16/12/14

So we've now gone from killing kids as collateral to killing kids because kids have been killed. If we don't have a huge biblical like flood next my names not Adam.

Time Gates

For many years I have had my suspicions that Bill Gates is from the future. I know it's out there, I have seen it.

Pamplona

‘The fighting bull is to the domestic bull as the wolf is to the dog.’ -- Ernest Hemingway in Death In The Afternoon. The festival of San Fermín in Pamplona, northern Spain started at 12:00 noon on Sunday the 6th July this year with the biggest street party on the planet. At a party so big you would not think it unusual for at least a number of people to have the same outfit on, except at this one, it was unusual to have anything else on. Standard dress code being all in white with a red sash around the waist, red scarf around the neck or head, or both, and armed with as much red wine and Sangria as you could lay your hands on. The purpose of the latter was not only to get extremely pissed, but also to, without prejudice, completely soak everyone that came within range. For best results we quickly armed ourselves with wine skins which allowed for greater distance and accuracy whilst achieving minimal wastage. The skins were also pretty handy for squirting drink directly into one another’s mouths. It seemed pretty insane that in the very early hours of the very next day we would be running through these very same narrow cobbled streets in our hundreds with 6 x 2000 pound fighting bulls bearing down upon us, and yet that was precisely the purpose of our visit, and of the festivities. Indeed these festivities were set to run for eight straight days, with six new fighting bulls being run through the streets in the early hours of each morning. Having made the tremendous effort to raise 18 lads with stupendous hangovers at 5:00am, get them onto a public bus and back into the thick of it by 6:00am, we then wrongly assumed that because the bulls did not run until 8:00am, we had time for some hangover aversion strategies at the sight of the first bar. Unfortunately this allowed for us to be somewhat overtaken by it all, we were after all, new to it. By the time we got down to the middle of the course at Mercaderes, at about 7:00am, there was no longer enough time to even see the course, let alone walk it, the sea of spectators already having gathered swamped the 6 foot high fences and it became impossible to get our bearings. We needed to find a gap in the fence and get on course and quickly, we knew that the start of the course was to our left and the finish to our right, we had no idea where we actually were at the time though, and no idea where we were going. Eight of us made a break for it and split, there was no time to dither, we’d come a long way to do this, this was to be it. Although we’d been told it was very dangerous to start the run from the start of the course as a first time runner, we figured that it might be our best and possibly only option to slip in at the Town Hall Square near the start. Obviously we could not simply run down towards the start on the course, nor alongside the course, it was completely blocked, we had to run in the general direction of the start, through the windy backstreets strewn with bottles, rubbish, cups and other drinking paraphernalia, through the gaggles of drunken locals singing, dancing, clapping and shouting as we parted them at speed. It was a remarkable experience in itself really, breathing hard, busting out the booze in beads, watching the rhythm of the feet of my friends around me, all with our single goal, to get me on course. All the while there was a sense of urgency and concern which mixed in our minds with the fear and anticipation of what might happen if we were successful. Eventually we got there, it was worse than we could have imagined, the edges of the course were twenty people deep with spectators; it was essentially a crush, not only that, but there were now two sets of fences, an outer fence, lined with people sat on top or holding on below, and an inner fence which lined the course, in the middle of the two fences were the Guardia Civil with guns and batons, and they weren’t shy when it came to deploying the batons. Although for months I had been very fearful at the prospect of running with the bulls, (especially after speaking to various travel insurance companies, who, much to the amusement of my colleagues in the office, either went very quiet on the end of the line, or just started laughing at the prospect of insuring me), when faced with the prospect of not being able to run, there was nothing on earth I would rather have done. I didn’t care who the people were blocking my way, I ploughed through them and made it to a 6 foot tall gate which joined the course fencing to the side of a house that faced the course. There were some people going over this gated section, I was elated, and with the help of those who stood right up against it, I got a bunk over the top, straight into the arms of angry police. I pleaded with the cops; I was on my stag do, I’d come a long way, I was soba and fit. I heard one of them say, ‘Inglish’ and point in the opposite direction to the course, I was bundled back over the fence and re-united with the lads. Unperturbed we again set off running, this time towards the bull ring, perhaps there would be somewhere we could sneak in at the end, just to say we had done it, if only for the last few metres, it had to be worth a go, how far could it be, the course was only 850 metres long and took only four and a half minutes to complete. Off we set, back the way we had come and before long were met by the rest of the guys coming towards us from Mercaderes, we touched base with them and a couple more joined our unrelenting quest to gain access. We ran through the busy streets, the excitement and atmosphere building, there was not much time. The situation remained the same all the way down to the bull ring where the event finished, perhaps if we went round the back of the bullring and onto the far side of the course, it might be less busy, two of the lads at this point took a punt on the ticketed gates and went into the ring, while the rest of us peeled off around the back of it and into a park below. My heart sank as the first rocket went off, that was it - the runners were away. We made it to Telefónica, which makes up the final straight of the course and accepted that we were spectators, you could sense the numbers of runners coming through, they were running quite quickly, there was the faint sound of feet and lots of heads, knees and ankles flying past the gaps in the crowds. The second rocket went off and the pace lifted and the crowd anticipated; the bulls were on the run. In what seemed like no time, the sound of the excitement, jeers, ooh’s and ah’s moving along the line of crowds flanking the course could be heard approaching like a Mexican wave, then came the cowbells clanging from around the necks of the steers that led the bulls, and finally the shrill of the runners as the bulls approached and then past them. I caught a glimpse of an eye and a horn; it was all over, the crowds dissipated and the fences were dismantled and removed, daily life was underway. All of the lads were due to be fly back at lunchtime the next day, with the coach leaving the hotel at midday, the intention therefore had always been to run with the bulls on the first morning, party all day and most of the night thereafter whilst being high on adrenalin and life, then sleep in, have a late breakfast and then get everybody on their way. The group collective had agreed that to run with the bulls on the second morning following such a sustained period of debauchery would not be sensible, however, having failed to run on the first morning, and fuelled with the bravado of drink, plans changed. I have no idea how I woke that morning, just after 5:00am, only hours after going to bed full of beer and Sangria, it happened though, and I know now it was meant to be. I immediately knocked on next door and raised my brother who woke my dad and Pete, the Mazurek brothers, Mazza and Snide then appeared, I don’t know whether from my room or another, or one from each, but any further knocking only produced one more man, Rich, the seven of us then made the first bus in and headed straight for the course. Pete was carrying a broken foot and my old man is old, so they went on to watch from the bull ring. The rest of us, once again headed for the middle of the course at Mercaderes, it was still just a street, although the shop doorways and lower floor windows had metal covers across them, so there was nowhere to hide. There were vehicles coming down with water tanks and pressure hoses cleaning off the Sangria. The only other folk around were runners, TV crews and journalists, oh and people who had been out all night, either collapsed on benches, or in the case of my old Uni buddies, Ross and Mathias, standing against a shop front full of stories, clutching photographic evidence and raring to go. Not only had Ross been ridden by a Spanish girl in the WC of a nearby Tavern minutes after meeting her, Mathias had his first tattoo, a bull no less on his shoulder! Not to be outdone, or more to do with the fact that I couldn’t find any of my clothes, I remained dressed in what I had slept in, a size 8 white cropped top with a raging bull on the front of it, acquired on my behalf as the Stag, they called it the Freddie Mercury look you know. I suppose it was an improvement on being dressed as an Arab with full regalia including a white robe and red head gear, as I had been on the first day, try explaining that to the locals as you guzzle red wine, there must be many hundreds of photographs out there of me in that gear soaked in vino. We were all pretty nervous, but spirits were high having hooked up with Ross and Mathias. That seed of nerves did sprout and flower though, and I would go so far as to say that some were soon verging on scared. We had all seen the video footage from the previous day, and worse still the internet footage over the years, this was not for the faint hearted, we knew only too well that people had died doing what we were about to do, 15 to be precise since 1910, although the tradition had been ongoing since the fourteenth century. Mazza was particularly under pressure having been to a stag do two weeks earlier where at three O’clock in the morning, the lad whose shoulders he was being carried on fell forward, Mazza had landed on his face slicing his chin off, his wife Rach had therefore issued a very clear warning before we came away that he was a father of two and that if she discovered he had run with the bulls then she would divorce him. Now, as if a goring isn’t already bad enough, it is also the kind of injury that cannot be blamed on anything else other than being stabbed by a bull’s horn, so not only might Mazza receive a serious injury, if he were to live through it, then he would be entering a world of shit. It didn’t end there, during the night Mazza had been responsible for carrying James home, whilst doing so James had fallen pulling them both to the ground, Mazza came off worse hitting his eye on a curb resulting in a brilliant shiner, and they say things happen in three’s. It was an unusual situation to be in with your friends as the adrenalin started to secrete into the blood, and the huge camera on the corner behind us swept round from its view down Santa Domingo, over our heads and onto Dead Man’s Corner. Some of the lads repetitively asked questions about the plan, the course and what to expect, the same questions over and over, others unnerved me slightly by being completely normal, as though in a pub back home on a Thursday night or being more concerned about breakfast. Personally I didn’t like the waiting around; I’ve never been one for socialising with a hangover unless I have a drink in my hand. The large wooden posts laid out on the street started to be fixed into the permanent metal slots which were engineered into the road for this annual event, within minutes a fence had been erected around us, it was a basic fence, about eight feet high with two very thick heavy beams going between each set of posts, there were large gaps to climb through the fence, or onto it, or over it, alas it only had to keep unusually large animals contained, whilst allowing large numbers of spectators to sit on it and hang of it. It wasn’t until these spectators started to arrive in their hundreds almost instantaneously that you realised there was no going back, we were now hemmed in by the crowds, in the eye of the storm, or more accurately, the calm before the storm as the minute hand past over the twelve and took us into the last hour. There were more runners about too by this time, but still not that many where we were. We’d read that it was wise to start further down the course if it was your first time, hence our decision to start at the midway point. Dead Man’s Corner was just in front of us, a ninety degree right hander onto a long narrow straight lined with shop fronts known as Estafeta Street, the plan was to be round Dead Man’s Corner before the bulls had even been released, and if that were not possible, then to stick to the inside of the corner because the bulls hit is at speed and often slid wide on the wet cobbles, the cobbles having not long before been washed down. With only thirty minutes to go a wall of police started working their way up behind us, they were sweeping their way up the course, getting people to bunch up and move forward. At first we thought they were just expelling any drunks or other liabilities from the crop of runners, one poor young man was having his head repetitively rammed into a fencepost as they violently went about ejecting him from the course. Mazza and Snide had already set off in front to scout Estafeta Street, I think the standing around was getting their nerves jangling, from then on they were missing in action. As we rounded Dead Man’s Corner we took the view that perhaps the cops wanted people to start in certain positions, strategically spreading people out across the course so as to avoid any crushes. By the time we were half way down Estafeta Street though, we realised that the course was actually being swept clear ahead of the run and that we were on the wrong side of the police sweep, we would have to get off the course and run back round to the start if we wanted to run, it was déjà vu, but this time, we had come so far psychologically as well, to not run would have been torturous, so we bolted, down a side street, only this time on the far side of the course that took us down a long narrow hill and away from the action. We took the first left that we could and then another left and back up towards Town Hall Square, we ran as fast and as hard as we could, and as we approached the crowds again, saw a gap in the lower part of the fence, we had nothing to lose, through we went two at a time, emerging at the most dangerous place we could, the start line. We worked our way up a little, although it was very tightly packed with runners and there was only so far we could get before the road was blocked by more police just ahead of the first left hand corner above which the large television camera was swiveling. There was by now no maneuverability at all, there literally was no going anywhere, we found ourselves huddled in together right in the middle of the road, right in the path of the bulls with an awful lot of runners rammed in all around us, the relative safety of the edges was so near and yet so far. I was by this time so close to myself that I could smell my own perspiration without making any effort to, this was unusual - I could smell my own fear. I could not however smell the fear of my brother straight in front of me, his fear no doubt boxed off and categorised while he concentrated on the practicalities of the situation, nor of Mathias who was so often alongside me through the thick and thin of some of my most perilous times, ‘I always have a good time with you Ad,’ nor of Ross who made the whole thing look like a James Bond movie with a young well dressed Dolph Lundgren playing Bond, and nor of Rich, Rich being Rich was talking, I believe to an American lad who’d done the tradition some five or six times before, and who’s tales were making us all feel a little uneasy I’m sure. The first rocket went up and we began to move, the crowd disbursed a little as we moved into space and the pace lifted rather rapidly. We went with it, sticking together as best we could with a plan to regroup and wait for the second rocket once round Dead Man’s Corner at the head of the long straight of Estafeta, after all, we wanted to run at least some of the way once the bulls were on course. It was not that easy to find each other nor to stick together, we were a Rich down at Estafeta, the camera was going up and down a zip line above our heads, it ran along the length of the whole street, we were all familiar with the iconic footage this particular camera caught of the event, it also beamed out live on Spanish television every morning of the Fermín. The second rocket went up; there was a moment of quiet followed by blind panic and fear on a grand scale, I imagined it would be pretty similar being in a public place after an act of terrorism. We made our way up Estafeta as gradually as we could, although it was not easy at all, it was impossible just to stay still against a building or wedged into a blocked off doorway, not only were there Guardia Civil whacking people with big sticks to ensure they kept moving, there were also waves of people moving on mass in fear for their lives. In a situation like that it’s every man for himself, all manors go out of the window, it was like a rugby maul going off in a mosh pit along both sides of the entire length of street. It made staying together very difficult indeed, although a good effort was made for the first forty meters or so, during which we were able to re-group approximately every ten metres. When we did stop for a moment we all found ourselves on tips toes, stretching like Meerkats to see what was coming, all sense of time disappears and so you have no idea when the bulls might be upon you. In fact the main reason you get bashed around so much is because everybody is running for their lives in a forward direction whilst looking backwards. A fit adrenalin fuelled human can be a force to be reckoned with, hundreds of them is really something else. About half way down Estafeta I’d lost everybody and the situation was unrelenting, the bulls had been fast through the first section of the course, although it had seemed like an eternity, they were by now on Dead Man’s Corner, I could hear them coming, the cow bells on the steers that lead them through the mayhem were getting closer, the noises from excited and terrified runners came with them. They were upon me, I was an animal width away and moving, everything slowed, the whole experience just lapsed into slow motion, there was a calmness as my eyes were transfixed on the sticks of the handlers bobbing through, then on the sharp tall horns of the giant steers, I glided out of their way to my right and then for a moment I could not process my senses quickly enough, blinded by the purest sense of fear. When my vision caught up with me, to my left were the fighting bulls, tiring a little but in all their snorting ferocious shining wayward splaying glory, charging along, totally unpredictable, it was magnificent. To have felt true fear, but also respect and then elation within such a short space of time was really quite something, but to truly appreciate these feelings, the build-up, the anticipation, the psychological mind games of the hours before, all had played a key role in their crowning glory. You never know whether a bull or bulls may have been separated from the herd at any point along the course and so I still had my wits about me down through Telefónica, especially just before you go through the bottle neck that is the entrance of the bullring, I hadn’t realised at this point but the third and fourth rockets sounding across the town were signals that all of the herd had entered the bullring and its corral respectively, marking the end of the event. I also hadn’t realised that once a certain number of runners had entered the bullring the gate would be closed, Gus, Mathias, Ross and Rich, by that time all alive and well, never made it in. At the time I had thought the old man and Pete might be in the stalls somewhere, it turned out they’d been watching on Telefónica and filming me come past. Relieved and buzzing my tits off I wondered around the bullring looking up for them, hoping I might also bump into one of the lads whilst I regained my breath, my composure, and soaked up the splendid atmosphere from within the ring. Of course I didn’t for a second cotton on that yes, I was in the ring, whilst there were thousands of paying customers, who’d paid for some entertainment, all sitting in the safety of their seats around that ring, watching it, waiting to be entertained, that entertainment was us, and none of us knew it. Suddenly a crowd of a hundred people parted instantly like iron filings in an experiment with magnets. I and those beside me yet to part were left face to face with a fresh young fighting bull. He was light brown and stood tall with his head up as he cantered waywardly towards me at surprising speed, I got a terrible shock and I don’t think I’ve ever moved quite so fast in my life, luckily I split right as he was distracted and went left, otherwise I’m sure he would have caught and tossed me on his flattered horns. Our main advantage was sheer numbers, there must have been a couple of hundred people in the ring, and when moving as one he couldn’t single anybody out very easily, although he did launch his fair share of folk when they lost their footing or got a bit too cocky. It took me a few minutes of desperately trying to stay within the movements of the crowd to avert further eye contact with the bull to realise that people were scaling the five foot fence that surrounded the ring in order to make their escape. The problem was, a huge number of people then had the same idea, and you could only scale the area of fence where there was no bull, which meant that area was deep with people trying to escape and of course, the next port of call for the angry young bull. I was eventually given a bunk over by a young lady, she asked me if I’d had enough, I agreed that I had, I told her that I had a young daughter at home, she laughed and gave me a bunk, my legs went over my head and by the time I popped back up in safety, my remaining compadres were all on the other side of the ring again. I left the amphitheatre having lived the history. I knew the six bulls we had run with would be fought and killed that day, I did not wish to see that, I never had. Though I appreciate artistry, for me the experience was all about man and beast, and maybe some rolled up newspaper. At least on the outside of the bullring the only one who ends up dead is the man. It was also about friendship, and I needed to know everybody was okay, I needed a beer.

