“DiazePan-Am”

The pain of travelling, and that is undeniable, is significantly lessened, nay, extinguished by the wonder that is diazepam. However, there exists on this fair earth a sister substance, clonazapam, which, far from being a member of the Taliban, is just that little bit stronger; it takes roughly 20mg of the former substance to place me in a gentle cocoon of escapism, floating both metaphysically and physically above the clouds, take 4mg's of clonazapam and you wouldn't be able to hear Sarah Palin orgasm. My flight from Lima to Amsterdam and from there to England was one long glorious kip. I awoke to the the calming voice of the captain: “We are now approaching...the weather is shit,” in essence informing us that my fellow passengers and I had made a terrible mistake in leaving our place of departure. “You fools, this is what you have lying ahead of yourselves. You could have stayed in exotic bliss but instead you elected to come here, congratulations.” The air stewardess feared waking me from my self induced coma - three meals we are entitled to, I received one. I have no doubt the comatose dribble from the corner of my mouth served as some form of a 'Do not disturb' sign.

The gates of arrival and departure seem to me to be of one and the same thing - similar sentiments are displayed at both ends; I left to mild teariness, and arrived to the sounds of a similar tune: following the emotional roller-coaster that is baggage collection, the butterflies start to flap around in my tummy; I look a little worse-for-wear, which calls for adjustments in the toilet – during which people look at me as if I have just finger-fucked their cat; it doesn't help that I am shirtless, sock-less and with head under a hand drier.

Having just spent the last eighteen hours touching/in contact with people, I happen to be strolling alone now, past the last security gate and around 'the' corner that is obligatory at every arrival gate – first put to test in Croydon Airport, 1928, so as to create suspense. A couple of teary faces greet me and my brother states he “was not” crying; my sister asks, “why are your eyes red?” I laugh, we all laugh – it is funny. I am eyed up meticulously for signs of damage or a half Argentinian love child – my mother's greatest fear – before being merited with the stamp of approval: “Well, you're all in one piece, and that's what matters.” Of course that's what fucking matters, honestly what sort of sentence is that? You are suggesting there was a distant possibility of my arriving in separate parts, figuratively in pieces – the victim of Cubism-obsessed natives.

Life back to normal...

The prodigal son has returned; I am Surrey-Kent border's living equivalent to Sir Francis Drake, sailing through the narrow-minded tides that lap against my beautiful boatlette; to family, and friends of, I am but an exotic piece - an African fruit bowl bought on a business trip years ago. Attention is food for the soul but not all of it tastes sweet; questions are continually asked of my brave travels, and I find myself growing weary:

“So, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“You know..(I did not)...'it'.”

“Ah, 'it', of course. You mean South America, how was South America. So, essentially you have boldly requested that I sum up the last two years of my life and a continent that consists of around twelve countries, all of which contain rich and defining differences, in the answer I am to provide you with?”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

“It was good, thank you.”

"Getting the Most From Your Pritt Stick"

The following extract is taken from remaining time Spears and I spent in Comodoro Rivadavia:

With a bus due to take off at 22:45 we had time to kill and so to another grassy knoll we headed, by 20:30 we were sitting, cross-legged (I end up looking like a new born foal packed up into a briefcase when sat in this fashion) under a tree filled with very small parrots that took it upon themselves to drop their faecal bombs of discontent on us, no doubt acts of anger with the fact that we were boiling their unborn relatives. Six eggs we boiled. That's just what we do, boil eggs, act impulsively, eat mani (peanuts) from their shells (as close to hunter gatherer as I'm likely to get) and watch 16 year old boys inhale glue. It is that last point that I ought to elaborate on:

...I'd spotted in my peripheral vision this young chap, sniffing away merrily at this bag filled with glorious glue, and gloriously cheap glue at that; happy as Larry he was. Whilst watching him there, I felt a little sad but also a little connected with that transcendental travelling spirit. Soon, however, little Pablo decided to come spend some time with us and my transcendental spirit evaporated - "be at one with the people metaphysically not physically." The boy was young and high, but by the time he had sat his tiny little legs down on the poo-stained grass I was surreptitiously playing with my recently purchased stainless steel fork; I was to plough it in his left bicep, scream a little, apologise for screaming at such a high pitch, then take flight. I looked across at Spears 'The Heart' Mallis and the following conversation took place...through our eyes only:

"Yo, dude this hobo looks heli-high!" The Heart said.

"Run Spears, run for your life! Leave the eggs, I don't enjoy them boiled anyway."

"Dude, you don't like boiled eggs. Wtf, man?!" He replied, downcast.

"Ignore the gastronomy...and my palate. This boy is dangerous - he's a drug addict and they are all plotting on destroying the economy...I read an article about it, with pictures 'n' all. You take his left bicep. No, take his right, I've got his left. I apologise in advance for any screaming that may or may not take place."

“Mgnudnsudoj,” was the boy's opening line - original and not at all disturbing. The fork remained tightly held in my paw.

Out of courtesy, and to keep him occupied, we made conversation with him. Conversation doesn't last as long as you'd hope with a sniffer of solvents, largely because they can't communicate very well and the effect of this past-time tends to damage the ol' synapses and destroy a healthy chunk of short term memory; such memories were that we were boiling eggs. The loss of this memory led little Pablo, despite our cries of objection, to reach into our pot and extract an egg, then observe it at a closer distance, as one does.

You are granted, when intoxicated, a delayed grace period before your nervous system manages to relay the message that what you did hurt, a lot. The boy's cerebellum soon received this message - this was apparent to us when he looked up at us in child-like horror, as if betrayed by a parent, and spoke the immortal words: “Hot”. The only thing missing was the soothing accompaniment to all documentaries on wildlife: the voice of David Attenborough.

We soon packed up and trotted off into the night, taking what little money the boy had left, in search of the “rich” area. It was not long, however, until a security guard (in disguise) came up to us, revealed his weapon (a baton....a wooden stick....a long...oh, what's the point in trying....yes, he took out is cock, cum on (who), we're all thinking it...are we?) and told us it wasn't safe to stay there. A bizarre city all in all.

I believe I forgot to pipe up on a few little morsels here and there, which struck me whilst enjoying the overwhelming pleasures of Comdoro Rivadavia. The following was scribbled on a napkin I found later in my bag:

...Oh, the irony: This city is a ghastly place (a heady mix of Croydon and Abdijan), however, it does proudly display an old steam engined train that sits on a couple of metres of track, placed in the heart of the city. It would seem this display is a beacon of past development, the foundation and platform from which industrial growth took off. “What? But there are no current trains to be seen in the whole of the city. No means of transport other than car and anaemic horses.”

Therefore, essentially this monument (if we can call it that) serves as a constant, tangible itch in the psyche of the city, reminding them that it has an economy that peaked 100 years ago, almost like telling an 18yr old boy that his sexual peak was in fact 8 years ago. Congratulations.

