Jonathon the Shaman
It is undoubtedly a dark omen to be returning home at three in the morning from a club, sick with dancing related exertion and possibly alcohol, with a thesis defence in two weeks and to top it all having had one's favourite hat stolen by an impishly grinning foreign girl. Some might say then that it was especially foolish for me to cycle through town, instead of going quickly home on the quieter back streets. In hindsight I can't say I disagree.
As I rounded the corner of one of the colleges and started up one of the main streets in the town, where a few late revellers were still heading home, I heard a common cry.
"Excuse me, can you help me?"
This is a classic beggar line and usually leads to a request for change, so I was mainly being polite when I stopped cycling and replied, "Probably not". Tangentially my opinion of beggars in town had been coloured by the number of fakes, including a svelte young lady dressed for a night out who claimed to be seven months pregnant and kindly suggested "If I had a gun, I'd shoot you".
I found myself looking at a tall muscular man wearing a burberry cap and tattoos. His piercing stare would have been unnerving if he hadn't been swaying quite so much from side to side.
"Can you help me?"
"I don't know, what do you need?"
I now noticed that the few other people out had all crossed to the other side of the street to avoid this person. Shit.
"Can you help me?"
"With what?" Double shit, he's completely off his head.
"It's my girlfriend."
Triple shit. What the hell had he done with his girlfriend? Maybe it was best not to find out, or I could be viewed as an accomplice. I didn't really want to spend the weeks before my thesis defence preparing a legal defence. Best to feign incomprehension.
"Sorry, what?"
"My name's Jonathon."
"Good." I could cope with this.
"Shall I tell you something?"
"I expect so."
"I'm a shaman."
Oh for crap's sake. "That's nice."
"I'm a shaman."
At this point Jonathon grabbed my hand, stared into an approximation of my eyes and slurred, "And you're one too." Bleeding marvellous. Then Jonathon smiled and farted.
"Will you help me?"
"That depends, what help do you need with your girlfriend?"
"She needs me to be a man."
What are we up to now? Quadruple shit?
"How can I help you with that?"
"Will you help me?"
"I'm not sure I can be man for your girlfriend."
Jonathon seemed to understand this on some level and stopped to consider his next move.
I had refrained from simply leaving partly because I was concerned that he was incapable of finding his way home and partly because I thought if I just cycled off he might try to grab me and cause an accident. Suddenly I had an idea, why not make him someone else's problem?
"Where is your girlfriend?"
"She's at Dan's."
Ah yes Dan's. I thought this might be a further complication so I changed tack: "Where do you live?"
"I'm staying at Dan's."
"I can go with you there if you want?" I decided I'd walk him home and then make a break for it.
"Thank you so much, you're the best person ever."
Well I like to think so. "Shall we go then, where is it?"
Jonathon indicated that Dan's was just around the corner, about five minutes away. I managed to get him walking and pedalled slowly by his side, so as to be able to head off at speed if necessary.
Every so often Jonathon would go into a little cycle of expressing remorse, "I'm sorry for being such a prick", before grabbing my arm and thanking me again "You're the best person ever".
In one of his occasional departures from form he returned to an old subject, "I'm a shaman."
"Yes, you told me."
"I'm a shaman."
I tried a new approach, "What does being a shaman involve?"
There was a long pause, eventually followed by, "I'm not sure... but I like to think it involves being a good person."
Sometimes Jonathon would get very serious, and at one point he glared at me and while crushing my wrist demanded, "Do I look like a prick to you?" As is so often the case, self preservation lost a brief battle with sarcasm and I only offered, "Not especially." Luckily by this time Jonathon's poor mistreated mind had already moved on and he was staring at the floor lamenting, "..'ve done a lot of acid."
We arrived outside the gate of some college accommodation. Jonathon was as sure as a mere shell of a man could be that it was where Dan lived.
"Do you know which number he lives in?" I was glad that there had been no recent mention of being a man or girlfriends.
"No."
Quintuple shit. Now into bonus points.