Hometown

I held on to Carlisle for a long time, but Carlisle couldn't hold on to me, it wasn't healthy.

Conspiracy In The Sandpit

Whether down to a few wonderful imaginations or fact, the reality is, the imaginations of the masses are not yet wonderful enough, and thus continue to be manipulated by whoever the elite may be.

Playground Humanity

Britain to advise developing countries on how to deal with extreme weather... Well, we are all just kids really, pretending to be grown ups, aren't we? I mean nobody around today has been on earth more than 5 bloody minutes and most who have are out of date or revert to childhood. I suppose all we have to learn from are mistakes, and thus in terms of extreme weather we should therefore be experts. Problem is kids don't always want to learn.

Pop At A Trend

TKMAXX are selling Hindu Gods for the fashion conscious.

Pop At Latest Trend

Apologies to all legitimate hipsters; some do like heavy metal and not all give a shit about high street fashion.

Could He Be Right, We Must Unite At All Costs

Outraged that David Cameron has suggested that British Islamic extremist fighters may be temporarily prohibited from returning to the UK... Temporarily!!! It's just more bloody traffic man.

Only Way To Beat Em... Join Em

Raced a Golf GTI this morning from the lights on a dual carriage way, he was even creeping forward on red while I sat in neutral. Never done that before, but Hell, having failed to beat pollution by way of a working from home initiative, I've now decided to join the race with a vengeance.

Quitting Can Get You Everywhere

Never quit anything in my whole life, sometimes though, a strategical hanging in of the towel is necessary, and so, it is with a heavy heart, that me and the grog do part.

Outnumbered

It's their earth too, so there isn't necessarily a lot that you can do.

Iceland Booked

Yes, I have wanted to go since before the crash, it’s on my list, it’s a very special place on earth because it takes you to how things were and might be again, it’s a scientific wonder, it’s an up close and personal with the planet. Epic country, other worldy, scifi sets, gushers!!

Wedding Vows - 3/10/14

Groom’s Vows:- I don’t need to be the source of my own belief; I have you to believe in me, to know me truly, and to love me for who we both know I am. And so I think less, my sole expeditions have become team efforts and they are beautiful at every turn - because at every turn you are there. Everything in moderation, except happiness, together we do happiness in excess, and our adventure - Annie. Bride’s Vows:- I take you to be no other than yourself, in all the ways life may find us. I promise to treasure for all of my days the love we celebrate here today and the wonderful life we have made together with Annie.

