit knackered, and we’re both eager to have another go soon. As I’m leaving, he shouts out ‘see you soon George’; turning around to say the same, I notice a cheeky grin stretching across his face.

God, how I like someone with a sick sense of humour.

Over and out, G x

Bad Ass'

Bear Grylls, Ray Mears, Michael Palin, David Attenborough, Ranulph Fiennes and Bruch Parry; they all have two things in common.

Firstly, they’re all widely respected T.V. personalities specialising in nature and the outdoor ways of life.

Secondly, they’re all absolute pussies compared to me when it comes to dealing with amphibian corpses.

Grylls may have climbed Everest and Mears might know his way around a forest or two, but have they ever had to use an old spatula to scrape up a frog’s innards from the front patio? I think not.

Where has this sudden desire to dispose of slippery roadkill come from? It’s simply not me; the thought of a small spider scurrying around my feet is usually enough to send me schizo. Am I finally growing up into, dare I say it, a ‘man’? Or am I just becoming more bad ass’ as the years wear on; by my 30^th birthday will I be dwelling in a cave and hunting bison with my bare hands? This is, as you will agree, a distinct possibility.

HOLD IT, hold it right there; I may be getting ahead of myself. I’m not quite Dog the Bounty Hunter yet, considering I’m sitting here watching This Morning and eating cake, whilst simultaneously trying to be constructive. So far, this is a work in progress, which is much, much more of a distinct possibility than me maturing into a normal human being of some denomination.

Talking of manliness, a report released recently by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology suggests that, contrary to popular belief, men are usually the first in a relationship to say the three big words (‘I love you’, not ‘cook me dinner’ or ‘I hate housework’ you bunch of dirty chauvinists).  Is this, in most cases, a genuine outburst, do most men mean what they say in this respect? Are we moving away from the rugged examples set by Mr. Grylls and co.?

I’m not quite certain, and it’s difficult to judge this unless on an individual case by case basis; generalising would be useless. However, one thing is for certain: scraping up a frog’s deflated carcass doesn’t make me any more of a man. Especially when you continue to enjoy watching Sex and the City on a bi-weekly basis with copies of Heat magazine collecting around your ankles...

Much love,

G

Rule Britannia, Britannia Rule... Err... Not Much?

David Cameron has come in for some flak in recent months, that’s for sure. The fresh-faced originality of the coalition government, an unusual system for our country despite it being frequently used in the rest of European politics, has gradually been viewed with more and more suspicion. Nick Clegg has put on a lot of timber and become wholly unpopular within his own party after the Lib Dems’ popularity nosedived; I guess the difficulty of maintaining your party’s interests whilst being the P.M.’s whipping boy would make you comfort eat into oblivion. No one likes me anymore you say? Darling, another bar of Galaxy please. Cameron has been accused of sexism in the House of Commons and backtracking on key policy areas. It all seems a long way off from when they were cracking jokes in the No. 10 garden in front of journalists during the early days of the ‘Brokeback Coalition’.

But what is this I read in the paper? Cameron putting pressure on the International Olympic Committee to revoke around 1,000 tickets for London 2012 which were being gifted to the Libyan government... Despite the I.O.C.’s political independence, they’ve decided that considering the current unrest in Libya, giving their govt. fatcats V.I.P. boxes and champagne receptions would be a tad inappropriate. Here here.

Now, the hidden patriot within me wants to imagine that our Dave had a big role to play in this. However, I can’t really imagine him riding into the I.O.C. headquarters on a steed, draped in a British flag and a suit of armour, barking out verses of RUUULE BRITTANIA, can you? Now that WOULD be fun; and we know Boris Johnson would probs do it just for sh*$s and giggles, but I guess that’s why he’s not our Prime Minister... Yet.

Yet something all seems highly irrelevant about the whole issue, despite Dave’s forthright intervention, if that is the case. Many ordinary Londoners and Britons who missed out on tickets won’t get a look in with any of these additional 1,000 places. Would it not be refreshing if these were gifted to the public? Yet, the issue is one for the I.O.C., not our P.M., and they’ll decide who deserves to have the spare tickets. Which, inevitably, will mean that some lucky smartarse from Barclays or B.P. will be watching Usain Bolt kick ass’ with a big fat cigar and a trackside seat. When the Mayor of London, even BORIS, can’t secure a ticket for himself, what chance do we have?