"I'll ring him", suggested Jonathon.
I could only agree that this was a good idea.
Jonathon then began a valiant battle with inebriation and tiny buttons. After a not insignificant period of time, he seemed to emerge victorious and put the phone to his ear.
Nothing happened. Perhaps there was no answer, perhaps he hadn't rung anyone.
"Did you ring him?"
"Look, look!" Jonathon proceeded to show me the calendar on his phone.
I decided Jonathon was near enough salvation and would probably remember where he was staying eventually.
"Jonathon I've got to go home."
"Ok, ok. Look, I want to give you my number."
"Sure." I made no effort to get out my phone and instead looked at him questioningly.
"Here." Jonathon showed me the calendar again, then after some thought managed to reach the media player and eventually the address book. Scrolling up and down randomly, he somehow found 'Jonathon'. As I was pretending to memorise the number, Jonathon giggled and pressed the call button. This of course led to a missed call and some resulting confusion for one of us.
Feeling sorry for him, I was about to suggest he try Dan again, when two dog walkers strolled past on the other side of the street, which was odd because it was 3am. Jonathon, being a friendly individual, called out to them, "Hi, how's it going?". They ignored us and hurried on.
"That's so rude!" Jonathon was not impressed.
"Yes." I agreed.
"So rude. You know what they are?"
"Rude?" I ventured.
"Smack heads", said Jonathon authoritatively.
Somehow I managed to persuade Jonathon to go into the apartment complex and try ringing again. Once he had disappeared through the gate I quickly cycled home. The next day I saw him in a pub. He didn't recognise me, and I didn't make any effort to remedy his failing.
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Part 2 of Part 1, cont'd.
Holy crap Batman, can't you keep your trousers on for once?
The anti-cat lady.
It was several summers past, while visiting Italy that I came upon a queer occurrence which I shall now recount to you. That's right I'm going to count it ALL OVER AGAIN!
I was attending a conference in one of those grand towns common to the northern Mediterranean, all ornate architecture, alleys thick with the stench of fish and absurdly beautiful young melanoma cultivators strolling across the gleaming plazas.
I had risen early, so as to catch the bus before the first strike of the day, and headed to a small square where I had arranged to meet a colleague. It was while waiting for this repeatedly tardy specimen of the Welsh race that I spied an enormous seagull, flapping it's wings as it descended to land in a corner of the square. A seagull in a coastal town is certainly not worthy of remark unless one is of exceptionally dull wits, but what occurred next certainly was remarkable.
As the gull strutted back and forth, bobbing its head, a weather beaten crone shuffled out from some hidden crevice in the alabaster walls. With a plastic bag in hand, she headed straight for the bird, which eyed her with interest. For my part, I watched the whole situation with some care, so as to be a useful witness when the Police tried to reconstruct the death.
On reaching a distance of perhaps four cubits from the seagull, the gnarled woman stopped and reached into her bag. It is fair to say that I was surprised to see her retrieve a foil container of cat food. Opening the packet, she proceeded to use a small fork to scrape some of the contents onto the lid, which was then placed on the ground. Immediately two things happened: the gull waddled forward to begin eating and simultaneously from every alleyway came, skulking on their bellies, ten of the mangiest, most pathetic and desperate animals ever to be dubiously labelled 'cat'.
This was turning out to be a great day. I only regretted leaving my camera at home and the lack of a seat. After the gull had picked the lid clean of mouse heads or whatever it is they put in cat food, it deigned to notice the enroaching circle of cats. By simply beating its wings it caused a rout, until the forceful leadership of extreme hunger led the felines to regroup slightly further off. During this brief action, the leathery instigator had picked up the lid, given it another coating of stinking paste and returned it to the flagstones. The gull continued its meal, and this time whenever a cat slunk feebly towards the food, the elder primate saw it off with a flick of her bag or by pivoting on one of her melon sized ankles and lurching in its direction.