"The Flight: Death to COOCK"

Finally we’re are jumping ship and trotting off to Comodoro Rivadavia (middle-bottom-left Argentina), leaving Ushuia in our wake. My freshest companion is a Mr. Spears Mallis, he is a 26 year old Californian, fairly tall, with a warm face and prone to falling in love easily, very easily, too easily. It comes as no surprise then to hear that the vast majority of his sentences begin with: “This girl I had just fallen recklessly and irresponsibly in love with, throwing to the wind all manner of self and emotional preservation...” (or something to that effect).

So, the time to depart had arrived and so I set off, with Spears ‘The Heart’ Mallis at my side. The same dreams and aspirations as had polluted my thoughts yesterday still remained seat-belted in my mind, and with that we trotted off to the airport; we were not planning on enduring, once more, the chagrin of an 18 hour journey.

Arrive we did, and wait we would have to, for the plane was delayed by three hours or so. I should note at this point that this was the same company, Sol airlines, churning out the same route and most probably the same plane that was to crash, killing all on board, in three months time.

(NB whilst writing this, sat in cafe, I have just been approached by a small boy, no more than four years of age, who has declared me to be “like a girl”, on account (although I am not certain) of my hair. “He look like girl” He squeaked (four years old and he can't speak proper English, the philistine).)

Anyway, we were delayed and thus time to kill we had: bonding time. We commandeered a nice bottle of scotch, found a grassy knoll - it wasn't like normal airports - and killed the time. Of course, there will arise a few complications when arriving at your designated gate, trollied. One is that you are inevitably late. We were given three hours to cover what was probably 200 metres, and yet all 200 of those metres were still covered at a sprint. The second is that in this case my lovestruck friend brought with him, to a plane what was planning on flying, a Leatherman - essentially a tool capable of fixing a computer, skinning a squirrel, sawing down a sapling and filing your finger nails to the utmost point of perfection.

We arrived at Comodoro Rivadavia at around 2AM.

A day passed in C. Rivadavia:

For those that are unaware of this, Comdoro Rivadavia is somewhat of a shithole, picture, if you will, a soulless city with the view you’d expect to see from an oil rig in the Atlantic. I did, however, get another piercing; an act of impulse. I feel so dangerous and alive right now; I look fantastic.

Scott Adams once said that 'creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.' The art we witnessed that morning certainly supported Adams...

We decided to have breakfast and duly discovered a patch of grass to host the event. Our patch of grass was nestled cosily in the middle of a roundabout, a roundabout in the most heavily congested area of this godforsaken city. It was with a YPF (station de petrol) to our right, shouting, drum banging protesters to our left and with the sensualisation of a thousand morning commuters' sentiments that we settled down to whilst constructing breakfast. A power-box shed of sorts lay adjacent to where we sat, adorning this shed was a fair amount of graffiti, among which were the immortal words: “i liKE YOUR COOCK.”

Many things struck us about this piece of modern art and public profession of anger. One of them was the change in capitals, ‘twas as if the chap or chappette decided after three letters and much deliberation to go: “Fuck it, this is worthy of capitals, the world MUsT hear this!” I wandered to what extent this piece of art was grammatically correct: "Are we looking at a someone playing around with the homophonic qualities of the ultimate word with the subconscious leap one naturally makes when first reading the sentence? Is the artist ironically belittling the derogatory graffiti we see littering buildings and walls but simultaneously mocking us for our ignorance and essentially imploring difference in a world of mundane structures and a reluctance to enjoy individuality?" ‘Coock’ celebrates individuality, whereas ‘cock’ might also demonstrate a Freudian frustration with another person's exemption from the ordinary. Ultimately though, this was South America: they spelt it wrong. Silly boys.

I felt like Bear Grylls as we boiled our own water (Spears boiled the water) - I happen/purposely don’t travel with such weaponry as a stove, but my minion did and so we/he made some quite marvellous coffee. Sitting there, sipping away, watching the world go by in a needle-littered haven, a paradise among a sea of constructed chaos, feasting on porridge, bran flakes, fruit....oh, the fruit we dined on. I knew in that moment that class floats above all obstacles, surpassing financial struggle and situational disturbances to enjoy a good bowl of porridge whilst gazing philosophically at the words ‘i liKE YOUR COOCK’.

"An Extra Bar Won't Stop the Bending."

The following records the journey from Calafate (South Argentina) to Ushuia (the southern most city in the world...yes, still in Argentina):

I was placed, regally, on seat 20. Seat 20 was a seat behind a mother and her son. The child has Downe’s Syndrome. The child enjoys a number of different past times: kissing anyone that passes, on their lips (no, one can not catch Downe’s Syndrome through kissing. Yes, the thought crossed my mind), demanding all sorts of utterly unrelated material such as teddy bears, crisps and gossip magazines. He also took great pride in screaming when none of the aforementioned items were granted to him. Passer-by’s fell into a chorus of patronising tones and acquiesced to his every request. Uncertainty as to what to do and how to react preoccupied the minds of the majority. The mother, on the other hand, watched idly as discipline flew out the window.

Regardless of the attention the child had been and was probably likely to continue to receive, the child still took it upon itself to scream loudly at frequent intervals. It was at around the hour 10 mark when my humour was really flying at full mast, come hour 15 and I was drafting disgracefully plausible options in my head.

Customs was passed a total of five times but only two actual borders were crossed. It should be noted that I was an illegal alien in Argentina at this point - your visa runs out after 90 days and to renew it one must either pay 300 pesos or leave the country and re-enter. It made sense to take the fine on the chin as I had, after all, been in the country for a period of close to two years with but one leave to England in the books, my option was glaringly obvious. I waited for the inevitable slap on the wrist and healthy fine, come border time.

The bus hit the first crossing and this stern looking woman waited for me ominously at the end of my queue. I changed queues. A voluptuous, impressionable looking lady now awaited me – the Nigella Lawson of the immigration world.

“Hello sir, can we (she was representing the Government...'WE'!) have your proof of entry please?” she asked me kindly.
'Shit, what do I do? Stay calm, only a small fine awaits you. But wait, what if they don't take kindly to my English roots...I'll go to prison...I can't go to prison, look at me, I'd be as pillaged as a Anglo-Saxon settling in the West Midlands, right on the coast...with a nice view...and conservatory,' I panicked. 'Pretend you can't speak Spanish. Yes, that's perfect, smile a lot, play with your hair and remember: you can not speak Spanish.'
The woman asked me once again for the papers that would be responsible for my possible incarceration and inevitable flight of all things pure in this world, oh cruel fate. I snapped out of my Shakespearean monologue and gently smiled at her. She smiled back – this was going well.
“Uhhh, English? I arrive not long go, no realise papers be important.” I said...IN THE ACCENT OF SOMEONE WHO CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH! 'Fuck, what on earth possessed me to deny knowledge of both the Spanish and English language? Great, they're going to bring in someone who's mastered Bulgarian and I shall go to prison; I'm bringing surplus soaps... “Don't worry about that Tyrone, you can just leave it right there on the bathroom floor, look, here's another bar. What? Why drop that too?”'
My imprisoned musing was interrupted for the second time: “OK sir, but you need to remember next time to keep hold of them.” the woman informed me. I pretended I didn't understand her response, so I just nodded and continued to smile. She gave me my passport and papers, turned to her friend and muttered: “Idiot.” I was an idiot, fantastic news. It was a badge I would gladly wear; an idiot that had been granted his freedom. I glided back to the bus as life rushed uncontrollably through my veins, head held high, breathing in dramatically the Patagonian air, which tasted the same (same) but different.

