The last week of the World Cup trip was dominated by an epic drive from Jo'burg to Port Elizabeth, via Durban. This brought home to us in no uncertain terms the sheer vastness of the country. Nothing will ever be as soul crushing as hearing our Sat Nav smugly tell us to turn right and go straight for 600 km. The initial stage to Durban was painless enough at a mere 6 hours drive, and the time flew as we appealed to our not so inner child, trying to find amusing street names in the map. Boner Street was a clear winner.
Once in Durban we spent the night with the family of one of Charlie's colleagues. The mother became my new personal hero in not allowing our beers to become less than even half full and bringing a continuous supply of dried meats and nuts to within our reach. The only down side of the overnight stay was drawing the short straw and having to share a bed with Tony. In damage limitation I insisted on going head to toe, from which point the others referred to as 69'ing. The experience of seeing this hairy fart machine closing the bedroom door, undressing and sliding into my bed isn't one I wish to dwell on. The spooning was adequate at best.
The journey the next morning was a solid 13 hours of pained misery. I get bored fairly easily, but during this period I transcended bordom to a hellish state of purgatory. I imagine it's a similar feeling that you hear about from people who are put into waking comas for decades, who end up creating minutely detailed novels and plays in their own heads. I didn't go that far but came up with at least a couple of exciting new sandwich ideas.
Once we finally arrived, staggering, unshaven and resembling pitiful, nomadic desert people, we headed to yet another steak house before collapsing. By this point I had eaten nothing but steak, chips and winegums for nearly two weeks and, feeling the onset of ricketts, begrudgingly ordered a vegetable side dish. Clearly this was not a frequent request, as the waitress had to actually go to ask what vegetables they served. As it turns out they were so pumped full of cream I might as well have ordered green ice cream with a side dish of heart failure.
The next day was the final England group game, where only a win would offer a boundry between embarassment and outright comedy. The fact that most people were not convinced we would walk the game, against an opposition that have existed as a country for the same length of time as most of my boxer shorts, should provide a good idea of the level of expectation. In the event, I got a little carried away by the weather and fact I could finally wear one of the several pair of shorts I'd brought, and may have slightly over imbibed in the insanely cheap local beer. Slightly, to the point I spent the first ten minutes unwittingly cheering for the wrong team.
The next morning, the victory in hand alongside a force 10 hangover, we made our way back to Jo'burg through the unending nothingness of South Africa's middle territory. Slight kinks in the road became noteworthy after hundreds and hundreds of straight, shitty road. It was after several hours of this when we came across something unbelievable. There, slap bang in the middle of an empty, massive desert, having gone for miles with no sight of another car, was a goddamn traffic jam of such proportions that people were out of their cars and wandering about. We got out to investigate and found that things were far worse than we had imagined. Rather than heavy traffic, the delay had been caused by the only road being closed down for repairs, in the middle of the world cup, in the middle of the day, 70 km back to the nearest town, which was about 20 km more than our remaining petrol would take us. We were going to die. After frantic requests for information we found out to near orgasmic relief that the closure was temporary and, we the lucky ones, had joined only 30 minutes towards the end of a 2 hour wait for those at the front of the queue. Life had been handed back us, colours were brighter etc.
The only other point of note for the entire journey were properly African towns in the middle of nowhere, of such undiluted shittiness that they made Aldershot look like a wonderland of ecstatic beauty, to be heralded as a pinnacle of human achievement in any and all fields throughout the epochs of time.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
World Cup continued
One week into the trip and spending so long in cramped confinement with four guys is beginning to take it's toll. The homo-erotic jokes have now moved beyond the territory in which they could be safely labelled ironic. I am half expecting to walk into our room and find Tony ironically masturbating Paul.
Left without any females to try and impress, we have reverted to communicating primarily through the medium of farts, dick jokes and the giving of dead legs. Our meals have consistently been formed of nothing but meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Happily this seems to be the accepted practice in South Africa, where steak houses appear to exist in their millions. Truly, this is God's own country.
Our hostel is fairly basic but acts as a good base. It is run by a clearly mentally disturbed local woman who randomly bursts into song while in the middle of conversations and walks around with a permanent manic grin. We keep the door to our room firmly locked at nights.
My research and preparations for the trip have proved somewhat flawed. Apparently Africa gets very cold in the winter and I have been unable so far to fashion more appropriate protective clothing from the 7 pairs of shorts I packed alongside the t-shirts, flip flops, single pair of jeans and a light fleece. The last 5 days of the first week barely got above 6 degrees and the jeans which I have not taken off at all so far are beginning to develop mushrooms. This wasn't helped by a spectacular fall on the crumbling roads which left me with no skin on my left (thank god) hand and the knee of my jeans caked in blood. Washing clothes has so far been impossible due to travelling and laziness, but I finally managed to find a clothes shop yesterday. The choice was limited though and I now look like a 15 year old gangster.