This cycle repeated itself a few times, with the feathered devil and grizzled veteran taking taking turns to send the fleabags into temporary paralysis, until eventually the packet was empty. With a gesture the crooked witch indicated that there was none left, and the bird instantly took to the sky. The cats saw their chance - the gull's staccato eating had resulted in a tiny pile of scraps - and with their remaining eyes on the miserable prize, broke into a full limp.
But even this was to be denied them, for the crone bent down and using the lid scraped the flags clean. She put the remnants in the plastic bag, tied it closed and dropped it into a sealed dustbin on the way back to her cave. I know that we are prone to anthropomorphising animals, but I would swear that on that day I saw horror and injustice on the faces of those cats.
The anti-cat lady.
It was several summers past, while visiting Italy that I came upon a queer occurrence which I shall now recount to you. That's right I'm going to count it ALL OVER AGAIN!
I was attending a conference in one of those grand towns common to the northern Mediterranean, all ornate architecture, alleys thick with the stench of fish and absurdly beautiful young melanoma cultivators strolling across the gleaming plazas.
I had risen early, so as to catch the bus before the first strike of the day, and headed to a small square where I had arranged to meet a colleague. It was while waiting for this repeatedly tardy specimen of the Welsh race that I spied an enormous seagull, flapping it's wings as it descended to land in a corner of the square. A seagull in a coastal town is certainly not worthy of remark unless one is of exceptionally dull wits, but what occurred next certainly was remarkable.
As the gull strutted back and forth, bobbing its head, a weather beaten crone shuffled out from some hidden crevice in the alabaster walls. With a plastic bag in hand, she headed straight for the bird, which eyed her with interest. For my part, I watched the whole situation with some care, so as to be a useful witness when the Police tried to reconstruct the death.
On reaching a distance of perhaps four cubits from the seagull, the gnarled woman stopped and reached into her bag. It is fair to say that I was surprised to see her retrieve a foil container of cat food. Opening the packet, she proceeded to use a small fork to scrape some of the contents onto the lid, which was then placed on the ground. Immediately two things happened: the gull waddled forward to begin eating and simultaneously from every alleyway came, skulking on their bellies, ten of the mangiest, most pathetic and desperate animals ever to be dubiously labelled 'cat'.
This was turning out to be a great day. I only regretted leaving my camera at home and the lack of a seat. After the gull had picked the lid clean of mouse heads or whatever it is they put in cat food, it deigned to notice the enroaching circle of cats. By simply beating its wings it caused a rout, until the forceful leadership of extreme hunger led the felines to regroup slightly further off. During this brief action, the leathery instigator had picked up the lid, given it another coating of stinking paste and returned it to the flagstones. The gull continued its meal, and this time whenever a cat slunk feebly towards the food, the elder primate saw it off with a flick of her bag or by pivoting on one of her melon sized ankles and lurching in its direction.
This cycle repeated itself a few times, with the feathered devil and grizzled veteran taking taking turns to send the fleabags into temporary paralysis, until eventually the packet was empty. With a gesture the crooked witch indicated that there was none left, and the bird instantly took to the sky. The cats saw their chance - the gull's staccato eating had resulted in a tiny pile of scraps - and with their remaining eyes on the miserable prize, broke into a full limp.
But even this was to be denied them, for the crone bent down and using the lid scraped the flags clean. She put the remnants in the plastic bag, tied it closed and dropped it into a sealed dustbin on the way back to her cave. I know that we are prone to anthropomorphising animals, but I would swear that on that day I saw horror and injustice on the faces of those cats.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
A Merciful Dog. Pt.1
Not much has happened in the last few days other than my constant, bitter and bloody war on ants.
Perhaps I have become naturalized (note 'z') and this is why I no longer think the hollering all-consuming WASPs are worthy of comment, instead following the example of the ethnic minority servant class who just watch them impassively, as one would the actions of any other dumb animal. Of course this isn't quite true, just today a latino grocery store clerk and I, while sheltering from a torrential summer thunderstorm, were far from impassive as we watched blonde athletic girls with very wet t-shirts running from their cars to the store.