Inner-thigh Pain and Religious Rabbits

It is probably in all our interests if I offer a quick background to the following events: I've recently set sail from Necochea (south of Buenos Aires - on the coast) and have arrived in Bariloche (inland - essentially halfway down Argentina, where people go to ski in the winter. It was summer when I arrived so people just thrash about in the lakes). More or less, Bariloche marks the the first port of call wherein I am travelling alone, thus hostel life is as fresh as a mountain stream – a simile I would have done best to avoid using in hostels. So:

Detox is being embraced, the whores and transvestites shall take a back seat – the aphoristic one – and I am to become at one with nature. Natural beauty is my oxygen and I breathe it in deeply at every and any self-created moment, acutely aware that the fragility of these moments will soon be apparent and the novelty will wear off. An extract from previous travels in China support this omen: “Oh dear God, delicately placed before our eyes we have yet another piece of natural fucking beauty. There appears to be the exact same hill as gazed upon yesterday unfolding before us, with what is almost definitely another generic, tackily decorated temple.” ('The Beginner's Guide to Natural Fucking Beauty: China, just yellow and red?', 2008)

My reading for the moment is “The Anatomist”. The protagonist has recently discovered the clitoris (cue round of applause) on a dying woman in the 16th century (suppress or soften still running applause) – as far as dying wishes go, this lady's were surpassed...“before I go, leaving you all in a poverty filled abyss, I shall be requesting just one thing...a glass of Tropicana, with pulp...what?...I'm sorry doctor, what was that? You said you've found the whaaaaaaaaatttoohhhsweetgod!” She never ticked all the boxes on her bucket list.

Hostel life is adaptable, I hope:

‘Twas the middle of the night when I heard it: the shrill, hysterical screaming that selfishly awoke me. The screams were akin to those of a child watching a rabbit being burnt at the stake for heretical crimes. Naturally I remained all tucked up: no bunny watching child would force me into unforeseen night-time movement (it’s not right to have the words “child” and “night-time movement” in the same sentence, but alas, this is where they shall lie.) Eventually the mother settled the child and thus my dreams. I still await the apology from the aforementioned child.

Returned to hostel later the next day. Legs ached. Why? Cycling. Days are now spent flying along roads and pathways singing 'Do Re Mi' – it was a throw up between that and a little bouncy number from 'My Fair Lady'. Anyway, I strolled through the hostel door, my gait as if I had just strolled out of Shawshank. A lot of people stood in the room before me, the classic and yet sickening buzz of an overenthusiastic hostel – a climate that I would soon have to get used to – filled the room.

“Just pass through them, up the stairs and hit the showers (cue flashback to face of 'maternal' prep school matron).” I muttered – already I was muttering. I should point out that muttering, to yourself, whilst hovering over the precipice of a large group of strangers, is not a recommended course of action. You tend to give off a less than stable vibe. No one is likely to casually stroll over and remark: “Hey there, I saw you with your chin pressed to your chest and your eyes unnervingly looking ahead, while you muttered busily, and I thought to myself: 'hey he seems like a bloody riot to chat to, and not at all mentally fragile.'”

Despite my internal affairs grinding away, I strolled through the crowd. 'Hey look at me now dad, I'm strolling, through a crowd, of humans..sorry, people, I always call them that, really.' Maybe the intimate little monologue I was constructing should take the blame for this, but no sooner had I finished this victory sentence, then I tripped – probably over some shitty, communal mood-lifting hostel cat.

You have two options to take when confronted with such a shade of public humiliation:

1. You regard yourself in an ever so serious light and fly into deep and quizzical expressions of thought and wonder how on earth this débâcle occurred - it was not your fault. You are YOU.
2. Smile, maybe even let loose a jovial giggle, not too girlish but not too territorial, get up and continue on your way. Maybe engage in light conversation, following eye-contact, with someone close by who could and can not deny standing witness to this. You shall both laugh and everyone will think none the less of you.

In the moment, I saw it fit to combine both these options – 'the moment' takes a lot of blame during the course of one's life... “So what if she had a penis, I was in 'the moment'”.

So, with complete disregard to my prettily laid out options, I let out a girlish giggle whilst simultaneously looking at the soles of my shoes as if the Holy Grail and answer to all public trippings could and WOULD be found there - they aren't. I then arose and walked towards the stairs, turned to a girl 'close by', giggled again (why!?) and said: “Owww, guilty candidate for a broken nail...right there.” She then took me firmly by the hand and we spent the following 4 and a half minutes imitating non-heretical rabbits. Only kidding, she looked at me in complete distaste and wandered off into a sea of hemp and dread-locks... .

Moral of the story: don't make sounds like Maria.

"I am a passenger," says Iggy Pop...but he had heroine to help with the journey. I don't.

I am lacking in time, my anecdotes are scribbled on the pages of my “Hello Kitty” diary (yes, it’s pink, and yes, it has a heart lock, a tangible one at least). I have become a traveller, nay; a “back packer” (…is the fact that I’ve already over used the quotation mark sufficient evidence of aforementioned diary?). Anyway, it appears that I’m only just coming to terms with this realisation…

I was strolling along the streets of Comodoro Rivadavia (from now on please assume that all names of towns or cities are said in an annoying faux-Spanish accent that says: “Yar, like I don’t even think about it anymore, ever since conversing, from an STA travel distance, with villagers when I was building mud huts in Bolivia and thus simultaneously placing local workers out of a job…lovely race, a tad small though”) …sweating like any normal person with a b*** p*** on who doesn’t wish to use the words “black man”, “pedophile” or “vicar” in his simile, when I suddenly saw my reflection in the shop window. I stopped, obviously.

“Oh dear god Frederick, you have what appears to be a b*** p*** on you. Further more, you have a hand woven bracelet on your wrist and long flowing locks…I am akin to a Von Trapp child, Justin, of course.” My mind piped up.

I can whole heartedly say that people who wear a bracelet, hand woven by some small Peruvian child, makes me sick, buy it from a supermarket and support a corporation. However, mine is different. ‘Twas made by a crazy Frenchman, Alan, who always wore a hat, a hat that always sported a feather, a feather that probably sported diseases. I didn’t touch him, or his hat. Anyway, the bracelet is a mixture of ivy green, daffodil yellow and love, lots of it. I like it, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside...and what!?

