Having spent the last couple of days trapped indoors by the incessant dankness of the British weather, I’m starting to understand how people could use seasonal affective disorder as an excuse for a cathartic killing spree. For over a week now, I have travelled to three different parts of the country and in each have been met with unremitting, pissing weather where the day before it was sunny. Within minutes of leaving each place, we have been gleefully informed that the sun has returned, which has me suspecting that this has gone beyond the point of coincidence and that there is indeed some higher power, whose sole, untiring focus is on driving me to insanity. Being based back at my family’s home doesn’t help much. The first hour or so is all home cooked meals and lovingly made cups of tea, but pretty soon the walls are closing in. Eventually there will be a demand for me to perform some form of excessive manual labor like moving my shoes and I’ll be twitching for the high calibre rifle.
Certainly it’s given me time to reflect on the differences between the two countries. The most striking it seems to me, except, clearly from the great big fucking mountains everywhere, is the smoking ban in UK pubs and restaurants. In Switzerland, it’s legislated that all nationals must start smoking at the point of being umbilically separated from their mothers. This is reflected in the industrial levels of smoke that are emitted in pubs and restaurants. I’m not, for a change, complaining about this. It’s allowed me to claim I’ve given up, when in reality I’m simply feeding my pangs with the astronomical levels of nicotine and tar, hanging in the air like an oil slick. Back in the UK, I don’t have this luxury, unless I hang around grotty local pubs demanding that the semi-feral alcoholics smoking outside breathe directly into my open mouth. And even then you are eventually asked to move on.
I do prefer the situation in the UK in general though, and applaud the recent decision to move the same way in Zurich. Though I can’t claim to have my finger on the pulse on the local populace, I am yet to witness the screeching levels of protest about civil liberties and promises of an armed up rise which greeted the move in many parts of Britain. Though I’d take the Swiss far more seriously if I ever heard them threaten such a thing than ever I would the Daily Mail brigade of paranoid mentalists, I suspect we will all look back and wonder how it was ever allowed in the first place. And on that note, I’m heading back to my pedestal of purity and innocence, to wallow in the warming glow of self-righteousness that ex-smokers secrete through every pore.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The meeting
So, contrary to popular opinion and the large wagers placed by my friends, I have survived the meeting with my girlfriend's father. With at least 12 hours still to go I don't want to get too cocky, but thus far the experience has been remarkably free of thrashings, beatings or any other form of the sort of violence that can easily add an awkward element to such occasions.
I was fully expecting, after several weeks of being mercilessly tortured with exagerated claims of the man's beastly character, to be welcomed not with a cup of tea, but to be forced to my knees with a shotgun in my mouth. In fact though, I've been quite taken with the guy. The continuous smoking of filterless, high tar cigarettes and barked threats to small, passing children add an appreciable air of charm to the old fella. Listening to the radio just now, and the pained sobs of an obese woman who was blaming the untimely death of her husband for her weight gain, he brilliantly quipped 'sit on him did you?'. As well as heartless cynicism, we've also found common ground in abusing the lady who has brought me to him. Most of the last couple of days has been spent with us cackling and delivering barbed jokes at her expense, with the odd congratulatory high five once her back is turned.
The only real issue with the visit has been the utter remoteness in which he lives combined with the monsoon conditions which have swept the country, as has become traditional whenever we return. The first signs of trouble emerged on the infinite train journey down here. I had been somewhat prepared for the endless nature of the journey, but thought this would be offset by the pleasant nature of the stroll through English countryside, which in my head was to take place on an old-timey train, possibly steam driven, but definitely with a pipe smoking gentleman in the same carriage who would offer cider and regale us with stories of scrumping apples in his impoverished youth.
In reality, we were met with the full force of a shit storm of an intensity that can only have been mustered throughout human history by British rail and possibly the Nazi party at it's worst. The train we were excruciatingly lugged here by was certainly ancient, but more in a way that instilled a fear it was about to collapse into pieces, killing or maiming everyone on board, than in any pleasant sense. Our fellow passengers didn't share anything other than terrible music played through mobile phones and the vague threat that we might be stabbed at any moment.