Now that we've fulfilled our breast anecdote quota, I'll just spend the next few posts relating tales of some of the more singular characters I've met in the gnu and auld worlds.
Crazy Lady I
I forgot to mention this one when covering the Orangemen's assault on my premises. While we were waiting at a bus stop in order to catch, wait, yes you've guessed it, a bus, we were approached by a crooked yet rotund figure who wished to tell us something we already knew. As we thanked her for her help and support in this difficult time, she detected our foreigner way of speech. Spake she, "Where ye be comin ffrom, strangers?"
After proffering the usual, "Englandbuthe'sfromHollandandthey'rejustvisitingbutIlivehere" and it being received successfully, I made a critical error of judgment. You will guess what it is when I describe her t-shirt: a picture of the stars and stripes (standard) below which was a Union Jack (less usual but some sort of fashion symbol here) and above both, the words 'Still Proud, Still Strong' (oh crap). So I asked her about her t-shirt.
Apparently she had been to the Kingdom, and like it 'a lot'. She particularly felt empathy for its shared predicament with Freedom, namely the influx of 'foreigns', a term which I rapidly discerned to mean 'people who are not white', and the accompanying lowering of 'standards'. I was troubled by these statements, not least because most people standing around at bus stops in Freedom fall squarely into the 'not white' category. Sagely she informed me that while black people had been treated badly, they had also caused a lot of problems. In a completely unanticipated turn of events she revealed that she didn't like the new president, chief amongst his failings being that he 'wasn't born here' has 'a muslim background' and 'doesn't understand the people who really live here'. I haven't been paying attention to these issues, having filed the requisite documentation in the 'irrelevant/politics' section of my memory, but at the very least I am fairly sure that Saint Obama has a very Christian foreground (albeit with the minor complication of a hate preacher) and furthermore I am convinced that 'understanding' the common man is a sign of serious mental delusion not desirous in the leader of the most powerful nation on Errf. However I held my peace, not wanting to interrupt the flow lest it erupted suddenly and violently, covering me in blackened teeth and cat hair. It was around this point that I began to think that perhaps she was the famous 'I don't trust him, he's a muslim' madwoman that McCain had shown extreme heroism in defusing on live television. Certainly the likeness was uncanny, but then I realised that no, this was simply the uniform of the deranged trailer park nationalist (female): grey hair styled by static electricity, worryingly yellow blotched t-shirt, terrifyingly stained skirt and the whole ensemble finished with a thick coating of feline fur.
During this exchange my visitors had been very supportive, keeping their distance and feigning extreme interest in the bus timetable. Finally the bus came and I tried to flee the conversation, except that she sat near us and intermittently shouted 'English', to get my attention when her thought organ had birthed another deformed child that she wished to share, when in a just world it would have been aborted with a claw hammer. Foremost on my mind was that we were now most certainly surrounded by people who could fairly and accurately be described as 'not white'.
Just as we reached the sanctuary of our destination she fired her parting shot.
"Course it was the Dutch who brought slaves here in the first place".
Stay tuned for:
Crazy Lady II. She who feeds gulls.
Jonathan the Shaman
Kevin
Perhaps I have become naturalized (note 'z') and this is why I no longer think the hollering all-consuming WASPs are worthy of comment, instead following the example of the ethnic minority servant class who just watch them impassively, as one would the actions of any other dumb animal. Of course this isn't quite true, just today a latino grocery store clerk and I, while sheltering from a torrential summer thunderstorm, were far from impassive as we watched blonde athletic girls with very wet t-shirts running from their cars to the store.
Now that we've fulfilled our breast anecdote quota, I'll just spend the next few posts relating tales of some of the more singular characters I've met in the gnu and auld worlds.
Crazy Lady I
I forgot to mention this one when covering the Orangemen's assault on my premises. While we were waiting at a bus stop in order to catch, wait, yes you've guessed it, a bus, we were approached by a crooked yet rotund figure who wished to tell us something we already knew. As we thanked her for her help and support in this difficult time, she detected our foreigner way of speech. Spake she, "Where ye be comin ffrom, strangers?"