Recently, I have been given a lot of unnecessary chagrin from dogs. The first incident goes as follows:

The resident dog in the hostel I was residing in, in Ushuaia (southern most city in the world, why did I go there? To say I’d been there. It wasn't for the penguins. Fuck the penguins, or don’t, save that for a nighttime stroll to a zoo, which has penguins, or you’ll be settling for a marsupial and they’ll probably see you cuming…being animals off the night ‘n’ all), named “Gordita”, which does translate as: “little fat female being”. Anyway, I believe this animal to be having a thyroid issue (all diagnoses are sponsored by New Labour), but unfortunately this disability/disease hasn’t saved it from owner induced aggravation.

So, I was minding my own business, preaching the good word (democracy and Libyian food) when I passed said dog…

“Oh, hello Gordita…how are you today, little doggy woggy. Would you care to smell my foot, you seem awfully interested: a fetish no doubt.” I offer, in a generously patronizing tone, as all children and animals ought to be addressed in.

(I proceed to move my shoed, right foot towards its bed: testing the water as you will.
The dog woggy then launches, as best it can, at me like a beige balloon with buttons of death stuck on it as eyes. Jaws, lock around my foot. I let out an oestrogen filled, girly scream, followed by a guttural, manly laughter…sprinkled delicately with a garnish of fear, courtesy of Nigella. Silly doggy.)

“Damn you cushion doggy, with unfortunate thyroid problem.” I say, coolly, whilst I swing my right foot around, now adorned with an Argentine mongrel (‘twasn’t even pure bred: scum).

Those around me are either laughing or trying to help.

“Remain calm Pablobians, all is well and rosy here. I saw some action like this in India…eventually the boy relaxed his jaw.” I broadcasted to the room.

I was right, the doggy did let go, and then receive a sharp kick in its face...that was a joke, I don’t hurt animals with four legs. If a suspiciously large or any amount of Green and Black’s finds itself in its food bowl, I know no evil, merely speak a little.

Second dog incident shall be relayed a little quicker to you, as I seem to have rambled.

Well, when crossing into Chile, believe it or not, one is required to cross a border. This border has rules. Two of the main rules are: “NO FRUIT OR SMALL CHILDREN”. I carry a lot of one of those commodities, not the children, although the Peruvian border awaits me with baited breath.

(The following is said around a camp fire as flutes rasp out the “Titanic” soundtrack.)

“Rules are vague, I’m a passenger and now a b*** p*****, therefore materialistic trappings of a society corrupted by vanity and self preservation mean nothing to me, neither do intangible boundaries, dragging one down like governmental gravity. This Granny Smith is coming with me.”

So, you are required, having shown some official your darkest hour, the passport photo, to stand in a line. I thought that that was it, we was all to be shot because of some childish border banter…couldn’t I at least have a shower like Scorcese says. “What?”...nothing.
A dog came out, on a lead. Everyone sighs and there is a group “awhhhh” sound.
“Oh you foolish Pabloblians. Not cute little doggy…devil doggy that’s going to send anyone with a banana or rock of crack up their arse straight to a Chilean cell to be sandwiched between a 6ft 5” misunderstood black man and a skinny, victim of society with father issues (previous stereotypes are based solely on fact and films). The dog starts to sniff peoples’ bags. It stops at mine, places it left paw on my bag and gazes up at its owner. Everyone giggles and another collective “awwwhhh” sound is heard. Who is responsible for the "awwwhh" spark? Pablo?

Thus, thanks to a small golden retriever with a nose for fruit and crack (another chap had a casual prostrate exam; forever a changed man), I was forced to spill the contents of my b*** p*** on the floor. “No, I have no idea how that laced silk dressing gown that hugs one’s thighs like a warm summer wind got in my bag, and no, I can not explain those stains…oh, all right, I can.”

I never had to pay a fine, financial that is…I was however forced to watch their rendition of “Cats”, twice.

Moral of this story…wedge higher if you want to fend off Lloyd Weber.

(May I apologise for lack of appropriate punctuation…the keyboard has decided to mix up the necessary buttons. “Made in Chile.” This won’t happen again.)

The next post is due to address the difficulties of sharing a room with seven other living human beings...go on, use your imagination.

"The Stamp of the Feline Pheromone: the pre-ovariless days"

I am acutely aware that I write a lot about myself; I enjoy it, ‘tis a subject of great interest for me. But recently I’ve been deep in the careful observation of a cat. The cat entertains and baffles; its out of the ordinary lifestyle is, quite frankly, bizarre.

The cat’s days are passed under no great pressures, splitting the hours between cleansing itself, playing with itself (not in the sexual manner), eating and shitting in a box, then hiding its faeces under a bed of litter: chocolate Easter eggs of the domesticated feline world.

However, what interests me the most are not the points aforementioned, rather the phenomenon that takes place once the mysterious blanket of change is thrown over its being (and tucked in at the ends). The cat emerges, not as a cat but as a sex crazed nymphomaniac concerned with one thing and one thing only: the quest for satisfaction.

Tables, stairs, beds, bags, shoes, feet (it loves feet…for the obvious potential a toe possesses)…the list has no limits (limitless). It is as if Robert Pattinson was sent blindfolded, most probably naked as well (the two, more often than not, ride hand in hand) into a Sunday evening Mass at an all girls' Catholic boarding school:; an uncut, black and white tribute to pheromones and the suggestive, beautifully sown lexicon of Stephenie Meyer.

Postman Pat’s cat, it appears, did not struggle with the coming of womanhood (maybe because it was a man cat, or conveniently asexual) but instead floated along in a sexless wilderness, suspended above menopause and yet pinned before puberty: its sexual identity stripped crudely from it by the monotonous rhythm of mail delivery; a slave to the royal insignia.

Two very different cats, leading two very different lives, preoccupied by two very different things; neither conscious of the directions they head in.

Moral of the story: “You can’t always get what you want….but you can try sometimes.”

(Next to follow will be the dramatisation of the day I lost both my jobs...and other poor stories)

"Chapters, Chaps and Chappetes: the final curtain call"

I had never been kicked out of a home before (save the elderly one..."Sure I'm your grandson..."), that is untill today. Fate has struck yet another cruel blow to my cushioned life, sending goose feathers a flyin’. We was a poison to the house, a menace to the micro-society....a bloody nuisance. Thus, my mentally fragile landlord, emotionally eroded by the constant reminder that he just does not fit, announced:

“I need use your rooms (my compatriot's and mine) for make office and sleep room,” he muttered pathetically to us the other night.

(This space I’ve created here______is reserved for the silence that inevitably followed. Silence is important)

“Ummm, what was that Pablo? You want to use the bathroom? Yes, I presume there is an abundance of loo role; help yourself,” I retorted jovially.

(This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the imaginary image of my condescending smile, which I tied on the end of my sentence, like a frilly, patronising ribbon)

“No, I mean say you need leave house soon.”

“Well, well, well Pablo. Firstly, what you have squeaked since sticking your ratty little head around the door has made absolutely no sense....at all. But, because I’m intuitive, I’ve come to realise that when you say you want Lebensraum, you really you just want our raums...and ultimately, our constant absence.”