After what seemed like decades, we finally limped into the end of the line, and disembarked bearded, clothes tattered, desperate for food and water. What greeted us was a level of civilisation not seen outside of Mordor. Simply put, there's nothing here. We went for a walk earlier, through the pouring rain, and got genuinely excited to see another person. They actually waved at us. You'd be institutionalised if you did that in London.
For the most part though, our visit has comprised of sitting around a fire, looking at the rain streaming down the window and wondering when would be an acceptable time to start drinking.
I was fully expecting, after several weeks of being mercilessly tortured with exagerated claims of the man's beastly character, to be welcomed not with a cup of tea, but to be forced to my knees with a shotgun in my mouth. In fact though, I've been quite taken with the guy. The continuous smoking of filterless, high tar cigarettes and barked threats to small, passing children add an appreciable air of charm to the old fella. Listening to the radio just now, and the pained sobs of an obese woman who was blaming the untimely death of her husband for her weight gain, he brilliantly quipped 'sit on him did you?'. As well as heartless cynicism, we've also found common ground in abusing the lady who has brought me to him. Most of the last couple of days has been spent with us cackling and delivering barbed jokes at her expense, with the odd congratulatory high five once her back is turned.
The only real issue with the visit has been the utter remoteness in which he lives combined with the monsoon conditions which have swept the country, as has become traditional whenever we return. The first signs of trouble emerged on the infinite train journey down here. I had been somewhat prepared for the endless nature of the journey, but thought this would be offset by the pleasant nature of the stroll through English countryside, which in my head was to take place on an old-timey train, possibly steam driven, but definitely with a pipe smoking gentleman in the same carriage who would offer cider and regale us with stories of scrumping apples in his impoverished youth.
In reality, we were met with the full force of a shit storm of an intensity that can only have been mustered throughout human history by British rail and possibly the Nazi party at it's worst. The train we were excruciatingly lugged here by was certainly ancient, but more in a way that instilled a fear it was about to collapse into pieces, killing or maiming everyone on board, than in any pleasant sense. Our fellow passengers didn't share anything other than terrible music played through mobile phones and the vague threat that we might be stabbed at any moment.
After what seemed like decades, we finally limped into the end of the line, and disembarked bearded, clothes tattered, desperate for food and water. What greeted us was a level of civilisation not seen outside of Mordor. Simply put, there's nothing here. We went for a walk earlier, through the pouring rain, and got genuinely excited to see another person. They actually waved at us. You'd be institutionalised if you did that in London.
For the most part though, our visit has comprised of sitting around a fire, looking at the rain streaming down the window and wondering when would be an acceptable time to start drinking.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Violent introduction
Every once in a while, when we need to restock the things we can’t find in Zurich, such as decent bacon, sausages, or sarcasm, we head back to home to replenish our supplies. This has the added benefit of reminding us of the things that keep us from returning permanently. Within a minute of dragging my girlfriend’s gargantuan suitcase onto a hellishly packed tube, from whichever squalid London airport we’ve eventually fought our way out of, I am screaming oaths to never return again and demanding to know who I have to marry to switch nationalities.
Currently we are on one such misadventure. This time, we have been begrudgingly released from work for an entire week. At first I had grandiose intentions of spending this glorious escape from my office engaging in the most soul-nourishing of pursuits, namely lying horizontally on a sofa, watching football at every waking moment and occasionally replenishing my beer. My better half however, master of the diary that she is, had other ideas. Apparently after two and half years, it is time to meet The Father. So, stopping at my parents on the way, we are making our way to the outpost of Cornwall in which he lives, and I am prepping up on how sensible, likeable, sleeping-with my daughter type people are supposed to behave.
