Part 1 March 1989,
I'd been living on a kibbutz in Israel for 4 months when I first met Roly.
The kibbutz, for anybody that does not know, is a collective community, usually based around agriculture. In short, a commune, where all the money made gets shared equally between the kibbuttzniks (people who live on the kibbutz). The way, it works, or should I say used to work, is that the kibbutz would ask for volunteers from all over the world to come and work there for peanuts (approx £20 a month). So, what would we gain from all this? Well, the answer to this is, a bloody good time, in the prime of our lives (I was 19), surrounded by like minded young folk, who had no responsibilities apart from cleaning up after partying and having protected sex. I must admit here, that whilst I was a legend on the party scene, during my 5 months on Kvutzat Schiller, I drew a sexual duck (for non cricket fans - this does not mean that I drew a picture of a duck in suspenders and crotchless panties - it means I did not get lucky). Despite, being forewarned of the many sexual diseases that I would return with and how many notches I would scribe on my bedpost, my efforts to prevent the former whilst increase the latter by purchase of a mega box of condoms before my departure from England, went unrewarded. In fact I only took the plastic wrapper of the mega box of condoms so that at first glance I did not look like such a loser.
Roly, who was of Swiss descent, was identifiable by a rather large lump in the middle of his forehead and his extremely well defined calf muscles. I assumed that the large calves came from hiking around the Swiss mountains, whereas I knew that the large lump in the middle of his forehead was acquired by drunkenly walking into an orange tree, 2 years earlier. A few days before Roly came to the kibbutz, Danny one of the fellow kibbutz volunteers and all round dick head, had warned us of his arrival. He told us that we would hear Roly's arrival before we actually saw it and that the first thing that we would notice would be his lump. No mention here of his well defined calves (maybe that's a personal thing). The only other information other we managed to glean from Danny, was that Roly's use of the English language was limited to one sentence. Danny, may have been a dick head but his knowledge of Roly was extremely accurate.
"I am Swiss cunt, I am Swiss cunt, I am Swiss cunt", is the mantra I hear as I hang from my orange tree. It's round about 8 am and as usual I am already behind on my orange picking quota of ten large crates, as I day dream from the confines of my tree. My day dream broken, I look down, and from a height of about 10 ft I notice a rather large lump protruding from beneath a mop of hair. "Ah ah", Roly has arrived, I think to myself, as I descend the wooden ladder. "Hi, I'm Andy", I say and offer him my hand". Roly, looks me in the eye with a big smile and says "I am Swiss cunt".
Over the next month, I attempt to have a few conversations with Roly but as you can imagine, this is almost impossible with somebody of such limited English vocabulary.
"So, when were you here before Roly"? - "I am Swiss cunt".
"How long did you stay"? "I am Swiss cunt".
"I hear that you have a masters degree in applied linguistics"? "I am Swiss cunt".
However, one day, there's a breakthrough. I walk from my room to the grassy patch where the volunteers hang out, and there before me, is Roly seemingly engaged in dialogue - and not a "I am Swiss cunt", to be heard. Granted, the dialogue is not the queen's English, but he's telling a story and people are laughing. Danny, stands amongst the gathering crowd and helps Roly with his tale. He's obviously heard it many time before, but he still joins in with the raucous laughter as the tale unfolds. The tale goes as follows.
Roly, had made a trip to London a few years earlier to see the sights. On day one, he met a guy in the street, who he had befriended and decided to go for a drink with. The guy obviously realised at an early stage that he was not dealing with Einstein and had pounced upon this vulnerability. Roly had been guided to a little sleaze shop in the Soho (sex area of London- to those who are unfamiliar), where he had purchased a round of beers for himself and his new friend. Roly and his new friend, sat for a while before the bar maid came over and demanded the cash for the drinks. He then got out his wallet and fumbled for the money. At which point, the bar maid got angry and demanded £320 quid from Roly, who turned to his new mate for help. No surprises in guessing what happened next. His new mate also turned on Roly and threatened to give him a kicking if he did not produce the cash. Poor Roly, insinuated that he did not have the cash on him, but this held no ground with his two aggressors who took him by force to his hotel room. They took the cash and left, whilst Roly's holiday came to an impromptu end. The next day he departed for Switzerland broken and broke.
At the time, I remember being shocked by the tale, whilst wondering about the validity of such an event. However, myself and all the other bystanders, love the story and laughed like demented hyenas. Two years seem to have softened the blow for Roly, who chortles along, his laughter only punctuated by his shouts of "I am Swiss cunt".
Now, you could say that this was a warning. But as you are to find out, a warning that falls on deaf ears.
Part 2 September 1990
My mate Chris and I have decided to go on a road trip to East Anglia. A mate of Chris's is working at a holiday camp down there and says that we can stay for free. I have been back from Israel now for around a year and I am itching for a little adventure. On our return from the holiday camp we see sign posts for London and we spontaneously decide to head for the bright lights. The decision goes something like this.
Me: "Shall we head to London", I half jokingly mutter.
Chris: (who was never known for his financial fortitude) "I've spent all my money", he replies.
Me: "Really, I thought I saw a bundle in your wallet! Come on let's go to a strip show".
Strip show, it appears are the magic words to a 20 year olds libido, and override any tight arsed behaviour that the subject may have previously displayed. As quickly as you can say "hormonal imbalance", I have changed the direction of the car and we are heading for the big smoke. Two country bumpkins with the street cred of a Christmas jumper, heading for certain gloom. In retrospect, our naivety of city life was so evident,that we may as well have been driving a tractor.
Rather surprisingly, once we are in Central London, we find Soho with great ease. However, we are not so diligent in our attempts to find a cheap car park (or maybe there just are none). Our libido's eventually get the better of us and we park the car in the nearest available spot, before taking a ticket from the machine. Epic FAIL number 1 or number 2 if you include the decision to go to London in the first place.
Like kids in a sweet shop we are instantly attracted to the area. A proliferation of sex shops, peep shows, street whores and strip venues, combined with bright lights and lots of noise, is enough to make our adrenalin levels soar. Taking this into consideration, in combination with the fact that we are wetter behind the ears than passengers on the Costa Concordia, it is no great surprise that we immediately enter the first establishment that we are touted into. A neon sign above the door alerting us the fact that it's a strip show.
Before, the rather attractive, middle aged, female Cockney tout has time to finish the following sentence. "Alwight boys", you want to see some naked girls", we are descending numerous staircases into the dragons lair. Our juvenile excitement absorbing any fear that we should be feeling right now, the smiles on our countenances wider than the widest Cockney wide boy. Our eyes transfixed on the wiggle of the touts tight buttocks, as she lures us down the staircases. I turn to Chris and scrunch up my face in a "Whooaahhh" kind of way. He responds with his own facial contortions. We are about to enter into a new dimension.
At the bottom of the staircases we pass through a straggly curtain, into a dimly lit and absurdly small room. The bar, which occupies one whole wall of the room, has no bar tender as we approach, but this soon changes with the metamorphic transformation of our tout into a bar maid.
"What'cha drinking boys"?, she asks us with neither pleasantness nor vitriol.
"Erm, have you got lager", I nervously reply?
"Course", she responds "Carlsberg, alwight for is it lads"?.
We both reply with an affirmative nod of the head before we are told to take a seat. It must be stated here that given the compactness of the room, our choice of seats does not overwhelm us. In fact, had we not been the only customers in the club (since 1972), we may have been left with no other option than to stand. It's either the small leather booth to the left of the bar, or the small leather booth to the right of the bar. We opt for the right, the booth nearest the door as it arbitrarily occurs - not that our naivety even recognises this fact at the time.
Our bar maid/tout walks over to the booth carrying two pints of Carlsberg, which she deposits with little care on our small table.
"Will, you be requiring any company"? she inquires, as she prises us apart so that she can sit in the middle of us.
"Erm, what time does the show start"?, I ask. Although, by this point I am wondering where the show is actually going to take place. This is like none of the strip joints that I had ever seen in 1970s detective shows. There's barely room to move in this darkened dungeon, never mind swing a boa and a pair of knickers.
She ignores my line of questioning and once again asks us if we will be requiring any company. Only this time there is an air of irritation to her voice which instantly fills me with fear. Chris, it seems is not feeling the bad vibes and asks.
"How much"?
"Not much luv", she replies in a condescending tone.
"No, I'm ok thanks", he responds whilst his hand subconsciously moves to his back pocket to protect his wallet.
"Well then boys, you'd better pay up", she informs us, with venom in her voice.
And that's it. It's taken a while for the penny to drop but it finally does. It's like I've just put my penny in the fruit machine (gambling machine to the none English), pulled the lever and watched as the wheels spin. Before the metaphoric wheels have even come to rest, I have foreseen 3 images of Roly's face, complete with big lump, displayed in my minds eye. Above face number one is the number 3, face number 2 is the number 2 and finally face number 3, the number O. The figure, £320, then explodes to be replaced by the words "I am Swiss cunt".
Like Roly, some years before. We've been had. Our pants have been well and truly pulled down and our arses spanked.
Chris, remains oblivious to the fraudulent events that are unravelling around us. Blissfully unaware of the financial quagmire that we have just stepped into.
The bar maid/tout strides off, hastily writes out the bill and returns to the table. She then thrusts the paper at us. I make no attempt to take it from her, so Chris (for the first time in our lives) grabs it. By now, I am almost excited at the prospect of seeing him look at it. Oh what glee to see a tight fisted friend examine an over inflated bill. My eyes are firmly focused on his facial expression as he unravels the paper and stares in initial disbelief. But wait, he's thought of something and his grimace softens. I am given little time to muse over his change of expression, before he enlightens me with the following classic sentence, which will stick with me for the rest of my life.
"You appear to have put your decimal point in the wrong place", he naively interjects. At which point, I almost burst out laughing and have to grab my sides to prevent from doing so.
"Don't be so fucking cheeky, now pay the fucking money", she screeches.
My curiosity is now well and truly aroused, prompting me to lean over and examine the bill. With the figure of £320 quid firmly etched in my mind, I am pleasantly surpised to see that we are only being charged £78.40 for our two pints of Carlsberg. The irony, if ever we needed more irony, of it is, we haven't even sipped the froth off probably the most expensive lager in the world.
Chris is still trying to argue that she must mean 7.84, causing our fraudsters behaviour to become even more beligerent. His realisation that she does actually mean 78.40 is comfirmed with an expression of pain.
I know full well that my wallet holds but 20 quid and I offer this to Chris. "You're going to have to make up the rest", I tell him. He opens up his own wallet and takes out a further 30 quid. Our offer of 50 quid is met with irrational disdain. I mean 50quid, and we've not even taken a sip. Once again she screeches "Give me the fucking money".
I decide that enough is enough, leaving the 50 quid on the table, I tell Chris "Come on, we're out of here". Despite his pain at leaving his money on the table, he follows me, as I push past the woman and head for the stairs. This is when she hits some kind of emergency switch which alerts an extremely large doorman of our escape plan. From the bottom of the second staircase, I look up, see the bright lights of the street and think that I am home free. A few steps later, I look up and see that the whole staicase is blocked by a mountain of a man whose frame blocks out every trace of street light. It's like a human solar eclipse. Afore him, is a rather mean looking dog which he has on a tight leash. Why a man of such stature would need such a beast is beyond me. But I am assuming that he is in no mood for a debate on this issue.
"And where the fuck do you think that you are going lads"?, he growls.
I timidly inform him that we have no money, hoping that he has a soft spot for my pathetic whimperings. It turns out that this is not the case.
"Ok, you have 2 choices. You either give us the money, right fucking now or I escort you to the cash point where you give me the money".
Faced with an Hobson's choice of epic proportions we go for the latter of the two options. He escorts up the remaining stairs and we re-emerge into a busy Soho street. Where, for the first time today, our lucks appears to change. A police man is walking past, at exactly the right moment.
"Excuse me, help", I beggingly plea.
The police man looks at me with disinterest.
"We've just paid £78.40 for two beers and were hoping you could help us", I say without pausing for breath.
The police man says "Well, what do you want me to do about it"? Before he exits into the crowd. "Great", I think. If the police are not even prepared to help us, we're goosed.
Suddenly, in a bizarre twist of fate, the doorman turns 180 degrees in his demands and tells us to leave.
"Go on, fuck off, get out of here before I change my mind", he barks at us, before adding "And don't ever come back".
Chris and I head off into the Soho crowd, as quickly as the police man before us. My brain is trying to assimilate what has just occurred within the space of the past 30 minutes. But all that is running through my mind, are the words "And don't ever come back". I know door men are not really known for their brain capacity, and we may look like country bumpkins, but I mean, come on why would we ever go back to a bar that's just tried to charge us £78.40 for the froth of 2 beers? It's not every day when you think you've got lucky by only paying 50 quid for 2 pints of Carlsberg.
Our return to the car park is met by equally bad news. We have been charged 20 quid for our brief stay there.
The country bumpkins trip to London is complete, only another 30 quid's worth of petrol back to Lancashire and we're back to safe ground.
I don't see Chris for another 4 months after our return home, and as for London, it's another 5 years before I dare to return.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Thursday, 26 January 2012
In search of the school girl panties vending machine
Many years ago, I remember reading an article on the sale of used school girls panties from vending machines on the streets of Japan. According to the article, this was a market that was driven by Japanese businessmen, whose perversions had created a veritable gold mine. Now, I am sure that 90 percent of men are excited by the mere mention of Japanese school girls panties. Add the word "used" to the front of these 4 words though and the percentage of those that would admit to still being excited, would probably dramatically decrease (please note the use of the word "admit").
Mention that you are going to Japan these days and people's number 1 question is often focussed on this very topic. We may expect, statements along the line of, "Wow, Japan, I'd love to see Mount Fuji in Autumn", or "You're going to Japan, I've always wanted to see the Golden Temple in Kyoto". Alas no, it seems that the urban myth of the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine is the issue on the tip of many people's tongues (and yes there was a filthy pun intended there).
But is this an urban myth, or does such a vending machine really exist? With an impending trip to Tokyo, I decided to do some Internet research and upon inputting the words "Japanese school girls panties, vending machine" into Google, I was inundated with hits. After, maybe 30 mins of carefully filtering through these results, I was left more confused than when I began. Photo's of these vending machines abounded, although others said that Japanese law had been changed over a decade ago and such machines had been outlawed. It was decided, my trip to Tokyo would focus on this weird and wacky phenomenon and the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine would be my Holy Grail.
A coincidence means that I will start my trip travelling with Taryn, a fellow British, English teacher in Korea. I meet Taryn at Changwon's Namsan bus terminal and we head to Gimhae airport. Before we have already boarded the plane, Taryn informs me that she has had several requests from people, to bring her a pair of used Japanese school girls panties back from Tokyo. "Excellent", I think to myself, I have chosen the right focus for my trip. Taryn, informs me that she will not actually be fulfilling these requests and I assume that at some point there will be a parting of the ways, so that we can both fulfil our hobbies. She is more interested in Japanese art, than panties, although I guess that it could be argued that this is art. A collision of colours, so to speak. Like a Jackson Pollock of bodily fluids, especially when the Japanese business men have finished with them.
A trip to the Imperial Palace, is rather uninteresting, so we head to Shinjuku, the very heart of technological Japan. The streets that you see in "Lost in Translation", a sort of real life "Blade Runner". Huge animated screens dominate the front of buildings, a proliferation of fashion empires such as Gucci and Louis Vuitton, with hordes of professional shoppers peering through their windows in awe, at the latest designs, and people dressed up to the nines in every possible type of fashion, scurrying across multiple road crossings in search of their own Holy Grails.