(This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the brooding, man-power look I shot at him. This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the Orlando Bloom gaze that actually took place)

“Uhhhh, no no no...I sorry (he wasn’t) but need use rooms for work (he didn’t).”

“Please leave this raum now Pablo. That is all." I shot back at him, eyes on fire, skin ice (ice baby) cold and hair tousled conservatively (political peluquería joke, do I dare?) to the left side ( yes, I do).

So, it has come to pass that after the changing of two glorious seasons and one not so toasty one, I must step down from my throne of Constituciónal power, set aside my sceptre, sheath my sword (weyy, lad on tour) and mount my steed (yes, still on tour). I head to greener pastures and yet I feel an aching remorse in leaving behind those I've come to treasure: my Peruvian castle of fruit and veg, my expeditionary force of recyclers that dwell on the corner, loyal servants to cardboard and aluminium....and last but certainly not least, my high-heeled “nights” of confusion that lift my spirits and feed my ego with their faithful cat-calling. A few shall be bitterly missed, all remembered.

So my moral of an episodic chapter will finish by quoting a dear corner-dwelling friend who, whilst softly smiling, whispered: “Freddie, dip a toe in your neighbour’s bath, the water might well be different...but the feeling’s the same.” Time to pull the plug.

“I have something to tell you that will blow your mind... ."

"Ok, I lied. I´m 45, balding and have single-handedly collected the entire series of Star Trek on VHS. I tend to spend my Saturday nights at my taxidermy club; I’ve almost finished glazing the eyes of my last dog, Captain Spok, which died aged 4 (I couldn´t wait another 10 years).

Anyway, you look much prettier in real life than in your photos....call me or send me an email at stuffingsquirrelssince7@hotmail.com. (or I can pop round your house sometime...maybe when you´ve finished refurbishing; I personally preferred the paisley patterned curtains).

Lots of love...for ever,

James (but Captain Spock calls me J-Dog...which I think is ironic).”

This is the kind of message that would ensure an early end to my new career in the world of online dating. Yes, I have a new job. Yes, it’s helping Americans find the recognised counter-part of their soul in another human being....or just to prematurely ejaculate in a motel south of Inbredville, New Milton Keynes. Either way, It’s incredibly rewarding.

“But Freddie, surely this goes against all your values regarding reproduction and the North American population?”

“Interesting repost. Rest assured, oh Satan´s champion of me mind, that my priorities still follow the same beaten track. I’m merely employing a touch of damage control: minimising the percentage of children who´s father is also their first cousin once removed.”

“Oh, ok, fantastic news. Well done.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

You may or may not be interested to hear that my bedside reading has been dominated not by the breathtaking prose of D.H. Lawrence but the exciting proposals and inevitably empty promises of such authors as David DeAngilo and Grant Adams, most famous for his work “Net2Bed”. I’ve also done a little research in this area. I am hoping to release my product, titled “BackstreetPharmacy2BedOrBush”, in the not too distant future. Each to their own eh.

So, laissez faire attitudes to unconsented sex aside, I’m busy helping those that find it difficult to find a balance in their lives. “Being a CEO of two companies, that I started, all before the age of 35, means I often find it hard to mix work and play.” Poor chaps. I believe it’s about helping those in this world that ask for it, not those that most need it, or get someone else to ask for them.....thank you very much Red Cross for tarnishing the precious two minutes I have between episodes of Frasier to be brainwashed by the frilly materialistic trappings of my beautiful Western world.

“Moral of our Monday Morning Story”: Charity starts in The States....but tends to finish in one. Write that down...or click ‘save’ somewhere on your screen (Yes, I’m aware it’s been quite the sibilance session today....and what? I like alliteration, who doesn’t).

The Austrian attitude to wine: "full-bodied and 14yrs old...it'll keep"

Sitting in the sun, drinking coffee, watching little Cafayateans squirrel around us, we planned our next steps. ‘Twas time to visit a vineyard or two and lay pillage to their “tasting” cellars. I asked some hippy artist, deep in his painting, whether there was a closing time. He informed me nothing closed untill around ten at night. I was later to find out that, on top of being shit at art, he was also lying. Only two remained open to some good quaffing:

“Good evening sirs,” a cork sized woman with fairly dark skin and brilliantly white teeth greeted us. (For your future reference: maybe it is best that you assume all people greeted or engaged in spoken words, from this point on, are of the aforementioned description).

“Yes...it.....is.....and, may I say, good evening to you to, suspiciously small wine harvesting woman. I will be frank with you Pablita, I haven’t done this before (or can’t remember.lad), could you possibly talk me through it please?” I asked her...a request that rang bells of other first times...but, alas, without recording equipment.

Off we trotted on a little tour of their museum. The museum functioned, in our eyes, as a polite pausing stop before we laid pillage to their tasting wines....to show, as you will, that we possibly gave a shit about a bunch of copper barrels and some dusty corkscrews. I even asked Pablita what significance a bottle, on display, from 1960 had. She told me “none” and that the winery wasn’t even in action then. "Why did you even place it there then Pablita? To make us aware that wine was in existance at that time?" A truly vintage shite museum in conclusion. We were not there to act as culture vultures though; sponges we would be. (I will add that nothing of great interest followed: we tasted a little, drunk a lot and bought a little-due to post drink guilt and small, shiny-teethed cork women mesmerization. Oh, and we were stalked by a league of very French French girls. "Have you heard of effervescence? No? ...Malbec or Cabernet Sauvignon?").

Although this bears little importance to our trip, I have to add that whilst writing this I spent the afternoon passing so much wind that someone was forced to spray the whole office with its finest loo freshener. The Pablobian work force assumed it was the trainees, who had been thick in a day of training (as trainees do), but ney ‘twasn’t, ‘twas I. Fools.
I joined in on the complaining....
“Bloody nuisance they are Pablo...faffing around our office, filling it with there unemployed odour.” I remarked contemptuously.
It is the small victories in life that will accumulate, the larger ones only compete.

Overall morals of these particular stories: vineyard museums and Saltean vagrant artists.No. Phantom office-based flatulence.Yes.

"The Game": a beginners guide to picking up hitchhikers

Try as I might to scrape my mind of any residual memories from the crusade, which have recently been evading my pen, I am still missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. These pieces are undoubtedly fragile; you try desperately to file them away safely from any proceeding chemical that might try and wipe the slate clean. Incidentally, it this latter aspect that has engraved itself rather clearly in my conscience/fading conscience:

We had driven from Cachi (small village at the foot of large mountains and edge of large desert) to Cafayate (village in centre of valley filled with wine/the means to make it) for what seemed like six hours (because it had been) on what cannot be described as roads or even tracks for that matter. Yet, the Don ate them up and we flew past the chameleon views and diligently working saltanas who would rest down their sticks, had they been hitting a goat or cow, their hoes, had they been doing what ever it is you’d want to do with a hoe (the tool...garden tool that is), and wave at us. Naturally, we would wave back in a regal fashion ‘n’ all: one doesn’t bend the wrist but merely rotate the whole hand.