I have a history when it comes to bringing her on visits to my family. Although I suspect they have all liked her far more than they ever have me from the first meeting, I can normally be relied upon to make some gaff or error of judgment which cements their position still further. Last Christmas for instance, I thought I’d fire a party popper at her. As well, however, as failing to notice that I was probably too close to perform this in the jocular manner in which it was intended, I also had not been informed that this was the year mum had replaced the normal party poppers with anti-aircraft artillery. The thing detonated in her face with a shockwave that nearly blew me out of my chair. Once the mushroom cloud of glitter had subsided and she had pulled the shards of paper shrapnel from her eyes, I was left with a very upset girlfriend and a feeling of deep remorse. Things were not helped when during the same meal I managed to make each of my two younger sisters cry, with ill judged comments about phone bills and an excellently aimed throw of a piece of salmon. The look on my mother's face as she glanced down the table, to see me surrounded by three weeping girls, couldn’t have been etched with more disappointment if I’d just announced my intention to quit my job to start a satanic church of bestiality.
Once again on this visit I have not failed to disappoint. On a trip to walk the dog earlier today, I slipped and managed to push her over in saving myself. Judging by the looks of horror held by my parents and grandparents as they took in the blood soaked, sobbing picture before them, it must have seemed like I’d simply decided to throw her to the ground for kicks.
So, having made every effort once again to disinherit myself, I move on tomorrow to meet her ex-military father. May God have mercy on my soul.
Currently we are on one such misadventure. This time, we have been begrudgingly released from work for an entire week. At first I had grandiose intentions of spending this glorious escape from my office engaging in the most soul-nourishing of pursuits, namely lying horizontally on a sofa, watching football at every waking moment and occasionally replenishing my beer. My better half however, master of the diary that she is, had other ideas. Apparently after two and half years, it is time to meet The Father. So, stopping at my parents on the way, we are making our way to the outpost of Cornwall in which he lives, and I am prepping up on how sensible, likeable, sleeping-with my daughter type people are supposed to behave.
I have a history when it comes to bringing her on visits to my family. Although I suspect they have all liked her far more than they ever have me from the first meeting, I can normally be relied upon to make some gaff or error of judgment which cements their position still further. Last Christmas for instance, I thought I’d fire a party popper at her. As well, however, as failing to notice that I was probably too close to perform this in the jocular manner in which it was intended, I also had not been informed that this was the year mum had replaced the normal party poppers with anti-aircraft artillery. The thing detonated in her face with a shockwave that nearly blew me out of my chair. Once the mushroom cloud of glitter had subsided and she had pulled the shards of paper shrapnel from her eyes, I was left with a very upset girlfriend and a feeling of deep remorse. Things were not helped when during the same meal I managed to make each of my two younger sisters cry, with ill judged comments about phone bills and an excellently aimed throw of a piece of salmon. The look on my mother's face as she glanced down the table, to see me surrounded by three weeping girls, couldn’t have been etched with more disappointment if I’d just announced my intention to quit my job to start a satanic church of bestiality.
Once again on this visit I have not failed to disappoint. On a trip to walk the dog earlier today, I slipped and managed to push her over in saving myself. Judging by the looks of horror held by my parents and grandparents as they took in the blood soaked, sobbing picture before them, it must have seemed like I’d simply decided to throw her to the ground for kicks.
So, having made every effort once again to disinherit myself, I move on tomorrow to meet her ex-military father. May God have mercy on my soul.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Beer and Boobs
Most people think that Switzerland is going to have excellent beer. The kind you can drink in quantities that would kill a bull elephant and still feel fresh the next morning, because the ingredients are purity defined. I expected this also, and felt certain that the water would be sought only from the most pristine of the highest mountain tops while the barely and hops would be collected from quaint valleys, by angelic Christian children who’d never known the sin of a five knuckle shuffle.
Once again, my impressions have been pissed on. Almost literally in this case. The standard beer here has more chemicals than George Bush’s wet dreams. I wake most mornings after a night out feeling like I’ve been drinking a mixture of petrol, asbestos and the tears of dying children.
That’s not to say there aren’t excellent beers around, just not in the variety or availability that one would expect of somewhere that is so close to Bavaria. Talking of which, I have enthusiastically booked tickets for this years Oktoberfest. This time I have set myself the challenging target of coming away with some memory past 5pm, but considering the stiff competition I’ll be facing in the form of litre upon litre of some of the world’s strongest lager, I’ll be content with not soiling myself before 7pm.
