jueves, 22 de julio de 2010

Bye bye baby...

With sandy blonde hair, soft white skin and sky blue eyes, I’m often accosted by interesting sorts and more often than not, land my self in environments in which a glancing flash of the purity of a crisp blue steel has very little place. An example:

I was making my normal gait towards the two women who sort out my fruit and veg(
lad) when I glided past a group of healthy corner dwellers. Sure enough, I was
invited to converse with their persons: one girl made what could only have been
kissing sounds, whilst the other inquired of me how I was( I was fine as it
happened…possibly a little hot)…but the last one thought it best she
whistle at me and ask if I was looking for anything( yes, fruit as it happened).

"Eeey, qué pasa...querés algo?" She grumbled.

I laughed, then stopped when I peered at this last woman and realized that she
must have been coming on to at least 5 months pregnant.

“mmm do you not think laying off the contractual sex for a little while might
be a good idea, or possibly until you give birth?” I pondered.

I think the women decided that she’d make the most of not being able to get
pregnant for 9 months, save some money on contraception, not that she had indeed
been splashing out on such luxuries previously. With hindsite I really should
not have been so taken-aback by this 2-4-1 deal; breaking news: “Ricky Martin: gay”, “Bishop linked with pedophilia”.......“South American
prostitute gets pregnant”.

Prozac nation

Emotional break downs are probably not such a rarity, yet I’m fairly certain I haven’t witnessed many….up until moving to the melodramatic capital of the world, where the water works run strong with estrogen, Prozac is considered candy and the streets are filled with the festering odour of emotional weakness. I have been forced to deal with the confused product of the casual mating of Spanish and Italian immigrants, combined with a Catholic reluctance to employ contraception.

A favorite arena for a decent melt down to be viewed is undoubtedly the workplace. A woman will often repeatedly smash her computer mouse on her desk without a moments thought for I.T resources, followed by a crescendo of female tears, which culminates in her being ushered out of the room to be fed “we’ve all been there” advice. The rest of us watch on with our halos of smugness, what a fool she is for displaying publically the contents of her pressured soul….she will regret it all, come tomorrow morning.

However, there is one experience that stands head and shoulders above the rest, the lantern that all future performances are advised to follow. It had uncontrollable shaking, the bottom jaw moving as if possessed. There was head banging and yet, for me, I shall frame forever the immortal words that came forth from her mouth as is if torn straight from the old testament or an American one man play:

“Oh God why??!! Why are you punishing me like this! I can’t carry on…I know I’ve broken hearts, it used to fun….yes, this is why you are punishing me…so DO IT! PUNISH ME GOD, PUNISH ME!”

Absolutely bloody brilliant, a quite fabulous demonstration of the histrionic gestures of the population and the innate fragility of a nation. My face offered the soft, understanding eyes of the shrink she so needed, yet my mind echoed rich, colonial laughter…
“God was not initially planning on punishing you, nor is he now, I expect he’s rolling around in the clouds crying with uncontrollable laughter, though with time I would expect this to be replaced by an overwhelming shame at the lackluster job he did when making you,” I mused.

Shattered dreams and lavatory etiquette

It is official, I’m a cripple, destined to pass my days on the touch line with my hands in a barbour jacket and my feet in a pair of Wellington boots, unable to run or participate in “impact sports” or those “putting an unnecessary amount of stress on your spinal column”. A metaphorical sledgehammer has been taken to my sporting career, which is now confined to cycling, light paddling and photography. Has anyone seen the upper-body on a cyclist? Bradley Wiggins has the physique of a sparrow with glandular fever. So, by and large, I have passed the recent weeks capturing the soon-to-be past glory of my crippled body....accumulating 56 pictures....with other mediums remaining untouched.

I also have a problem with going to the loo, at work. It's not a biological thing, more a question of the lesser intelligence of my fellow workers. They appear to possess an inability to recognise when a cubicle is engaged and therefore should wash and dry their hands, keeping them far away from the light switch that unsurprisingly covers the room in a sheet of darkness( there are no windows), meaning that those inside a cubicle are forced to remain regally seated for an indefinite period of time or one just might elect to carry out a daring dash for the lights. This was the dilemma I was faced with. I made the dash, breaking free from my cubicle of comfort and security. Trousers up, but not buttoned, belt askew, hand on switch( light), eyebrows up and mouth shaped in a perfect o....was the image that one of the Pablo’s was greeted with when he opened the door. I looked not unlike a small, night faring marsupial with a giant.... argentinian, all judging flash light glaring down on it.