The games we've been to so far have been consistently awful. Other than the England games we went to Denmark vs Holland at Soccer City, which is a great stadium but does resemble an aging turd when viewed from a distance. On paper this should have been a great game. In reality it was roughly as interesting as a long weekend in Milton Keynes with an eldery relative.
We also continued following England, this time to Cape Town to see them against Algeria. For anyone who doesn't know, Algeria have the same footballing pedigree as a washed up whale carcass and the badly needed victory was assured. But, of course no, once again the pathetic shower of over paid, over praised and over rated fuck bags that make up the England team conspired to barely bother putting on their pink boots and prance their delicate little legs with any discernable energy at all. It was the most pathetic performance I've seen from the team and that is ranked against a long list of possible contenders. Having travelled so far and spent so much money, I felt positively raped and booed until my vocal chords bled.
On a more postive note, we did the token African tourist thing and got up at some outrageous hour of the morning to go on Safari. The first hour or so was spent with all eyes pinned to either side of the car in tense anticipation of what we would spot. The first ten times or so we would stop and reverse to investigate what turned out to be a vaguely lion shaped rock, but after a while the animals started to oblige and we saw a decent variety. I had half expected, considering the amount we'd paid, to have the animals brought directly to the car and made to dance or juggle, but it was still a good day out. The highlight was unquestionably the rotting corpse of hippo, of which we took more photos than anything else. Our guide was legendary, both for his telescopic vision and habit of pulling over passing vechiles and telling the occupants with an immaculatly straight face that futher up the road a giraffe was eating a lion.
Left without any females to try and impress, we have reverted to communicating primarily through the medium of farts, dick jokes and the giving of dead legs. Our meals have consistently been formed of nothing but meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Happily this seems to be the accepted practice in South Africa, where steak houses appear to exist in their millions. Truly, this is God's own country.
Our hostel is fairly basic but acts as a good base. It is run by a clearly mentally disturbed local woman who randomly bursts into song while in the middle of conversations and walks around with a permanent manic grin. We keep the door to our room firmly locked at nights.
My research and preparations for the trip have proved somewhat flawed. Apparently Africa gets very cold in the winter and I have been unable so far to fashion more appropriate protective clothing from the 7 pairs of shorts I packed alongside the t-shirts, flip flops, single pair of jeans and a light fleece. The last 5 days of the first week barely got above 6 degrees and the jeans which I have not taken off at all so far are beginning to develop mushrooms. This wasn't helped by a spectacular fall on the crumbling roads which left me with no skin on my left (thank god) hand and the knee of my jeans caked in blood. Washing clothes has so far been impossible due to travelling and laziness, but I finally managed to find a clothes shop yesterday. The choice was limited though and I now look like a 15 year old gangster.
The games we've been to so far have been consistently awful. Other than the England games we went to Denmark vs Holland at Soccer City, which is a great stadium but does resemble an aging turd when viewed from a distance. On paper this should have been a great game. In reality it was roughly as interesting as a long weekend in Milton Keynes with an eldery relative.
We also continued following England, this time to Cape Town to see them against Algeria. For anyone who doesn't know, Algeria have the same footballing pedigree as a washed up whale carcass and the badly needed victory was assured. But, of course no, once again the pathetic shower of over paid, over praised and over rated fuck bags that make up the England team conspired to barely bother putting on their pink boots and prance their delicate little legs with any discernable energy at all. It was the most pathetic performance I've seen from the team and that is ranked against a long list of possible contenders. Having travelled so far and spent so much money, I felt positively raped and booed until my vocal chords bled.
On a more postive note, we did the token African tourist thing and got up at some outrageous hour of the morning to go on Safari. The first hour or so was spent with all eyes pinned to either side of the car in tense anticipation of what we would spot. The first ten times or so we would stop and reverse to investigate what turned out to be a vaguely lion shaped rock, but after a while the animals started to oblige and we saw a decent variety. I had half expected, considering the amount we'd paid, to have the animals brought directly to the car and made to dance or juggle, but it was still a good day out. The highlight was unquestionably the rotting corpse of hippo, of which we took more photos than anything else. Our guide was legendary, both for his telescopic vision and habit of pulling over passing vechiles and telling the occupants with an immaculatly straight face that futher up the road a giraffe was eating a lion.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
World Cup - Day One
My expectations for the long journey to South Africa were low. These expectations were met and with enough change left over for a solid kick to the nuts. It started with a battle through rush hour on the tube, which is horrifying in the best of cases, but with a back pack the size and weight of a small planet it was an ordeal I shall be seeking counselling for.