Last year was a truly spectacular experience. The first time you look down the hilled road and see before you the aircraft-hanger sized tents, stretching one after another out towards the horizon, and you realise, in an epiphanal moment, that those fuckers are filled to the rafters with the finest lager you’ve ever tasted….well, it was enough to make me fall to the floor and weep joyously, thankful beyond words.
Once you are picked off the floor by understanding locals, and you make your way through the uncountable throngs of people to the tent of your choice, it takes a frustratingly long time to actually get in. The policy as I understood it, is that as one individual in the tent keels over dead, and their body is dragged outside, one more person is allowed in. Last year it took about an hour of waiting, with me impatiently bouncing up and down and anxiously looking at my watch with an irrational frequency before we got in. My god was it worth it though. The tent felt endless, with wooden benches filling every conceivable space and each bench crammed to bursting with men, women, boys and girls. As well as having all possible spaces taken on the seats, each had at least 5 people stood on the tables themselves, invariably either passionately singing along to the orchestral Oompah band, or beating the living shit out of each other. The security were taking a relaxed approach to say the least, generally allowing the fights to pitter out as the participants forgot what they were hitting each other for and wandered off for another beer. Did I mention this was 11am by the way?
As if this wasn’t about as close to any heaven anyone could possibly experience, I started to notice something else, something so truly wondrous that I may yet be turned to the path of religion. Cleavage. It was everywhere. Each way I turned there were bouncing breasts desperately attempting to escape the minimal confines of their traditional dirndl, like puppies fighting in a sack. Around that time I must have passed out, but this year I’m taking a video camera.
Once again, my impressions have been pissed on. Almost literally in this case. The standard beer here has more chemicals than George Bush’s wet dreams. I wake most mornings after a night out feeling like I’ve been drinking a mixture of petrol, asbestos and the tears of dying children.
That’s not to say there aren’t excellent beers around, just not in the variety or availability that one would expect of somewhere that is so close to Bavaria. Talking of which, I have enthusiastically booked tickets for this years Oktoberfest. This time I have set myself the challenging target of coming away with some memory past 5pm, but considering the stiff competition I’ll be facing in the form of litre upon litre of some of the world’s strongest lager, I’ll be content with not soiling myself before 7pm.
Last year was a truly spectacular experience. The first time you look down the hilled road and see before you the aircraft-hanger sized tents, stretching one after another out towards the horizon, and you realise, in an epiphanal moment, that those fuckers are filled to the rafters with the finest lager you’ve ever tasted….well, it was enough to make me fall to the floor and weep joyously, thankful beyond words.
Once you are picked off the floor by understanding locals, and you make your way through the uncountable throngs of people to the tent of your choice, it takes a frustratingly long time to actually get in. The policy as I understood it, is that as one individual in the tent keels over dead, and their body is dragged outside, one more person is allowed in. Last year it took about an hour of waiting, with me impatiently bouncing up and down and anxiously looking at my watch with an irrational frequency before we got in. My god was it worth it though. The tent felt endless, with wooden benches filling every conceivable space and each bench crammed to bursting with men, women, boys and girls. As well as having all possible spaces taken on the seats, each had at least 5 people stood on the tables themselves, invariably either passionately singing along to the orchestral Oompah band, or beating the living shit out of each other. The security were taking a relaxed approach to say the least, generally allowing the fights to pitter out as the participants forgot what they were hitting each other for and wandered off for another beer. Did I mention this was 11am by the way?
As if this wasn’t about as close to any heaven anyone could possibly experience, I started to notice something else, something so truly wondrous that I may yet be turned to the path of religion. Cleavage. It was everywhere. Each way I turned there were bouncing breasts desperately attempting to escape the minimal confines of their traditional dirndl, like puppies fighting in a sack. Around that time I must have passed out, but this year I’m taking a video camera.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Law and disorder
I was led to believe before I arrived here, that Switzerland would be a crimeless paradise, populated entirely by friendly nuns. People, I imagined, would spend months tracking me down to return small change, they would leave their cars and houses unlocked, children would be allowed to play wherever they wanted, with parents untainted by the belief that a leering paedophile is waiting on every corner for the faintest of opportunities. Generally I was expecting the entire populace to spend each day holding hands and skipping together against a scenic, rainbowed backdrop.