The juxtaposition of poverty and wealth, as ever in these mega metropolises is extremely evident. Homelessness is rife in Tokyo, the demographic, mainly that of middle aged men. I later try to understand why this is the case and I am led to believe that this was caused by the Asian financial crash of the late 90s. The men in question, full of great shame, decided to up and leave their families, with their tails firmly between their legs. In Tokyo, they would become invisible - just another statistic, swathed in cardboard in the rain. Given Japan's penchant for suicide, I assume that these are the ones that are too scared to carry it out. Their life's without purpose, but their survival instinct stronger than their desire to remove themselves from this world.
Walking through Shinjuku station, I think that we are passing a urinal, the stench of urine is overwhelming and causes me to wretch. I turn around just in time, to notice that a particularly vile looking (and smelling creature) is almost upon me. I rush off, like Usian Bolt leaving the starting blocks, to escape my terrifying fate. Of course, I feel desperately sad when I think about the future that these people have to face, and my mind is consumed with thoughts of how they can survive, with no goals or rewards. My sadness apart, I still find it particularly amusing when we see a tramp couple (yes,I know that this is politically incorrect), having a domestic, by employment of a series of inarticulate grunts. The source of this argument appears to be that the male vagrant, has found a porn magazine which he is hastily flicking through, with his back turned to his irate lady friend. The lady in question is hunched beyond repair and pushing a trolley full of cardboard and paper, from where I guess the horny male has found his prize. Mr Tramp is shielding himself against the wall, with his back turned, not only to his wife but also the hundreds of people that are walking through the underground station shopping mall in search of their Louis Vuitton bags. He in turn, is on search of his penis. Most people seem to ignore the scene that unfolds before them, although how they can ignore the awful smell, is beyond me. Taryn and I try, unsuccessfully to get a sneaky camera shot of the whole episode.
After a ridiculously expensive bowl of soup (normal by Tokyo standards) and a failed trip to a free art gallery, which it turns out is in fact a shop, Taryn looks exhausted and heads off home. I have my suspicions that she is heading for the area of Ginza and its supposed many art galleries, and my suspicions are later confirmed. Anyway, perfect - now to find my Holy Grail.
I know that Kabukichio is the main red light district of Tokyo and is very close to Shinjuku. Where better a place to start my quest than this? I follow a Lonely Planet walking tour of the Shinjuku area which if I navigate correctly will take me to the seedy part of town. Ironically enough, the portal to this district of adult entertainment turns out to be via a temple named Hanazono-jinja. I locate the temple, take a few minutes to watch people praying and then head off through the rear exit into an area called "Golden Gai". "Golden Gai", is a succession of narrow streets, which play host to over 220 drinking dens. These dens are small, bohemian and often xenophobic. Allowing access to nobody but the Japanese. The whole area is an insight into how Japan looked before their post war economic miracle. The Yakuza (Japanese mafia), where actually paid to burn these type of areas down, to make way for economic development in the form of shopping malls and office blocks. The fact that "Golden Gai" still survives today is only down to the endeavours of some of the areas supporters who took turns to guard it at night, to save it from the arsonist's torches.
I contemplate a drink in one of the "Golden Gai" drinking dens but after asking around, I realise that I am too early. "Oh well", I think to myself, "the Holy Grail of perverts is possibly around the next corner". Kabukichio is magnetic North and my loins are the compass. I look ahead and notice activity of a very animated kind, afore me. And there it is, Kabukichio, in all it's pinkness (pink is to Japan, what blue is to the West). A warren of sexual activity.
As I wander the streets, I try to take in my surroundings. Tall, neon illuminated buildings surround me in every direction, each advertising "girlie shows" and indeed the male equivalent. Peep shows, sex shops, strip shows, live sex shows and dvd masturbation cabins. Then there's more specialist stuff advertised, including the ubiquitous "Soapland" establishments. Later research tells me that this is a place where people pay $500 to have have a bath with a prostitute (just a tad overpriced I'd say).
My search for the Holy Grail, continues in a porn dvd room. I am convinced that if anywhere is going to yield results, it's going to be this place. I wander countless aisles, all stacked with an interesting range of Japanese porn. Whatever the perversion, the Japanese school girl seems to be central to its theme. The store is completely full of Japanese men of every age, who have a little pink basket full of porn dvd's. I watch, as they take these baskets to the cash desk, often pausing at one of the shelves of sex toys to stock up on lube or more interestingly, fake rubber vaginas. I observe,as they pay up and disappear through a discrete entrance to what I later find out, is a masturbation room, complete with a comfy sofa, massive screen, tissue dispenser and sink (don't ask). To an outsider, it all seems very civil. The most basic of human impulses, dispensed of in a suitable environment. The men go to such establishments on their way home from work, to rid themselves of their daily stresses. Once they have been relieved of their sexual burdens, they re-enter the relative normality of Japanese society, with their briefcases and their umbrellas replacing their cock's and their lube.
Satisfied with my observations of this side of Japanese life, but dissatisfied in the unsuccessful completion of my task, I head back out into Tokyo's sex filled streets.
Grabbing, an overpriced can of beer from a convenience store, I wander around looking for vending machines. These are so common in Japan however, that when I spot one, my initial excitement is soon replaced by disappointment when I realise that it is actually dispensing beer, or coffee, or snacks or plastic vaginas or lube. I am about to terminate my search and go home, when out of the corner of my eye I spot my "Holy Grail". There it is, in all its pinkness. A vending machine, clearly displaying a picture of a posterior clad in a pair of cotton panties. The machine, is positioned outside a sex shop, the owner of which is sitting outside cautiously guarding his gold mine. I really want to take a photo, but I do not have the nerve. How will his reaction be? Earlier in the day, I tried to take a photo of a pachinko gambling palace and was warned not to. Surely this guy does not want me taking pictures of his holiest of holy. Rather suspiciously, I loiter around the shop entrance, taking casual sips of my beer to help my nerves. The guy does not go, so I hatch a new plan. Ok, so If I can't get a photo - I'll have to purchase the wares.
With the bravery of a Kamikaze pilot, I swoop at the machine and under closer observation note that the price is 5000 yen (approximately 5 quid). With cowardice of an Italian cruise liner captain I make my retreat, to a quiet corner where I can retrieve the said amount from my wallet. In retrospect, taking a photo would have been easier but the goal posts have now been changed. I find a 5000 yen coin, wait for a time when there are fewer people passing by and I charge at the vending machine.
The coin slot is the same as those bubble gum or toy machines machines that you find in the streets in England. In theory, you drop the cash into the slot, turn the little handle and an egg containing your prize falls into a compartment below. With the stealth and accuracy of a Sumo wrestler, I launch at the machine and throw my money into the slot. I grab the handle and with shaking hands and give it a twist. I then watch with horror, as the coin flies through the air (in slow motion), eventually hitting the ground. This is only the beginning of the drama. What had started off as a highly surreptitious act, soon develops into a street drama. The coin, upon hitting the ground, does a few revolutions of the vending machine, which in turn alerts the attention of half of the street. Not known for their hostility, the kind people of Tokyo decide to come to my aid.
Typically, the coin comes to rest under the vending machine, far enough under to not be able to retrieve it. Anywhere, else - no problem. I would just cut my losses and head out of their with my head down. The gathering masses, are having none of it however. I am a guest in Tokyo and they will help me all they can. A couple of guys heave up the machine, whilst I lie on my stomach and pull out the coin. Not satisfied with this, one of the guys takes the coin from my hand, places it in the slot, turns the handle, retrieves the plastic egg containing the panties and hands it to me. I nervously tell him "Arigato" and head off to a less crowded place.
Upon opening the egg, I am greatly perturbed that the panties are neither school girls nor used. They are in fact, a terrible colour of purple, whilst the picture inside is of a mature lady wearing a blue pair of pants that look nothing like the ones in my egg. This disappointment leads me back to the machine to take a photo anyway. The whole act seems less seedy when the contents of the egg are of a less naughty nature.
So, I can neither prove or disprove whether the Japanese used school girls panties, vending machines is indeed an urban myth. But at least I managed to return home with my girlfriend a present from Tokyo.
Mention that you are going to Japan these days and people's number 1 question is often focussed on this very topic. We may expect, statements along the line of, "Wow, Japan, I'd love to see Mount Fuji in Autumn", or "You're going to Japan, I've always wanted to see the Golden Temple in Kyoto". Alas no, it seems that the urban myth of the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine is the issue on the tip of many people's tongues (and yes there was a filthy pun intended there).
But is this an urban myth, or does such a vending machine really exist? With an impending trip to Tokyo, I decided to do some Internet research and upon inputting the words "Japanese school girls panties, vending machine" into Google, I was inundated with hits. After, maybe 30 mins of carefully filtering through these results, I was left more confused than when I began. Photo's of these vending machines abounded, although others said that Japanese law had been changed over a decade ago and such machines had been outlawed. It was decided, my trip to Tokyo would focus on this weird and wacky phenomenon and the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine would be my Holy Grail.
A coincidence means that I will start my trip travelling with Taryn, a fellow British, English teacher in Korea. I meet Taryn at Changwon's Namsan bus terminal and we head to Gimhae airport. Before we have already boarded the plane, Taryn informs me that she has had several requests from people, to bring her a pair of used Japanese school girls panties back from Tokyo. "Excellent", I think to myself, I have chosen the right focus for my trip. Taryn, informs me that she will not actually be fulfilling these requests and I assume that at some point there will be a parting of the ways, so that we can both fulfil our hobbies. She is more interested in Japanese art, than panties, although I guess that it could be argued that this is art. A collision of colours, so to speak. Like a Jackson Pollock of bodily fluids, especially when the Japanese business men have finished with them.
A trip to the Imperial Palace, is rather uninteresting, so we head to Shinjuku, the very heart of technological Japan. The streets that you see in "Lost in Translation", a sort of real life "Blade Runner". Huge animated screens dominate the front of buildings, a proliferation of fashion empires such as Gucci and Louis Vuitton, with hordes of professional shoppers peering through their windows in awe, at the latest designs, and people dressed up to the nines in every possible type of fashion, scurrying across multiple road crossings in search of their own Holy Grails.
The juxtaposition of poverty and wealth, as ever in these mega metropolises is extremely evident. Homelessness is rife in Tokyo, the demographic, mainly that of middle aged men. I later try to understand why this is the case and I am led to believe that this was caused by the Asian financial crash of the late 90s. The men in question, full of great shame, decided to up and leave their families, with their tails firmly between their legs. In Tokyo, they would become invisible - just another statistic, swathed in cardboard in the rain. Given Japan's penchant for suicide, I assume that these are the ones that are too scared to carry it out. Their life's without purpose, but their survival instinct stronger than their desire to remove themselves from this world.
Walking through Shinjuku station, I think that we are passing a urinal, the stench of urine is overwhelming and causes me to wretch. I turn around just in time, to notice that a particularly vile looking (and smelling creature) is almost upon me. I rush off, like Usian Bolt leaving the starting blocks, to escape my terrifying fate. Of course, I feel desperately sad when I think about the future that these people have to face, and my mind is consumed with thoughts of how they can survive, with no goals or rewards. My sadness apart, I still find it particularly amusing when we see a tramp couple (yes,I know that this is politically incorrect), having a domestic, by employment of a series of inarticulate grunts. The source of this argument appears to be that the male vagrant, has found a porn magazine which he is hastily flicking through, with his back turned to his irate lady friend. The lady in question is hunched beyond repair and pushing a trolley full of cardboard and paper, from where I guess the horny male has found his prize. Mr Tramp is shielding himself against the wall, with his back turned, not only to his wife but also the hundreds of people that are walking through the underground station shopping mall in search of their Louis Vuitton bags. He in turn, is on search of his penis. Most people seem to ignore the scene that unfolds before them, although how they can ignore the awful smell, is beyond me. Taryn and I try, unsuccessfully to get a sneaky camera shot of the whole episode.
After a ridiculously expensive bowl of soup (normal by Tokyo standards) and a failed trip to a free art gallery, which it turns out is in fact a shop, Taryn looks exhausted and heads off home. I have my suspicions that she is heading for the area of Ginza and its supposed many art galleries, and my suspicions are later confirmed. Anyway, perfect - now to find my Holy Grail.
I know that Kabukichio is the main red light district of Tokyo and is very close to Shinjuku. Where better a place to start my quest than this? I follow a Lonely Planet walking tour of the Shinjuku area which if I navigate correctly will take me to the seedy part of town. Ironically enough, the portal to this district of adult entertainment turns out to be via a temple named Hanazono-jinja. I locate the temple, take a few minutes to watch people praying and then head off through the rear exit into an area called "Golden Gai". "Golden Gai", is a succession of narrow streets, which play host to over 220 drinking dens. These dens are small, bohemian and often xenophobic. Allowing access to nobody but the Japanese. The whole area is an insight into how Japan looked before their post war economic miracle. The Yakuza (Japanese mafia), where actually paid to burn these type of areas down, to make way for economic development in the form of shopping malls and office blocks. The fact that "Golden Gai" still survives today is only down to the endeavours of some of the areas supporters who took turns to guard it at night, to save it from the arsonist's torches.
I contemplate a drink in one of the "Golden Gai" drinking dens but after asking around, I realise that I am too early. "Oh well", I think to myself, "the Holy Grail of perverts is possibly around the next corner". Kabukichio is magnetic North and my loins are the compass. I look ahead and notice activity of a very animated kind, afore me. And there it is, Kabukichio, in all it's pinkness (pink is to Japan, what blue is to the West). A warren of sexual activity.
As I wander the streets, I try to take in my surroundings. Tall, neon illuminated buildings surround me in every direction, each advertising "girlie shows" and indeed the male equivalent. Peep shows, sex shops, strip shows, live sex shows and dvd masturbation cabins. Then there's more specialist stuff advertised, including the ubiquitous "Soapland" establishments. Later research tells me that this is a place where people pay $500 to have have a bath with a prostitute (just a tad overpriced I'd say).
My search for the Holy Grail, continues in a porn dvd room. I am convinced that if anywhere is going to yield results, it's going to be this place. I wander countless aisles, all stacked with an interesting range of Japanese porn. Whatever the perversion, the Japanese school girl seems to be central to its theme. The store is completely full of Japanese men of every age, who have a little pink basket full of porn dvd's. I watch, as they take these baskets to the cash desk, often pausing at one of the shelves of sex toys to stock up on lube or more interestingly, fake rubber vaginas. I observe,as they pay up and disappear through a discrete entrance to what I later find out, is a masturbation room, complete with a comfy sofa, massive screen, tissue dispenser and sink (don't ask). To an outsider, it all seems very civil. The most basic of human impulses, dispensed of in a suitable environment. The men go to such establishments on their way home from work, to rid themselves of their daily stresses. Once they have been relieved of their sexual burdens, they re-enter the relative normality of Japanese society, with their briefcases and their umbrellas replacing their cock's and their lube.
Satisfied with my observations of this side of Japanese life, but dissatisfied in the unsuccessful completion of my task, I head back out into Tokyo's sex filled streets.