After proffering the usual, "Englandbuthe'sfromHollandandthey'rejustvisitingbutIlivehere" and it being received successfully, I made a critical error of judgment. You will guess what it is when I describe her t-shirt: a picture of the stars and stripes (standard) below which was a Union Jack (less usual but some sort of fashion symbol here) and above both, the words 'Still Proud, Still Strong' (oh crap). So I asked her about her t-shirt.
Apparently she had been to the Kingdom, and like it 'a lot'. She particularly felt empathy for its shared predicament with Freedom, namely the influx of 'foreigns', a term which I rapidly discerned to mean 'people who are not white', and the accompanying lowering of 'standards'. I was troubled by these statements, not least because most people standing around at bus stops in Freedom fall squarely into the 'not white' category. Sagely she informed me that while black people had been treated badly, they had also caused a lot of problems. In a completely unanticipated turn of events she revealed that she didn't like the new president, chief amongst his failings being that he 'wasn't born here' has 'a muslim background' and 'doesn't understand the people who really live here'. I haven't been paying attention to these issues, having filed the requisite documentation in the 'irrelevant/politics' section of my memory, but at the very least I am fairly sure that Saint Obama has a very Christian foreground (albeit with the minor complication of a hate preacher) and furthermore I am convinced that 'understanding' the common man is a sign of serious mental delusion not desirous in the leader of the most powerful nation on Errf. However I held my peace, not wanting to interrupt the flow lest it erupted suddenly and violently, covering me in blackened teeth and cat hair. It was around this point that I began to think that perhaps she was the famous 'I don't trust him, he's a muslim' madwoman that McCain had shown extreme heroism in defusing on live television. Certainly the likeness was uncanny, but then I realised that no, this was simply the uniform of the deranged trailer park nationalist (female): grey hair styled by static electricity, worryingly yellow blotched t-shirt, terrifyingly stained skirt and the whole ensemble finished with a thick coating of feline fur.
During this exchange my visitors had been very supportive, keeping their distance and feigning extreme interest in the bus timetable. Finally the bus came and I tried to flee the conversation, except that she sat near us and intermittently shouted 'English', to get my attention when her thought organ had birthed another deformed child that she wished to share, when in a just world it would have been aborted with a claw hammer. Foremost on my mind was that we were now most certainly surrounded by people who could fairly and accurately be described as 'not white'.
Just as we reached the sanctuary of our destination she fired her parting shot.
"Course it was the Dutch who brought slaves here in the first place".
Stay tuned for:
Crazy Lady II. She who feeds gulls.
Jonathan the Shaman
Kevin
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Sepia tinted mammaries
I got up at 7 am on a Sunday to go hiking. Now I am picking ticks out of my leg hair. Is this where midlife crisis starts? I also find myself looking through old pictures from my youth (on Dickbook, from a distant four years ago) and reminiscing on the laughs, lack of loves, my hairline and the time before my chins eclipsed the view of my belly, itself eclipsing the view of my hideous deformed genitals and webbed feet. There are a lot of pictures of 'costume' parties. Why are lady people addicted to these things? However, I still enjoy the picture of me as Indiana Jones, being assaulted by a pygmy while Jesus looks on disapprovingly.
More reminiscus was brought on by my latest visitation. The Flying Dutchman and his patron came to stay with me as part of their grand tour of the new world. Their baggage train had suffered some losses to fever and bandits on the way and so it was a mere five elephants, forty native porters and a voucher from American airlines that arrived at my door. The walls of my dank lair only just withstood the force of the blast when the luggage was opened.
Sitting on the veranda and sipping iced drinks brought by my houseboy betwixt his sound beatings, my visitors and I recalled the ancient past, back at the toilet seat of learning that was my previous home, where I used to hang out with the cool kids, who now run a successful small business advertising radio 1 DJs by email and when I could be really rude to people who had the decency and education to understand.