This, astoundingly, has turned out to not quite be the case. There is certainly a more secure feeling in general, helped most likely by the undercurrent of stern authority which has you suspecting that if caught crossing the road in the wrong place, you´d be put up against a wall and shot. However, after experiencing no worse than the odd drive-by tutting for the first few months here, my bike got stolen. As did the replacement a few weeks later. I´ve never felt such untethered rage. I wanted the bastards strung up and publicly disembowled.
Despite this, it still makes me laugh hysterically when I say where I live in Zurich, and locals respond with concerned faces and encourage me to take care. Apparently our flat is on the edge of a ´dangerous´ area. I come from Streatham, I tell them. There, it was perfectly normal to step over piles of knifed corpses each morning on the way to the train station, where you would be mugged first by the local heroin addicts and then again by South West Trains ticket pricing policy. Here, I tell them, is a blissful utopia by comparison.
Their concerns stem from the fact that a nearby road is well known for its use by prostitutes and drug dealers. These concerns never seem to be entirely diminished when I assure them that I considered this to be a major plus in my decision to take the place.
This, astoundingly, has turned out to not quite be the case. There is certainly a more secure feeling in general, helped most likely by the undercurrent of stern authority which has you suspecting that if caught crossing the road in the wrong place, you´d be put up against a wall and shot. However, after experiencing no worse than the odd drive-by tutting for the first few months here, my bike got stolen. As did the replacement a few weeks later. I´ve never felt such untethered rage. I wanted the bastards strung up and publicly disembowled.
Despite this, it still makes me laugh hysterically when I say where I live in Zurich, and locals respond with concerned faces and encourage me to take care. Apparently our flat is on the edge of a ´dangerous´ area. I come from Streatham, I tell them. There, it was perfectly normal to step over piles of knifed corpses each morning on the way to the train station, where you would be mugged first by the local heroin addicts and then again by South West Trains ticket pricing policy. Here, I tell them, is a blissful utopia by comparison.
Their concerns stem from the fact that a nearby road is well known for its use by prostitutes and drug dealers. These concerns never seem to be entirely diminished when I assure them that I considered this to be a major plus in my decision to take the place.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Squash Hulk
Occasionally, when self-flagellation comprising of whipping myself with a thorned branch becomes tiresome, I’ll play squash instead. If I want to heighten the punishment to biblical proportions, I’ll play my girlfriend.
I should, to maintain the health of both my physical and sexual life, point out that in all normal situations she is charming, erudite, polite and sweet to the point of timidity. She also has awesome tits. However, take this same, lovely girl, place her in a squash court, and you create a monstrosity of such terrifying scale that you will shit blood. I can say, without a trace of exaggeration, that I’ve not witnessed swearing, screaming, cheating and sheer brutal violence since I last watched the French rugby team.
Today was a good day. She cried only twice and the racket missed my head by a good ten inches. Normally I can expect at least a continuous stream of highly debatable calls, verbal and physical attacks, not to mention recommendations on protective accommodation from the horrified on-lookers.
This, of course, is the only reason I insist on losing occasionally when I play her. Our relationship is a beautiful thing and it would be a ten month therapy session if I ever won.
I should, to maintain the health of both my physical and sexual life, point out that in all normal situations she is charming, erudite, polite and sweet to the point of timidity. She also has awesome tits. However, take this same, lovely girl, place her in a squash court, and you create a monstrosity of such terrifying scale that you will shit blood. I can say, without a trace of exaggeration, that I’ve not witnessed swearing, screaming, cheating and sheer brutal violence since I last watched the French rugby team.
Today was a good day. She cried only twice and the racket missed my head by a good ten inches. Normally I can expect at least a continuous stream of highly debatable calls, verbal and physical attacks, not to mention recommendations on protective accommodation from the horrified on-lookers.