I have just become aware that my intentions were set on describing the “latter aspect”, but something has cropped up quite unexpectedly and so I think I’ll put ink to this memory instead:

We were not all that far from Cafayate, cruising along, leaving a wake of dust and, consequently, very dusty locals, when, low and behold, we approached some more hitchhikers (they tended to be people from the middle of nowhere looking to get somewhere). We had past a few already and had decided that were we to reach some more, we ought to give them a lift....only to make ourselves feel good, that’s what charity is all about (based on this, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what “charity starting at home” is all about then). Therefore, I pulled the Don to a stop and wound up my window so that they could hear but not touch me.

“Bonjour my little family of coco-pops, what be your destination? I am assuming you are looking for a lift?” I chirped brightly.
(Might I add at this point that my face was glowing with good-will and I wore a smile that said “hey little boys, don’t be a afraid, you can get in my car and we’ll go to never(have.I.)everland” but my mind and my compatriate’s both said, “Oh fuck, we’ve stopped the Don next to a mother and her three young children. One is a baby, the other two appear to be no more than five but, being in the country and a tad malnutritioned, are probably closer to twenty-four years old (mystery solved). Furthermore, they all seem to have avoided a shower/river for the past week and one of the kids has a nose that is functioning as a tap.”)
The family said nothing following my line of questions.

“Ummmm, ok. In which case, I will have a Quarter Pounder with fries and my co-pilot will have a Big Mac. Any drinks? Yes, thank you for asking, we’ll have two Coke’s please. Large.” I said to them. I was fairly pleased with myself. Too right, it was an amusing line, utterly lost, unfortunately, on are friends....the South American version of ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’.
“We go to San Carlos please sir,” she eventually asked of us. She may not have added the “sir” but the narcissistic part of my mind (most of it, the section not focused on looking for a reflective surface) tends to translate and filter what comes in and out.
“Well, of course, by all means, hop aboard. To San Carlos then....I assume that’s on the way to Cafayate? If not, you WILL all have to evacuate the car and resume your places under that tree to our right.”I replied.
She then told me that it was.

I proceeded to try and make some conversation but we were white, wearing red and blue bandanas....it was all too much for them right now; the following ten minutes were spent in relative silence while the children stared at us in disbelief....we must have seemed like gods to them. I was absolutely fine with that. So, when they finally left, after filling the Don with the smell of poverty, I told them:

“Go forth in peace my little brown brothers and may the sun shine down on you whilst you labour diligently in a field.”
It wasn’t meant to be inspiring....we didn’t want them to get ideas about education, god forbid.

The next 10km were driven with halo’s of smugness...and windows of wide-openness.

Moral of the story: “charity pays...off”.

"Two young men turn on Don McLean and enjoy the ride"

Having made our prayers, slept enough, and with caffeine pulsing irrationally through our our veins, we rented a gloriously white Chevrolet Corsa fuelled by “Super Nafta”, which incidentally lived up to its title by carrying out 500 km on half a tank (cue applause), costing us 20 pounds. The car was to be named “The Don”, for a number of reasons. Not because it was so white and M...cLean? or that the radio didn’t work or the music.had.died? Or that the man who rented us "The Don" looked either like Marlon Brando in ‘The Godfather’ or suspiciously like a chipmunk in Autumn?...

With Don filled up, we set off into the wild for three days to the beat of our own drum...passing desert, mountains, vineyards, rivers and a lot of very small, squat looking Saltean moutain people. T’was as if god had taken a raisin or saltana, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and created the Saltean mountain people in this very image. Combined with arrid desert, mountains and a range of flora and fauna, it was not unlike driving through a large box of muesli.

Amid all this healthy stereotyping, one thing struck us quite firmly: a generation of Saltanas was and I assume still are missing, generally those between the ages of 18 and 25.

I posed this observation to someone recently, to be told that a likely explanation was education. I full heartedly believe this to be a fabrication. Saltanas appear to have little need for education, everyone participates in team-building farm work or tourist exploitation. Yes, by all means browse over the “beginners guide to getting the most out of the white man” but honestly, I fail to see the need to dedicate seven years of one’s life to the carefull price manipulation of a scarf made from the wool of an anorexic mountain goat.*

Another mystery, also to be found in many parts of Asia, is the mystery of the “expanding 29 year old woman”:

On reaching 30 a saltana will duly grow laterally. Again, I was offered another mundane explanation for this. It too balanced on a foundation of lies. This was....”childbirth”. My parry to the ill-informed suggestion: “the majority tend to reproduce at around the age of 18 or 20 (please refer back to paragraph dedicated to religion). For this reason, any attractive Saltana is likely to be holding the hand of a small child. Why? Because it’s HERS. Thus the chances of finding an educated, attractive, child-free Saltana are fractional, the men just won’t allow it. Fact."

Expect proceding chapter to follow in the week to come, addressing why it is that holiday 4x4s are used soley to transport grandparents sandwiched between children (like church) and vinyards will be sure to expell you from their premises at half 6 in the evening.

* I have recently been alerted to an update on the missing generation story: Apparently they all tend to find girl/boyfriends and focus “all” their energies on the relationship. So, in short, I had “love” or “infactuation” to blame for nearly going to jail.... What?...I don’t check driving licences.

"Avoid God's door & you'll be met by a boy selling the only thing he has"

Having told the company’s head of finances that she, naturally, was, frankly, “fucking useless”, I calmly set off to join forces with my compatriot and brother on a Tuesday night (this position is by no means limited to Tuesdays).

The time had come to dabble in a bit of light exploration, far from the magnetic pull of Buenos Aires; Salta would be our destination.

Twenty hours we were to spend cooped up in a bus, like a Jamie Oliver advert, had we been poor and Pablobian but alas, we were rich, British and would be damned if we’d travel with or like the masses. Thus we purchased what was and is known as a “coche cama”, which translates loosely as “reclining bed on large slow-moving vehicle”. A number of films were played, one of which involved Robert Redford getting to know his daughter-in-law (Jennifer Lopez) whilst Morgan Freeman (who had been attacked by a bear) watched and made wise, rhetorical comments.

What’s more, a small cafeteria was present and so we took a lot of excitement from this addition. Our favourite game happened to be: “make yourself a cup of coffee and then precariously walk the stretch of the bus alleyway back to your throne of leather and belittle passing bus passengers lacking coffee, leather thrones and Morgan Freeman”. Another game one could participate in was known as “be stared at by Bolivian families because you are tall and white”.

The bus fuelled fun and games finished, we settled in the city of Salta, marched into the centre, bought a bag of nuts, some beer and boldly seated ourselves in the main plaza.

The plaza, beautiful as as it was, happened to be filled with people, and furthermore, they appeared to be in the process of praying. The vast majority of Pablobians were facing the cathedral, which obviously had been filled up...or people were denied access on account of not being a boy between the ages of 6 and 10 years old.