Grabbing, an overpriced can of beer from a convenience store, I wander around looking for vending machines. These are so common in Japan however, that when I spot one, my initial excitement is soon replaced by disappointment when I realise that it is actually dispensing beer, or coffee, or snacks or plastic vaginas or lube. I am about to terminate my search and go home, when out of the corner of my eye I spot my "Holy Grail". There it is, in all its pinkness. A vending machine, clearly displaying a picture of a posterior clad in a pair of cotton panties. The machine, is positioned outside a sex shop, the owner of which is sitting outside cautiously guarding his gold mine. I really want to take a photo, but I do not have the nerve. How will his reaction be? Earlier in the day, I tried to take a photo of a pachinko gambling palace and was warned not to. Surely this guy does not want me taking pictures of his holiest of holy. Rather suspiciously, I loiter around the shop entrance, taking casual sips of my beer to help my nerves. The guy does not go, so I hatch a new plan. Ok, so If I can't get a photo - I'll have to purchase the wares.
With the bravery of a Kamikaze pilot, I swoop at the machine and under closer observation note that the price is 5000 yen (approximately 5 quid). With cowardice of an Italian cruise liner captain I make my retreat, to a quiet corner where I can retrieve the said amount from my wallet. In retrospect, taking a photo would have been easier but the goal posts have now been changed. I find a 5000 yen coin, wait for a time when there are fewer people passing by and I charge at the vending machine.
The coin slot is the same as those bubble gum or toy machines machines that you find in the streets in England. In theory, you drop the cash into the slot, turn the little handle and an egg containing your prize falls into a compartment below. With the stealth and accuracy of a Sumo wrestler, I launch at the machine and throw my money into the slot. I grab the handle and with shaking hands and give it a twist. I then watch with horror, as the coin flies through the air (in slow motion), eventually hitting the ground. This is only the beginning of the drama. What had started off as a highly surreptitious act, soon develops into a street drama. The coin, upon hitting the ground, does a few revolutions of the vending machine, which in turn alerts the attention of half of the street. Not known for their hostility, the kind people of Tokyo decide to come to my aid.
Typically, the coin comes to rest under the vending machine, far enough under to not be able to retrieve it. Anywhere, else - no problem. I would just cut my losses and head out of their with my head down. The gathering masses, are having none of it however. I am a guest in Tokyo and they will help me all they can. A couple of guys heave up the machine, whilst I lie on my stomach and pull out the coin. Not satisfied with this, one of the guys takes the coin from my hand, places it in the slot, turns the handle, retrieves the plastic egg containing the panties and hands it to me. I nervously tell him "Arigato" and head off to a less crowded place.
Upon opening the egg, I am greatly perturbed that the panties are neither school girls nor used. They are in fact, a terrible colour of purple, whilst the picture inside is of a mature lady wearing a blue pair of pants that look nothing like the ones in my egg. This disappointment leads me back to the machine to take a photo anyway. The whole act seems less seedy when the contents of the egg are of a less naughty nature.
So, I can neither prove or disprove whether the Japanese used school girls panties, vending machines is indeed an urban myth. But at least I managed to return home with my girlfriend a present from Tokyo.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
A Mongolian Comedy part 2 - Whose gonna run with your wild horses (not us that's for sure).
After what feels like and eternity, we are beyond the communist block architecture of U.B (it takes us so long to escape that I already feel that I am qualified to use the initials). Instantly, as if by magic, the grass becomes lushly green and the azure skies seem to go on forever, punctuated by mash potato clouds, which look almost edible. But it is the vast open landscape that gets me the most. Of course, I have the worst seat in the van, at this point (one that faces backwards)and therefore I get to see UB's ugly cityscape, disappearing as the van bumps off in the direction of Central Mongolia.
Saskia, Gerrard and Danielle, meanwhile are treated to the delights of Mongolia from the relative luxury of a forward facing seat. Over the period of the next 10 days, I am to learn that you take the luxuries whilst you can whilst in Mongolia. They are few and far between. This is a country, where a "real toilet" is as rare as Sikh in a crash helmet and a packet of wet wipes is as welcome as a power shower in a 5 star hotel. Indeed, the over excitement that I feel, when we make one of the few shop stops over the period of the next 10 days, increases my heart beat so acutely, that I will ultimately, probably lose 5 years of my life.
Saskia, who know's a little French becomes our interpreter. I am thanking my lucky stars, that I never continued my own endeavours into learning the French language, beyond "Bon jour, je mapelle Andy". She is coping well now, but I imagine after 10 days of translating the conversation, it can all become a tad tedious - especially because Gerrard's hearing is virtually non-existent. After a while, when the beauty of the landscape has become slightly more passe, I sit and listen to their conversation, whilst trying to understand the dialogue.
Gerrard: "En what is your nom, my petit pois d'allemagne?"
Saskia: "Zaskia, is mine naam, dat is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Pardon madamme", je nom, je nom".
Saskia: "Dat is mine naam, Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Catherine, Sally, oh no, no, no, no, no - c'est bon".
Saskia: "Nine, het is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Actually as it turns out, my imagined dialogue is not far wrong and it only clicks with Gerrard on day 5, that her name is in fact Saskia (with an s). Suddenly, after a quiet period of after dinner reflection Gerrard bursts into animation and shouts "Ah ah Saskia, c'est bon".
Danielle's irritation towards Saskia is already starting to surface. By the end of the trip, you could cut the atmosphere between Danielle and Saskia with a knife, right now you could just about prod it with a fork. Danielle, is not one for hiding her disdain and Saskia's ever increasing selfishness becomes more apparent with every passing kilometre. Saskia, has extremely long legs and they seem to want to take up every bit of available space in the van, regardless of what stands in their way. I am convinced that her legs increase in length, in direct proportion to Danielle's annoyance.
We are told that the highlight of today is going to be a glimpse of Mongolia's famous wild horses. The chances of this seem to diminish rapidly when the only petrol station for miles appears to be either closed, out of fuel or they simply can't be arsed to sell us any gas. Our driver informs us that we will try again tomorrow and we head back in the direction whence we just came. Soon, we leave the sealed road surface and take one of Mongolia's abundant small tracks that heads off into the distant hills. I am assuming that satellite navigation would not have a clue where to send you in a country where dirt tracks criss-cross across the landscape in every conceivable direction. Our scepticism at the drivers knowledge and driving skills increases with haste, as the van appears to hit every seemingly avoidable bump on the track. It's almost as if he is testing our endurance levels, the judgment of which, is the amount of screaming we do, as our skulls make another dent in the van roof. I look at the disgust on Saskia's face and know that she's longing for some "Vorsprung durch Technik", right now.
A sign post informs us that we have entered a national park, but to be honest, it looks no different than the rest of Mongolia (which is not a bad thing). A sudden increase in tourist camps, full of luxury gers, is the only indication that this geographical metamorphous has occurred. We enter one of the tourist camps, for a shop and toilet stop, and I take a nosey in one of the gers. It's pretty plush, with a detailed carpet and some ornate furniture around the place. It is certainly not worth the infeasible amount of extra money that these suckers pay though. The authenticity of the the whole Mongolia experience is surely detracted from, by electing for such perceived luxury.
We are now on the hunt for the Mongolian wild horses, the increased attentitiveness of the driver to his surroundings is testament to this fact. A pity that this further awareness does not extend to the actual road. Whilst the anxiety level of the rest of the vans occupants intensifies with every near miss, Gerrard seems to be positely enjoying himself. "Oui, oui , oui c'est bon", he screams as all 4 wheels leave the ground. Maybe this is what happens when one is in the twilight years of their life. You literally, don't give a damn.
Somewhere in all the excitement, the azure skies have turned black, although sunlight is still penetrating the clouds and illuminating the landscape in such a manner that it looks like it's been touched by the hand of god. The colours are magnificent, almost like they look when lsd enters one's system and perception of everything is infinitely heightened. We quickly make another toilet stop before the heavens open up. The driver mumbles something to the guide, who then informs us all that the little bushes that we see dominating the landscape are in fact poisonous and therefore all contact with the skin should be avoided at all costs. I pay particular attention to this warning because I am wearing shorts and don't fancy a hospital stop in this lovely but I assume medically backwards land.
Urgently wishing to empty my bladder, I vigorously slide open the van door and jump out. "Argh, argh, arrgh", I inarticulately yell, as I realise that I have jumped straight into a poisonous plant. "Nice one numb nuts", I think to myself and cast an angry look in his direction. His vacuous countenance, does little to suggest that this is a man, who has just given a poisonous plant warning and then parked right in front of the aforementioned plant. Fortunately, the plant is either not as poisonous as he suggests or I am as hard as nails. The scales, I guess are balanced more in the favour of his stupidity. I wonder to myself if I should piss on my legs just in case the sting takes a while to surface, but decide against it when it occurs to me that I always urinate down my legs regardless.
Whilst we are all pissing, nature decides to brighten up our lives once more with a fantastic double rainbow. Under the beautiful light of one of natures finest treats, we all make our own golden rainbows and head back to the van. However, we are soon to find out that not all the soldiers have returned to the barracks (read on).
Our first indication that something is happening comes when the driver's grunts become almost intelligible. It is apparent that he has spotted something, and he brings the van to a sudden halt. In the few seconds that have elapsed, as this latest scene has been panning out, I have noticed out of the corner of my eye that Danielle seems to be going through her own personal drama. The look of anguish on her face is testament to this fact. I am about to enquire what the problem is, but before I do so, the guide shouts "There, there, look on the horizon". I cast my eyes in the direction that she points but I am rewarded by nothing. After, a minute or so, I turn my attention back to Danielle and following the requests that she makes via her discrete head gestures, my eyes divert in the direction of Gerrard's groin area. For my efforts, I am rewarded, not by a glimpse of a Mongolian wild horse but instead by a French wild snake, which is currently hanging out of the side of his shorts.
It's a close call to say what we see more of over the next 10 days, the famous Mongolian wild horse, or the lesser known by equally frequently spotted French wild snake.
Saskia, Gerrard and Danielle, meanwhile are treated to the delights of Mongolia from the relative luxury of a forward facing seat. Over the period of the next 10 days, I am to learn that you take the luxuries whilst you can whilst in Mongolia. They are few and far between. This is a country, where a "real toilet" is as rare as Sikh in a crash helmet and a packet of wet wipes is as welcome as a power shower in a 5 star hotel. Indeed, the over excitement that I feel, when we make one of the few shop stops over the period of the next 10 days, increases my heart beat so acutely, that I will ultimately, probably lose 5 years of my life.
Saskia, who know's a little French becomes our interpreter. I am thanking my lucky stars, that I never continued my own endeavours into learning the French language, beyond "Bon jour, je mapelle Andy". She is coping well now, but I imagine after 10 days of translating the conversation, it can all become a tad tedious - especially because Gerrard's hearing is virtually non-existent. After a while, when the beauty of the landscape has become slightly more passe, I sit and listen to their conversation, whilst trying to understand the dialogue.
Gerrard: "En what is your nom, my petit pois d'allemagne?"
Saskia: "Zaskia, is mine naam, dat is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Pardon madamme", je nom, je nom".
Saskia: "Dat is mine naam, Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Catherine, Sally, oh no, no, no, no, no - c'est bon".
Saskia: "Nine, het is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Actually as it turns out, my imagined dialogue is not far wrong and it only clicks with Gerrard on day 5, that her name is in fact Saskia (with an s). Suddenly, after a quiet period of after dinner reflection Gerrard bursts into animation and shouts "Ah ah Saskia, c'est bon".
Danielle's irritation towards Saskia is already starting to surface. By the end of the trip, you could cut the atmosphere between Danielle and Saskia with a knife, right now you could just about prod it with a fork. Danielle, is not one for hiding her disdain and Saskia's ever increasing selfishness becomes more apparent with every passing kilometre. Saskia, has extremely long legs and they seem to want to take up every bit of available space in the van, regardless of what stands in their way. I am convinced that her legs increase in length, in direct proportion to Danielle's annoyance.
We are told that the highlight of today is going to be a glimpse of Mongolia's famous wild horses. The chances of this seem to diminish rapidly when the only petrol station for miles appears to be either closed, out of fuel or they simply can't be arsed to sell us any gas. Our driver informs us that we will try again tomorrow and we head back in the direction whence we just came. Soon, we leave the sealed road surface and take one of Mongolia's abundant small tracks that heads off into the distant hills. I am assuming that satellite navigation would not have a clue where to send you in a country where dirt tracks criss-cross across the landscape in every conceivable direction. Our scepticism at the drivers knowledge and driving skills increases with haste, as the van appears to hit every seemingly avoidable bump on the track. It's almost as if he is testing our endurance levels, the judgment of which, is the amount of screaming we do, as our skulls make another dent in the van roof. I look at the disgust on Saskia's face and know that she's longing for some "Vorsprung durch Technik", right now.
A sign post informs us that we have entered a national park, but to be honest, it looks no different than the rest of Mongolia (which is not a bad thing). A sudden increase in tourist camps, full of luxury gers, is the only indication that this geographical metamorphous has occurred. We enter one of the tourist camps, for a shop and toilet stop, and I take a nosey in one of the gers. It's pretty plush, with a detailed carpet and some ornate furniture around the place. It is certainly not worth the infeasible amount of extra money that these suckers pay though. The authenticity of the the whole Mongolia experience is surely detracted from, by electing for such perceived luxury.
We are now on the hunt for the Mongolian wild horses, the increased attentitiveness of the driver to his surroundings is testament to this fact. A pity that this further awareness does not extend to the actual road. Whilst the anxiety level of the rest of the vans occupants intensifies with every near miss, Gerrard seems to be positely enjoying himself. "Oui, oui , oui c'est bon", he screams as all 4 wheels leave the ground. Maybe this is what happens when one is in the twilight years of their life. You literally, don't give a damn.
Somewhere in all the excitement, the azure skies have turned black, although sunlight is still penetrating the clouds and illuminating the landscape in such a manner that it looks like it's been touched by the hand of god. The colours are magnificent, almost like they look when lsd enters one's system and perception of everything is infinitely heightened. We quickly make another toilet stop before the heavens open up. The driver mumbles something to the guide, who then informs us all that the little bushes that we see dominating the landscape are in fact poisonous and therefore all contact with the skin should be avoided at all costs. I pay particular attention to this warning because I am wearing shorts and don't fancy a hospital stop in this lovely but I assume medically backwards land.
Urgently wishing to empty my bladder, I vigorously slide open the van door and jump out. "Argh, argh, arrgh", I inarticulately yell, as I realise that I have jumped straight into a poisonous plant. "Nice one numb nuts", I think to myself and cast an angry look in his direction. His vacuous countenance, does little to suggest that this is a man, who has just given a poisonous plant warning and then parked right in front of the aforementioned plant. Fortunately, the plant is either not as poisonous as he suggests or I am as hard as nails. The scales, I guess are balanced more in the favour of his stupidity. I wonder to myself if I should piss on my legs just in case the sting takes a while to surface, but decide against it when it occurs to me that I always urinate down my legs regardless.
Whilst we are all pissing, nature decides to brighten up our lives once more with a fantastic double rainbow. Under the beautiful light of one of natures finest treats, we all make our own golden rainbows and head back to the van. However, we are soon to find out that not all the soldiers have returned to the barracks (read on).