“Hello Pablo...”
“Hey Freddie what you do like this?....it dark.”
“Congratulations Pablo, astute as always. Yes, it is indeed dark.”
“Why you no use light eh?” he squeaked back.
“Mainly it’s because I enjoy the constant threat of your kind disturbing my blissful defecation, the buzz of a night bombing session, driving without headlights or maybe it’s just because I enjoy these mid-wipe conversations. Christ Pablo, you are a pathetic human being.”

So, now I have yet another reason to suspect that the stickiness of free thought hangs in the air...like a well beaten child, they can sense smell danger. The colonial landslide is brewing. Pablo, along with his little fleet of Pablobians, shall be the first to bear it’s full, Anglophonial weight.

Mmmm, what else. Ah, yes.....we nearly killed our cat. I don’t like cats but that feeling is yet to motivate me towards killing one. How did this happen? Someone, not myself, decided it be a mighty fine idea to adorn the cat’s neck with beautiful jewellery, more specifically: sparkly bracelets and what not. A glorious idea this may indeed sound, injecting beauty and, quite frankly,drawing the attention away from its ridiculous facial structure and pathetic whiskers,yet in practice one should probably make sure that the bracelets can be removed...with ease.In short, what followed next was a scene from Joseph Fritzl's cellar. Somehow the cat managed to get a bracelet stuck in its mouth, a bit like a horse’s bit, thus was forced into being pinned down whilst they were cut off.Operation Pussy Jewellery Removal lasted 20 minutes. The cat didn’t leave its box/bed for 24hours.....brilliant.

Inner-beauty does indeed count

Its obviously been some time since i sent some updates, i apologise.

Well, I got offered a new job about 2 months ago, i took it, now i’m working in ‘medical tourism’. I’ve shed this description out to a few of you, i like it, so i’ll use it once more….i organise/orchestrate/steer/engineer medical packages for people who are in need of an operation but are without insurance and can’t/would rather not pay the “truly formidable price tag of health care in the U.S”. So, i bring them out to here, Mexico, Thailand etc. and organise flights, hotel, operation and, should they choose, a short holiday to recover. Funnily enough, one of our countries happens to be Israel. I was pretty certain there was a war going on over there. Whatever.

Work is good, bit slow as the company has just started, a bit disturbing because one of the two people i share an office with continues to show me his personal porn collection. He’s 75 years old. That’s always how it is with that generation and computers, they start with WWII, “strategic battle games”…then they discover porn. Now, usually i wouldn’t have a huge (….medium sized-hopefull) problem with this, but he’s old, he does this every other day and he enjoys disguising it as other “documents”.
“Young boy(that’s what he calls me…pervert), you see new gym building down road? It’s using new technology…you should see, i have advert.”
“Oscar (his name…), I would love to, but i’m really quite busy at the moment. Furthermore, i’ve recently become aware that you just want to fill my pure mind with your collection of pornographic clips that should, and are in many areas, banned. So no, you horny antique, I’ll pass. Thank you.”
“Hey, seriously, you see this, it very important” (he says all this with a fairly pissed off look on his face…great, now I have an angry as well as horny old person to deal with, we all know what people do when those two moods are combined).
“Fine..”, i reply.
I’m then greeted by a clip of a gym, he wasn’t lying, but different types of machines though.
“Heeyyy, you like it eh. eh? It very nice gym, no? haha…verrrry nice gym. yeh?”
“Yes, well done Oscar, it’s porn, congratulations. Don’t you need to work, or die?”(having said that he’s had 2 strokes and a heart attack…shock horror. He says he can’t do exercise. I don’t think that’s the problem. His body bag will look like a tent.

My house is all well. My landlord is a greedy bastard…i told him this the other day, he nearly cried. He has mental problems, not like Down’s Syndrome, Tourrete’s or ‘Dyslexia’, but it’s more like a severe case of mental fragilty…his girlfriend had just left him as well. He’s bought a cat to compensate for her absence. Poor cat.

I joined a rugby club a couple of months ago. It’s nice, despite the monsters playing. One chap, who’s a farmer, weighs 140kg. Come shower time it’s demoralizing, although he needs to be careful really. He reminds me of Lennie from ‘Of Mice of Men’.Added to this, i’m trying my hand at coaching under 15s (boys rugby)…one of their girlfriends started hitting on me, said i had beautiful eyes (i do, she’s right) and a nice voice, then asked what i was up to that night….crazy eh…….good shag though. Only joking….she was shit.