From One Dying Man To Another

Hiya Dad Hope you got home okay yesterday, thanks so much for getting Annie the star present, I shall ensure that she wears that every time I’m with her. Mum has informed me about your valve situation, as she told you she would. I remember studying the heart in A-Level Biology and being particularly interested due to my own experiences. That was nearly 20 years ago, and even then they were able to do a great deal of procedures through the artery in the leg! A valve change was pretty standard procedure, so imagine what it is now! Indeed, a couple of months a go there was a lad on the news with a mechanical heart. As long as you look after yourself a new valve can offer many more decades of being Papa, and to catch it now before it does some real damage is incredibly fortunate. When I was in surgery at the Freeman my op lasted many hours and I was awake throughout. I was astonished at how such brainy people could also be so practical, they are like super mechanics these heart specialists, they are so brilliant at what they do it’s almost a privilege. It still is the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me, but it is also life changing, when you walk out of that hospital everything will be more spectacular and life will never have seemed so clear. If you want to retire at that point don’t worry about your diesel costs, I will buy your diesel, it is the very least I can do for you. Love Adx

Ozzy Weed

In the summer of 1998 I travelled the east coast of Australia with a friend from childhood, Gemma, and her mate from uni, Sarah. Obviously the trip was full of adventure and I have many superb memories, but most of these stem from one in particular. We passed through a place called Airlie Beach approximately two weeks into the eight week trip. We were only there for a couple of days; it’s where you can take a sail boat to the Whitsunday Islands, something we opted not to do on account of our budget. Despite not taking up the sailing we did take up the nightlife. After a particularly lively session the girls headed home whilst I went in search of some food. It turned out that because the club kicked out so late it was too late for fast food but not quite early enough for the bakers and I was starving. A guy started walking alongside me so I asked him where I could get some food. He responded in a mild ozzy accent, ‘Aww you won’t round here now mate, come back with me and I’ll cook ye somethin.’ I agreed and we caught a cab. It didn’t take long until we got back to his and it was a huge bloody great house with big white pillars at the front like a miniature White House or something out of the Fresh Prince, a very Americanised modern looking mansion with a big dome on the roof and lots of statues in the garden. As we went inside, I could see there was a girl asleep upstairs with the door open in one of the bedrooms looking over the atrium balcony, he told me that the pair were house sitting. We walked into the kitchen and he opened the blinds at the back and switched some outdoor lights on. The pool lit up into view surrounded by Roman style decorative pillars and carved buffs of male and female torso’s, it looked like a cross between Roman baths and a porno set. The guy rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands and began to prepare what was a bloody nice fresh linguini dish, I wolfed it, he didn’t eat, I also noticed that he was beginning to behave a little strangely as we sat on the sofa, a little shifty. In my youthful inexperienced naivety, it took for him to lean in for a kiss before I cottoned on. I jumped up and told him that was the best tea I’d had in ages but my friends would be worried that I wasn’t back yet, this was before we all had mobiles permanently on our person. He stood to attention, calm as a cucumber and told me, ‘No worries, I’ll call you a cab.’ The cab took no time at all and we went outside to meet it, the guy lent in the window and asked the driver to stick it on account. He then turned to me and said, ‘Good meeting you Adam, enjoy Australia,’ shaking my hand and thrusting the biggest bag of weed I’d ever seen into my hand as he did so. That bag lasted not only us, but everyone we met on our travels thereafter for the next six weeks. Thanks to that weed I got laid twice, ended up with a tattoo, learnt to play the didgeridoo, ate the freshest baking each town had to offer at dawn and nearly ended up on a two month fishing trip off the top of Australia.

Rachael Steven's Grandad

Whilst out looking for a training contract, having just moved to London, my search led me deep into a posh Jewish area not too far from St John’s Wood. I visited a nice neat high street practice and introduced myself. I had a good chat with the senior partner and left my CV. It was about lunchtime as I came out and so I found a nice quiet road and sat down on a bench to have a sandwich from my packed lunch. Whilst I was eating I heard a very faint sound coming from above me, as I listened I realised that it was actually a very weak human voice. I looked around and saw standing about two floors above me on a balcony of some flats was an elderly man. He saw that he had my attention and spoke up a bit saying, ‘I’m ever so lonely, won’t you come in for a cup of tea, please, I’m ever so lonely.’ At that precise moment two traffic wardens had walked past, one of whom was camply spoken and said, ‘I wouldn’t go up, he just wants to molest you.’ I ignored this tw#t and agreed to go up, the elderly chap told me his flat number and buzzed me in. Once he’d let me in he showed me around his flat and with great pride pointed out a number of beautiful pieces of furniture, all made with his own hands he told me. He had been a carpenter, and clearly a master at that. We had a cup of tea and a chat and he brought out his photo album saying, ‘You may know my granddaughter, she’s in a pop band.’ I was then astounded as he showed me photographs of Rachael Steven’s and the rest of their family. It was unmistakably her, if a few years ago, and you could see the likeness. As I left I thanked my host and told him he should make sure that granddaughter of his visited him more often.

Urban Stars

Sometimes after a shift at the Jolly Crocker, me and Si would walk up Kilburn High Road, shoot some pool and then have a spliff on Primrose Hill. It was like observing the hustle and bustle of life from a safe distance up there, like being disconnected from all of its thousands of lives and stories unravelling and spreading out beneath us as it went about its nightly business. I often thought it must be a little like having a near death experience, hovering above it all as it moves on without you, as sparkling urban stars below you.

The Jolly Crocker

At the beginning of the Summer in 2002 I moved down to London with Debbie, my unlucky number 1 to go in search of a training contract, a compulsory step on the ladder to qualifying as a solicitor. Deb was a well established and high profile nanny, she had managed to secure a job with a wealthy family who owned several art galleries throughout London, the maternal grandfather having been a significant player in the art world throughout his life. Deb had already worked for Sir Christopher Evans, John Barrie, a mistress to a very high profile horse trainer who had two secret children with him, THE Greek shipping family, and a host of other millionaires, whether co-operate and/or renowned in the city. Once you get people like that on your CV other such employers will follow. This latest family owned a colossal Georgian end terrace town house in St John’s Wood, near the top of Edgware Road. The rooms were incredibly large with very high ceilings, white washed walls, original stripped doors, floor boards and features throughout, all left untreated, natural and pale grained like the dried drift on pristine seashore. The place also had a very large ground floor extension surrounding most of the back half of the house allowing for a vast open plan kitchen with what must have been a twenty foot long table, art gallery flooring with underground heating beneath and white washed walls with art gallery style lighting. There were also strategically yet sparsely placed pieces of art throughout the house. There were three children, all of whom attended the same school, along with the children of Jonathan Ross, and of Annie Lennox, who would subsequently become Deb’s employer. I remember the youngest daughter of the family was very sweet; she was into insects in a big way. The middle boy was a bit of a tearaway, the family felt that he had a few issues that perhaps my being there from time to time might help; I have to say that his name would have been my chosen name for a boy too. The eldest girl was chat room crazy, eleven going on 20. The family owned a flat just around a ninety degree corner from their home, it was on Edinburgh Street if my memory serves me right; that was the nanny flat, I was to be allowed to live there rent free with Deb, and very nice it was too. On the actual ninety degree corner of both streets was The Jolly Crocker pub. It was there that I found bar work to tide me over whilst I found a training contract with a solicitor, any solicitor, anywhere within Greater London, and if not, anywhere. I’d already written well over a hundred letters and gotten nowhere, so it was time to bang on doors. The Jolly Crocker was like no other pub I’d ever seen or set foot in. It was Victorian and heavily architecturally styled, it was also huge. The building had three very tall storeys and a sprawling cellar beneath. There were so many hanging baskets across its front sides and ivy hanging from its various crevasses that you had to part the foliage like a beaded door curtain to gain access. The actual wooden doors would simply be left open to allow for this, it gave the inside a kind of magical feel, like a pub hidden at the bottom of a secret overgrown garden, it also looked beautiful when the light streamed in through the moving gaps. There were two bars, separated by ornate wooden panelling containing engraved glass in parts and a door with rather darkened dirty stained glass, which at night played tricks on you, it always looked like there was somebody standing behind it when the lights went out long after kick out. The bar on the left of the building as you entered, Edinburgh Street side, was a highly decorative red marble bar with stunning brass features, Chesterfield furniture, glass top carved wooden tables, a huge beautifully carved marble fireplace, red carpet and a grand piano. At night we would light T-lights and line them along the bar, an elderly pianist would then turn up from 9:00pm to play. The bar on the right was of the same age but a tired pale brown dusty old Oak bar, it too had nice original features, but they were made entirely of wood. It was this side that let in a lot more light and which housed the television. The pub was run by a Maori girl and her English fella. She was absolutely lovely, hard working, great fun, extremely kind and a wonderful cook. He was a bit of a dickhead, but tended to work from home doing some freelance nonsense. Home used to be above the pub, and most of the staff who passed through on their travels lived up there too. There was after all two massive floors of living quarters up there. Apparently the parties were legendary, I never did find out why they pulled the plug on it, it had probably been the kill joy blood sucking brewery that eventually killed the place. The Maori girl did all of the food, there was a huge kitchen down in the football pitch cellar which also contained an old pulley lift for the beer and loads of nooks and crannies to explore. The food was good quality pub grub cooked well and as a member of staff you were always kept well fed. There were two types of drinkers in the Jolly Crocker, ‘old school’ retired gentlemen gangsters and honest hard working blokes of the same generation who were still working hard. You can no doubt guess who drank in which bar. There were real characters on both sides. We had a rogue resident psycho Millwall supporter who drank on the oak side; he lived in a barge right in-between Little Venice and Camden, St John’s Wood side of London Zoo and Regents Park, the park where incidentally I had the pleasure of walking into Elle McPherson by accident. The whole time I served the Millwall man he had a rather foxy journalist in tow; she was gathering material for a book that she planned to write on him. He had been rather prolific in his day and I have to say, after a few beers he could turn pretty nasty, and like being face to face with a grizzly, you just had to hold your ground, show no fear and keep pouring beer. In the summer months the softest local and regular was a St Bernard dog who used to visit every Friday with his owner and sit outside. Everyone knew that he liked a beer and he wandered from table to table getting ash trays filled up with beer at each one. One Friday night he got so drunk he passed out and wouldn’t be stirred at last orders. He was a big dog, he must have weighed 12 or 13 stone and his owner had to get him home. I had an idea and ran down to Tesco’s to nick a trolley. It took four of us to lift him in, even then it was only his back half that would fit, his front half had to be held up by two fellas as his owner wheeled him down the street. Poor dog! But he was back the following Friday and like us he hadn’t learnt his lesson. For me, one of the most impressive characters was Stan of the marble side. Stan was an ex-gangster, he had run with the Krays in his day and still dressed like he did to the day. The man was well into his sixties, overweight but impeccably presented, certainly at the start of a daily drinking session anyway. He would always wear a three piece suit, even on the hottest days, he told the time from a traditional gold pocket watch kept on a chain in his waistcoat. Stan always had a hefty wad of cash in a money clip and drank heavily. His tipple was a pint glass full of ice, an empty pint glass and a bottle of white wine, God knows how many bottles he’d plough through on a night, but he always left looking down trodden and sad. I know the saying curiosity killed the cat, but after I felt Stan had grown to value my quiet and quick service without the need to say anything, I asked him why he seemed a little sad. His eyes looked fierce and I thought he was going to crush my head like ice on the bar, then he settled and brought out his wallet. He opened it up and showed me a picture of a petit, fun looking lady, she’d clearly been a blonde in her day, ‘That was the love of my life,’ he said, ‘She passed away last year.’ Nothing more was said. One evening as the nights were drawing in, there was some commotion as one of the regulars came into the oak bar, it was the bus driver, he was clearly very scared and very upset about something. His friends gathered him in, sat him down and then sat around him, there was a pretty intense chat then took place. One of the friends then came to the bar and ordered a double brandy and asked if Stan was in, I confirmed he was. The lad took the brandy to the bus driver and then walked through the door that divided the bars, it was the first time I’d seen anyone other than staff use it. This chap then went to have a word with Stan, it didn’t last very long, but I got the impression it was just to arrange a conference elsewhere. A week or two later I overheard people talking in the oak bar. Apparently the bus driver’s daughter had got caught up with the Yardies and had been pinched coming into Heathrow full of drugs for them. She’d cut a deal with police and been placed in a safe house somewhere in Scotland. Unfortunately the Yardies next port of call was her parents. Anyway, they’d terrorised the shit out of the poor old bus driver and his wife, they’d threaten to kill them if they didn’t come up with £15k for their losses within a certain timescale. Anyway, Stan had agreed to move in with the couple and the next time the Yardies rocked up Stan had opened the door. He’d apparently grabbed the kid with the gun and put it against his own head telling them he had nothing more to live for and demanding the kid dare to pull the trigger. He then disclosed who he was and what his existing associates would do if they dare kill him or threaten the bus driver’s family again. I don’t know if the Yardies ever came back. When Deb and I split up it was rather sudden and I had nowhere else to go, so I lived above the Jolly Crocker for a whilst washing in cold water from a sink, sleeping on a mattress in a sleeping bag next to a gas fire; the only working appliance left up there. One of the other bar staff let me stay at his once as well, it was about twenty minutes walk or so across some very main roads and roundabouts to a very ropey area. He told me how he and his flatmate had been burgled at knife point the week before, they were both hilarious character, but they hadn’t even got round to having the front door fixed they were still so deeply infected by student mentality. The next morning I walked out of the place to find that the whole street had been cordoned off. I later discovered that a Somali gang had gone through the street smashing up kebab house shop fronts and attacking staff with Machetes, this had included the place directly underneath us and I understand that there had been a fatality. Manchester, in the middle of his exams, good old Gus, only in his very early twenties pulled up to the Jolly Crocker in his 1.1 beefed up white Nova, totally un-phased by London. We loaded the car and set off to Chesham where by the mercy of God I had finally managed to land a training contract. The boss had even cleared it for us to sleep on the office floor that night and then go and find somewhere for me to live the next day. It was the next day that we rang round the various adverts in the back of a Buckinghamshire paper from the front seats of a very laden Nova and eventually spoke to Yan. I moved into 112 Chapel Lane later that day. I walked past the Jolly Crocker a few years later. The rumours had always been that it was going to be closed and turned into a Thai Restaurant, which would have been criminal, or at the very least in breach of some planning law. Anyway, maybe that was the case because it just lay there locked up and lifeless, empty with shutters on the doors where the plants used to cascade. I was privileged to have known and been part of that place while it was still alive, indeed grateful that she had waited just long enough for me, a part of history now, mine, London’s, and all the folk who frequented her, unless of course any of they may be history too, in which case, I salute you.