Our first indication that something is happening comes when the driver's grunts become almost intelligible. It is apparent that he has spotted something, and he brings the van to a sudden halt. In the few seconds that have elapsed, as this latest scene has been panning out, I have noticed out of the corner of my eye that Danielle seems to be going through her own personal drama. The look of anguish on her face is testament to this fact. I am about to enquire what the problem is, but before I do so, the guide shouts "There, there, look on the horizon". I cast my eyes in the direction that she points but I am rewarded by nothing. After, a minute or so, I turn my attention back to Danielle and following the requests that she makes via her discrete head gestures, my eyes divert in the direction of Gerrard's groin area. For my efforts, I am rewarded, not by a glimpse of a Mongolian wild horse but instead by a French wild snake, which is currently hanging out of the side of his shorts.
It's a close call to say what we see more of over the next 10 days, the famous Mongolian wild horse, or the lesser known by equally frequently spotted French wild snake.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
A Mongolian Comedy Part 1 Leaving Ulan Bator
When I decided to do take a 2 week trip around Mongolia, I did not expect a picnic in the Ardennes, nor did I expect to be end up upside down in ancient Russian van splattered in my travel partners blood. But when you like to travel as much as I do, you pays your money and you takes your chances.
After two uneventful days in Ulan Bator, my travel partner Danielle and I, board our van. Over the past few days we have seen many battered old Russian mini-vans around town and have become quite excited about the prospect of travelling around Mongolia in such a vehicle. Needless to say, we are both disappointed when we are herded into a rather modern looking Nissan. Little did we know that this luxury would only last until we got to the outskirts of Ulan Bator. A few days later and we would be begging for the plush seats of the Nissan.
Whilst we were waiting for the Nissan to arrive and be loaded, Danielle and I had the first glimpse of 2 of our new travel partners. The first, a young German girl by the name of Saskia, conversed with us for a while and seemed pleasant enough. Over the course of the next 10 days, we are to find out that these pleasantries do not extend to the sharing of the forward facing seats. The only luxury that one gets on a trip of such undertaking. Of course I had heard of, and witnessed for myself, the Germans laying their towels out on the sun beds at 5 am on the Costa del Sol. What I did not realise however was that this behaviour was a common German trait, to be displayed in any location outside of the Fatherland. Exchange the towels for an inflatable head cushion and a rather large bag (full of things, that were self consumed), and there you have Saskia, relaxing in her luxuriously comfy, forward facing seat, stuffing her face with the aforementioned goodies.
During breakfast, a commotion had broken out in one of the common areas of the Golden Gobi guest house. My curious disposition had got the better of me, as often it does, and I found myself witnessing a scene of great hilarity. A very aged gentleman of French origin, was stumbling around the place, closely followed by a legion of people, who were helping him search for his hat. It soon became apparent that the gentleman was of seriously impaired vision and hearing to match. His English, it would seem, did not extend to anything beyond "Oh no, no, no - oh, no, no , no , no , no , no", with a "C'est bon", thrown in at the end of every sentence of No's. After 2 minutes of hilarious observation, it became blatantly obvious that this was not just any old man. He was a stubborn character, with I assumed, a few stories to tell (to anybody with a knowledge of French). I never would have guessed that within the hour, I would be escorting him around the supermarket, helping him to fill his basket with cheese, red wine and any other French goody, he could get his hands on. - "Yes, yes, yes, yes , yes - c'est bon". Our search to find him a hat, is however in vain. This was to become my job for the rest of the trip.
So there, we have it -or so we thought. A luxurious Nissan, with a driver whose name I could never remember, a selfish (forward facing German), a fantastically stubborn Frenchman, Danielle and myself (you can make your own judgements about me and Danielle - we'll learn more about Danielle later). Oh yes, and our 1st guide - whose name I have long since forgotten and who we thought was amazing, until she turned weird on day 2 and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
Prior research for the trip had led Danielle and I to believe that we would be lucky if we only had 6 people crammed into an ancient Russian van. Our cosy little party of 5, stretched out in our deluxe Nissan people carrier, felt too good to be true, and that's because it wasn't. Within a day there would be 8 of us packed like sardines into the most decrepit mini-van in the whole of Mongolia.
Mongolia, let me tell you, is the 4th least densely populated country on Earth, only preceded by Western Sahara, the Falkland Islands, and at number 1, Greenland. With land mass of 1,564,116 km2, and a population of only 1.7 million people, one would expect better movement than a Jane Fonda workout. This, we were to find out, is not the case. Leaving, Ulan Bator is by no means a pleasant experience. Whilst being the only truly nomadic country in the world these days, with people dwelling all over this vast and pleasant land in their gers (which I will discuss later) - it's capital city, does not share the rest of the country's spatial harmony. A mass of vehicles fight to get out of the place, with the blaring of horns, shouting of expletives and general mayhem, making for a positively uncomfortable experience (especially when you need to take a piss). Our driver, whose knowledge of the city, we wrongly assume, is second to none, decides to take a short cut over the most bumpy terrain a man is likely to encounter in his existence on this planet. Maybe a moon buggy, could have conquered this environment, but our Nissan is certainly no veteran of a lunar lanscape and consequently we were thrown around the van like a bunch of pinballs. It does not take a cartographer to lead us to the conclusion that we are lost. That's right, less than an hour into our trip around the 19th largest country in the World and our driver does not appear to have a clue where he is going. In retrospect, we should have seen this as a sign of things to come.
Only 5 percent of Mongolia's roads are paved, mainly in and around Ulan Bator. We are now lost somewhere within the city's limits and there is not a sealed surface to be seen. Although, we can see green rolling hills in the distance, which by the way remind me of the Sound of Music, the immediate landscape is more reminiscent of an apocalyptic wasteland. We've already seen enough gers to satisfy our gerosity, and our patience is running thin. But hey! we have only another 10 days to go.
By the time we reach our first destination, somewhere on the outskirts of Ulan Bator or U.B as the locals like to call it, we are battered and bruised and have seen more used toilet paper than a peep show cabinet floor (more on this later - the paper, not the peep show). Rather than pity him, I am beginning to envy Gerrard's (French guy)visual and aural impairments. And then we see it! The Green Goddess, the Russian Rattler, The Soviet Sausage - call it what you will, it is now that we see our chariot for the next 10 days and it would not look out of place in a scrap yard. With reluctance we exit our luxurious Nissan Wet Dream, and as we enter the new vehicle, our destiny's are sealed. I offer to assist Gerrard to the best seat, but before I am able to do so, Saskia has pole vaulted him and landed facing forward in the proposed spot. "Gerrard, are you ok"? I ask him in my attempted best French accent. "Oui, oui, oui, oui - c'est bon", he avidly replies. Our journey begins.
After two uneventful days in Ulan Bator, my travel partner Danielle and I, board our van. Over the past few days we have seen many battered old Russian mini-vans around town and have become quite excited about the prospect of travelling around Mongolia in such a vehicle. Needless to say, we are both disappointed when we are herded into a rather modern looking Nissan. Little did we know that this luxury would only last until we got to the outskirts of Ulan Bator. A few days later and we would be begging for the plush seats of the Nissan.
Whilst we were waiting for the Nissan to arrive and be loaded, Danielle and I had the first glimpse of 2 of our new travel partners. The first, a young German girl by the name of Saskia, conversed with us for a while and seemed pleasant enough. Over the course of the next 10 days, we are to find out that these pleasantries do not extend to the sharing of the forward facing seats. The only luxury that one gets on a trip of such undertaking. Of course I had heard of, and witnessed for myself, the Germans laying their towels out on the sun beds at 5 am on the Costa del Sol. What I did not realise however was that this behaviour was a common German trait, to be displayed in any location outside of the Fatherland. Exchange the towels for an inflatable head cushion and a rather large bag (full of things, that were self consumed), and there you have Saskia, relaxing in her luxuriously comfy, forward facing seat, stuffing her face with the aforementioned goodies.
During breakfast, a commotion had broken out in one of the common areas of the Golden Gobi guest house. My curious disposition had got the better of me, as often it does, and I found myself witnessing a scene of great hilarity. A very aged gentleman of French origin, was stumbling around the place, closely followed by a legion of people, who were helping him search for his hat. It soon became apparent that the gentleman was of seriously impaired vision and hearing to match. His English, it would seem, did not extend to anything beyond "Oh no, no, no - oh, no, no , no , no , no , no", with a "C'est bon", thrown in at the end of every sentence of No's. After 2 minutes of hilarious observation, it became blatantly obvious that this was not just any old man. He was a stubborn character, with I assumed, a few stories to tell (to anybody with a knowledge of French). I never would have guessed that within the hour, I would be escorting him around the supermarket, helping him to fill his basket with cheese, red wine and any other French goody, he could get his hands on. - "Yes, yes, yes, yes , yes - c'est bon". Our search to find him a hat, is however in vain. This was to become my job for the rest of the trip.
So there, we have it -or so we thought. A luxurious Nissan, with a driver whose name I could never remember, a selfish (forward facing German), a fantastically stubborn Frenchman, Danielle and myself (you can make your own judgements about me and Danielle - we'll learn more about Danielle later). Oh yes, and our 1st guide - whose name I have long since forgotten and who we thought was amazing, until she turned weird on day 2 and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
Prior research for the trip had led Danielle and I to believe that we would be lucky if we only had 6 people crammed into an ancient Russian van. Our cosy little party of 5, stretched out in our deluxe Nissan people carrier, felt too good to be true, and that's because it wasn't. Within a day there would be 8 of us packed like sardines into the most decrepit mini-van in the whole of Mongolia.
Mongolia, let me tell you, is the 4th least densely populated country on Earth, only preceded by Western Sahara, the Falkland Islands, and at number 1, Greenland. With land mass of 1,564,116 km2, and a population of only 1.7 million people, one would expect better movement than a Jane Fonda workout. This, we were to find out, is not the case. Leaving, Ulan Bator is by no means a pleasant experience. Whilst being the only truly nomadic country in the world these days, with people dwelling all over this vast and pleasant land in their gers (which I will discuss later) - it's capital city, does not share the rest of the country's spatial harmony. A mass of vehicles fight to get out of the place, with the blaring of horns, shouting of expletives and general mayhem, making for a positively uncomfortable experience (especially when you need to take a piss). Our driver, whose knowledge of the city, we wrongly assume, is second to none, decides to take a short cut over the most bumpy terrain a man is likely to encounter in his existence on this planet. Maybe a moon buggy, could have conquered this environment, but our Nissan is certainly no veteran of a lunar lanscape and consequently we were thrown around the van like a bunch of pinballs. It does not take a cartographer to lead us to the conclusion that we are lost. That's right, less than an hour into our trip around the 19th largest country in the World and our driver does not appear to have a clue where he is going. In retrospect, we should have seen this as a sign of things to come.
Only 5 percent of Mongolia's roads are paved, mainly in and around Ulan Bator. We are now lost somewhere within the city's limits and there is not a sealed surface to be seen. Although, we can see green rolling hills in the distance, which by the way remind me of the Sound of Music, the immediate landscape is more reminiscent of an apocalyptic wasteland. We've already seen enough gers to satisfy our gerosity, and our patience is running thin. But hey! we have only another 10 days to go.
By the time we reach our first destination, somewhere on the outskirts of Ulan Bator or U.B as the locals like to call it, we are battered and bruised and have seen more used toilet paper than a peep show cabinet floor (more on this later - the paper, not the peep show). Rather than pity him, I am beginning to envy Gerrard's (French guy)visual and aural impairments. And then we see it! The Green Goddess, the Russian Rattler, The Soviet Sausage - call it what you will, it is now that we see our chariot for the next 10 days and it would not look out of place in a scrap yard. With reluctance we exit our luxurious Nissan Wet Dream, and as we enter the new vehicle, our destiny's are sealed. I offer to assist Gerrard to the best seat, but before I am able to do so, Saskia has pole vaulted him and landed facing forward in the proposed spot. "Gerrard, are you ok"? I ask him in my attempted best French accent. "Oui, oui, oui, oui - c'est bon", he avidly replies. Our journey begins.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Eulogy
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
All that glitters is not a glow worm (Erm, are you sure dad?)
To say that my dad is slightly pessimistic, is like saying that the American government is slightly corrupt, or male Korean pop stars are slightly effeminate. To say that my dad is a little resolute in his thinking, is like saying the Israeli's are a little trigger happy or the South African's are a little racist.
That is to say, my dad is a pessimistic, resolute prick at times. But he's funny and I love him, as do most people - and that's why he gets away with it (usually).
The Mittons are on a tour of New Zealand in a campervan. Now if that is not a recipe for disaster I don't know what is! In fact there are far too many incidents to document in one story, so here is a quick summary of some of the events that occurred in the run up to us arriving at Te Ana-au Caves (where this story plays out).
Day 1 - My parents emerge late at the airport arrivals gate, where I am waiting for them. Mum is flummoxed because she has lost her sleeping bag on the carousel (never to be retrieved). By 8 o'clock that evening, the sleeping bag incident is irrelevant, as she realises that she has left her travel bag containing passports, air tickets and $5000 NZ in cash - on the bus. Amazingly we get it back. The holiday continues in similar vain. During the 4 week period, we almost kill an endangered species bird (by feeding it a jelly bean), we break the campervan windscreen, leave the porta toilet at a beauty spot by mistake, crash the campervan 4 times (all of which are worthy of their own stories), and for the grand finale, our camper van gets broken into, whilst we bathe at Hotwater Bay. This time we lose the aforementioned travel bag forever, including the passports, air tickets and around $3000 NZ in cash. My dad also gets his rucksack stolen and spends much of the remaining part of the holiday wearing my mum's clothing - including her tights. He seems a little too comfortable with this situation if I am to be honest.
We arrive on the banks of Te-Ana-au Lake late in the afternoon. Like most of New Zealand, the scenery is magnificent. However, the scenery is not our primary reason for being here. We are here to see glow worms. Or should I say, my mum and I are here to see glow worms. My dad, meanwhile seems resolute in proving that they do not really exist and are just a ploy by the New Zealand tourist board to get people to part with their hard earned cash (We're pretty good at that without an excuse). As we wait for the boat to take us through the glow worm caves, we sit in the cafe/museum, and educate ourselves on these most peculiar of insects. After much evaluation of the photo's and information available to him, dad comes up with his theory, which he feels obliged to share with the rest of the eagerly awaiting customers.
"They're not real you know", he informs everybody. "They spray paint the cavern roof with some kind of phospherant spray", he interjects. He says this with such conviction that the people around start to take note, and half believe the pessimistic dribble that he spouts. The kids faces drop, as if they have just found out that Santa Claus is really their dad. They turn to their parents, for confirmation of any truth in my dad's theory. The parents scowl at my dad and try to convince their kids that is indeed not the case. They have just forked out a small fortune to take their kids through one of natures magical kingdoms and some lunatic is adamant on disproving that the phenomenon even exists. When my dad returns to our table, he attempts to sit on an invisible chair (which a disgruntled parent is currently sitting on)and he consequently crashes to the floor. This is met by more than a few chortles around the room (he is to have a sore arse for the rest of the holiday).
Eventually, the boat, which is going to propel us through the cavern, arrives. We are assigned a guide, who helps us with our life jackets and gives us a run down on the do's and don’ts of our trip.
There is an air of authority to the guide's voice as he delivers his speech. Most people listen intently and nod their heads in agreement, at what he has to say. My dad however, was never the type to abide by the rules, especially when he has got it into his head that the glow worms don't even exist. He turns to me and my mum, and tells us that this is nonsense, "They're only saying it to cover their tracks", he rather loudly informs us. Once again, The Mitton's become the focus of everybody else's agitation
Here are the rules.