In my honesty, I won’t say we felt out of place, after all, we were in the process of making our own silent prayers (to the god of gloriously cheap alcohol...lads.on.tour), yet one had the constant feeling that we might burst into brilliant red flames. I reeked of sin. The city stank of dogmatism. We kept our distant from the entrance.

However, our actions would not put a stop to the swarm of religious paraphernalia little Pablo's would force on us...

“No, Pablo, I would not like to purchase a calendar with a picture of Jesus being crucified on it....now run along.”

(Pablo in question then begins to stare at us, point at the picture of Jesus and then at the list of days of the year....it was as if he was trying to inflict some sort of Christ fuelled guilt on us...so in short, suggesting we become members of the Catholic church.)

“Thank you Pablo, we are both more than aware of who the malnutritioned figure you direct your finger at is...and, quelle surprise,what the calendar below is. Now, off you go and spread the word.” (Which he did, selling one immediately after our brief encounter. Well done, religion sells).

Part II from of the recordings of our noble crusade is to follow promptly.

"Send a letter and we'll be sure to get back to you"

I am certain I have shed light on the phenomenon that is free thought and how it has infested the analogical mind of the common man here, yet certain events today have spurred me to make further scribblings:


“I was diligently working in the confines of our office when low and behold, the sound of gunshots filled our mundane air. I flew to the window to gaze down upon the vanguard of a rally/demonstration. As I had constructed previous arrangements to meet a client for coffee, I had no choice but to follow my curiosity. I should add that many events not unlike these have marched into my scope before, yet somehow the number of police and the steady sound of explosives had suggested this might offer a spot more excitement. So off I trotted, downstairs, out the door, to be greeted by a thick wall of smoke and Pablobians scattered around the main road, placing fireworks and such like on the tarmac, lighting them and scurrying back amid excited yells and rhythmic chants. This was straight up anarchy. Hundreds of protesters filled my sight.

Naturally, I wasn’t the least bit concerned as to what the reason for all this fuss might be, no doubt one of the following: 'We’re bored self-righteous students applying book read philosophies to a world we know little about' or possibly: 'I got pregnant when I was 12 yrs old and drunk off potato vodka, please create some rights for me'...or my favorite: 'The British stole an unpopular holiday resort...and some oil, lets take a stroll through the streets to mark our discontent'.

Anyway, I thought it best that I maintain my distance but, nonetheless, continued my observations. As per usual, they had employed a spearhead of men with paisley patterned handkerchiefs around their faces and long sticks or metal poles in their hands. It was these chaps' job to clear the streets, which had obviously cleared its self quite effectively...paisley has that effect. Behind this unruly bunch, were the problem solvers and drum bangers. Trailing behind, far behind due to the extensive size of this fun train, were the families, general stringer-ons and exclusive fans of large groups of people and consistent noise.

I had had quite enough for the day, the kafuffle was beginning to irritate me and I had no intentions to follow their plight. The moment had passed, for me that is, and I strolled off to the capitalist comforts of my favorite cafe/spice haven."

Moral of the story: “long walks through cities good, paisley and fireworks... bad.”

Scouts and skirts: Bayden-Powell would have approved

Despite being in denial for some time, today I am fully aware that I possess the navigational skills of a little girl and yet, I continue to put my GPS under unnecessary strain. I draw attention to this fact merely because I have realised that I promised, some time ago, that I ought to retell a few rather important adventures, intentionaly and non-intentionally that way, which called on me to lean on absent boy scout skills...

“...There lies in this city a ridiculous public transport system. I was aware that there would come a time when I would have to take its reins and march a little closer to ‘knowing’ the place and immersing myself in the waves of smugness that inevitably follow. That time had come, I was due to congregate with other persons and so I took it upon myself to plan my journey by the means the "colectivo". I had a brief glance at the ‘GUIA T’( guide book for bus routes...they are all public owned and therefore move independently and unfortunately, temperamentally) in the hope that I might have my next steps planned. Thus, fueled by enthusiasm, a touch of Hendrick’s gin, bus numbers, a few road names and the arrogance of youth, I saw it a royal time as any to set off, which I did....in the wrong direction.

“Well Freddie, look at you, finally brushing off the considerable doubt of hypothetical scout leaders......”

I was so very pleased with myself that I continued to boldly plough on, certain that the road names I should have been reading were waiting for me patiently. They were indeed, just not where I was heading. I had wandered into the heart of Constitución (I live on the edge, everyday flirting with danger and my three Peruvian girls). I was in the heart of darkness: the heart of the city’s quite delightful crime epicentre and ‘transvestite prostitution market’. One cannot find a female prostitute in the heart of darkness, the market, it would seem, is a tad specific.

By the time my rational voice had crept up on me and quietly whispered:
“Umm Freddie”
“Yes,” I duly replied.
“It would appear that we’re trotting in the wrong direction old fellow. Oh, and one more thing....we’re surrounded by men in skirts; this is not Sparta.”
“Well that’s very observant of....”
“Freddie,”
“Yes..what?”
“Well...does this strike you as a salmon pink trouser and cerulean blue top type of area?...you’re a lamb in lambs’ clothing Frederick, no good can come of this.”....

It was as if the fog of enthusiasm had cleared and there I stood, in all my Surrey-Kent border glory, standing erectly in a dark street whilst prostitutes accumulated around me. The whistling started, the taunts...the probing questions...:

“Hey, white boy, why you here!”
“What you looking for?”
“Where you going?”....by and large a fairly deep and meaningful set of questions. Does anyone ever know where they are going...

Soon pimps began to join our jolly, philosophical party. I began to quicken my pace, aware that my time was somewhat limited and soon, Freudian retorts would not satisfy the appetites of my new best friends.

I had to get in a taxi, a bus...I would ride a small marsupial should one pass. Alas, there were no taxis, neither marsupials. There was a bus with a number I knew not but a destination that had to be better than my current one. I jumped on and peered out the window at the wake of high heels and pressured equipment I had left behind.

Moral of the story: “just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Interpret that how you will.

Being blue eyed and blonde was never this hard...

It seems I’m encircled by linguistical bars that keep me enclosed in an anglophonal zoo of sorts. Yet, as discussed previously, my chiseled, Imperial features are contributing significantly to the upkeep of these bars. My house of sculpture (gym), or the one I now limp into in order to do physio (exercising every muscle but the one’s you can actually see), is becoming a source of considerable amusement; everyone thinks I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. This has been initialized by a personal trainer, Pablo:

So, there I was, chatting to him about personal perfection and what it was like to have reached it, when he suddenly goes…

“arrrrrrnol sneggar”

“What the bigglesworth Pablo…what are trying to say? Come on lassy…where is it girl..what? They’ve taken the 4 wheel drive, 3ltre, bmw and crashed it into a rare species of Canadian maple tree?” I replied.