A Fairytale?

In 2007 Rich and I went to the Leeds Festival. We only just made it there alive. Rich was pretty torn up about some chick that he shared a house with in Didsbury called Suzie. Granted, she was a bit of a tease, using him a little, and manipulating his highly sensitive and equally fragile self esteem at that time, causing severe anger management issues. She was just fucking him, he was going out with her though. We were in Rich’s little Rover 200 series, not the safest car on the road, especially with Rich’s driving, even at the best of times. Anyway, he’d been ranting about Suzie for a good forty minutes whilst taking a few texts from his other housemates updating him as to her latest movements. I swear there was steam coming out of his ears and he’d hit the dashboard so hard a couple of times I was surprised that it hadn’t cracked. The motorway was pretty busy and all of a sudden people were slamming on their brakes and hazard warning lights up front. Rich was completely oblivious and quite simply blinded by rage. As soon as we motored on beyond safe stopping distance I shouted up for Rich to slow down sharpish, he snapped out of his rage and immediately panicked, slamming his brakes on hard. The car started to skid and pitch slightly sideways, blue smoke from the tyres was rolling over the bonnet, we were not going to stop in time so I grabbed the handbrake. We shuddered to a halt and then stall between two lanes and a foot behind the two cars in front, lucky for us there had been nothing directly behind us. The festival was not our usual hedonistic romp, and I saw little of Rich. I often wandered off on my own at festivals and this one was no exception, there’s no pressure see, and I was soon in my element swinging through the hours, celebrating the continued blessing of being alive. When the last day came around, I managed to meet Becks, a girl I’d kind of been long distance dating and she drew Rich out a bit with tits and drink. Becks and I had met at my brother’s birthday some years back, she was a friend of my brother’s wife, we’d had tremendous sex on the night we met and a couple of times since. Becks wanted more of the same at the festival, strangely I didn’t however, and so B-lined off to get wrecked. They were pretty trippy pills and things started to get really good as the light went. There was an area of pub benches at the festival where during the day people could hang out and drink in their hundreds, it had a sort of giant beer garden vibe. However, late on it was sparsely populated and the pub benches were used more for rolling joints than anything else. I stopped for a time to observe and this is when it happened. No more than twenty feet away, I actually saw myself rolling a joint. This wasn’t just someone who looked like me, it was definitely me. I moved in for a closer inspection and sure enough there was no doubt that it was me and I wasn’t dreaming. I dare not approach to introduce myself to myself, just in case I disturbed the space time continuum or transcended into another dimension never to return, so instead I just stared. The next thing I knew a whole load of faerie type folk rushed around my knees. The males had long wispy beards, gnarly noses and big hairy warts, and so did the females, just to a lesser extent! They were dressed in fairytale like miniature outfits and pretty much whisked me off my feet as they danced around me laughing and clapping like a whirlwind. They were gone before I knew they were gone. I looked up towards the bench where I’d seen myself and I was gone, there was just complete quiet in all immediate directions and no sign of anything I’d just witnessed. Although confused and a little disturbed, I gathered myself together and went in search of music. I found some coming from where the Mystical Nik Nak stall had been during the day and it was banging. They had battened the hatches of the tent that housed their shop floor and surrounding the place with makeshift railings. After a couple of attempts I realised there was no getting in so I just stood outside on the grass dancing. Within about twenty minutes a small gathering of dancers had accumulated, an hour later there must have been a hundred, all clapping and whooping. I’ll never forget one of the stall keepers faces as she poked her head out of a flap to have a look outside, two seconds later the volume went up.

It is Palestine

Dogs mark territory and fight over it, otherwise, dogs are much more civilised.

Glastonbury Amnesty 2003

Briggy and I also went to Glastonbury in 2003. We stocked up on pills and weed before we went. Unfortunately the police were pulling in any vehicles obviously bound for Glastonbury on the A303. Despite driving a very inconspicuous Audi A4, we got dragged into a lay-by just after Stonehenge, Glasto parking sticker in the windscreen and all. As we approached the back of the queue of cars before us we could see police tearing pre-pulled vehicles apart, unpacking people’s bags and conducting very thorough and disruptive searches for all to see. The copper that drew us in looked like a Seargent, he had a very important looking uniform and one of those flat hats with the shiny peaks. The deal was you either handed over your drugs to an amnesty bin right then, escaping prosecution, or risk being searched, and if found in possession, prosecuted. Briggy and I simply looked at each other in complete horror. It wasn’t as if we could debate the pros and cons with the filth hanging through Briggy’s window. Anyway, the VIP in blue must have taken our looks of utter horror as a declaration of complete innocence and shock at even having been suspected. He then said, ‘actually, I can see that you two aren’t the sort, carry on,’ and let us go, completely laden with Class A’s.