Rule 1. Please do not touch formations. Stalactites and stalagmites take a long time to form. They are easily discoloured by people touching them and the more fragile formations can break. Please help us protect the beauty of the cave.
Rule 2.. To protect the cave atmosphere and for the enjoyment and consideration of others, we ask that you do not smoke in the cave.
All photography is strictly forbidden. This includes non-flash photography and video.
Rule 3.. Keep quiet at all times, especially in the boat and on the jetties.
The 4th and final rule is relayed to us in such a serious manner, that only a fool would not obey it.
Rule 4. Under no circumstances must anybody attempt to touch the glow worms.
With our life jackets on and these rules firmly established, we head off into to the darkness, our guide pulling us, by aid of an overhead rope. Inside the cavern, it is pitch black and I mean pitch black. I place my hand in front of what I believe to be my face - I see nothing. In combination with the silence and cold, this leads to quite an eerie trip through the cavern, until we reach the magical kingdom of the glow worm caves.
If you didn't know better, you may think that you are in an observatory or a planetarium, looking out at a galaxy of twinkling stars. A feast of celestial activity, metres above our heads. Indeed, this is what the Maori's first thought when they discovered the caves. I can feel the gasps of pleasure and wonderment as the others on the boat take in this fantastic spectacle. For the next few minutes, our boat silently cuts its way through the water, as we all admire one of nature's treats. Everybody, that is except my dad, who it transpires has been hatching a plan.
Suddenly, I become aware of one particular glow worm which has broken away from the cluster. In my head, it's a breakaway planet, floating in space. It's incandescent glow, drawing me in, entrancing me, like I have never been entranced before. However, with 5 seconds, I am to be rudely snapped out of my hypnosis, as the vessel that protects us from the icy cavern waters, shudders violently, first to the left and then to the right. In a split second, the tranquility of the cave is shattered by the extended vocal chords of the tour guide as he booms the following sentence,
"You stupid man, I told you not to touch the glow worms"
Of course, my mum and I, and all the boat, as it turns out - know straight away who is responsible for this sudden interlude in proceedings. With a mixture of fear and embarrassment I slowly turn my head to the left, where my father is sitting.
The sheer darkness of the cave is penetrated by an enormous beam of light, at the end of which my father's ridiculous grinning face is illuminated. The torch beam, swiftly moves to the left, to reveal my dad's hand with a clearly defined glow worm balanced on the end of his finger. The whole scene is not too dissimilar from E.T, when he tries to phone home. Once again, the silence of the cavern is broken by the tutting of a boatful of disgruntled customers.
My dad responds with the only defence that he has left in his arsenal of stubbornness.
"I told you that they are not real", he whispers, with the conviction of a battered housewife.
Our pleasure trip terminated early, our party head back for the jetty. The serenity of the cave, is now punctuated by customer's complaints, my dad's whispering denials and me and my mum's frenetic giggles.
That is to say, my dad is a pessimistic, resolute prick at times. But he's funny and I love him, as do most people - and that's why he gets away with it (usually).
The Mittons are on a tour of New Zealand in a campervan. Now if that is not a recipe for disaster I don't know what is! In fact there are far too many incidents to document in one story, so here is a quick summary of some of the events that occurred in the run up to us arriving at Te Ana-au Caves (where this story plays out).
Day 1 - My parents emerge late at the airport arrivals gate, where I am waiting for them. Mum is flummoxed because she has lost her sleeping bag on the carousel (never to be retrieved). By 8 o'clock that evening, the sleeping bag incident is irrelevant, as she realises that she has left her travel bag containing passports, air tickets and $5000 NZ in cash - on the bus. Amazingly we get it back. The holiday continues in similar vain. During the 4 week period, we almost kill an endangered species bird (by feeding it a jelly bean), we break the campervan windscreen, leave the porta toilet at a beauty spot by mistake, crash the campervan 4 times (all of which are worthy of their own stories), and for the grand finale, our camper van gets broken into, whilst we bathe at Hotwater Bay. This time we lose the aforementioned travel bag forever, including the passports, air tickets and around $3000 NZ in cash. My dad also gets his rucksack stolen and spends much of the remaining part of the holiday wearing my mum's clothing - including her tights. He seems a little too comfortable with this situation if I am to be honest.
We arrive on the banks of Te-Ana-au Lake late in the afternoon. Like most of New Zealand, the scenery is magnificent. However, the scenery is not our primary reason for being here. We are here to see glow worms. Or should I say, my mum and I are here to see glow worms. My dad, meanwhile seems resolute in proving that they do not really exist and are just a ploy by the New Zealand tourist board to get people to part with their hard earned cash (We're pretty good at that without an excuse). As we wait for the boat to take us through the glow worm caves, we sit in the cafe/museum, and educate ourselves on these most peculiar of insects. After much evaluation of the photo's and information available to him, dad comes up with his theory, which he feels obliged to share with the rest of the eagerly awaiting customers.
"They're not real you know", he informs everybody. "They spray paint the cavern roof with some kind of phospherant spray", he interjects. He says this with such conviction that the people around start to take note, and half believe the pessimistic dribble that he spouts. The kids faces drop, as if they have just found out that Santa Claus is really their dad. They turn to their parents, for confirmation of any truth in my dad's theory. The parents scowl at my dad and try to convince their kids that is indeed not the case. They have just forked out a small fortune to take their kids through one of natures magical kingdoms and some lunatic is adamant on disproving that the phenomenon even exists. When my dad returns to our table, he attempts to sit on an invisible chair (which a disgruntled parent is currently sitting on)and he consequently crashes to the floor. This is met by more than a few chortles around the room (he is to have a sore arse for the rest of the holiday).
Eventually, the boat, which is going to propel us through the cavern, arrives. We are assigned a guide, who helps us with our life jackets and gives us a run down on the do's and don’ts of our trip.
There is an air of authority to the guide's voice as he delivers his speech. Most people listen intently and nod their heads in agreement, at what he has to say. My dad however, was never the type to abide by the rules, especially when he has got it into his head that the glow worms don't even exist. He turns to me and my mum, and tells us that this is nonsense, "They're only saying it to cover their tracks", he rather loudly informs us. Once again, The Mitton's become the focus of everybody else's agitation
Here are the rules.
Rule 1. Please do not touch formations. Stalactites and stalagmites take a long time to form. They are easily discoloured by people touching them and the more fragile formations can break. Please help us protect the beauty of the cave.
Rule 2.. To protect the cave atmosphere and for the enjoyment and consideration of others, we ask that you do not smoke in the cave.
All photography is strictly forbidden. This includes non-flash photography and video.
Rule 3.. Keep quiet at all times, especially in the boat and on the jetties.
The 4th and final rule is relayed to us in such a serious manner, that only a fool would not obey it.
Rule 4. Under no circumstances must anybody attempt to touch the glow worms.
With our life jackets on and these rules firmly established, we head off into to the darkness, our guide pulling us, by aid of an overhead rope. Inside the cavern, it is pitch black and I mean pitch black. I place my hand in front of what I believe to be my face - I see nothing. In combination with the silence and cold, this leads to quite an eerie trip through the cavern, until we reach the magical kingdom of the glow worm caves.
If you didn't know better, you may think that you are in an observatory or a planetarium, looking out at a galaxy of twinkling stars. A feast of celestial activity, metres above our heads. Indeed, this is what the Maori's first thought when they discovered the caves. I can feel the gasps of pleasure and wonderment as the others on the boat take in this fantastic spectacle. For the next few minutes, our boat silently cuts its way through the water, as we all admire one of nature's treats. Everybody, that is except my dad, who it transpires has been hatching a plan.
Suddenly, I become aware of one particular glow worm which has broken away from the cluster. In my head, it's a breakaway planet, floating in space. It's incandescent glow, drawing me in, entrancing me, like I have never been entranced before. However, with 5 seconds, I am to be rudely snapped out of my hypnosis, as the vessel that protects us from the icy cavern waters, shudders violently, first to the left and then to the right. In a split second, the tranquility of the cave is shattered by the extended vocal chords of the tour guide as he booms the following sentence,
"You stupid man, I told you not to touch the glow worms"
Of course, my mum and I, and all the boat, as it turns out - know straight away who is responsible for this sudden interlude in proceedings. With a mixture of fear and embarrassment I slowly turn my head to the left, where my father is sitting.
The sheer darkness of the cave is penetrated by an enormous beam of light, at the end of which my father's ridiculous grinning face is illuminated. The torch beam, swiftly moves to the left, to reveal my dad's hand with a clearly defined glow worm balanced on the end of his finger. The whole scene is not too dissimilar from E.T, when he tries to phone home. Once again, the silence of the cavern is broken by the tutting of a boatful of disgruntled customers.
My dad responds with the only defence that he has left in his arsenal of stubbornness.
"I told you that they are not real", he whispers, with the conviction of a battered housewife.
Our pleasure trip terminated early, our party head back for the jetty. The serenity of the cave, is now punctuated by customer's complaints, my dad's whispering denials and me and my mum's frenetic giggles.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Battle of the jesters
Dangerous Dave's equally dangerous friend, Steve Carter is giving a party at his far from humble abode, located in a village on the outskirts of Cardiff. This guy is pretentious with a capital P. He's the worst type of rich person, one that came from humble beginnings and feels like he has something to prove. One of Thatcher's children educated at the new breed of dumbed down university, which afforded the peasantry the opportunity to go out and make something of their life's. Steve is the type of guy that nobody actually likes but many people follow him around in the knowledge that he will share his mounds of cocaine and bottles of champagne with them if they tell him what he wants to hear.
It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in July 2006 and my mate Toddy and I are driving down to Steve's party, with thoughts of free cocaine and champagne firmly etched on our minds. The party has a medieval theme with a strict fancy dress code. I have decided to wear a jester outfit which I actually have already lying in the wardrobe, awaiting such an occasion.
Toddy and I are chatting away and 4 hours have passed before we know it. As we drive through the outlying quaint little Welsh villages we crack open a beer to try and get ourselves in the mood. We eventually find "Castle Carter" and park up outside the gates. Dangerous Dave, who is living with Steve at the time, comes out to greet us and we chat to him whilst we don our outfits in the car. We then enter the back garden via a side entrance between the house and the granny flat.
The party has been going on all afternoon and consequently the huge back garden is alive with very drunken, very rowdy medieval characters. At the far end of the garden on the grass there is a huge inflatable castle with 2 fighting podiums in the middle of it. On the patio, there is a pig rotating on a spit, a table bearing lots of food and a huge, velvet seated, gold painted throne. Steve is dressed in a kings outfit complete with a crown and is sitting on the throne overseeing his kingdom and serfdom. As I stand for a quiet moment trying to take all this in, I hear a noise behind me and feel a hand slap down on my shoulder. I quickly spin around to be confronted by another jester. Unlike me, this jester has been drinking all day and judging by his loud and obnoxious behaviour he has some other issues going on. This guy is literally frothing from the mouth, falling around and speaking in such an inarticulate manner that it is impossible to know what he is saying. My concentrated efforts to read his lips are broken by the ringing of a bell to my left. The ringer of the bell is a guy dressed in a town crier outfit, who has been ordered by King Steve to make the public announcements all day. His announcement goes as follows, "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for today's main event THE B-A-T-T-L-E of the J-E-S-T-E-R's". At this news, the crowd erupt into a frenzy of cheering, the alcohol crazed jester punches the air and my arse drops to my feet.
Two minutes later I am on the podium, feeling stone cold sober and holding a large fighting baton in my hands. All I want to do is get this out of the way so that I can enjoy a few beers and some food. The town crier announces that on the count of three, he will ring his bell and the fight will commence. Three, two, one "rinnnggggg riinnnnggg", and we're off. I immediately batter the other jester with one hard clobbering thrust of the baton. His drunken state does not lend itself to such a hit and he falls straight off the podium. Unfortunately for me he falls forwards, lunging at me as he falls to the deck. I too am knocked from my podium and hit the inflatable castle with such force that I bounce up, somersault in the air, land on top of the castle wall and am consequently bounced with force, first 3 ft in the air and then 6ft to the ground. I land flat on my back, with a sickening crunch of my head on the hard floor. Once more the crowd erupt.
I know that I have hurt myself but pride kicks in and I am on my feet before I know it. I walk back towards the crowd with my head held high but avoiding their gaze. I'm heading straight for the buffet, when I detect from the sound of the crowd that they are not satisfied with this performance. They are chanting "jesters, jesters" as they demand a rematch. Rather foolishly I give in to their demands and take my place on the podium.
The town crier counts down, the bell rings and again I smash the jester with a blow which knocks him straight off his podium. What happens next is unbelievable! The jester falls forward, lunges at me and knocks me off my podium, I hit the bouncy surface, bounce in the air, hitting the top of the castle, propelling my 3 feet in the air before I crash down on the grass below, landing flat on my back. This sound familiar? It's a carbon copy of what has just happened not 5 minutes earlier. My head even hits the ground with the same intensity. Once more the crowd erupt.
This time I am down for slightly longer but my pride resurrects me. I walk towards them, head held high and arms triumphantly in the air. They cry out for more but I snub their demands and stride past them to get myself a well earned beer. I fear that I am slightly concussed and my ribs are in absolute agony. For the next half and hour I put up a show that all is good before retiring to a dark and quiet room upstairs, like a dog that is preparing to die.
It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in July 2006 and my mate Toddy and I are driving down to Steve's party, with thoughts of free cocaine and champagne firmly etched on our minds. The party has a medieval theme with a strict fancy dress code. I have decided to wear a jester outfit which I actually have already lying in the wardrobe, awaiting such an occasion.
Toddy and I are chatting away and 4 hours have passed before we know it. As we drive through the outlying quaint little Welsh villages we crack open a beer to try and get ourselves in the mood. We eventually find "Castle Carter" and park up outside the gates. Dangerous Dave, who is living with Steve at the time, comes out to greet us and we chat to him whilst we don our outfits in the car. We then enter the back garden via a side entrance between the house and the granny flat.
The party has been going on all afternoon and consequently the huge back garden is alive with very drunken, very rowdy medieval characters. At the far end of the garden on the grass there is a huge inflatable castle with 2 fighting podiums in the middle of it. On the patio, there is a pig rotating on a spit, a table bearing lots of food and a huge, velvet seated, gold painted throne. Steve is dressed in a kings outfit complete with a crown and is sitting on the throne overseeing his kingdom and serfdom. As I stand for a quiet moment trying to take all this in, I hear a noise behind me and feel a hand slap down on my shoulder. I quickly spin around to be confronted by another jester. Unlike me, this jester has been drinking all day and judging by his loud and obnoxious behaviour he has some other issues going on. This guy is literally frothing from the mouth, falling around and speaking in such an inarticulate manner that it is impossible to know what he is saying. My concentrated efforts to read his lips are broken by the ringing of a bell to my left. The ringer of the bell is a guy dressed in a town crier outfit, who has been ordered by King Steve to make the public announcements all day. His announcement goes as follows, "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for today's main event THE B-A-T-T-L-E of the J-E-S-T-E-R's". At this news, the crowd erupt into a frenzy of cheering, the alcohol crazed jester punches the air and my arse drops to my feet.