“No, no u look like arrrrnol…u know (the ‘k’ was probably unnecessary there)..Arnol.” He then carries out a lacklustre performance of some gun fight, I can only assume it belonged to a 'Terminator' film.
“Ah, je comprends, I’m not sure I quite agree but yes, the basic structure is certainly there,” I shot back at him, accompanied with a slight flexing of my left pectoral muscle.
“No, it your face.” He half laughed back at me.
“What the fuck Pablo, thanks a lot, why is it that I look German to everyone?.... I’m hardly the senator of California or even one of the boys in a Hitler youth propaganda poster.”

Regardless, Pablo has since been dining off his supposed light bulb moment ever since and worse, like some dogmatic, South American disciple, he’s been spreading the word. Consequently, it is the common man who now tries to catch a look (at my face) and then go scuttling off to the Pablo dwelling rockery to cackle away in agreement. I’m taking it all in my measured stride and even embraced the joviality. Just the other day I was conversing with a couple of Pablobians, asked to be excused to use bathroom and, as I walked away I turned, narrowed my eyes and grumbled: “I’ll be back”. They absolutely bloody loved it, I bloody loved, we all bloody loved it. Good delivery, good timing, great material…no one stood a chance.

Moral of the story: “looking German doesn’t presuppose a lack of humour.”

The one with the pregnant woman, 3 Peruvians and a sprinkling of paco: this is not pornography

A healthy mixture of disgruntlement and fear is coursing through the office veins. In the last month, two pablobians have met the cruel hand of authority. One of which was pregnant, neither kept any dignity, both leaving a wake of tears behind them: glorious pablobian tears, justified by the public recognition of a fairly awful start to a mother-child relationship.

“What I do? I have child.....no job!” I heard her sob and thus, drawn by the sound of a woman's tears, the scent of vulnerability and a wonderfully low self-esteem, I trotted off to find the source.
“Oh, good afternoon Pablita ( subsequently they had made her work all day before telling her to piss off), you hardly seem in good spirits.” I chirped brightly.
“I lost job...got baby,” she snuffled back at me whilst pointing at her stomach. I was well aware of where the baby might be, directions were not required.

I replied with condolences, inappropriately suggestive comfort hugs and internal laughter that warmed the area where my soul ought to be. She had lost her job and failed in the early stages of motherhood...was it too late for a good old fashioned donkey punch..or maybe Morrisons’ value coat hangers. A D.I.Y. job beckoned...besides, she hardly had the money. Had she but held on to her post for a following 4 months all would have been well and rosy, but alas, she did not. One would have thought I might have some compassion for such a dire situation, but alas, I do not.

What more...ah, yes, of course. The spoils of war are soon to be reaped: my current landlord, who also happens to be a lying, worthless piece of low life, obsessed by money and indescribably mentally fragile, is apparently to be moving out the house. It has eventually come to his attention that to live with those you viciously tax is not a wise life decision. Naturally, this did not sprout from unfertile soul. Along with an anonymous female north Londoner, I have been sowing the seeds of anarchy. Only the other day I got every single cat in the house neutered, along with the one he keeps elsewhere but, foolishly, brought back for a couple of days. Little does he know that these pathetic emotional users shall never breed. All thanks to the work of some plastic scissors. Added to this we continually alter the picture arrangement in the house. For a man with OCD, this hurts, although possibly not as much the aforementioned punishment administered.

I have been met with continuous resistance to my colonial aspirations, it seems many are unwilling to accept I am fundamentally better than they. For example, once again my chiseled features and soft, exfoliated complexion have place me in troubles’ embrace:

I was on my way back from work, a glorious image of superiority and colour coordination, riding along on a woman’s vintage racing bike. I believe I was sporting a saffron yellow jumper, pastel chinos, a French beret nesting carelessly on my head and a cashmere scarf drapping gloriously around my neck. Anyway, I stopped at my local veg shop to sort out food for the dinner I was to be cooking, a string of Moroccan dishes incidentally. After chatting away with my three Peruvian girls, whose shop it is, about what 3 spices they would take to a desert island, I payed and began to walk to where my bike was placed.

All of a sudden I’m confronted by this Pablo, around 25, drunk, high( off Paco I assumed) and without an item of cashmere in sight.

“money.” He said to me.
“donkey.” I replied, assuming we were playing the random word game.
“money.” He repeated.
“donkey.” I replied once more, knowing that this was unlikely to ever become a successful musical number...Simon and Garfunkel we were not.

The issue at this point was that I had some coins in my hand. Usually I don’t even think about it, I just shake my head and glide off into the distance. Today I did no such thing. The high spirits I was in meant that I handed him the coins and stood back. At this point, I must add that my danger raydar was beeping furiously.

“No. I see you pay for vegetable. More!” He requested of me rather rudely and began to get closer.

In a flash, however, one of the Peruvian girls comes out and tells me I had forgotten something. This was odd, as I was certain I had everything in my.... "oh...right, well yes. Thank you very much." I chirped back and allowed her to lead me back into the shop( which has an open front, only a wall of veg separated us from the outside world) and told me to stay where I was...I was unlikely to move. Instead I began to arm myself with sweet potatoes and a large aubergine.

Whilst I was preparing for a ratatouille based battle, my three girls led a verbal volley on my potential assaulter, all of them yelling at him in brilliant Peruvian unison. It must only have been a couple of minutes and yet it felt like hours as my life flashed before me and I winced at the image of my 12year old self in all its centre parting, quicksilver shame.

I had been saved by the collective height of around 4metres....Lord of the Rings in reverse. I thanked them and swore my eternal allegiance to their vegetable selling cause and gave them a number to call, should they ever be in need of help.....a number that obviously directed straight to the police station: I was thankful, not stupid.
So, the moral of the story is this: just because they’re short, doesn't mean you shouldn't talk to them.

Something I found in the closet...

Rummaged around my scribblings and found a piece from the start of the year.....

“Had the office end of year party the other day and I think that in the office party there is one person who ends up embarrassing himself, thus I decided, in advance, that it would be best if this person wasn’t me. However, there’s a difference between thoughts you’ve carefully constructed beforehand and those enlightened, cerveza infused ones you throw crudely around in the moment. I had found the light, and with that I took a nice big tequila sledgehammer and reduced my previous thoughts to rubble.

….. the party was at this Mexican restaurant, all nice and polished. We had a floor rented where everyone was to sit themselves for dinsies( there’s always that moment when you sit down at events like this and you say to yourself: “how much food can I possibly get away with eating before it seems rude…or someone realises?”). Anyway, there was champagne at the start( served in quarter sized, eunuch bottles), which, unsurprisingly, proceeded to die out swiftly, to be replaced by….soft drinks….what? “Pablo, where the hell are the beers you filthy man-kisser? I can’t possibly carry out the demolition of my sensible thoughts with Pepsi…I’d end up a shaky, hyperactive mess or like someone who accidentally got hold of a child's ADD medicine”. Luckily, I sought refuge in the naughty corner, where we proceeded to make our way gently through what we had available(i.e. they drank beer whilst I supped on some quite delightful rosé).

I think, all in all, I kept my composure, owing the majority of thanks to the fact that the winds of translation whisked away 75% of the unfiltered material that tripped out of my head."

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.