Cest la vie, life goes on, and I’m not that fussed anyway. Some of the track events would be great to see, but I don’t really fancy standing outside in the rain watching some nameless foreign ‘athlete’ winning the gold medal in Archery.

But for once, just once, it’d be nice if those 1,000 tickets did go to the public; I may not want to watch the synchronised swimming, but there’s bound to be some daft eegit out there who does, and good luck to them. They’ll appreciate it a hell of a lot more than a trail of big business hangers on, I expect.

Rant outtt, G. x

What A Pile of Old Merde

Gare Du Nord Eurostar terminal, le gai Paris, some time ago; my girlfriend Emily is queuing in some monster line at a ticket machine so that we can bumble around Paris on ze metro like aimless fools when a taxi would guarantee a much smoother passage. We’re not visiting Disneyland Paris until tomorrow but this queue already looks a million times longer than the one for The Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster could ever be. Deciding to chance my arm in another queue, I dart over to the other machine twenty or so yards away; yet suddenly, a suntanned little dwarf/young boy of about ten years old stands in my path. With puppy dog eyes staring up at me, he garbles something in French; tears are in his eyes, and I’m flummoxed. What to say? What to do? Shall I lob a Euro coin at his feet and flee in the chaos or attempt to engage the skinny, impoverished looking scamp? There’s an air of the Oliver Twist, Dickensian ruffian about him. Just as I prepare to carry on walking, he spews out some surprisingly accurate English.

“Will you donate to my charity?” He’s very polite; polite to the extent of being persuasive, may I add, and he happens to withdraw a clipboard from behind his back. A page of signatures and e-mail addresses, as well as noted donations, stares undeniably up at me. I repeat: the lovable little chap has a clipboard at his disposal. That settles it, this must be official; he continues to briefly explain what the charity is for (putting homeless Parisian children into care), and as he really begins to get into his stride, flashing a cheeky grin and gaining in confidence, a shout from some way off seems to petrify him. We both dart our eyes towards the source of the commotion in unison. Suddenly, I feel complicit with this mysterious stranger in whatever it is that’s aroused his fear. As a uniformed, overly podgy French traffic cop wobbles his way over, I turn my head to the spot where, moments before, the young chappie had been coercing me to donate. Yep, you guessed it: gone. Vamos, au revoir, into thin air like a kid version of Harry Houdini.

And then I realise, shaken out of my daze by the panting cop; how stupid could I be? A tatty looking child with darting eyes and a desperate air about him collecting for charity? Without any official documentation or clothing, just a poxy clipboard with a few scribbled names he’d thought of that morning? I thanked my chubby saviour, then moved on, a smidge furious at myself, and a hell of a lot more cautious and watchful for the rest of the trip.

I mention this tale because, upon scanning the news reel this morning, my attention was brought to the comments made by Claude Gueant, French Interior Minister. Apparently, Monsieur Gueant claims that 80% of ALL street crime in Paris is perpetrated by the children of Romanian immigrants. My experience was brought back into sharp focus; vindication flooded through my veins, and yet... And yet... No. I felt more self disgust at this fleeting thought than when I was angry at myself for almost falling into that little street urchin’s trap. One (almost) relevant experience simply doesn’t make a sweeping statistic like that correct or acceptable. Especially considering the French government’s troubled recent history with ethnic minorities in the region of their capital. My memory is brought back to 2005, and the Bosquets riots on the outskirts of the city. A poor, crime-ridden area, the violent uprising there marred the French bid for the 2012 Olympics and, according to some, was a great help in ensuring the U.K. captured the games. Regardless, the occupants of the Bosquets estate claimed neglect of their community, which was and still is primarily of an African expatriate denomination, as well as a corrupt police force who regularly bothered innocent black youths for no valid reason. The incident was hushed under the carpet as quickly as possible by the then French Interior Minister (a certain Nicolas Sarkozy), yet this type of uprising is rife in France and never quite goes away. Rather, it’s an underlying problem that bubbles under the surface until a spark ignites, and the issue returns to the wider public consciousness.