This, of course, is the only reason I insist on losing occasionally when I play her. Our relationship is a beautiful thing and it would be a ten month therapy session if I ever won.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The bells, the bells...
Judging by the apocalyptic landscape that was once our flat, it would appear that we threw a party last night. I opened the door of our bedroom to a feral wasteland. The only possible chance of recovery is to burn the place to the ground and start over. My last memory is spraying beer from my nose and mouth while hysterically criticising Boris Johnson’s clean air policy to a confused stranger who had probably only asked me where the toilets were.
When I am confident enough to move without vomiting, we’ll be dragging ourselves to the cinema. I had come close to swearing a blood oath to never pay money to watch any film again after watching Sherlock Holmes. It left me feeling mugged, but mostly confused. Not confused by the witless plot, but struggling to comprehend how anyone could conceivably still employ Guy Ritchie to make films. I can’t claim to have read the books, but I’m fairly sure that the original character Arthur Conan Doyle created used sleuth, guile and wit to solve crimes. Dispensing this to Ritchie is the equivalent of handing a Ming vase coated in banana juice to a chimp. It is going to get fucked. Every man out there would be lying if they claimed to be entirely repelled by violence, and for instance, never to have typed ‘brutal one punch knockout’ into a YouTube search (do it), but when I see a Sherlock Holmes film I expect cunning revelations and ingenious detection. Ritchie has the guy hitting people in the face for 90 minutes, before revealing that the bad guy got away with it for so long by using some rare drug which made everything seem like it was the work of the dark arts. This is wheeled out at least three times in the film, like some disabled relative, and used to cheaply patch over all the gaping plot holes. It is the modern equivalent of the ‘it was all a dream’ move, used to bring JR back to the show in Dallas. Ritchie might as well have appeared on screen, smirking and flipping off the audience while burning fifty pound notes.
Sundays in Switzerland are generally a painful experience. Apparently it’s a national law that every occupied building must be within ten yards of a church, and that the church must have bells capable of producing a decibel level which would shame a Metallica gig. These instruments of torture are employed at 7am every single bastard morning, but on Sundays they love to rub it in by having them go on and on for hours. When the inevitable day comes when I flip out and go on a rampant killing spree, the heartless fuckers who ring those things will be the first target. As an added insult, they drag you out of bed to a country where every single shop is closed. The Swiss have many fine characteristics, but customer service is most definitely not one of them. Here, as a paying customer you are a nuisance to be avoided at all costs. To achieve this, the shop will be barricaded closed at any point when anybody might conceivably be free to visit them. If that fails, they will treat you with such fierce contempt and disgust that you will run crying from the store to lock yourself a darkened room with a bottle of whisky and a razor blade.
On a positive note, getting up early does mean I get to witness the miraculous sight of the Sunday Match of the Day rerun. This, like the McDonalds breakfast, has entered folk lore as a whispered legend. Friends of friends will have claimed to have seen it, but nobody could ever be certain. Now, thanks to central European time and the incessant promotion of Swiss Christianity, I can confirm it is real.
When I am confident enough to move without vomiting, we’ll be dragging ourselves to the cinema. I had come close to swearing a blood oath to never pay money to watch any film again after watching Sherlock Holmes. It left me feeling mugged, but mostly confused. Not confused by the witless plot, but struggling to comprehend how anyone could conceivably still employ Guy Ritchie to make films. I can’t claim to have read the books, but I’m fairly sure that the original character Arthur Conan Doyle created used sleuth, guile and wit to solve crimes. Dispensing this to Ritchie is the equivalent of handing a Ming vase coated in banana juice to a chimp. It is going to get fucked. Every man out there would be lying if they claimed to be entirely repelled by violence, and for instance, never to have typed ‘brutal one punch knockout’ into a YouTube search (do it), but when I see a Sherlock Holmes film I expect cunning revelations and ingenious detection. Ritchie has the guy hitting people in the face for 90 minutes, before revealing that the bad guy got away with it for so long by using some rare drug which made everything seem like it was the work of the dark arts. This is wheeled out at least three times in the film, like some disabled relative, and used to cheaply patch over all the gaping plot holes. It is the modern equivalent of the ‘it was all a dream’ move, used to bring JR back to the show in Dallas. Ritchie might as well have appeared on screen, smirking and flipping off the audience while burning fifty pound notes.