Two minutes later I am on the podium, feeling stone cold sober and holding a large fighting baton in my hands. All I want to do is get this out of the way so that I can enjoy a few beers and some food. The town crier announces that on the count of three, he will ring his bell and the fight will commence. Three, two, one "rinnnggggg riinnnnggg", and we're off. I immediately batter the other jester with one hard clobbering thrust of the baton. His drunken state does not lend itself to such a hit and he falls straight off the podium. Unfortunately for me he falls forwards, lunging at me as he falls to the deck. I too am knocked from my podium and hit the inflatable castle with such force that I bounce up, somersault in the air, land on top of the castle wall and am consequently bounced with force, first 3 ft in the air and then 6ft to the ground. I land flat on my back, with a sickening crunch of my head on the hard floor. Once more the crowd erupt.
I know that I have hurt myself but pride kicks in and I am on my feet before I know it. I walk back towards the crowd with my head held high but avoiding their gaze. I'm heading straight for the buffet, when I detect from the sound of the crowd that they are not satisfied with this performance. They are chanting "jesters, jesters" as they demand a rematch. Rather foolishly I give in to their demands and take my place on the podium.
The town crier counts down, the bell rings and again I smash the jester with a blow which knocks him straight off his podium. What happens next is unbelievable! The jester falls forward, lunges at me and knocks me off my podium, I hit the bouncy surface, bounce in the air, hitting the top of the castle, propelling my 3 feet in the air before I crash down on the grass below, landing flat on my back. This sound familiar? It's a carbon copy of what has just happened not 5 minutes earlier. My head even hits the ground with the same intensity. Once more the crowd erupt.
This time I am down for slightly longer but my pride resurrects me. I walk towards them, head held high and arms triumphantly in the air. They cry out for more but I snub their demands and stride past them to get myself a well earned beer. I fear that I am slightly concussed and my ribs are in absolute agony. For the next half and hour I put up a show that all is good before retiring to a dark and quiet room upstairs, like a dog that is preparing to die.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
One for the ladies
The Italia 1990 football world cup was memorable for so many reasons; England's semi final showdown with Germany, Gazza's tears as he got sent off, Linneker's subsequent gestures to the bench, Pearce and Waddle's penalty misses, and me getting caught masturbating by my dad.
I am sure it's happened to us all at some point during in our life's, but I doubt that many have crossed as many boundaries as I did, that fateful Sunday night in June of 1990. So, here is a warning to any youngsters, or indeed oldsters that fancy a quick fiddle, when the circumstances are far from cordial. Please read and take note. If I myself had listened to such good advice all those years ago, the following story may never have happened.
Deep breath - so here it goes.
It's Sunday night and England are playing Egypt in a first round tie of Italia 90. I've been eagerly awaiting the world cup for, well 4 years actually. However, illness has meant that I have been bed bound for the past week and something unprecedented has occurred. Yes, that's right, you got it! I have not had a five knuckle shuffle for a whole 7 days. Right now, I'm feeling much better, and consequently, I am fully aware that my balls are the size of water melons. The sterility of the game does not help my predicament, neither does the fact that I know my dad has got a stash of porn in his bedroom, some 5 metres to the South East of where I lie, as the compass points.
We live in a modern house. You know, one of those Barrett type affairs. Those alive in the 80’s may remember the advert. Where a helicopter flies over the housing estate, and by sheer luck the houses do not blow away. To say that they were not well made is a understatement. From my room, I can hear my mum farting downstairs, and that's with all the doors closed. There's no sneaking into your room, in this house - the floor boards have a life of their own. They creak and groan, like they are ready to consume you for standing on them. It's a 4 bed roomed house, but if you put all 4 rooms together, you could make one normal size room. I can hear my mum and dad watching the game downstairs, in fact if I turned the volume off on my portable tv, I could quite easily listen to the game. You could say, the raid that I am planning on my dad's bedroom is more like a suicide mission really, but so is the nature of the swollen beasts, that are currently forcing my legs apart.
My mum and dad sleep in different rooms, for whatever reasons. When my sister, flew the nest (literally a nest), he moved into her room. Well, I call it a room - it is more like a box. It's approx 6ft long and 4 ft wide, and to add insult to injury, a large portion of it, is taken up by a big wooden cube which covers the top of the stairs. The top of the cube is now used to store his books, including my current objects of affection (his mucky book collection). I first discovered these in the late 70's when my 10 year old friend and I went rummaging through dad's cupboards and found a huge pile. Nothing outrageous like, not by today's standards. This was in the days before people realised that women even had an arsehole. It was all soft porn back then, Fiesta, Playboy, Escort and the likes. Thank god for that. God knows how I would be now if I was reared on Red tube, Tube 8 and Porn Hub (commission there for advertising). I dread to think how the youth of today are going to be in the future. Anyway, our secret, did not stay a secret for long. In our excitement, we knocked the pile over and in a circus like fashion did not manage to re-assemble it before my mum came home and caught us sliding around in the ocean of porn, that was now the bedroom floor. We were informed by my mum that dad was looking after the magazines for a friend whilst he went on holiday. I must admit, even at 10 years old, I found this a strange concept.
Back to the story. So, I've made up my mind. I am going to endure the first half of the game and then when half time comes I am going to carry out my daring raid. I'll be in and out of there in a matter of minutes, right? No wrong - if only life were so uncomplicated. As soon as the half time whistle blows, 2 things, which are not to work in my favour, occur. Firstly, Dave Grime my mate comes knocking on the door, and my mum sends him upstairs (bastard). Secondly, and even more instrumental in my downfall - the telephone rings and my dad picks it up. I can actually hear the whole conversation. I am not exaggerating about the sound proofing of the house.
So, Dave walks through the bedroom door, as I am making my exit (I almost take his eye out). I make an excuse that I am going for a shit and he should wait in my room. He complies and I hotfoot it to my dad's porn emporium. I know the routine, big "Nightmare before Christmas strides", so as not to be attacked by the floor boards. Downstairs, I hear my dad on the phone, talking about a book that he is in possession of. There was never going to be a bigger warning sign, of the events to follow than that. Unfortunately, testosterone has fully enveloped my body and it is the point of no return.
Once in his box room, I head straight for his Model Engineer collection and count down six editions. I know that this is where it starts. At this point I have about 200 fingers and they all seem to be doing different things at different times. Fortunately I have enough composure to grab my favoured copy of Fiesta, before plonking myself down on his single bed. Before you know it, my pants are round my knees and my inflated member is in my hand. Hastily I flick through the pages for my favourite picture.
Meanwhile, my dad has interrupted his phone conversation and is making his way up the stairs in search of the book that he has just been conversing over. Of course, I hear him coming up ever stair and somewhere in the realms of my rational mind - I know that this can only spell, one gigantic FAIL for me. They say, a standing prick has no conscience, and a lust fill mind, it turns out, has no modicum of common sense. I live in hope, that he is either going to the bathroom, or he is going to go into my mum's bedroom (despite the fact that all his books are in his room). Undeterred in my mission, I tug away at an accelerated pace, whilst flicking hastily through the pages of Fiesta.
I am assuming that you are picturing the scene in your minds right now (god help you). But there are to be a few extra twists in this tale, which make it even more remarkable. The only plus point is that my dad is a mad professor type and therefore slightly absent minded. This delays my destiny by at least 20 long seconds, whilst he rummages for "THE BOOK".
Those that are familiar with Fiesta, will know that there are a few pages in the magazine dedicated to the readers wife's. These are the pages where Mrs Miggins from next door, gets her flange out, for all and sundry to witness. But also in the magazine, there is a page dedicated to the reader's husbands (or should I say the readers)? This page is labeled "One for the ladies" and depicts such terrible scenes, as Billy Smooth from Grimsby with his John Thomas in full glory. Can you guess what happened next?
So, dad bursts through the door in search of "THE BOOK", just as I am about to explode a weeks worth of pent up aggression. I hear the door, and in an act of bare faced cheek (and desperation), I flick through the pages with increased haste.
As he enters the room, there I am, spread eagled on his bed, pants around my knees, penis in hand and yes, you've guessed it - the magazine wide open with a picture of Ron from Huddersfiled proudly displaying his cock. Does it get any worse than that? Yes, it does, comes my reply. You've heard people say that when they have had an accident, it all happens in slow motion. Well, this was certainly an accident and yes it did happen in slow motion. I actually see a weeks worth of sperm flying through the air, as dad comes through the door. It seems to linger, in suspended animation, as if a porn cameraman is trying to capture that golden cumshot. It almost hits dad as he enters the room. Fortunately, the mad professor, absent mindedness in him, is to my benefit.
Unbelievably, in a room that size, he fails to notice me, frozen to his bed, as if rigamortis has set in. He walks straight to the pile of books and negligently searches through them -in search of "THE BOOK". For 20 long seconds, I think I have actually got away with my daring raid, until he turns around and witnesses the whole sorry scene - Ron from Huddersfield an all. With a comedic edge, he lets out a cry of "WHOOOPS". Seriously, that is the way he reacts, with a big "WHOOPS". I'm not sure what I was expecting! Despite my terrible situation I find this amusing. He then scurries off through the door and halfway back down the stairs. It is only then, that he realises that he has forgotten "THE BOOK" - and who can blame him? He turns around and comes back up the stairs, arresting his progression outside his bedroom door. Which he knocks on and utters the following words "Andrew, you haven’t seen my book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales have you? Seriously, all this, and my downfall is a book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales.
"Hold on", I mutter, and attempt to rise from my unfortunate position. At this point my pants slip from my knees to my ankles and I fall to the ground. Dragging myself up, I stumble to the solid wooden cube that doubles as a bookcase, where I stare at the books, like a rabbit hypnotised in car headlights. Unable to compose myself, enough to fully realise the enormity of the task in hand. After much fumbling, I locate "THE BOOK" and upon nervously, making my dad aware of this fact, his hand appears around the side of his own bedroom door. As if this story needed any more humour, his hand is making grabbing motions in mid air, not dissimilar, from the hand in the Addams family. It continues to do so, until I place "THE BOOK" within the grasp of his fingers. He thanks me for my efforts and trundles off downstairs.
I return with haste to the safety of my own bedroom, where I am met by the sentence "Fuck me lad, that was a long shit".
England, beat Egypt 1 - 0
I am sure it's happened to us all at some point during in our life's, but I doubt that many have crossed as many boundaries as I did, that fateful Sunday night in June of 1990. So, here is a warning to any youngsters, or indeed oldsters that fancy a quick fiddle, when the circumstances are far from cordial. Please read and take note. If I myself had listened to such good advice all those years ago, the following story may never have happened.
Deep breath - so here it goes.
It's Sunday night and England are playing Egypt in a first round tie of Italia 90. I've been eagerly awaiting the world cup for, well 4 years actually. However, illness has meant that I have been bed bound for the past week and something unprecedented has occurred. Yes, that's right, you got it! I have not had a five knuckle shuffle for a whole 7 days. Right now, I'm feeling much better, and consequently, I am fully aware that my balls are the size of water melons. The sterility of the game does not help my predicament, neither does the fact that I know my dad has got a stash of porn in his bedroom, some 5 metres to the South East of where I lie, as the compass points.
We live in a modern house. You know, one of those Barrett type affairs. Those alive in the 80’s may remember the advert. Where a helicopter flies over the housing estate, and by sheer luck the houses do not blow away. To say that they were not well made is a understatement. From my room, I can hear my mum farting downstairs, and that's with all the doors closed. There's no sneaking into your room, in this house - the floor boards have a life of their own. They creak and groan, like they are ready to consume you for standing on them. It's a 4 bed roomed house, but if you put all 4 rooms together, you could make one normal size room. I can hear my mum and dad watching the game downstairs, in fact if I turned the volume off on my portable tv, I could quite easily listen to the game. You could say, the raid that I am planning on my dad's bedroom is more like a suicide mission really, but so is the nature of the swollen beasts, that are currently forcing my legs apart.
My mum and dad sleep in different rooms, for whatever reasons. When my sister, flew the nest (literally a nest), he moved into her room. Well, I call it a room - it is more like a box. It's approx 6ft long and 4 ft wide, and to add insult to injury, a large portion of it, is taken up by a big wooden cube which covers the top of the stairs. The top of the cube is now used to store his books, including my current objects of affection (his mucky book collection). I first discovered these in the late 70's when my 10 year old friend and I went rummaging through dad's cupboards and found a huge pile. Nothing outrageous like, not by today's standards. This was in the days before people realised that women even had an arsehole. It was all soft porn back then, Fiesta, Playboy, Escort and the likes. Thank god for that. God knows how I would be now if I was reared on Red tube, Tube 8 and Porn Hub (commission there for advertising). I dread to think how the youth of today are going to be in the future. Anyway, our secret, did not stay a secret for long. In our excitement, we knocked the pile over and in a circus like fashion did not manage to re-assemble it before my mum came home and caught us sliding around in the ocean of porn, that was now the bedroom floor. We were informed by my mum that dad was looking after the magazines for a friend whilst he went on holiday. I must admit, even at 10 years old, I found this a strange concept.
Back to the story. So, I've made up my mind. I am going to endure the first half of the game and then when half time comes I am going to carry out my daring raid. I'll be in and out of there in a matter of minutes, right? No wrong - if only life were so uncomplicated. As soon as the half time whistle blows, 2 things, which are not to work in my favour, occur. Firstly, Dave Grime my mate comes knocking on the door, and my mum sends him upstairs (bastard). Secondly, and even more instrumental in my downfall - the telephone rings and my dad picks it up. I can actually hear the whole conversation. I am not exaggerating about the sound proofing of the house.
So, Dave walks through the bedroom door, as I am making my exit (I almost take his eye out). I make an excuse that I am going for a shit and he should wait in my room. He complies and I hotfoot it to my dad's porn emporium. I know the routine, big "Nightmare before Christmas strides", so as not to be attacked by the floor boards. Downstairs, I hear my dad on the phone, talking about a book that he is in possession of. There was never going to be a bigger warning sign, of the events to follow than that. Unfortunately, testosterone has fully enveloped my body and it is the point of no return.
Once in his box room, I head straight for his Model Engineer collection and count down six editions. I know that this is where it starts. At this point I have about 200 fingers and they all seem to be doing different things at different times. Fortunately I have enough composure to grab my favoured copy of Fiesta, before plonking myself down on his single bed. Before you know it, my pants are round my knees and my inflated member is in my hand. Hastily I flick through the pages for my favourite picture.
Meanwhile, my dad has interrupted his phone conversation and is making his way up the stairs in search of the book that he has just been conversing over. Of course, I hear him coming up ever stair and somewhere in the realms of my rational mind - I know that this can only spell, one gigantic FAIL for me. They say, a standing prick has no conscience, and a lust fill mind, it turns out, has no modicum of common sense. I live in hope, that he is either going to the bathroom, or he is going to go into my mum's bedroom (despite the fact that all his books are in his room). Undeterred in my mission, I tug away at an accelerated pace, whilst flicking hastily through the pages of Fiesta.
I am assuming that you are picturing the scene in your minds right now (god help you). But there are to be a few extra twists in this tale, which make it even more remarkable. The only plus point is that my dad is a mad professor type and therefore slightly absent minded. This delays my destiny by at least 20 long seconds, whilst he rummages for "THE BOOK".
Those that are familiar with Fiesta, will know that there are a few pages in the magazine dedicated to the readers wife's. These are the pages where Mrs Miggins from next door, gets her flange out, for all and sundry to witness. But also in the magazine, there is a page dedicated to the reader's husbands (or should I say the readers)? This page is labeled "One for the ladies" and depicts such terrible scenes, as Billy Smooth from Grimsby with his John Thomas in full glory. Can you guess what happened next?