So next time I’m feeling a bit smarmy and relieved by reading the comments of a biased French politician with an arguably malicious agenda, I’m going to shout ‘SACRE BLEU’ at the top of my lungs, and slap myself silly.

It’s been a while, but I’m glad to be back; G. x

It´s the Final Countdown

And now... The end is near... And so I face... The final curtain...

Perhaps it should indeed be Mr. Sinatra´s particularly fitting lyrics that I´m singing, but I don´t want to jinx anything just yet or tempt fate, so I shan´t. This type of superstitious mentality is very unlike me; what can I say, maybe the pilgrimage is finally bringing out the inner religioso within me in the nick of time. Or maybe I´d rather carry on singing early Beatles tunes and a cheesy 80s mental back catalogue second to none... Note to self: don´t use the pretence of discovering God as an opportunity to hum along to ´Karma Chameleon´; if there is a God after all, he/she/it might not like such blasphemy (unless they enjoy Culture Club of course, which I haven´t factored into my considerations).

Whilst on the subject of fate, on the eve of completing the pilgrimage to Santiago, I wonder whether I was always destined to finish ´The Way´ without ever experiencing any heightened sense of spirituality. So many walkers, cyclists and donkey riders (yes, there are a few), speak glowingly of how they´ve felt a growing sensation of peace within themselves; of an inner contentedness brought about by the methodical nature of progressing through the pilgrimage. One, even, of how his soul felt cleansed. And he meant it quite literally. Without getting into the contentious area of whether or not the human soul actually exists, I find myself irrepairably separated from these people on occasion; fortunately, for brief moments at most. It´s as though an invisible line, of faith, has been crossed; is there any going back from this? Can such vastly different people with opposing views and experiences share a common ground on a mutual experience, irrespective of which direction they´re looking at it from? If the Camino has taught me anything at all, then the answer is yes; although if I´m truthful, it´s only reinforced this notion rather than actually instigated it. I´ll share a bottle of red and a loaf of bread whilst talking about blisters and hiking boots with anyone, regardless of whether they believe in Jesus Christ, Allah, hocus pocus, green martians or the cult of Charles Manson. Willingly, I´ll even discuss the topic of religion and occasionally pretend I´m a devout mormon. Perhaps that means I don´t possess a soul? Or perhaps I just have a mischievous sense of humour?

I wasn´t always destined to complete this journey without invoking a ´hidden spirituality´, though it was quite likely from the start. However, I´m all the better for it in my opinion and, quite frankly, I went into this somewhat obliviously yet with an open mind at least. Anyway, why does one necessarily have to learn or discover anything fundamental on this sort of venture? Surely, it´s equally if not more important merely to enjoy yourself along the path. Nevertheless, what I do depart from Spain with, asides from an exhausted waddle, back pain and a lack of plasters, is a hatful of unique memories. People, places, situations. Ranging from the large to the small; gigantic cities to the obscurest pattern on a snail shell; the wise words of an aged German lawyer on travelling the length and breadth of India, to the daft and alarming starjumps routine illustrated by a group of French cyclists. I´ve been involved first hand at some stages, talking, doing and generally trying to ingratiate myself towards situations one would usually avoid. Immediately, I can remember knocking back and forth ideas on literature and my favourite modern authors with the most intense American guy I´ve ever met... Brian could have beaten a blind person in a staring contest, that´s how passionately he would keep eye contact with you. Within moments, I´d been disarmed  and struck dumb as he began to regale tales of serving in Vietnam during the 1970s. I´ve been shocked, exhausted, then enlivened, before being consequently exhausted again, not to mention a million and one other emotions experienced at one time or another.

So, as I prepare to face the final curtain, I glance back fondly into the past three weeks over my rucksacked shoulder to discover myself smiling. Pleased with my progress, grateful for the journey, and forever amused at just how weirdly some people walk.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Adios España. Hello to the temporary and fleeting comfort of normality.