I hope my visitors (not the ticks) had a good time. I started out strong by taking them to a restaurant that they didn't like, and then threw shit weather at them. In no particular order: we went out for dinner, drank a bit and played mutual acquaintance attractiveness top-trumps. We discussed deep philosophical questions, such as "why does one remark on a female's intelligence foremost only if she is ugly?" We did some hiking-lite, saw topless men sweating, and asked directions from female clones whose desire to jog was so strong that they ran on the spot to answer our request. Sometimes we hung out in clothes shops, running a critical eye over the men's underwear section and debating at length the peculiarities of a Gentleman's fit. We ate voluminous pancakes at an 'Italian Villa -Breakfast Served ALL DAY'. We got in a car and drove two hundred metres, just because it was raining and because climate change is change we need.
By tagging along with one of my colleagues, our group indulged in the sport of kings, which is to say drinking other people's beer at other people's parties. I made offensive comments about accents in front of someone I'd only just met. The party host had a voice like a dentist's drill applied to blackboard and then amplified through an electric dog whistle. I didn't like it much. But we danced a bit (apparently I have my own angular style, and "that's cool") and I TALKED TO SOMEONE WHO TEACHES MEDIA STUDIES FOR A LIVING! WITHOUT SPITTING! That last bit is ambiguous, but I rather like it that way. As we left everyone was thanked for coming, except me. I was thanked for dancing.
It now appears that I will be back in the UK from the start of July until mid August. I look forward to seeing what offerings you will place at my feet on my arrival. There is no need to cut the hearts out in the arrivals terminal this time.
I am tired again and can't tell if this is amusing or not. But maybe you can't either. Aha!
More reminiscus was brought on by my latest visitation. The Flying Dutchman and his patron came to stay with me as part of their grand tour of the new world. Their baggage train had suffered some losses to fever and bandits on the way and so it was a mere five elephants, forty native porters and a voucher from American airlines that arrived at my door. The walls of my dank lair only just withstood the force of the blast when the luggage was opened.
Sitting on the veranda and sipping iced drinks brought by my houseboy betwixt his sound beatings, my visitors and I recalled the ancient past, back at the toilet seat of learning that was my previous home, where I used to hang out with the cool kids, who now run a successful small business advertising radio 1 DJs by email and when I could be really rude to people who had the decency and education to understand.
I hope my visitors (not the ticks) had a good time. I started out strong by taking them to a restaurant that they didn't like, and then threw shit weather at them. In no particular order: we went out for dinner, drank a bit and played mutual acquaintance attractiveness top-trumps. We discussed deep philosophical questions, such as "why does one remark on a female's intelligence foremost only if she is ugly?" We did some hiking-lite, saw topless men sweating, and asked directions from female clones whose desire to jog was so strong that they ran on the spot to answer our request. Sometimes we hung out in clothes shops, running a critical eye over the men's underwear section and debating at length the peculiarities of a Gentleman's fit. We ate voluminous pancakes at an 'Italian Villa -Breakfast Served ALL DAY'. We got in a car and drove two hundred metres, just because it was raining and because climate change is change we need.
By tagging along with one of my colleagues, our group indulged in the sport of kings, which is to say drinking other people's beer at other people's parties. I made offensive comments about accents in front of someone I'd only just met. The party host had a voice like a dentist's drill applied to blackboard and then amplified through an electric dog whistle. I didn't like it much. But we danced a bit (apparently I have my own angular style, and "that's cool") and I TALKED TO SOMEONE WHO TEACHES MEDIA STUDIES FOR A LIVING! WITHOUT SPITTING! That last bit is ambiguous, but I rather like it that way. As we left everyone was thanked for coming, except me. I was thanked for dancing.
It now appears that I will be back in the UK from the start of July until mid August. I look forward to seeing what offerings you will place at my feet on my arrival. There is no need to cut the hearts out in the arrivals terminal this time.
I am tired again and can't tell if this is amusing or not. But maybe you can't either. Aha!
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