So, dad bursts through the door in search of "THE BOOK", just as I am about to explode a weeks worth of pent up aggression. I hear the door, and in an act of bare faced cheek (and desperation), I flick through the pages with increased haste.
As he enters the room, there I am, spread eagled on his bed, pants around my knees, penis in hand and yes, you've guessed it - the magazine wide open with a picture of Ron from Huddersfiled proudly displaying his cock. Does it get any worse than that? Yes, it does, comes my reply. You've heard people say that when they have had an accident, it all happens in slow motion. Well, this was certainly an accident and yes it did happen in slow motion. I actually see a weeks worth of sperm flying through the air, as dad comes through the door. It seems to linger, in suspended animation, as if a porn cameraman is trying to capture that golden cumshot. It almost hits dad as he enters the room. Fortunately, the mad professor, absent mindedness in him, is to my benefit.
Unbelievably, in a room that size, he fails to notice me, frozen to his bed, as if rigamortis has set in. He walks straight to the pile of books and negligently searches through them -in search of "THE BOOK". For 20 long seconds, I think I have actually got away with my daring raid, until he turns around and witnesses the whole sorry scene - Ron from Huddersfield an all. With a comedic edge, he lets out a cry of "WHOOOPS". Seriously, that is the way he reacts, with a big "WHOOPS". I'm not sure what I was expecting! Despite my terrible situation I find this amusing. He then scurries off through the door and halfway back down the stairs. It is only then, that he realises that he has forgotten "THE BOOK" - and who can blame him? He turns around and comes back up the stairs, arresting his progression outside his bedroom door. Which he knocks on and utters the following words "Andrew, you haven’t seen my book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales have you? Seriously, all this, and my downfall is a book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales.
"Hold on", I mutter, and attempt to rise from my unfortunate position. At this point my pants slip from my knees to my ankles and I fall to the ground. Dragging myself up, I stumble to the solid wooden cube that doubles as a bookcase, where I stare at the books, like a rabbit hypnotised in car headlights. Unable to compose myself, enough to fully realise the enormity of the task in hand. After much fumbling, I locate "THE BOOK" and upon nervously, making my dad aware of this fact, his hand appears around the side of his own bedroom door. As if this story needed any more humour, his hand is making grabbing motions in mid air, not dissimilar, from the hand in the Addams family. It continues to do so, until I place "THE BOOK" within the grasp of his fingers. He thanks me for my efforts and trundles off downstairs.
I return with haste to the safety of my own bedroom, where I am met by the sentence "Fuck me lad, that was a long shit".
England, beat Egypt 1 - 0
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
You butter believe it's not a woman
You know those mornings, when you wake up the day after a big session, and you immediately realise that something is not quite right? That terrible moment of realisation when the video recorder in your mind is set to rewind and you are paralysed by a memory from the night before. "Oh fuck!, I didn't text the ex girlfriend - please no"?, or "shit!, I didn't get my cock out in the bar again - did I"?, and other such questions. How many times have your intoxicated blunders resulted in you uttering the following sentence? "That's it, I am never drinking again!"
The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.
"If it's funny, it's in".
Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.
I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.
Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.
He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.
"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).
"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.
Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?
The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.
During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:
Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).
I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).
Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).
Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel
The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.
The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.
Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.
I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.
A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.
The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.
"If it's funny, it's in".
Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.
I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.
Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.
He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.
"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).
"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.
Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?
The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.
During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:
Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).
I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).
Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).
Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel
The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.
The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.
Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.
I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.
A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Excuse me, someone stole my mum! - Varanassi, oh Varanassi.
My arrival in Varanassi could not have been stranger. Of course, like all the other tourists, I am here to witness death - death on a large scale. You see, all deceased Hindu's are sent to Varanassi to be cremated or disposed of (by other means), on the banks of the River Ganges. According to popular Hindu belief, the soul passes through a cycle of successive lives (Samsara), and its next incarnation is always dependent on how the previous life was lived. It is Hindu belief that if a person dies or is cremated in Varanassi there is a good chance that the cycle of life and death will be broken. Although I have done my research on Varanassi, also known as Benares and one of the oldest cities in the world, nothing could have prepared me for the reality of what I was about to witness.
The train pulls into Varanassi station, I gather my possessions and step onto the platform. The journey from Calcutta has been long and arduous. All I want now is a comfortable guesthouse with as little aggravation as possible. Naturally, this is never the case in India (and that's what makes it so special). Before my foot has even stepped on the platform, there is a commotion breaking out, not 30 paces to my right. Despite my travel fatigue, my curious disposition gets the better of me and I push my way through the gathering crowd. When I see the focus of the crowd's attention, I wish that I had not bothered. Ok, I am a self confessed death tourist, but I was not expecting to see a pile of dead bodies, quite so soon. Five seconds ago, I was hungry - my appetite seems to have disappeared as quickly as the crowd of bystanders amassed.
The bodies, I discover, have just arrived (probably on the same sleeper train as me). It turns out that this is perfectly normal for Varanassi. Over the course of the next few days, I am to observe dead bodies in many different forms and in a whole variety of strange places. The city has more than it's fair share of those that are dying and those that are dead (a little like Eastbourne I guess). Add to this, the tourists here to witness death and thousands of nonchalant cows, and you've pretty much summed up the demographic of Varanassi.
It's a case of, get the dead (or dying) there by any means possible. It used to be, that poor families, often threw their dead onto trains which were bound for the worlds biggest crematorium. The trains would arrive with dead people strewn in the aisles, toilets or even on the roof. I believe that this practice has been all but outlawed by the introduction of police that are employed to stop the sneaky antics of the poor. However, those that succeed in getting their dead to Varanassi by this means, are rewarded by a free funeral in the local, government run incinerator. The incinerator being the cheapest form of cremation and reserved for those of low caste.
By the time I find my guesthouse, I have already witnessed a human carcass on the roof rack of a car and another one in a rickshaw. Strangely, I am beginning to get used to it already. How malleable the mind is!
The next day, I awake early. I am kind of excited at the prospects of seeing funeral rituals on the ghats of the Ganges. First it's time to have breakfast. I wander the streets in search of a suitably relaxing environment in which to dine. Walking anywhere in Varanassi it turns out, is nigh on impossible. The whole place is overrun by those damn sacred cows. Seriously, they are everywhere. They sit there, in the middle of the road, as though they own the place (which in fact they do). Unlike the West, where the cow is practically seen as a walking hamburger, in India the cow is deemed to be the symbol of the Earth - because it gives so much and asks for nothing in return. It is Hindu belief that the cow acts as a surrogate mother by providing dairy products to human beings. It is not uncommon to see cars backed all the way down the road because nobody dare disturb the cow. Nobody that is, with the exception of old ladies - who seem to make no qualms about hitting the cows with sticks. If it was not for the actions of the old ladies, I fear that the whole place would grind to a halt.
My battle of wits and patience with the holy cows, is duly rewarded, when I chance upon a little oasis of calm within the walls of this bizarre bovine kingdom. However, I am only given enough respite, to order and have my breakfast served, before I hear an almighty crashing sound behind me. I turn around and witness 3 wayward cows, who are casually ambling through the courtyard, without a care in the world. The fact that my table is knocked over and my food trampled on, may under normal circumstances, have left me feeling victimised. By the time that the trio of beasts have been rounded up, however, every table in the restaurant has been destroyed. The waiter's futile attempts to rid the restaurant of the cows, by gently whispering in their ears, yields scant result. Of course, it is only when an old lady arrives with a stick, that the cows flee in fear. The very appearance of the baton wielding pensioner is enough to prompt one cow to make a mountain of manure.
Once the cows have made their exit, the restaurant returns to normal in the bat of an eyelid. My table is up righted and food replaced so fast, that I am left wondering whether I actually witnessed the event at all. For the staff it would seem, this sort of thing is an everyday, possibly every hour occurrence.
After breakfast I head for the ghats. So, what are the ghats? These are steps which lead down to a holy river, and can be found in many parts of South Asia. There are almost 100 ghats in Varanassi. Most are used only for the purpose of bathing, but others are used for cremations. Without hesitation, I head for one of the latter. I don't actually recall the name of the ghat in question, but what I witness there, will be forever etched in my mind.
Along the way, I pass a multitude of ghats. Although serenity exudes at each of them, it is difficult not to wonder how these people survive as long as they do. The locals, perform their ablutions in the same water, that they wash their clothes, brush their teeth, swim, wash their fruit and vegetables and remarkably drink. The river is saturated with flotsam and jetsam, ranging from flowers and pieces of timber, to human faeces and an array of dead animals. I am astounded to see that the waters are also frequented by river dolphins. If these observations are not enough to put anybody off, a quick dip in the Ganges, the next piece of information most certainly will be.
I reach a ghat used for cremation, where I stand and observe, the most perculiar of experiences that I am ever likely to encounter in my life again. I note that the ghat is only occupied by men (I am later to find out that women are not allowed). The men are all busy carrying the bodies of their dead relatives to the water's edge, where they cleanse them in the holy river. They are then laid out on pieces of wood, doused in ghee and sprinkled with sandalwood powder, before being ignited. Around me bodies burn on the ghats, set at different levels on the steps. Upon inquiry, I am to discover that the lower down the steps that a body is burnt, the lower the caste. Those that are cremated closest to the river, are known as the untouchables, whereas the Brahmins (highest caste) are burnt at the top of the steps. Now, here comes the strangest part (oh yes, it gets more bizarre). There are 8 classes of people that do not get burnt on the ghats for various reasons. This group includes lepers, sadhus (Indian holy men), pregnant women, children and those that have been bitten by a cobra. Children are deemed pure already, as is, I assume the case with pregnant women and sadhus. Those that have been bitten by a cobra escape the fire because Shiva, the Hindu god that presides over Varanassi wears a cobra around his neck; a bite from the snake is considered to be a blessing. So, how do the lepers escape the flames? I thought that they would have been first on the fire, to rid of their diseased bodies. In Hindu culture however, leprosy is seen to be a mark of god (I guess, it's nice that this gives them hope during their lives). What, therefore happens to this elite group?
The bodies of the elite are not cremated; oh no! that would be far too easy. They are, wait for it - bound in cloth, weighted down and thrown to the river bed. Seriously, they are disposed of in the river, which begs the question - how in Shiva's name can the locals still be alive when they are blatantly drinking from these waters. I have no answer to this question.
As, I stand and watch the spectacle unfold. I am transfixed by the sight of bodies returning from whence they came. It does not take long for a body to be reduced to a pile of ashes. A life, extinguished before my very eyes. I am so hypnotised by the whole event, that I fail to realise that the dust raining down on my head, is the ashes of those that are burning around me. I turn, and am about to leave, when there is a massive explosion behind me. I spin on my axis, my heart murmuring and my legs shaking. I am faced by a group of locals, whose laughter is aimed in my direction. They point at their own heads and make explosive gestures. I eventually realise that they are telling me that the human skull explodes when it reaches a certain temperature. Who would have known?
I've seen enough, although in a weird fashion, the whole surreal experience has been spiritually uplifting. As, I walk away, a dog with an object in its mouth, captures my attention. Upon closer inspection, I see that it is a human hand. I am later to find out that the hands and the feet are the toughest part of the body and often do not burn. The local dogs surround the funeral pyres and wait for these limbs to fall off. When they do, they grab them and scarper for a nice little feast.
A week after leaving Varanassi, I go to a local police station to report a stolen camera. It takes approximately 3 hours to log a police report. Later in my trip, I relay the story of my lengthy police report to a fellow traveller. He tells, me that he had a similar experience whilst in Varanassi. As he sat in the police station waiting, he could hear a guy wailing in the opposite waiting room. After hours of waiting, the traveller approached the desk sergeant, and with irritation in his voice, asked why it was taking so long. To which the desk sergeant replied, "You think that you are having a bad day, see that guy over there, he is having a worse day - he has lost his mum". It turns out that the guy has had his suitcase, containing his dead mother, stolen whilst checking into a hotel in Varanassi. One, can only imagine the scene, when the thief opened the case.
The train pulls into Varanassi station, I gather my possessions and step onto the platform. The journey from Calcutta has been long and arduous. All I want now is a comfortable guesthouse with as little aggravation as possible. Naturally, this is never the case in India (and that's what makes it so special). Before my foot has even stepped on the platform, there is a commotion breaking out, not 30 paces to my right. Despite my travel fatigue, my curious disposition gets the better of me and I push my way through the gathering crowd. When I see the focus of the crowd's attention, I wish that I had not bothered. Ok, I am a self confessed death tourist, but I was not expecting to see a pile of dead bodies, quite so soon. Five seconds ago, I was hungry - my appetite seems to have disappeared as quickly as the crowd of bystanders amassed.
The bodies, I discover, have just arrived (probably on the same sleeper train as me). It turns out that this is perfectly normal for Varanassi. Over the course of the next few days, I am to observe dead bodies in many different forms and in a whole variety of strange places. The city has more than it's fair share of those that are dying and those that are dead (a little like Eastbourne I guess). Add to this, the tourists here to witness death and thousands of nonchalant cows, and you've pretty much summed up the demographic of Varanassi.
It's a case of, get the dead (or dying) there by any means possible. It used to be, that poor families, often threw their dead onto trains which were bound for the worlds biggest crematorium. The trains would arrive with dead people strewn in the aisles, toilets or even on the roof. I believe that this practice has been all but outlawed by the introduction of police that are employed to stop the sneaky antics of the poor. However, those that succeed in getting their dead to Varanassi by this means, are rewarded by a free funeral in the local, government run incinerator. The incinerator being the cheapest form of cremation and reserved for those of low caste.
By the time I find my guesthouse, I have already witnessed a human carcass on the roof rack of a car and another one in a rickshaw. Strangely, I am beginning to get used to it already. How malleable the mind is!
The next day, I awake early. I am kind of excited at the prospects of seeing funeral rituals on the ghats of the Ganges. First it's time to have breakfast. I wander the streets in search of a suitably relaxing environment in which to dine. Walking anywhere in Varanassi it turns out, is nigh on impossible. The whole place is overrun by those damn sacred cows. Seriously, they are everywhere. They sit there, in the middle of the road, as though they own the place (which in fact they do). Unlike the West, where the cow is practically seen as a walking hamburger, in India the cow is deemed to be the symbol of the Earth - because it gives so much and asks for nothing in return. It is Hindu belief that the cow acts as a surrogate mother by providing dairy products to human beings. It is not uncommon to see cars backed all the way down the road because nobody dare disturb the cow. Nobody that is, with the exception of old ladies - who seem to make no qualms about hitting the cows with sticks. If it was not for the actions of the old ladies, I fear that the whole place would grind to a halt.
My battle of wits and patience with the holy cows, is duly rewarded, when I chance upon a little oasis of calm within the walls of this bizarre bovine kingdom. However, I am only given enough respite, to order and have my breakfast served, before I hear an almighty crashing sound behind me. I turn around and witness 3 wayward cows, who are casually ambling through the courtyard, without a care in the world. The fact that my table is knocked over and my food trampled on, may under normal circumstances, have left me feeling victimised. By the time that the trio of beasts have been rounded up, however, every table in the restaurant has been destroyed. The waiter's futile attempts to rid the restaurant of the cows, by gently whispering in their ears, yields scant result. Of course, it is only when an old lady arrives with a stick, that the cows flee in fear. The very appearance of the baton wielding pensioner is enough to prompt one cow to make a mountain of manure.