When we arrived at Gatwick, gushing sweat and already exhausted, we were questioned by police, who were preventing the hooligan element from travelling. This seemed reassuring, but on further thought I wondered if other countries were going to the same lengths. If not, I suspected we could be left as the only viable punching bags for foreign firms. My plan in the event of violence is to cry and plead so much that any potential attacker will be too disgusted to hit me.
Trouble with the journey continued as Charlie's bag was incorrectly labelled as someone else's when checked in. Having discovered this and informed the airline just before boarding, the entire plane had to be unloaded, much to the vocalised annoyance of everyone but Charlie. We were told to watch the unloading from the boarding gate window and shout when we saw his brand new, unnecessarily expensive bag. Shout he most certainly did, as his bag sailed past the others being delicately unloaded by conveyor belt, having been thrown out of the open bay door of the plane, and smashed onto the concrete several meters below, tearing the solid metal handle and rendering it near impossible to carry around. As you would expect, we were nothing but sympathetic.
Once we'd picked ourselves off the ground and stopped laughing, were able to board and begin the 13 hour flight via Libya. On reflection, I have no idea how I survived the experience. I have resolved to never fly any airline that I can't pronounce again. First issue was that my monitor wasn't working. To be fair they were quick to reboot all the screens, which as well as fixing mine, broke Charlie's previously working one. Excellent. To compound his misery, Charlie was next to a heavily snoring man who was inexplicably wearing two pairs of trousers and a watch the size of a hubcap. It was only when the turbulance started in earnest that I understood the need for the extra trousers.
Getting off the plane in Libya was like stepping face first into the flame of a blowtorch. I've never experienced a wind factor that actually increases the heat. Security in the airport was clearly taken seriously as we were all carefully ushered through a metal detector that was quite obviously turned off. So by the time we boarded the second plane several hours later, we were emitting visible stink lines as the sweat began to ferment in our clothes. I verbalised the possibility of shitting ourselves in an effort to improve the smell.
The second leg of the journey was no better than the first. The food would have been an insult to vermin, the service would have been considered too abrupt for Auschwitz, but worst by far was the utter lack of alcohol. We assumed the airline must have been Islamic, and this was confirmed as the already terrible films available were further worsened by the electronic blurring of any on screen cleavage. It's amazing just how crap you truly see a film for when no longer distracted by Megan Fox's jiggling tits.
I can never sleep on planes but none the less tried fooling my body with a neck pillow and blindfold. My body was having none of it though, insisting it wasn't going to play ball in the best of conditions, so certainly not while sober. After a while though I felt myself lolling into a state that while not sleep, at least had it comfortably on the horizon and in which I could happily drift along. Then BOOM, the lights went on full blast like a punch in the face. My instinctive thought was some form of emergency. It's 2am, we aren't due to land for 3 hours, there must be something wrong with the aircraft, fuck I'm going to die and I've not even made it to the World Cup. I've not made enough of a mark on humanity to die, I'm too young, by god, I still have that expensive Cuban cigar I've not smoked, this is unfair on so many levels.
The emergency, as it turns out, was a choice of luke warm soft drinks. Because who doesn't like to be woken with a spot light at 2am for a nice warm pepsi?
Finally arriving in the very early hours we were met by a country poised to ease the mechanics of the world's greatest competition and the administration of the hundreds of thousands of visiting fans. Namely, power cuts, broken ticket dispensing machines and a two hour wait for the hire car. When we finally got sorted and arrived at the hostel we were near comatosed and nobody had spoken or looked at each other for hours. Only a total lack of energy prevented the tangible hatred from spilling into a fist fight. Even better, we could afford only a two hour sleep before we had to climb back into the car and drive two and a half hours to the first game.
Best not discuss the game itself, but the atmosphere and stadium were incredible in the cool South African evening. Unfortunately, any positives were quickly forgotten as any organisation or preparation from the authorities in aiding the 45,000fans to escape the small city utterly failed to materialise. It took 6 hours to get to the car and drive back, by which point we'd had 2 hours sleep in as many days and were, to put it mildly, fucking furious. This will only get better...