The Black Cat Home

Briggy and I got a day pass for the Reading Festival back in 2003; he had friends in Reading so the plan was to stay at theirs on the Saturday night after the festivities. We arrived at their house that morning to meet up and drop off gear; they were a lot older than me and entirely civilised. We had Bucks Fizz and a beautiful fry up for breakfast in the garden and then walked down to the festival site. It was a good twenty five minute walk, I’d never been to Reading before and so had no idea where we were going. It was a stunning day and once on site we sat on the grass drinking and listening to bands at a nice distance to avoid being trampled. By midnight those guys were ready for the off, I wasn’t however, so we bid goodnight and I wondered off into the dark in search of pills. It wasn’t long before I scored and so I double dropped and bopped from dance tent to dance tent, happy as Larry and oblivious to the fact that I didn’t know any of the girls that I fell in love and danced with. Eventually the organisers pulled the plug and I set off home alone. I came out of the entrance we’d come in through and saw a bridge to my right; I recognised it, having borrowed a light underneath it on route that morning. One of the guys had told us how it had been blown up a few years back by some urban terrorists. I can’t remember if Briggy had said he’d been one of them, or whether I’d just dreamt that. I do recall his thorough brief in how it had been done and what damage had been caused. Anyway, off I traipsed in the darkness, under the rebuilt bridge only to be met by a fork further up in the road. I was lost. Whilst gathering my thoughts a black cat came across a park to my immediate left. It started weaving through the railings between the park and the footpath, goading me to follow it, so I did. The cat led me up the left hand fork, across roads, up streets and down garden paths for approximately twenty minutes and then vanished. I had until that moment been living in a dream and was now forced to take stock as to where exactly I’d ended up, immediately I recognised the road. I’d clocked it’s Massage Parlour on our way to the festival, I was literally two minutes away from my hosts, theirs being the next street on the left. They couldn’t believe it when I made it back, when I told them how they laughed. I slept in the garden’s hammock for the rest of that night, to be closer to the magic.

High Wycombe Days

Whilst I lived in High Wycombe I made a friend called Briggy. Briggy was a 40 year old lad, he had a shaved head and worked as an engineer. He’d never married, but had a history of one or two girlfriends and was open about his attraction to women. However, Briggy could often be a little camp; his turnout and his home were always impeccable. He was a guy who was very much in control but also who liked to lose control. He always had a bit of cash and so without any children was able to lead the life he wanted. His passions were photography, sailing and socialising, so he had the best camera and was regularly out and about on the town. Briggy had a detached house and so we often went back to his to continue the parties. Briggy and I also befriended Tin Tin whilst out at the Comedy Club. Tin Tin was a fairly curvy, but pretty sexy black girl with multi-coloured dreadlocks, they were bold, well kept and extremely bright, all the colours of the rainbow. Tin Tin was a recently divorced HGV driver from Aylesbury; she never drank, but would drive over to party in Wycombe, alone until she met us. I’d rented a room at 112 Chapel Lane; it was a giant semi-detached house, and it turned out that Briggy’s place was only 100 metres or so down the road. 112 Chapel Lane was owned by an ex-deep sea diver called Yan. He was a top guy, he liked me from the start, but he liked me even more after a time because the house was empty when I moved in and didn’t remain so for long. We shot some pool with my brother at the local, I paid Yan my deposit and first month’s rent, vowing to help sell the place to any possible tenants he cared to show round. Yan had bought the place with proceeds from his diving days and was by then a painter and decorator with an old Volvo Estate full of paint pots, brushes and rags. Soon enough I’d managed to help fill 112; Chris, a contract computer programmer who loved a drink; James, a salesman at the tobacco factory; Vladj, a Czechoslovakian world champion kick boxer with a gorgeous body; Ashley, a mumsey lesbian rugby playing teacher, and; Caz Cape, a raving lesbian and coke snorter. We made quite a team, and had the best house parties in Wycombe. There were never any issues other than the dishes and occasionally Caz spending her rent on cocaine. Because none of us knew one another before 112, and because we all got on so well, we got to meet each other’s friends and went on marvellous jollies together. I will never forget being completely out drank in Northampton by an all girl rugby team; Ash had dragged me on tour as their mascot! Eventually, John also moved in and took the attic; he had a clapped out Mark 1 Land Rover and a crazy ozzy girlfriend, both the Land Rover and the girlfriend spent most of their time in bits on the driveway. He’d been to public school; she’d been brought up on a hippy commune. Together they did all the festivals and drank homemade cider. Last I heard they moved to Australia and had a son. Last I saw was through a jolly cider haze at the Cider Bus, Glastonbury, 2003. In order to subsidise my terrible trainee solicitors wage I also took a job at Wycombe’s most famous new bands venue, The White Horse. Wycombe was into its rock at the time, and rockers far outnumbered fans of other genres. It was black attire and piercings in the city centre pubs, and head banging all the way at The Horse. I’ve never been amongst a more violent mosh pit before or since. The horse was run by a massive, hard, cockney bruiser called Paul. He looked like he’d made his money smashing heads for 20 years for London gangsters, and then ploughed it all in to a pub to lead a quieter life with his much younger wife. Paul ran the door, the bar and booked the bands. I got in for nothing on band nights, and so did my mates, but the main reason I worked there was so I could ogle the strippers whilst pouring pints on a Saturday morning. At 11:30am on Saturdays the place filled with perverts, as enthusiastic about tits and arse as the kids were for drums and guitars. There were usually three strippers who danced individually and then a floor show. The stench of testosterone was almost sickly, but the birds were gorgeous and I’d heard they shot porn movies upstairs; I never got to take part if they did, but it was certainly an ulterior motive for doing the job. All of this set the stage for a most interesting year and a half. Indeed it was Briggy who lent me the ‘Chaos Theory’ by James Gleick, a defining book for me. My best friend Nicky from school met his match when he came to visit and met Caz, they were peas in a pod, I’ll never forget the pair of them hanging out of a window of the Hob Goblin shouting at the Muslim Procession to enquire if they wanted any bacon sandwiches. Nicky also fell in love with Vlad. I on the other hand had the chance to sleep with Vlad, and her equally gorgeous and sporty friend, I blew it with Vlad because I’d just eaten a load of Marmite and was scared to kiss her, I blew it with her mate because she arrived late to one of our parties, by which time I had two girls on the go, one in my bedroom and one in a tent in the garden. With a girl like Vlad, I guess when you live in the same household, likelihood is, there’s a chance you might be in the right place at the right time, which I was, it’s just I wasn’t in the right condition. The same thing happened with Tin Tin, it was 5am this time, and so once again I wasn’t in the right condition, of course subsequently nothing ever happened when I was ready and raring!