Once the cows have made their exit, the restaurant returns to normal in the bat of an eyelid. My table is up righted and food replaced so fast, that I am left wondering whether I actually witnessed the event at all. For the staff it would seem, this sort of thing is an everyday, possibly every hour occurrence.
After breakfast I head for the ghats. So, what are the ghats? These are steps which lead down to a holy river, and can be found in many parts of South Asia. There are almost 100 ghats in Varanassi. Most are used only for the purpose of bathing, but others are used for cremations. Without hesitation, I head for one of the latter. I don't actually recall the name of the ghat in question, but what I witness there, will be forever etched in my mind.
Along the way, I pass a multitude of ghats. Although serenity exudes at each of them, it is difficult not to wonder how these people survive as long as they do. The locals, perform their ablutions in the same water, that they wash their clothes, brush their teeth, swim, wash their fruit and vegetables and remarkably drink. The river is saturated with flotsam and jetsam, ranging from flowers and pieces of timber, to human faeces and an array of dead animals. I am astounded to see that the waters are also frequented by river dolphins. If these observations are not enough to put anybody off, a quick dip in the Ganges, the next piece of information most certainly will be.
I reach a ghat used for cremation, where I stand and observe, the most perculiar of experiences that I am ever likely to encounter in my life again. I note that the ghat is only occupied by men (I am later to find out that women are not allowed). The men are all busy carrying the bodies of their dead relatives to the water's edge, where they cleanse them in the holy river. They are then laid out on pieces of wood, doused in ghee and sprinkled with sandalwood powder, before being ignited. Around me bodies burn on the ghats, set at different levels on the steps. Upon inquiry, I am to discover that the lower down the steps that a body is burnt, the lower the caste. Those that are cremated closest to the river, are known as the untouchables, whereas the Brahmins (highest caste) are burnt at the top of the steps. Now, here comes the strangest part (oh yes, it gets more bizarre). There are 8 classes of people that do not get burnt on the ghats for various reasons. This group includes lepers, sadhus (Indian holy men), pregnant women, children and those that have been bitten by a cobra. Children are deemed pure already, as is, I assume the case with pregnant women and sadhus. Those that have been bitten by a cobra escape the fire because Shiva, the Hindu god that presides over Varanassi wears a cobra around his neck; a bite from the snake is considered to be a blessing. So, how do the lepers escape the flames? I thought that they would have been first on the fire, to rid of their diseased bodies. In Hindu culture however, leprosy is seen to be a mark of god (I guess, it's nice that this gives them hope during their lives). What, therefore happens to this elite group?
The bodies of the elite are not cremated; oh no! that would be far too easy. They are, wait for it - bound in cloth, weighted down and thrown to the river bed. Seriously, they are disposed of in the river, which begs the question - how in Shiva's name can the locals still be alive when they are blatantly drinking from these waters. I have no answer to this question.
As, I stand and watch the spectacle unfold. I am transfixed by the sight of bodies returning from whence they came. It does not take long for a body to be reduced to a pile of ashes. A life, extinguished before my very eyes. I am so hypnotised by the whole event, that I fail to realise that the dust raining down on my head, is the ashes of those that are burning around me. I turn, and am about to leave, when there is a massive explosion behind me. I spin on my axis, my heart murmuring and my legs shaking. I am faced by a group of locals, whose laughter is aimed in my direction. They point at their own heads and make explosive gestures. I eventually realise that they are telling me that the human skull explodes when it reaches a certain temperature. Who would have known?
I've seen enough, although in a weird fashion, the whole surreal experience has been spiritually uplifting. As, I walk away, a dog with an object in its mouth, captures my attention. Upon closer inspection, I see that it is a human hand. I am later to find out that the hands and the feet are the toughest part of the body and often do not burn. The local dogs surround the funeral pyres and wait for these limbs to fall off. When they do, they grab them and scarper for a nice little feast.
A week after leaving Varanassi, I go to a local police station to report a stolen camera. It takes approximately 3 hours to log a police report. Later in my trip, I relay the story of my lengthy police report to a fellow traveller. He tells, me that he had a similar experience whilst in Varanassi. As he sat in the police station waiting, he could hear a guy wailing in the opposite waiting room. After hours of waiting, the traveller approached the desk sergeant, and with irritation in his voice, asked why it was taking so long. To which the desk sergeant replied, "You think that you are having a bad day, see that guy over there, he is having a worse day - he has lost his mum". It turns out that the guy has had his suitcase, containing his dead mother, stolen whilst checking into a hotel in Varanassi. One, can only imagine the scene, when the thief opened the case.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Involuntarily feeding the fish
It's early June of 2006 and I am lying on a large flat rock. The sun is beaming down upon my out of shape frame, causing beads of sweat to drip from my hairy chest and belly. I watch on, in a mixture of fascination and contempt, as the droplets turn into a mini stream, which runs down my torso and forms a well in my belly button. I use the fingers of my left hand to periodically flick the well empty, whilst the fingers of my right hand turn the pages of my book. It is with tragic irony that I am reading, "A Picture of Dorian Gray", a novel obsessed with fading beauty. Fortunately, there is not a soul around to witness my unsightly, but necessary actions.
That, this cove is secluded is certainly no coincidence. After spending a week surrounded by people that I shared no common interest or desire to be with, I decide that a day of complete solitude to end my holiday, will do me a world of good. You see, I am always the first to advocate solo travel and have been, ever since my first sojourn alone, back in the late 80s. Nobody, to tell you what to do, no hesitation over who likes what and who does not, no arguments over money, nobody to tell you when to get up etc. Of course, there is a trade off. Nobody to share the experiences, nobody to take photo's of you, and often, more hefty accommodation bills. However, this trip has not been great. Insecurities in myself, compounded by a cold, have resulted in me becoming more insular than I have become accustomed.
The few days I spent in Athens this week were nice enough. Of course, one feels an overwhelming sense of fascination when wandering around the birthplace of modern civilisation. "Oh, yeah" - look over there the Acropolis, "wow, there's the Parthenon", and so on and so forth. Contrary to what I had been led to believe, I even liked the look of the city, with it's many hills and it's winding streets. The pollution was kind of bad but I had been forewarned and it was not as bad as I expected. But, for me something was missing. I just wasn't feeling my alone time and although I sporadically talked to people, I could not find anybody that really aroused my interest.
Athens was followed by a ferry trip to the beautiful island of Santorini, one of great natural wonders of the world. Once again, it was beautiful, and the hiring of a scooter to transport myself around the island, temporarily lifted my dark mood. But this holiday just was not happening for me.
From Santorini, I caught a ferry to Ios. Upon docking, I was picked up by a minibus and taken to Dimitris campsite on the other side of the island. I have been on Ios for 3 days now and realise that this is not the place that I want to be. A verbal assault on some idiot who decided it was funny to kick a live octopus around the sand (much to the amusement of the other beach bums), alienated me from the rest of the party revellers. Solitude sounded like the perfect answer. "Voila", or whatever they say in Greece - here I lie, in my secluded glory. Well, me and Oscar Wilde.
I am officially the worlds worst sunbather. I have the concentration of a ADHD kid on a pint of orange juice. Half an hours gone and I have read the same 2 pages of Dorian Gray at least 50 times. Emptying my belly button has become a bit of a bind, so I decide to eliminate this process by swimming instead. My rock is literally a foot drop into the warm, blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The following routine ensues - sunbathe 5 minutes, read 2 pages (same 2 pages), jump in the water, rinse out belly button, maybe have a piss and then get back on my rock.
Over the course of the week, my body has started to become a nice shade of brown. I don't care what anybody says, a golden suntan makes a person look much better. Why do you think we all get sex on holiday? I observe that the region which is covered by my shorts is still milk bottle white. I start thinking, how nice it would be if I could have an all over tan. No more, milky white arse. By this point, I have been in the cove for the best part of 2 hours and as of yet, I have not seen so much as a crab, never mind a person. I am pretty sure that I am safe. Tentatively, I ease my shorts down, my head spinning from side to side, exhibiting the behaviour of a man that is carrying out a criminal act. With one final pull, I toss my shorts to the side in an act of self rebellion.
Wow, how wonderfully liberating it is, to lie starkers, starfish on my rock. In my new state of nakedness, my concentration levels are at least doubled. Finally, I am able to complete my 2 pages of Dorian Gray (actually this is probably down to the fact that I am sweating less in my natural form and therefore I am relieved of belly button duty). I close my eyes and absorb those amazing feelings of exhilaration as the sun soaks into your mind and body. Life is perfect, how could anything ruin this day?
Of course, this being me, it does not take long until this last question is answered.
It starts with a groaning in my stomach, which soon turns into spasms. Typical, that this happens just as I am feeling peaceful on my rock and my usual fidgeting has started to dissipate. I am feeling far too relaxed for all this. Don't get me wrong, I love shitting as much as the next man. If I was not feeling so perfectly relaxed, and circumstances permitted, I would enjoy nothing more than dumping my load. I try to ignore the bowel irritation for as long as humanely possible, but it soon it becomes apparent that it is not going to go away. Within a very quick period of time my pleasure receptors have switched from joy to pain and I am darting for the Mediterranean Sea.
I am not sure if I'm spurting diarrhoea before I hit the water, but I sure as hell am as I submerge. For the second time in 15 minutes, I am feeling quite liberated and I must say, there is something to be said about depositing straight into the ocean. But wait! What is this dark shadow that is following me around? and "what the fuck" is that tickling sensation around my posterior? 'For Christ's sake, I can't believe it'! There is a swarm of fish literally eating out of my arsehole, as I spurt. Hastily, I head for the sanctuary of my rock. I never was a great swimmer, but today, propelled by an arse full of fish - I am the man from Atlantis. I positively leap out of the water onto my rock, after single arsedly doing my bit for the biodiversity of the whole region.
I lay face down on the rock. My heart is pumping, the heat is bearing down on the back of my neck. Thank god, I've escaped! Who knows what fate a man could suffer at the mouth of a thousand fish. But wait! something is not right. I feel that something is not right. I am gripped by a new fear. Slowly, I turn my head and, lo and behold, there is a pleasure cruiser not 20 yrds away. Worse than that, a congregation of people are standing on deck looking in my direction. In shame, I lay my head back down on the rock and wait till the boat is out of sight.
I can't be sure, but I think they may have just witnessed the whole sorry spectacle.
That, this cove is secluded is certainly no coincidence. After spending a week surrounded by people that I shared no common interest or desire to be with, I decide that a day of complete solitude to end my holiday, will do me a world of good. You see, I am always the first to advocate solo travel and have been, ever since my first sojourn alone, back in the late 80s. Nobody, to tell you what to do, no hesitation over who likes what and who does not, no arguments over money, nobody to tell you when to get up etc. Of course, there is a trade off. Nobody to share the experiences, nobody to take photo's of you, and often, more hefty accommodation bills. However, this trip has not been great. Insecurities in myself, compounded by a cold, have resulted in me becoming more insular than I have become accustomed.
The few days I spent in Athens this week were nice enough. Of course, one feels an overwhelming sense of fascination when wandering around the birthplace of modern civilisation. "Oh, yeah" - look over there the Acropolis, "wow, there's the Parthenon", and so on and so forth. Contrary to what I had been led to believe, I even liked the look of the city, with it's many hills and it's winding streets. The pollution was kind of bad but I had been forewarned and it was not as bad as I expected. But, for me something was missing. I just wasn't feeling my alone time and although I sporadically talked to people, I could not find anybody that really aroused my interest.
Athens was followed by a ferry trip to the beautiful island of Santorini, one of great natural wonders of the world. Once again, it was beautiful, and the hiring of a scooter to transport myself around the island, temporarily lifted my dark mood. But this holiday just was not happening for me.
From Santorini, I caught a ferry to Ios. Upon docking, I was picked up by a minibus and taken to Dimitris campsite on the other side of the island. I have been on Ios for 3 days now and realise that this is not the place that I want to be. A verbal assault on some idiot who decided it was funny to kick a live octopus around the sand (much to the amusement of the other beach bums), alienated me from the rest of the party revellers. Solitude sounded like the perfect answer. "Voila", or whatever they say in Greece - here I lie, in my secluded glory. Well, me and Oscar Wilde.
I am officially the worlds worst sunbather. I have the concentration of a ADHD kid on a pint of orange juice. Half an hours gone and I have read the same 2 pages of Dorian Gray at least 50 times. Emptying my belly button has become a bit of a bind, so I decide to eliminate this process by swimming instead. My rock is literally a foot drop into the warm, blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The following routine ensues - sunbathe 5 minutes, read 2 pages (same 2 pages), jump in the water, rinse out belly button, maybe have a piss and then get back on my rock.
Over the course of the week, my body has started to become a nice shade of brown. I don't care what anybody says, a golden suntan makes a person look much better. Why do you think we all get sex on holiday? I observe that the region which is covered by my shorts is still milk bottle white. I start thinking, how nice it would be if I could have an all over tan. No more, milky white arse. By this point, I have been in the cove for the best part of 2 hours and as of yet, I have not seen so much as a crab, never mind a person. I am pretty sure that I am safe. Tentatively, I ease my shorts down, my head spinning from side to side, exhibiting the behaviour of a man that is carrying out a criminal act. With one final pull, I toss my shorts to the side in an act of self rebellion.
Wow, how wonderfully liberating it is, to lie starkers, starfish on my rock. In my new state of nakedness, my concentration levels are at least doubled. Finally, I am able to complete my 2 pages of Dorian Gray (actually this is probably down to the fact that I am sweating less in my natural form and therefore I am relieved of belly button duty). I close my eyes and absorb those amazing feelings of exhilaration as the sun soaks into your mind and body. Life is perfect, how could anything ruin this day?
Of course, this being me, it does not take long until this last question is answered.
It starts with a groaning in my stomach, which soon turns into spasms. Typical, that this happens just as I am feeling peaceful on my rock and my usual fidgeting has started to dissipate. I am feeling far too relaxed for all this. Don't get me wrong, I love shitting as much as the next man. If I was not feeling so perfectly relaxed, and circumstances permitted, I would enjoy nothing more than dumping my load. I try to ignore the bowel irritation for as long as humanely possible, but it soon it becomes apparent that it is not going to go away. Within a very quick period of time my pleasure receptors have switched from joy to pain and I am darting for the Mediterranean Sea.
I am not sure if I'm spurting diarrhoea before I hit the water, but I sure as hell am as I submerge. For the second time in 15 minutes, I am feeling quite liberated and I must say, there is something to be said about depositing straight into the ocean. But wait! What is this dark shadow that is following me around? and "what the fuck" is that tickling sensation around my posterior? 'For Christ's sake, I can't believe it'! There is a swarm of fish literally eating out of my arsehole, as I spurt. Hastily, I head for the sanctuary of my rock. I never was a great swimmer, but today, propelled by an arse full of fish - I am the man from Atlantis. I positively leap out of the water onto my rock, after single arsedly doing my bit for the biodiversity of the whole region.
I lay face down on the rock. My heart is pumping, the heat is bearing down on the back of my neck. Thank god, I've escaped! Who knows what fate a man could suffer at the mouth of a thousand fish. But wait! something is not right. I feel that something is not right. I am gripped by a new fear. Slowly, I turn my head and, lo and behold, there is a pleasure cruiser not 20 yrds away. Worse than that, a congregation of people are standing on deck looking in my direction. In shame, I lay my head back down on the rock and wait till the boat is out of sight.
I can't be sure, but I think they may have just witnessed the whole sorry spectacle.
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