Sundays in Switzerland are generally a painful experience. Apparently it’s a national law that every occupied building must be within ten yards of a church, and that the church must have bells capable of producing a decibel level which would shame a Metallica gig. These instruments of torture are employed at 7am every single bastard morning, but on Sundays they love to rub it in by having them go on and on for hours. When the inevitable day comes when I flip out and go on a rampant killing spree, the heartless fuckers who ring those things will be the first target. As an added insult, they drag you out of bed to a country where every single shop is closed. The Swiss have many fine characteristics, but customer service is most definitely not one of them. Here, as a paying customer you are a nuisance to be avoided at all costs. To achieve this, the shop will be barricaded closed at any point when anybody might conceivably be free to visit them. If that fails, they will treat you with such fierce contempt and disgust that you will run crying from the store to lock yourself a darkened room with a bottle of whisky and a razor blade.
On a positive note, getting up early does mean I get to witness the miraculous sight of the Sunday Match of the Day rerun. This, like the McDonalds breakfast, has entered folk lore as a whispered legend. Friends of friends will have claimed to have seen it, but nobody could ever be certain. Now, thanks to central European time and the incessant promotion of Swiss Christianity, I can confirm it is real.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
England friendlies - like sex with an AIDS victim
I reckon everyone knows at least one guy, who they would bet on knowingly shagging a hot, but gonorrhea-ridden woman, if plied with enough booze. I compare this with watching England friendlies. In the long run you know it's not going to do you any good, but some carnal element of your sub conscious leaves you no choice. So I'd imagine.
You know you're in for a shit time even before the game kicks off, when the build up hysterically hypes the opposition, who could be barely more than a mud patch in the Pacific islands, populated by crabs and ITV would still make them out to be a potential banana skin. This clearly sets out the agenda, don't get your hopes up because we may well get turned over by this bunch of part time goat herders and you'll only end up turning over to a re-run of Top Gear on Dave ja vu and missing all our wonderful advertising.
And yet, knowing this, I still turn into some enforced lobotomy victim every evening England play one of these meaningless fixtures. Even if I have miraculously avoided all potential warnings that the game is going to occur, I will find myself picking up the remote at the exact point the dreary build up begins. Alan Hansen, sitting on the sofa looking like a manic depressive testicle, bitching mercilessly about the latest player who has slightly misjudged a header.
Tonight, John Terry has been getting booed by some of the crowd. Though his form has been poor recently and hasn't been great tonight so far, it goes without saying that the jeers are referencing where he has put his penis rather than anything remotely related to his footballing ability. Who directed these X-factor mongoloids from the sterilization centre to Wembly? When did what someone does in their personal life, as reported by the guttural press, become grounds for booing a guy playing for your team? The hypocrisy stinks like a hangover fart. I'll bet the majority of these mindless wank stains still worship Paul Gascoigne, even though he beat seven shades of shit out of his wife. For some reason we now seem to have a situation where guys on a field, playing a game, are judged beyond that and on things the papers tell us, as opposed to anything we can evaluate with our own eyes.
If I want to judge a footballer, I'll do so on how he plays football. Which is why I always watch my team, Woking F. C, with a bag full of half bricks.
You know you're in for a shit time even before the game kicks off, when the build up hysterically hypes the opposition, who could be barely more than a mud patch in the Pacific islands, populated by crabs and ITV would still make them out to be a potential banana skin. This clearly sets out the agenda, don't get your hopes up because we may well get turned over by this bunch of part time goat herders and you'll only end up turning over to a re-run of Top Gear on Dave ja vu and missing all our wonderful advertising.