Paris

I took the Metro from the airport to my hotel, heading straight for Le Motte-Piquet Grenelle on Rue De Grenelle at the Cambronne end. My hotel was the Relais de Paris Cambronne, and the address, Boulevard De Grenelle. Sure enough, upon heading up Rue De Grenelle my hotel seemed to just appear flanked by a couple of chic looking restaurants, not the sort I would be visiting, but nevertheless, the sort that instilled a sense of security. Upon dumping my bags I headed straight out into the night to look for the Eiffel Tower, just so I could announce my arrival and get some bearings. Within minutes I was able to look up and find what I was looking for, towering above the 6 or 7 floors of the splendid town houses, between which I sought a way through. The grandeur of the city struck me, not just the buildings, but their railings, the impeccably placed cobles and traditional cast iron lanterns. The Eiffel Tower looked incredible, beautifully lit and thoroughly magical. As I drew close it became overwhelming, I had no conception of its size, a true feat of so many feet. Much as I would have liked to, there was no way I would be venturing up it, heights were starting to become a problem for me. After half an hour of bewilderment I headed for some food. I ate horse sausage and mash with onion marmalade and red wine, I then made haste for an early night to ensure an early start. On my way back I got asked for a cigarette, it was to be the first of many friendly Parisians, a young lad who hadn’t heard of Bastille but very polite all the same. Having arranged for a wakeup call I was down for breakfast at 9:00am sharp. It was fresh juice, tea, coffee and an array of patisseries and fromage, just the job really. There were a lot of people at breakfast, some young couples, some old couples, most were French. I had an article from the Mail on Sunday dated March 14th 2004 entitled, ‘Essence of Paris…all in one day.’ This had been given to me by my mother some months earlier and having read it I decided that not only would it be a challenge to follow, but it would hopefully give me the ‘essence of Paris’ in my first day. The plan was that this would then enable me to enjoy the art of the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay at a more relaxed pace on the second day. First on the list was Place des Vosgnes and the Marias. Upon checking out my map I noted that this was near the Bastille area of Paris and so took the Metro to Bastille Station, east of the city centre on the other side of town. My route for the day would then take me from east to west, straight through the centre a pied. Whilst on the Metro a lady who looked like a scarecrow from the sticks started playing an accordion out of nowhere, the music just seemed to melt away the suits and the hustle and bustle of city rush hour. It was my first proper taste of French culture and thrust me into what was to become a truly wonderful day. In the same carriage was an elderly Chinese man wearing a beret with matching velvet waste coat, he was clearly taking what was either his adopted culture or true French heritage very seriously; indeed he really looked the part. I absorbed the sights with enthusiasm, honour, happiness, and as a budding collector of experience felt utterly grateful. Upon disembarking at Bastille, as soon as you step onto the platform you realise it is on a bridge and you can see all of the houseboats right down Port de L’Arsenal. On exiting the station there was an elderly man at the top of the steps with a table which had a very clean and healthy looking white rabbit on it. The rabbit was in far better condition than his owner. There was no cage around the rabbit, he was simply perched there with some carrots and other foliage tied up above his head so's to munch on at will. By putting some money in a cup next to the rabbit you could stroke him. Many of the Parisian commuters partook in this rabbit ritual, of all walks of life. The rabbit would immediately warm to those allowed to stroke him. I realised I needed some camera film; I was missing pictures. A magazine vendor next to the Metro entrance sold film so I stocked up and loaded my camera. I’d unfortunately lost my digital camera earlier in the year which was upsetting; however, something just felt right about using film in Paris. I proceeded to get lost along the gigantic Boulevard Henri IV which is clearly a wealthy area, reminding me a little of Chelsea or Knightsbridge, only with fewer people and a rather absurd looking tramp; another Chinese man, this one dressed somewhere between Worzel Gummidge and Beethoven. I asked a lady for directions, obviously in good French because she began to speak back in such which was of no use to me, soon after I got some more directions from a beautiful black girl who spoke English. She couldn't understand where I was headed but took me into Scully Morland Metro Station and asked on my behalf. It was there that another lady from just behind me butted in with some excellent directions. Upon crossing the wide street of Saint-Antoine two beautiful French women, fiercely sophisticated, late twenties the pair of them, rode their bicycles around me. They were stunning, exquisite creatures; their make-up was there but not there, they wore long velvet gowns of burgundy and deep emerald green held with antique broaches and wrapped in scarves. I was taken aback and swept away in their smiles at me; this was like no world I had ever set foot in. I was back on track but not entirely. I found myself floating through the streets and gardens between Boulevard Henry IV and Rue St-Antoine. This area is a vision of rustic Parisian living, whilst beautifully preserved, its age and practicalities unmistakable. The streets are again cobbled and tiny lanes simply branch off, enticing the visitor. Rendered walls broken away, but maintained in decay like a Botticelli fresco. The drains had reacted to a warm shower and were pouring out fresh clear water that glistened down the limestone gutters like mountain streams. The Finches ruffled up feathers, danced and bathed in the waters. I reached Rue Francois Miron and headed up towards Rue Saint Antoine popping my head round St Paul’s for a quick look. St Paul’s is nothing to look at from the outside but gets you ready for the scale of the religious buildings in the city, and the inside was certainly worth a peak. Heading down Rue de Birague off the busy shopping street of Rue Saint-Antoine and into Place des Vosgnes, it was the tranquillity of here that hit me immediately. The gardens are fenced off and have elaborate fountains symmetrically placed in each corner, you could just sit on a bench there for a few hours to read quite happily. The leaves on the carefully placed trees were bold and bright yellows, auburns and oranges. Surrounding the square were terraced houses of medium size for central Paris, delicious proportions, and pink in colour offset against their yellow limestone finishing’s. They had arches and tunnels beneath them like our old stone universities. Victor Hugo had once lived at number 6 and I don’t blame him. I needed to leave the square on the north-west corner to come out onto Rue des Francs Bourgeois. I asked a road sweeper the way, he was clearly in a trance, day dreaming as I approached. The poor man got a shock; he was smart, well shaven, looking too wealthy and healthy for his luminous work clothes. I received real friendliness and genuine warmth with his eloquently phrased English directions. Rue des Francs Bourgeois passes through the Marais Quarter and was quite staggering for a boy of North West England. The streets were beautiful, defined by their buildings, they looked narrower than they were due to the height of the buildings and they looked slightly misshapen due to the irregularity and movement of the buildings, the buildings themselves were grand and old, for me, such buildings explain a city. On the way down Bourgeois I passed Musee Carnavalet, a renaissance mansion. I had a quick look into the courtyard, but further on a little, through a fence, there you can see into the belly of the place with its little chocolate box gardens still blooming in November, and still being pampered by very clean gardeners. The gardens essentially inside the home were clean enough to wipe your feet on. Then, suddenly, around the back of this area like a slap in the face is the Pompidou Centre. It made me swear and I stopped for a cigarette. The place was closed for cleaning and so I didn’t go in, it didn’t bother me not to go in, I wasn’t a huge fan of Picasso and I’d already seen most of Dali’s works. For me, it was about seeing the outside of this building, which extraordinarily enough is the inside, so I sort of have been in. I wondered on and down the pedestrianised Rue St Martin towards the Seine. The great thing about Paris was how well labelled and sign posted it all was. Across the Seine was the Ile de la Cite, where you can find St Chapelle along from the Galleries of Justice and above the city’s courts. Although signs pointed to a ticket office it never materialised and I managed to just walk straight in. The lower chapel was just that, above this however, up a significant stone spiral staircase was the upper chapel. The walls in here were made entirely of stained glass and told the story of the book of Genesis from bottom up and from left to right. The colours were so vivid; God only knows what story the walls would tell on acid. For me it was less to do with Genesis and more to do with mathematical genius that due to weight distribution, allowed for not a single piece of supporting glass to crack in 800 years. There were posters advertising concerts to be held in the Chapelle within its courtyard, music of the great composers, indeed a run had just finished the week before. Upon exiting St Chapelle I crossed the road onto Quai du Marche Neuf and towards the far right corner, which once turned, thrust Notre Dame into view. The light really lit the front and people and birds mooched about in large numbers. I ventured in for a quick look, the enormity of these great works of architecture amaze me. I couldn’t imagine any such structure being built now, maybe the Pyramids were not in fact built by aliens or time travellers, and maybe we were just better at creating these monumental pieces in times gone by. Possibly there was less distraction and more passion, they did not just build for them, they built for us, for the city, now it's just about flinging up buildings as cheaply as possible for the short term, the long term can look after itself. Time and money are certainly a big modern stumbling block. I waited for and heard a blessing echo from top to bottom, a microphone’s tininess danced through the space’s acoustic chamber, followed by a haunting, distant sound of the choir. I left, and as I did so a beggar knelt upright just outside the door, hands held high as if about to receive the communion while his coppers sat in place of the body of Christ. The look on his face was of such sincerity in his despair and longing, I gave money, for if this was merely an act, as such it was worthy alone. Walking left towards the Seine I passed over the bridge and looked back at Notre Dame, its Rose window and tall steeple much clearer to see from the side. The river below was lined with golden trees rustling in a gentle breeze, the sun shone low and brightly, and the river side paths looked like the most romantic place on earth. Having asked for directions to the Latin Quarter I was continuing to find Parisians on the upmost friendly. Fat, thin, smart, scruffy, chic, beautiful, practical, black, white, Chinese, old, young, rich and poor, all were accommodating and went out of their way to assist me. All broke a smile, most a laugh at my bold attempts at speaking the lingo, particularly as I became more adventurous. Indeed upon discovering Petit Pont I found that I even acquired a guide for ten minutes, who despite clearly not being very well understood, continued to show me around pointing at churches and the like, talking enthusiastically as we went. Once into the Latin Quarter things really started to get interesting, I walked down Rue de la Huchette to begin with, this and surrounding streets are ancient and full of kebab houses which seem comical with their garish windows stuffed with oversized kebabs. The fact is that these types of shop are entirely appropriate and in keeping with the history of the place, the shops and stalls in this area always having been in the meat roasting business. Eventually I emerged onto the Boulevard St Michel and made my way across to St Germain. St Germain I always knew I was going to enjoy, even before I knew anything about it, I loved the band of the same name and it was an area that had always jumped out of pages, maps and album covers at me. I loved that it had at one time been the haunt of many a philosopher, great artists, poets and writers. I came onto Rue de Saint Andre des Art and after approximately 300 yards to a tiny passageway on my left called Cour du Commerce St Andre where the revolutionary politician, Marat publicised his papers, Dr Guillotine perfected chopping of the heads of sheep, and the home of Paris’s oldest café. Cour du Commerce St Andre is what I would describe as a lane, but it was the finest of all lanes I have ever walked down, it too had a further tributary, another lane, in which there was a bicycle leaning against a stunning little tree, upon kneeling down to photograph this a black cat crossed the photograph to come and say hello, I was worried that the scene may not have been captured as the end of the film snapped and everything started rewinding, it had. Upon reaching the end of Cour du Commerce I turned left and ended up passing through fruit markets on Rue de Buci and emerging onto Boulevard St Germain. It was then that I was able to take a beer in Café Flore, the stomping ground of Picasso and others as they became enthralled in philosophical debate. When I visited, it had become the stomping ground of the rich, the wannabe’s, the tourists, the fashionable, but mainly the elderly, there was not an absinthe or a rollie in sight, debate was no doubt limited now to shopping, coffee and cake, and the age old constant of who is who. I sat outside beneath the cosy heaters and watched the world go by; but it was the world moving in and out of Café Flore that I found the most fascinating. There was a man a couple of tables down from me with grey hair and beard, I was sure he was a famous artist, I couldn’t think who, but I stared none the less. Many people entered and emerged from the doors of the place as their drivers came and went, all of the elderly clientele were impeccably dressed, this was old money mainly, and clearly the place to be if you had it, they’d probably been coming since it’s hey days. One chap stood outside in brand new brogues, light olive cords, freshly pressed shirt and a large cravat bursting out from beneath his collar. This was an old man in fake tan and hair well slicked back. He looked like the Nazi in Indiana Jones who upon opening the Ark aged rapidly causing his hair to grow out at an accelerated rate whilst all else withered, just before he melts and explodes. This guy was impeccably groomed though, and made his ripe old age look good. It was later on when in search for Rue Bonaparte just around the corner that I saw this particular man again with the most attractive woman I was to see on the entire trip. It is number 13 on Rue Bonaparte where Oscar Wilde passed away. He was beyond his means at the time, and done more than enough to charm the world into never forgetting him, his final words being, ‘either the wallpaper goes or I do.’ I visited his grave the next day. As I said earlier, despite the Louvre being next on my ‘essence of Paris’ list, I was saving this for my last day and so decided to skip it, heading towards the river, the view downstream became spectacular, in the most part due to the very bright low level light and clear skies. I could see the Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Palais de la Legion d’Honneur, Place de la Concorde, the Eifel Tower, Petit Palais and Grand Palais. At the time I thought that the Louvre building was in fact a building of parliament and that the Grand Palais out in the distance with its glistening glass roof, enormous from even there was the Musee d’Orsay. I had seen pictures of the inside of Musee d’Orsay that showed it to have a large glass roof. I decided that I would have time to visit what I thought was Musee d’Orsay before heading across to the Champs-Elysees and then taking the Metro from there to Monmatre where I planned to spend the evening. Upon reaching what I thought was Musee d’Orsay I paid my entry fee only to discover that it was the Grand Palais and a vast art exhibition of France’s finest living artists. I turned to leave in an attempt to get my money back and get back on track only to see the Chinese man from the Metro sat leant over his cane; I got a photograph this time, it was a sign, I was meant to be there so I got on and enjoyed it. Some of the art was quite wonderful; the roof was filled with light and looked like Heaven. I sat in there and enjoyed some Goat’s cheese for the first time, I have never acquired the taste previously, nor have I re-acquired it taste since. The Champs Elysee was almost within touching distance as I exited the Grand Palais; the Place de la Concorde end. I walked up, relaxed and amused at the melting pot of traffic bearing down on a harassed chandarm and noticed that the Christmas lights were going up into the trees. As I got closer to the Arc de Triomphe I could make out people ontop, the sun was starting to set and the city was turning gold, I knew I would have to see this from the top of it and so made haste to catch it. I was not disappointed, what a view, one could only imagine how the roads leading to a turmoil of traffic at the base of the arch must look once the Christmas lights go on. I took the Metro from Champ-Eleysee-Clemenceau to Anvers. Upon disembarking at Anvers it was dark and Avenue Steinkerque was lit up, I walked up. Paris was now under night fall and lit with electric as I trawled the bars of Montmatre. The first bar was run by a bolshie no messing sort of a woman, she had probably been a Madame to young prostitutes and charged me as if I was after the same, when a beggar approached my table she saw him off in a ferocious, protective manner. I moved on and the bars got cheaper and cheaper, and the barmaids younger and prettier. Eventually I found a place half the price of the first bar so stuck around drinking Absinthe with some French/Canadians. Montmatre is probably where I would live to begin with if I moved to Paris. I hadn’t realised at the time but I saw what I now know to be the Sacre-Coeur from the top of the Arc de Triomphe perched at the highest point in Paris in the distance, like a cherry on a Bakewell. The Sacre-Coeur had been closed to visitors when I arrived in Montmatre unfortunately. I didn’t really bother with the sex clubs on my way back to the Metro via the Moulin Rouge, I wasn’t being tight, I was skint. Instead I settled for a chocolate Crepe which I got all over my face and down my jacket, the Absinthe to blame. I rose early on my second and final day and had breakfast next to a coven of elderly American women who were involved in a very loud discussion as to who had the most powerful brand of painkillers. The largest and dominant chairwoman won, her recessive piers quietened when she spoke up and listened intently as she said, ‘it strictly says on the box that you should not operate heavy machinery on this stuff, or even drive, I just took a big glug at zero six hundred hours.’ This lot were extraordinary; it was the same dynamic you’d expect from school girls in an all girl school, only grey and old, quite endearing. Day two and the sun was out again and the day was becoming beautifully crisp and perfectly mild. I took the Metro straight to Pere-Lachaise to visit the two very inspirational people, Jim Morrison, ‘there is the known and there is the unknown, and between there is The Doors,’ and Oscar Wilde, ‘work is the bane of the drinking classes.’ Pere-Lachaise was exactly as a cemetery should be, and as you would expect in Paris; it was like a city for the dead; vast, beautiful, monumental and incredibly atmospheric if not other worldly when alone. There were sign posts mapping out the ninety odd grids in which the rich, famous, infamous and truly loved lie to rest. Jim was in grid six at grave thirty, he was not easy to find, especially as I ended up following a rather friendly and unusual cat that found me wondering lost within grid six and led me up the garden path quite literally. I had started to fantasise that Jim had taken the form of this cat and was leading me to his grave, much as the tiger leads Jim to the Indian spirit trapped within him whilst tripping in the dessert. This was shattered as I came face to face with a couple from Yorkshire who were looking for the same thing. We headed up towards the top end of grid six which I had missed following the damn cat. I asked where the couple were from, they explained that they were from Yorkshire but lived in the South of France now, in-between Bezier and Montpellier, funnily enough exactly where I had spent my last holidays. Once at Jim’s grave I lit a cigarette and took pictures of Americans on their behalves. It was a small grave, hidden amongst larger plots and adorned in colourful messages and flower power, there was a magic, not only in the forgotten garden sense, but as though right there on this tiny plot a small part of his time still lived on, depleted but not forgotten. My next port of call was right up to the top of the cemetery, up steps, along cobbled paths, between crypts, under trees, determined to save my depleting film but not able to do so. Oscar Wilde’s grave I thought was a huge monstrosity of a thing right on the edge of a small road in grid 89, no doubt iconic looking when seen in photographs, it may also shock I suppose when compared to its surroundings. All surfaces available were covered in lipstick kisses, roses, poems and messages, some of which were written on paper, rolled into tubes and stuffed into crevasses. I read the engravings and much of the text in spite of their being a plaque warning people not to deface the gravestone which was a historical monument. It could be argued that all those who wrote something meaningful were not defacing, merely adding. Wilde had died beyond his means and so this whole thing was unlikely down to him, I touched the grave stone, it was very humbling when you think what a splendid innings this man had, but more than that, what he left behind is now immortalised and thus his status in death greatly heightened. Back to the Metro quick sharp and off I went to Musee d’Orsay where I would only concentrate on the work of the impressionists; Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, and the star of the show, Piscarro. After a couple of hours I grabbed a hot dog and a coke before heading downstream for my final destination, the Louvre. It was early to mid afternoon and the light across Paris was typical of a nearing to the Equinox, bright, low and bouncing of everything. The Louvre was in itself demanding of marvel, the place was a work of art, and whilst building up to go in there was a photograph that I simply had to capture there and then but my film was finished. My only option was to get into the Louvre, buy some film and then leave immediately in order to snap the shot before the light was gone. I did just that, and the exit I used brought me out under the Arc du Corrousel which was by pure luck in the exact position I required for my photograph. Once back in the Louvre I was aware that it would be an impossibility to see everything, I skipped the Scully section entirely, although I did pop out at this area from time to time and so saw bits of it. First of all I concentrated on the grand chronologies of French painting and sculpture in the Richelieu wing, staying away from the Objects d’Art. Objects d’Art are just extravagant sickly material objects that have no meaning or story to tell in my view, they have little effect on me besides that of a sense of history. The canvasses in Richelieu were atmospheric, allowed for time alone and were often comical; Gabrielle d’Estrees is shown plucking the nipple of her sister in the bath in a painting from the 1590’s. Best of all was the Denon wing; it was a journey through Italian masterpieces that made the head well up to the verge of explosion and thus often required rest. On route to the Grand Gallerie was a sculpture section in which Michelangelo’s slaves stood looking a little unfinished but stand out pieces regardless. Up the stairs from here and the Winged Victory of Samothrace came into view, I knew nothing of this, other than it had huge appeal and allure for the masses. I couldn’t find the Venus de Milo, the classical figure found washed up on a Greek Island. I did however find the Botticelli, Bellini’s, Lippi’s, Raphael’s, Correggio’s, Titan’s, Rembrandt’s and Da Vinci’s. True masterpieces, when seen, if not known, became immediately apparent. I’d read up a lot about the Mona Lisa, the speculation surrounding that look, was it contempt for or mockery of the onlooker, superiority and secure satisfaction, the withholding of a secret? I didn’t think it was any of those things, I wasn’t looking for a negative slant, stop looking for a negative and it can’t be found. Mona Lisa smiled at me, her eyes spoke of familiarity and affection; I found her really quite beautiful with maybe just a cheeky glance only. We have the Parisians wrong, just as the critics had the Mona Lisa wrong. I went back and said goodbye to her before I left, it got me to wondering whether she had the slightest inkling at the time of painting how iconic and instantly recognisable her image would become to future mankind, and distant future for that matter, maybe, especially if it is indeed a self portrait in drag. Not to mention its value, again, like the graves, history such as this takes on a kind of biblical quality, it stirs the imagination. Now, she sits surrounded by state of the art high tech security systems in what would in her day have been considered a very brave new world. Does she search through the centuries for the familiar? On my return to the hotel, feeling satisfied that I had known Paris, I wondered along the Seine towards the Eifel Tower. It was one of the most enjoyable walks I have partaken, I felt fulfilled, joyful and inspired, and I wanted to finish my trip where I had started it, at the tower. After a few photographs it was approaching 7:00pm, I turned to leave, as I walked away I took one last look, at the precise moment the whole Eifel Tower lit up with sparkling silver lights from top to bottom. There were gasps from people all around, the Christmas lights had just come on; it was the perfect end to the trip, almost. On my way down Rue de Grenelle I plucked up the courage to go into the liveliest little Bar on the street. Within two pints and thirty minutes I was brought into the busy fold of locals, from the edges of the place to the bar. I wasn’t charged anything until right at the end, my bar tab was being chalked up on the bar, there were no ash trays, you flicked your ash on the floor. We celebrated well; I paid the tab and finished what was left on Pestis.