What else, i’ve bought an old racing bike, which is without doubt the best thing i’ve bought, besides the Peruvian family that clean my flat. It’s very old, white and possibly meant for a woman (probably why it easy to ride..weyyy fookin lad!)…either way, it’s fairly fast. It also allows me to get away with many more things than i could previously: I can wear a head band, hang a chain across my back..basically adopt the London courier look. It’s a little bit dangerous though, turns out people don’t like cyclists, come to think of it, i don’t like cyclists….this is the reason i bought my chain, asides to stop it being stolen, it comes ( will come) in handy if i get in a situation requiring something more than a verbal exchange…having said that, when push comes to shove i know, you know, they know, that i won’t employ my chain…it’s there for aesthetic reasons. It really does look good though, all rustic, shiny and adorned across my well moisturised shoulders; moisturiser does that i guess.

I’ve stopped Tango, put it on hold. It’s far to slow, technical and takes a good couple of months of intensive practice before you can dance..’one’ can’t merely dance after a month, not like salsa, the sprinkler or big fish small fish cardboard box.

Weather is lovely and fresh, things are cooling down and i don’t sweat so much at night.
Spanish is better, but not progressing rapidly due to continually working in English and being injured from Rugby due to shower “chat”…..I’ll be bringing my own soap from now on.
There are more things to re-tale but they’ve slipped my mind for the time being.

I hope everyone is well, enjoying your final year, passed predominantly in the library. Tip: use the disabled loos, they’ve got loads of space, if you do get caught it’s no problem…they can wait…not as if they need to stand. Ooooo, only chin wagging…not all the disabled are unable to stand… .

Right, enough of that lark, I’m going to try and persuade someone with prostrate cancer that having his operation performed in Mexico, my some Tequila infused doctor with an equivalent of a GCSE in Biology and an addiction to life, is by far the best decision. It costs 1/4 of the price in the U.S….not including the tips.If needs be, your needs be, i am able to sort out some plastic surgery as well…our motto is: “Its not about what your mother thinks is beautiful that counts”.

Child’s play…

Much has happened in the last couple of weeks, I’ve had man flu, spent a weekend at an Argentinean family’s country house, moved house, had an Español class….
My weekend of country fun with horses and other animals went a bit like this:
It was all very jolly, I’d made friends with this Porteños family over the last few weeks and was having a drink with them (in this pub…pubs are slightly different here, chaotic, random, and girls can generally drink for free…which means yes, you have two choices: 1. Find a girl 2. Dress as one)..anyway, dressed as a girl I was busy squawking away with my new best friends.
“oh you must come out to our house in the country. We’re going this Friday..you come, yes?” They asked me.
In England this is a happy, vague invite…”oh sure you can come, probably not this weekend, but maybe when I know you better…still, I feel good about offering you, and you feel good about being offered”. In Argentina it’s probably the same…so I promptly said, “oohhh god yes…id love to, me and you guys out in the countryside being all rugged and rural like..i’ll pencil it into my diary….brilliant.”

Well, it was all very smart their little house, in a special sort of country-club that has security all around…to keep the riff-raff out, there nothing like a healthy bit of wealth segregation. The house was cozy, and I learnt how to properly prepare maté (a kind of tea that is drunk religiously out here), had my first asado (bbq where meat is cooked slowly for about 2hours), gave a carrot to a horse and went paintballing as it happened to be a 15yr old girls’ bday party that Saturday and, yet again, I was invited. It is this final chapter that stands out above the rest….

Paintballing: arrived at the other family’s house, which was a kind of sanctuary for animals. I was told they had, at times, up to 150 rescue dogs..when I was there they only seemed to have about 50…a lot had died. I strolled through the doors to be greeted by thirty 15yr olds…all girls. Whilst in that room there maintained a consistent 120 decibels…I contributed greatly to this; “ahhhhhh
ohhhhhh im so god damn excited!!!! Hehheeeeheheheheeee…pink….flowers…butterflies..rainbows!!” I screamed.
In my excitement I bounded round the room skipping and throwing my hands around freely, knocking over the odd child.
Play time was over however. Lunch finished. My skipping came to an end and we began to be briefed on using the guns (the family had a friend who owned a
paintball company and had kindly lent them 30 guns for the day…which no doubt was an interesting conversation: “oh im really stuck for ideas for little buttercupflowerpetals’ party”
“well im just putting this out there… but what about entrusting them with a
paintball gun capable of blinding, bruising heavily and probably making someone infertile if directed appropriately? Its just an idea. I only brought it up cos I own a company that usually gives these sorts of weapons to 30yr old men on stag weekends…but this seems like the right thing to do.”