And yet, knowing this, I still turn into some enforced lobotomy victim every evening England play one of these meaningless fixtures. Even if I have miraculously avoided all potential warnings that the game is going to occur, I will find myself picking up the remote at the exact point the dreary build up begins. Alan Hansen, sitting on the sofa looking like a manic depressive testicle, bitching mercilessly about the latest player who has slightly misjudged a header.
Tonight, John Terry has been getting booed by some of the crowd. Though his form has been poor recently and hasn't been great tonight so far, it goes without saying that the jeers are referencing where he has put his penis rather than anything remotely related to his footballing ability. Who directed these X-factor mongoloids from the sterilization centre to Wembly? When did what someone does in their personal life, as reported by the guttural press, become grounds for booing a guy playing for your team? The hypocrisy stinks like a hangover fart. I'll bet the majority of these mindless wank stains still worship Paul Gascoigne, even though he beat seven shades of shit out of his wife. For some reason we now seem to have a situation where guys on a field, playing a game, are judged beyond that and on things the papers tell us, as opposed to anything we can evaluate with our own eyes.
If I want to judge a footballer, I'll do so on how he plays football. Which is why I always watch my team, Woking F. C, with a bag full of half bricks.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tip of the day
My tip of the day: never make an approving comment about a television character´s breasts whilst within kicking distance of your girlfriend.
This valuable lesson was learnt, painfully, during an episode of True Blood which has replaced the latest in a series of shows that we have consumed with the feverish mania of a heroin addict plunging a rusty needle into their groin after a month long cold turkey. We started when, having arrived in Switzerland for the first time, we owned nothing in the way of an entertainment system beyond the drinks cabinet. So we bought all six series of the Soprano´s and devoured the lot in less than three weeks, watching them on my old laptop, which had the power of an asthmatic snail.
Soprano´s was undoubtedly the greatest thing ever seen on television, with the only exception being when Chelsea were robbed of the Champions League Trophy by terrible refereeing and Didier Drogba screamed ´it´s a fucking disgrace´ into the live Sky microphone.
When we got to the final episode, it was like I´d lost a first born. The final episode created quite a stir, in that it finished with a cut to black that left some people with a feeling of ambiguity. These are the sort of people that require the plot lines of Friends explained to them with a flow chart and an hour long power point presentation. In fact, it couldn´t have been clearer that the main character had been killed if they wiped the brain matter from the lense of the camera while the entire cast sang ´he´s fucking dead you retards´ to the tune of ´coming round the mountain´ over the decapitated corpse. In any case, I think a lack of clarity can be a great thing for narratives. To make your own mind up over the substance of a story can add to the power of it. I often view such works if I get the place to myself. It´s often not clear for instance, if the guy ever got around to fixing the sink or delivering the pizza. Intriguing.
This valuable lesson was learnt, painfully, during an episode of True Blood which has replaced the latest in a series of shows that we have consumed with the feverish mania of a heroin addict plunging a rusty needle into their groin after a month long cold turkey. We started when, having arrived in Switzerland for the first time, we owned nothing in the way of an entertainment system beyond the drinks cabinet. So we bought all six series of the Soprano´s and devoured the lot in less than three weeks, watching them on my old laptop, which had the power of an asthmatic snail.
Soprano´s was undoubtedly the greatest thing ever seen on television, with the only exception being when Chelsea were robbed of the Champions League Trophy by terrible refereeing and Didier Drogba screamed ´it´s a fucking disgrace´ into the live Sky microphone.
When we got to the final episode, it was like I´d lost a first born. The final episode created quite a stir, in that it finished with a cut to black that left some people with a feeling of ambiguity. These are the sort of people that require the plot lines of Friends explained to them with a flow chart and an hour long power point presentation. In fact, it couldn´t have been clearer that the main character had been killed if they wiped the brain matter from the lense of the camera while the entire cast sang ´he´s fucking dead you retards´ to the tune of ´coming round the mountain´ over the decapitated corpse. In any case, I think a lack of clarity can be a great thing for narratives. To make your own mind up over the substance of a story can add to the power of it. I often view such works if I get the place to myself. It´s often not clear for instance, if the guy ever got around to fixing the sink or delivering the pizza. Intriguing.
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