'Honour' Killings

Killing your own pregnant sister and daughter in the street with bricks because she won't engage in an incestious marriage. Religion and savagery live on, hand in hand.

Catholic Baby Killers

It is the force of the Devil that disguises its work behind what presents as moral and good. I cannot disguise my contempt for the history of such organisations. They preach for the fetus, so that they may torture the child.

Stardust 36 Today

Looking at life like an old record collection, and feeling nostalgic.

36 Today

Seems like yesterday, as the seam seals between the memory and the now.

36 Today

Let go of the last of the fantasy of what was wanted, and got hold of the reality of what was and will be - tranquility.

The Absurdity of Political Correctness

Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) Employees Group - recognising you're different

Society's Disparities

The people of Bimini don't have any windows, because they all have the same. Whereas the disparities in places that have everything, squeeze out out the ugly side of our nature, and we need more than just windows.

My First F1 Experience

It was to be my first grandprix, and the last of the 2010 F1 calendar in Abu Dhabi. My interest in the sport had lapsed somewhat throughout most of the naughties, I had instead been more interested in actually being naughty than anything else. However, my interest had certainly been rekindled since the introduction of Lewis Hamilton to the sport and of course Jenson Button’s success with a championship victory in the Brawn, all of which occurred towards the latter part of the decade. And so, with my brother living out there in the desert, it seemed the perfect opportunity to go over with the olds, catch up with everyone and take in a grandprix to boot, Gus and dad both being motorsport enthusiasts. I had hoped that it would be something that the three of us would enjoy together, like the old days, when as boys my dad would take Gus and I to Barbon Hill Climb, Oulton Park and Knock Hill. It would have meant being able to amble around at our own pace, taking in what we wanted without any social pressures. Unfortunately it was not to be the case, Gus was somewhat of a social butterfly in his brave new world that was Dubai and had a swarm of ex-pats and their pals in his wake, one of whom I knew of old, some of whom hung on by way of his marriage, but the majority new to the scene. A deal of ex-pats is a breed onto their own, I find them to be witty, well dressed, confident, mostly rich public school types, and if they aren’t the latter, they pretend to be. They are the alpha plus human, certainly in their own minds anyway, which often gives way to an air of superiority at worst, or a touch of arrogance at best. I am unfortunately programmed to feel inferior around such folk, and therefore, they superior around me. I wither away into my shell as they feed off my share of the energy that I cannot be assertive enough to claim, thus sending me spiralling further into the abyss of the wall flower, and thereafter a state of paranoid semi hibernation, whilst they are propelled into the stratosphere of the most funny, the most popular, the favourites and the leaders. It was not to be an easy going geek fest now, ex-pats can drink and this lot were no exception, they were like a well lubricated rugby team of ‘rah rah’ wild boys, it was all about having a piss up in really rather exciting surroundings, not so much about the stats, splits, drivers and car spots. Why stand at a fence when you could sit under a flat screen at the bar! The problem with me was the only way I could meet these people headlong on the plateaus of craic was to rid myself of the inhibitions and insecurities of sobriety, and thus introduce them to my alter ego, or as some call him, ‘Bad Ad.’ Probably not the best person to come out on holiday in a none drinking Muslim country, but hey, you forget about that when you’re surrounded by the glitz and glamour of F1 and a shit load of bars. Day one of three, the Friday and practice! It was to be Nicole Scherzinger singing that evening on stage at the after party; it was to be Prince on the Sunday night following the race. Everyone was to meet at Gus’s that first morning for ticket distribution, cups of tea and bacon butties, we would then all share mini bus cabs to Abu Dhabi and the race track; about an hour’s drive away. ‘Everyone?’ I was starting to get nervous. My folks and I were already at Gus’s and so did our best to muck in, although Gus seemed to have an effective conveyor belt system worked out for his butties, wrapping them in foil, then into a cool box to keep warm. There were an awful lot of butties; maybe this was to be our picnic and breakfasts for the next few days. Not so, the door bell started nice and early and continued solidly for approximately half an hour as a stream of lads arrived to my upmost horror. Friends, friends of friends, family, friends of family, about fifteen of us in total, I withered away and blended into the background, occasionally showing my head to respond on behalf of a different me, for whom a reputation preceded, he, the different me, Bad Adam would have to come out later and take the batten. There, right there, the fate of my day was sealed. Gus was on top form all the way there, he was in his domain and we but putty in his hands. The old boy must have been thinking his number two son was a flaming magician, and his number one a flaming mute. Needless to say the day took its toll on me, Sam and I had only recently got back together after a long separation, she had cancelled her flights soon after our split and so wasn’t there to witness it, which would surely have resulted in a third and final parting. All day was spent on the drink, all day trying to run away from my demons by pouring another demon down my neck. Usually this strategy worked to shrug the dopey wall flower, not so on this day, my condition too compounded, my timing out, my judgement poor, and my potential for brilliance instead became flashes of uncomfortable flats. One of the guys who I‘d known for a long time was very generous in his patience and persistence in trying to bring out a better me, as was my brother, despite having to spread himself thin, and my dad to an extent too. Unfortunately in recognising this it can sometimes feed the spin, especially if you’re not up to a decent response, and oh the indignity of family witnessing such a plummet from grace. There was also a crazy bastard who I’d met once before whilst drinking back home in Manchester with Gus one Christmas who put in, he was clearly the stand out drinker in the pack and latched on, no doubt assured that together we would maintain a sustained campaign. Indeed, it was he and I who were left swaying in the breezy night watching several blurred Nicole Scherzingers a little while after the last of the practice sessions had finished in the cooling desert air. Towards the end of those very sessions I'd had to keep one eye shut to focus on the cars, the noise kept me awake, the fuel smell intrigued, but only a handful knew what was going on and I wasn't one. I should have been mind; still what is life without regret? Having arrived at the evening gig site there had been another couple of the lads with us, I know that because the two double vodka and redbulls I bought each man at a tenner a go bled me dry of all remaining cash. The gig was short and the other lads had disappeared quickly just prior to the end, but then so too did my drinking buddy as we became separated in the crowds on the way out. I was left high and dry in the desert, no money for a taxi, no cash points off site, no phone and no idea where I was going. Not an unusual predicament for me, and not one that overly concerned me either, after all, I had my pass for the morning and I knew where I would find everybody not long after the sun came up and qualifying commenced. A taxi back to Dubai via a cash point was of course an option, but I’d spent all of my holiday money that day and the cost on my own was simply too much. The grounds around the race track were beautifully manicured, I would simply spend the night in a pristine bush - it wouldn’t be the first time! Because the race circuit is essentially in the middle of nowhere, and everybody wants an early start the next day, it doesn’t take long before the last few stragglers outside the perimeter are getting into the final few buses and taxes. The air wasn’t cold, or didn’t seem to be; certainly not with the amount of alcohol pumping around my system. Although the lights were on, there was nobody around; getting my head down here was nowhere near as risky as a spot of vagrancy in say Manchester or London. So I got myself tucked in behind a squared off two foot hedge with a five foot Palm tree in the middle for good measure, within minutes I was fast asleep. The next thing I knew I came round abruptly on my feet with two police officers vigorously handling me on each arm and one pushing me from behind like a bouncer tends to. I could see that I was being moved forcefully towards the wide open doors of a police van and the windowless caged hold within it. I didn’t know where I was or what I had done; I assumed that it must have been pretty bloody bad to warrant such handling. What I was acutely aware of was that I was in the UAE and I’d been fully canvassed with the horror stories of western folk going down for drinking or kissing, never to be seen again. I struggled like mad but it did no good, so I quickly accepted my fate and embraced what was coming, something that I have always been able to do in bad situations. After about twenty minutes or so we pulled up, the doors were opened and I was escorted out of the van with a lot more courtesy. We appeared to be at a police station in the outskirts of town, it was still on the edge of amber lit concrete and urban buildings, although it was sparse by now and the outside edge looked out over blackness. I was taken into the police station and I think processed, although I can’t be sure. There just seemed to be an awful lot of young policemen standing round talking intensely but without direction. I couldn’t understand a word anybody was saying, but the impression we all get from a situation when nobody knows what they’re doing is universal, and very much in prominence here. I was made to sit on a chair in the middle of an empty cell with the cell door wide open; I honestly thought that I was going to be interrogated. I was left there for a good couple of hours while I drifted in and out of sleep to the sound of raised voices coming from the next room. At one point, after I’d been there for what seemed like an eternity I got up and went to make some enquiries of my captives, I was shocked to see an array of different uniforms within the main room just off from the entrance, some of the men looked incredibly important, their get up almost military, one of whom winked and smiled as I was escorted back to my chair by one of the more desert dressed local policemen. After about another hour, although I can’t be sure, the voices had died down and I again made my way to the front reception. The front door of the police station was open; all the young local police were outside on the car park smoking as the sun was starting to make an appearance. I could see now that the blackness off the back of the cop shop was in fact desert - as far as the eye could see. I approached the group, still feeling high from the drink, they welcomed me into the huddle, smiling and laughing at me, I shared in their sentiment, relieved and then buzzing as an officer approached from behind with my shoes and another offered me a cigarette. I smoked the cigarette and the only interrogation I got was the usual Manchester City enquiries and general banter in pigeon English. I was polite and funny, suddenly achieving everything that had eluded me the day before, only this time I was with a bunch of police who had arrested me, man handled me, held me captive and with whom I now stood disorientated in the dawn light smoking on a car park a very long way from home. They told me I was free to go so I was off like a desert hare down the road, my trainers not properly on kept falling off in my haste to escape, I’d also clearly gone the wrong way. I could hear more laughter as I stopped to slip the trainers on properly. I hadn’t got far when the roar of a V8 pulled up alongside me, it was three smiling young police in an original Nissan Patrol in two tone white and gold, decked out with huge police badges and a siren. They were all smoking and clearly enjoying their job. They seemed to me to have a relaxed attitude towards policing; smoking, windows down, music on, it was more like they were boy racers on route to Burger King. What the hell, I didn’t know where I was and they appeared to be offering me a lift, I jumped in. We roared off and they seemed cool, asking me all about Manchester and the grandprix between distorted radio interruptions. Occasionally they’d come up behind a car and put the siren on, going all stern and serious, and then we’d just keep going. These young lads were all packing a piece a piece as well! From what I could guess and what they said we were still in Abu Dhabi, although it didn’t look like it to me. However, before long things started to get a little more built up and we were pulling into the very grand entrance of an extremely high and impressive hotel, outside the front was a very tidy looking Maserati Quattroporte in gun metal, still admiring this motor as I was ushered out of the police jeep. I wasn’t sure what they wanted me to do, I was sure I was going to be made to pay for a hotel room to sleep off the rest of the night or something. Not so, I was introduced to the expensively suited and booted Persian gentleman in the driver’s seat who basically took it from there with his super cool air and excellent English. This chap turned out to have spent the whole of the day before chauffeuring none other than the Formula 1 world champion of that season already, Sebastian Vettle, indeed he was to be assigned to Sebastian for the rest of the weekend. However, at 5am that morning he was assigned to me, I have no idea by whom, I didn’t want to ask too many questions nor assume that I didn’t have to pay for this luxury service. It transpired that I did not however; I can only assume that the cost was covered by the circuit maybe. I was blasted all the way back to Dubai at very high speed, straight to my door on pretty scant instruction from me, but not before talking the hind legs off each other and discovering exactly what that beautiful car was capable of across 5 lanes under the early morning sun. I thanked my chauffeur from the bottom of my heart, offering to get him some money which he refused to allow me to do. Instead he gave me his card which I still have to this day, he was the joint owner of a luxury car rental firm, and when in the UAE, luxury really does mean luxury. I didn’t make the second day which was qualifying; instead I slept off my adventures, but not before relaying a summary of the remarkable night to my old man as we passed in the morning. On day three, and race day, all were eager to interrogate me as the drinking once again got off to an early start in the beer tent under our stadium. Indeed a number of the ‘rah rah’ clique clearly doubted the fantastical tales they had heard from my pop the day before and put me through my paces with some patronising cross examination. I’d had enough; I whipped out the card and borrowed a phone. Rashid answered, I put him on speaker, ‘Rashid, what sort of car was that you drove me home in yesterday morning, was that a Quattroporte?’ One day I would phone Rashid with a view to booking a Ferrari for my brother’s birthday as a surprise, he gave me a quote, I said I’d get back to him if I wanted to go ahead, I never did, but never say never, I always try to repay a favour eventually.