When we arrived at Gatwick, gushing sweat and already exhausted, we were questioned by police, who were preventing the hooligan element from travelling. This seemed reassuring, but on further thought I wondered if other countries were going to the same lengths. If not, I suspected we could be left as the only viable punching bags for foreign firms. My plan in the event of violence is to cry and plead so much that any potential attacker will be too disgusted to hit me.
Trouble with the journey continued as Charlie's bag was incorrectly labelled as someone else's when checked in. Having discovered this and informed the airline just before boarding, the entire plane had to be unloaded, much to the vocalised annoyance of everyone but Charlie. We were told to watch the unloading from the boarding gate window and shout when we saw his brand new, unnecessarily expensive bag. Shout he most certainly did, as his bag sailed past the others being delicately unloaded by conveyor belt, having been thrown out of the open bay door of the plane, and smashed onto the concrete several meters below, tearing the solid metal handle and rendering it near impossible to carry around. As you would expect, we were nothing but sympathetic.
Once we'd picked ourselves off the ground and stopped laughing, were able to board and begin the 13 hour flight via Libya. On reflection, I have no idea how I survived the experience. I have resolved to never fly any airline that I can't pronounce again. First issue was that my monitor wasn't working. To be fair they were quick to reboot all the screens, which as well as fixing mine, broke Charlie's previously working one. Excellent. To compound his misery, Charlie was next to a heavily snoring man who was inexplicably wearing two pairs of trousers and a watch the size of a hubcap. It was only when the turbulance started in earnest that I understood the need for the extra trousers.
Getting off the plane in Libya was like stepping face first into the flame of a blowtorch. I've never experienced a wind factor that actually increases the heat. Security in the airport was clearly taken seriously as we were all carefully ushered through a metal detector that was quite obviously turned off. So by the time we boarded the second plane several hours later, we were emitting visible stink lines as the sweat began to ferment in our clothes. I verbalised the possibility of shitting ourselves in an effort to improve the smell.
The second leg of the journey was no better than the first. The food would have been an insult to vermin, the service would have been considered too abrupt for Auschwitz, but worst by far was the utter lack of alcohol. We assumed the airline must have been Islamic, and this was confirmed as the already terrible films available were further worsened by the electronic blurring of any on screen cleavage. It's amazing just how crap you truly see a film for when no longer distracted by Megan Fox's jiggling tits.
I can never sleep on planes but none the less tried fooling my body with a neck pillow and blindfold. My body was having none of it though, insisting it wasn't going to play ball in the best of conditions, so certainly not while sober. After a while though I felt myself lolling into a state that while not sleep, at least had it comfortably on the horizon and in which I could happily drift along. Then BOOM, the lights went on full blast like a punch in the face. My instinctive thought was some form of emergency. It's 2am, we aren't due to land for 3 hours, there must be something wrong with the aircraft, fuck I'm going to die and I've not even made it to the World Cup. I've not made enough of a mark on humanity to die, I'm too young, by god, I still have that expensive Cuban cigar I've not smoked, this is unfair on so many levels.
The emergency, as it turns out, was a choice of luke warm soft drinks. Because who doesn't like to be woken with a spot light at 2am for a nice warm pepsi?
Finally arriving in the very early hours we were met by a country poised to ease the mechanics of the world's greatest competition and the administration of the hundreds of thousands of visiting fans. Namely, power cuts, broken ticket dispensing machines and a two hour wait for the hire car. When we finally got sorted and arrived at the hostel we were near comatosed and nobody had spoken or looked at each other for hours. Only a total lack of energy prevented the tangible hatred from spilling into a fist fight. Even better, we could afford only a two hour sleep before we had to climb back into the car and drive two and a half hours to the first game.
Best not discuss the game itself, but the atmosphere and stadium were incredible in the cool South African evening. Unfortunately, any positives were quickly forgotten as any organisation or preparation from the authorities in aiding the 45,000fans to escape the small city utterly failed to materialise. It took 6 hours to get to the car and drive back, by which point we'd had 2 hours sleep in as many days and were, to put it mildly, fucking furious. This will only get better...
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Bachelorhood
It is now one week since the girlfriend was ordered back to London for three months, at the fleeting whim of one of the overlords at the corporate empire for which she works. No doubt her work there will be a role in some appalling plot to extract every last bit of profit from innocent, impoverished locals, probably in the most cartoonishly evil manner possible. Churning orphans into puppy food and then poisoning it or something.
“I don’t work in that area of the company”, she’ll say which sounds like something you’d hear at the Nuremburg trials doesn’t it? “I only drive the trains”.