Either way, we were being briefed…I didn’t need briefing, I was British…the brief was simple: your were up against the Argentinian resistance looking to over-throw your Empire and attempt self-government…the fact that this resistance took the form of lots of small girls with dark hair and pig-tails didn’t change a thing. The objective: secure territory until things have settled and everyone realizes what a jolly bunch of fools they’ve been, and we can have nice cup of tea (which they’ll make), eat some cake (that they’ll bake...), and then have little Pablo run around our freshly cut lawns (cut by a string of children aged between 4-6 with hand scissors..the age is important as it generally corresponds with the weight…you hardly want a 20stone Peruvian housekeeper charging around your front garden) whilst I take shots at him with an air rifle ...ah, whatever happened to Colonialism.

After the man had finished his little pep talk I casually walked off to the woods where this blood-bath would take place. No sooner had I started my stroll when I heard this chanting, I wheeled around and was splashed with the image of lots of small Argentineans raising their guns in the air and, in Spartan esq. unison, chanting away. It was on. They had grown complacent and discipline would have to be injected into their primitive fibers; a lesson must be taught…it may have been her party, but I was going to be the one to make her cry if I wanted to…cry if I want to…you would do to if it hap…concentrate.

There is no winner in war, just a field of broken pieces that cut crude holes in mens’ hearts…that was bollocks. The wiser of the party came over to my side, the rest…they would stand against me, and in doings so would be crushed/heavily bruised.

Despite my ruthlessness, at first, I was all like “ooo can I really shoot a 15yr old girl, it’s a bit..you know..she’s only small..it seems a bit ... .” Never has a thought evaporated as quickly as it did that afternoon. From the moment I locked on to a member of the resistance and sent two shots hurtling at her legs, knocking her to her knees and into a puddle of her own child tears, I knew I had found my calling. If you haven’t already purposely set out to make a child cry, give it a shot, it feels great…no wander it’s so popular…not sure if there’s any need to waste money on adverts. It was child’s-play (really?), and by the end of the day I had effectively reestablished control. There stood before me a wood, filled with paint, but more importantly, crying children. I didn’t need to understand Spanish to know what they were saying; “we’ve been reduced to a bloody, colourful mess of shattered dreams. Yet, we now know that we are not capable of ruling ourselves. Therefore, it’s in all our best interests to serve this beacon of imperial power as best we can…”, or something like that.

My new apartment is significantly nicer, the building seems quite old and Paris-like(Parisian), my house mates are French, Columbian and Uruguayan. Conversation is going to be interesting…but I figure that I can spark up a pretty healthy trade: bread and wine from France, co….ffee from Columbia, and something from Uruguay…I’ve just looked it up and I’m told they’re big on their swordfish, so..swordfish from Uruguay.

I have more news that involve me getting lost in Buenos Aires’ equivalent of Brixton wearing nothing but salmon pink trousers, a sky blue t-shirt and a ‘take advantage of me I’m British and fresh out of public school smile’….. but I’m too tired to write…

Moisturiser: preserving or exposing pillowy skin?

Dear all,
I feel I’ve broken through some of the initial difficulties of living in a new country where a.) You know no one b.)You cant communicate..this leads to difficulties in point ‘a’ c.)You are continually kissed by men..damn that filthy Carlos. How have I done this? Imperialism. ‘But you cant possi…’ Wrong. The ball is rolling, only a fool would stand in the way.
Point ‘a’ has been solved through my expansionist regime orchestrated in the office, combined with gentle paddling in the expat pool.

Point ‘b’ posed bigger problems…and so I start my espanol lessons next week, in the mean-time I’ve developed a phenomenal pointing finger, sharpened up my acting skills and raised my voice a little. However, the biggest break-through came when I was deep in chat and chit with a fellow worker…“well Pablo, that’s an interesting point you propose there; on first glance J.K. Rowling may well be writing for a younger audience, yet a deeper analysis would suggest that this is far from the case, and no Pablo, pointing that ruler at me and shouting ‘rred rred’, does not make you Ron.”
Suddenly I hear this voice from behind me squeak : “haha señor…you look like Bill…pince o bales!”
I reeled around to face this little, squat, chocolate coloured South American.
“What? Who the hell are you? Bill, Bales…what in gods name are you trying to say man?”
The squeaking started again…
“haha haha…bill….you know señor…pince..dar dar da da, dar dar da daaaa.” This was followed by a mock self crowning.
“Ahh I see. Firstly that’s a wedding song, secondly its W…Wales and William, and he’s not Prince of Wales…doesn’t matter.”
Then it clicked… ‘hang on a second, Green & Black’s over here thinks I look like a member of the Royal family…the limits to which this accidentally leaked piece of knowledge could extend are boundless…as far as they should be concerned, I would be known as ‘that Englishman…the one with royal blood coarsing through his veins’, although it’s unlikely they’d elect the word ‘coarsing’ or ‘veins’.
Thus I swivelled back towards this little coffee bean and, with as low a voice as I could produce, I answered:
“Yes, I do indeed look like William….now take your suspiciously child-sized legs and spread the word throughout…this building.”
At last I will be able to shake off the shackles of charades, and instrument my policies through mere face movement. I was a royal and that was that.

In terms of accommodation, I have only a week or so until I will be moving from my studio flat in Viamonte, a street that should have no name, to San Telmo or Monserrat(I’m unsure at the moment); replacing living above two strip clubs, and next to a 6ft 5” transvestite, for an area renown for it’s antiques and tango….sad times lie ahead.

Point ‘c’ has been eradicated in part. Yes, I am still subjected to coarse man-stubble on coarse man-stubble, except I possess little stubble, and it is neither manly or coarse, but I’ve worked out that the prime man-kissing hours are between 9am and 10am (as well as random meetings throughout the day that I have little to no control over)..thus it is during these hours that i´m already deep into my work… “ohhh bonjour Carlos, cómo estás?”… “whats that you say?…yes, you are unable to ‘properly’ greet me….. and no, I will not move out of my work cubicle/impenetrable social fortress so that you can man-handle me…oh naive Carlos, you knew this day would come…did you really think you could get away with your face rape for ever..haha…now scarper or I shall launch an offensive of rubber-bands, slow moving staples and post-it notes with carefully sketched penises on them.”

I´m drinking lots of espresso, which is nice (they serve it with a small glass of fizzy water and a small biscuity, dulche de leche thing on the side. The fizzy water is stroke of genius). I’m eating red meat pretty much everyday, which is great. I´m drinking good red wine everyday, which brilliant. Beef is practically cheaper than chicken, depending on the cut, maybe this is down to some underground battery cow trade…I’m not too bothered, my ethics took flight long ago.

One last thing…I’ve worked out, cos o me intuition, that Portenos enjoy a good protest. I’ve frequently found myself confronted with a few hundred protesters. I may or may not have told you about ‘picketeers’…they’re unemployed chaps who professionally protest, well they don’t really do the protesting, they hold the front (vangard), the sides and the rear (the sides and the rear) and hold metal or wooden poles, kitted out in less than formal attire with a paisley (although check is often sought after) patterned handkerchief around their faces (leaving room for eyes obviously..otherwise chaos really would rein)..anyway this lot clear the roads and, if it comes to it, engage in physical contact with the police…who have plenty of tear gas(or large speakers playing ‘nothing compares to u’ by Sinead O’Connor). Fireworks/cheap bangers (…if they had the money for a good fireworks display they´d hardly need to be protesting) are let off and drums and other make-shift musical instruments are “played”. I had quite an interesting first-encounter with these protesters that involved what I thought was initial common ground for discontent towards the government, but later found out was not so common, and rather dangerous: they wanted food, shelter and to be rid of the shackles of political prejudice…I wanted an electric cooking hob and a new light bulb….

This extra bit goes out to less sensitive ears:
About to get success last night and so my mind was filled with the sound of fireworks and orchestral music.
“I’m just gonna get my jacket (jumper thing.. I don’t know the word for jumper..)”. I tell her.
She doesn’t unwrap herself from me..lad.
“Yes, you will have to let go if I’m to fulfill this task…what?…you cant stand up straight…this poses problems…but I guess I can work around this minor setback.” I inform her.
I try to prop her up but it was like making a pencil stand vertically…maybe you could do it for a few seconds but its never going to last.
“Well, this is an interesting situation…how about I drag you along and put you in a taxi home instead. Taxi drivers are nice people, they’ll know what to do in this situation… .”

Also on this subject..heard about the girl from school who cried wolf..or rape. Enjoyed andy’s reaction to this news: “you hear bout girl who got raped at welly?” I asked.
“No. House or woods?”…brilliant.
It was only a matter of time until something like this happened… “oh look at me mum, im all naive and innocent, just doing my homework and playing netball…BAM…raped”. What an idiot.