At first, although hysterical with grief and certain that my heart would burst with longing (she reads this), I’ll admit to a degree of thought that living as a bachelor for three months would not be entirely a bad thing.
I could avoid the nightly torture that is being made to watch Eastenders. Watching this shit-fest since I’ve met her has been a steady drain on my already limited faith in humanity. I’ve found myself starting to nod in thoughtful agreement when I hear about high fatality disasters on the news.
I could have the flat looking how I want. Namely: untouched by human hands in either attempt to decorate or clean. I am far tidier than I used to be, a fact which uniformly horrifies anyone who has seen my office, bedroom or general appearance. The fact that I used to be worse is normally taken as a sign that I once lived in a permanent state of dirty protest. Despite this, my enhanced domestication under her guidance has only reached a certain level. I still fail to understand the need to clean a towel more than once a fortnight. She, on the other hand, would prefer to burn them after use and buy new, whiter, fluffier ones. I still find fabric softener a pointless luxury. I still feel uneasy when everything is bare and ordered. And I still hate fucking Eastenders.
So although I was going to miss her, I wasn’t appalled at the idea of being able to come home from work, strip immediately to my pants, eat something so lacking in basic nutrition that it might as well be a building material and splat into the arse shaped groove on the sofa, not to move until I wake the following day, late for work and caked in my own filth.
It seems though, incredibly, that after several days of this, certain draw backs develop which I don’t remember from my glorious days of bachelorhood. It seems I may have grown accustomed to the benefits of having a feminine touch around the place.
Food for instance. Forgot that doesn’t actually materialise in the fridge. It’s been a week and I’ve already licked all available moss and weeds off of the patio. I tried cooking a couple of days ago but…well it doesn’t matter. This cleaning of clothes business as well. It’s a good job I’m on holiday next week as work were starting to disapprove of my potato sack with plastic co-op bag for shoes ensemble.
And remember the toilet scene from Trainspotting? That’s what the kitchen looks like. I no longer approach the sink unarmed.
In short, I will most likely have returned entirely to nature by the end of the three months. I will be communicating with wild animals, competing for scavenged bin food with stray cats and defacating in the corners of rooms. They will have to reintroduce me into society like that feral boy they found in India who had been raised by wolves.
“I don’t work in that area of the company”, she’ll say which sounds like something you’d hear at the Nuremburg trials doesn’t it? “I only drive the trains”.
At first, although hysterical with grief and certain that my heart would burst with longing (she reads this), I’ll admit to a degree of thought that living as a bachelor for three months would not be entirely a bad thing.
I could avoid the nightly torture that is being made to watch Eastenders. Watching this shit-fest since I’ve met her has been a steady drain on my already limited faith in humanity. I’ve found myself starting to nod in thoughtful agreement when I hear about high fatality disasters on the news.
I could have the flat looking how I want. Namely: untouched by human hands in either attempt to decorate or clean. I am far tidier than I used to be, a fact which uniformly horrifies anyone who has seen my office, bedroom or general appearance. The fact that I used to be worse is normally taken as a sign that I once lived in a permanent state of dirty protest. Despite this, my enhanced domestication under her guidance has only reached a certain level. I still fail to understand the need to clean a towel more than once a fortnight. She, on the other hand, would prefer to burn them after use and buy new, whiter, fluffier ones. I still find fabric softener a pointless luxury. I still feel uneasy when everything is bare and ordered. And I still hate fucking Eastenders.
So although I was going to miss her, I wasn’t appalled at the idea of being able to come home from work, strip immediately to my pants, eat something so lacking in basic nutrition that it might as well be a building material and splat into the arse shaped groove on the sofa, not to move until I wake the following day, late for work and caked in my own filth.
It seems though, incredibly, that after several days of this, certain draw backs develop which I don’t remember from my glorious days of bachelorhood. It seems I may have grown accustomed to the benefits of having a feminine touch around the place.
Food for instance. Forgot that doesn’t actually materialise in the fridge. It’s been a week and I’ve already licked all available moss and weeds off of the patio. I tried cooking a couple of days ago but…well it doesn’t matter. This cleaning of clothes business as well. It’s a good job I’m on holiday next week as work were starting to disapprove of my potato sack with plastic co-op bag for shoes ensemble.
And remember the toilet scene from Trainspotting? That’s what the kitchen looks like. I no longer approach the sink unarmed.
In short, I will most likely have returned entirely to nature by the end of the three months. I will be communicating with wild animals, competing for scavenged bin food with stray cats and defacating in the corners of rooms. They will have to reintroduce me into society like that feral boy they found in India who had been raised by wolves.
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