Mike Ormsby

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER?

Have you ever wondered why we have pubic hair? Why we are scared of the dark? Why we are sometimes wary of people who look ‘different’?

Danny Vendramini offers some interesting answers in his book: ‘Them + Us’.

Danny speculates on how humans evolved and survived, on our relationship with Neanderthals and why they disappeared. He reckons we killed them all in the first genocide, because they were our ‘neighbours from hell’ – savage carnivores and apex predators of the stone age, who, from at least 100,000 until around 48,000 years ago, raped us, ate us, hunted us to the point of extinction in the East Mediterranean Levant, until Cro-Magnon Man got smarter, fought back and wiped them out, using tricks like the bow and arrow. According to Danny, the adaptations we made to survive Neanderthals helped to make us modern humans: hairless and highly intelligent hominids who communicate through language.

He calls this idea: Neanderthal Predation Theory (‘NP’).

Nuts, right? Some scientists want ‘more proof’. But people said that about Copernicus Galileo, and even Darwin’s ideas, first published in 1959, were not understood at the mechanical-molecular level until the 1950s. Danny is pro-Darwin but reckons the master may have missed something important about evolution, which brings us to his second theory. Before I explain, here’s some background.

Danny was not trained as a scientist. He was a theatre and film director who became curious about why so many cultures have scary myths and sagas about monsters and dragons, good and evil. He wondered if all this ‘fear’ has been somehow ‘hard wired’ into our genes and, if so, why? He claims to have read 8000 scientific papers looking for answers, none of which satisfied him.

Instead, over time, he developed a theory of his own: maybe our cultural myths originate in scary events that so shocked early humans they were encoded in their DNA and passed down the generations. He calls this ‘teemosis’, the inheritance of Traumatically Encoded Emotional Memory (‘TEEM’), and suggests it might explain the mysterious function of the ‘junk DNA’ that makes almost 99% of our genome. He postulates that nasty memories were stored in our junk DNA, passed down over countless generations and re-emerged through culture, where, from the dawn of humanity until today, they have been expressed as stories and sagas, paintings and films that tell the audience: Be careful, it’s dangerous out there. In other words human culture is not just entertainment it’s about survival.

Danny developed his ‘NP’ and ‘TEEM’ theories concurrently, as he sought answers for the biggest question of all: what scared us, so profoundly, so long ago?

As an answer, his book cites archaeological and genetic evidence to argue that Neanderthals began hunting us about 100,000 years ago and that by 50,000 years ago, the original human population that had moved from Africa to the Levant was reduced to as few as 50 individuals. He claims that Neanderthal Predation caused  ‘selection pressure’ that transformed the tiny survivor population of early humans into super-smart modern humans that spread around the globe, passing their survival skills and group experiences – good and bad – to their children through DNA and culture. He believes ‘teemosis’ worked alongside natural selection to determine who survived and who did not, and reminds us that Darwin said: “It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent. It is the one most adaptable to change.”

Did we adapt to survive Neanderthals? They were exceptionally strong and their bones prove it. Danny reckons they probably looked more like gorillas than cavemen. He compared the large eye sockets of a Neanderthal skull with the smaller ones of a human. Neanderthals evolved extra large eyes, he says because, like most mammalian predators, they were nocturnal hunters. Hence our fear of the dark and ogres in the forest?

NP theory argues that, like all prey, early humans became hyper-vigilant for signs of their top predator and we have inherited this sense of ‘them and us’, which we express through culture: from the wild and hairy ‘forest man’ of illustrated medieval manuscripts, to the Himalayan ‘Yeti’ and bug-eyed zombies on that DVD you saw last week.

But enough scary stuff. In 2006, Danny also proposed that Neanderthals interbred with early humans and in 2010, the Draft Sequence of the Neanderthal Genome proved him right. He also has some ideas about why men idolize  – and idealize – women like the ones in magazines such as FHM, with perfect curves and bumps.

He says males almost exclusively exercised artificial selection and that any females who appeared to carry Neanderthal genes were killed. Over time, the ‘ideal’ woman emerged and even ancient art reveres the same body ratios that you’ll see in FHM, because our preferences reflect our fear of Neanderthal females.

As for pubic hair? That survived because it disguised our body odours, which Neanderthals detected from afar, like bears. After we wiped out Neanderthals, says Danny, we started killing each other because aggression was hard-wired. Hence xenophobia, war and genocide.

To learn more, visit: http://www.themandus.org/us.html.

One last detail: there exists only one fossilized footprint of a Neanderthal. It’s in Romania, in Vărtop Cave, in the Bihor Mountains, near Cluj. And that means they arrived before the Hungarians.

(This story first appeared in FHM in Jan 2012 and reappears here with permission from S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL).

***

Get married in Azerbaijan?

Every Saturday morning, Tania comes to clean my apartment in Baku. She’s a middle-aged Russian lady, very jolly, with dark hair and missing teeth. My landlord recommended her.

We communicate in sign language because Tania doesn’t speak much English and all I know is niet, from my time in Yekaterinburg when I would get offered vodka morning, noon and night. Tania is an ex-schoolteacher. Times are hard.  I make her cups of tea and we get along fine during her visits.

She works hard but not very fast. It takes her about four hours to clean my place. Most of the time I try to keep out of her way, give her space. Around 3 pm she usually points to my ironing: shall I do that, too? I say ‘niet’, and she leaves.

One day, Tania thrusts a glossy card into my hand on her way out. It shows a lurid photo of a huge dining hall, its tables exquisitely set with flowers and candles. Will I come, to her daughter’s wedding? Da, Tania.

When she is gone, I phone a local friend who advises me to take an envelope with some money as a contribution, because Azerbaijani weddings get expensive for any family.

On the night, the taxi ride takes forty-five minutes at Formula 1 speed. I used to think some Romanian drivers were too fast and irresponsible. But compared to drivers in Azerbaijan, they are snails. By the time I walk into the reception hall, I’m ready to throw up.

The place is packed, about 400 people, the men dressed mostly in black, the women in bright frocks and heavy make up. The band has ten members belting out folk music on a variety of bizarre looking instruments. Waiters hurry around like an army of ants, filling glasses, serving food. The celebrations must have cost a fortune and soon I’m wondering: how can Tania afford it? Why so elaborate?

She greets me with a kiss and takes me to meet the happy couple. The bride and groom sit on thrones onstage, behind a big table laden with food and drinks. They’re young and dark-eyed and very good-looking, gazing down like a king and queen at the rest of us. I give them my envelope, pose for photos. I leave the stage and sit at a table with seven other guests. My grinning neighbour Ali has a Borat moustache and points to the circle of bottles: “Russian vodka?”

Over our sumptuous meal, we chat about football. Ali is curious about wages in the Premier League. I watch the guests dancing an Azeri version of the hora and I ask him about the logistics of this wedding. Ali rolls his eyes, as if to say: Crazy huh?

“The bride’s dress cost €500 to hire, for one day,” Ali says, “Her jewellery cost €5,000, a gift from her husband. They saved for two years. It’s all show. Peer pressure. You want some Russian vodka? Please, drink some Russian vodka. Which brand you want?”

The dancing seems strictly regimented – men with men, women with women. The bride descends from her throne like she just won the Oscar for Highest Heels, and wobbles around to a few lively songs. Two little girls in white dresses hold her train up, hopping around after her, making sure she does not trip and break her Louboutin shoes. It all looks very sweet. Those musicians are talented and fast. Ali sips his drink and whispers in my ear: “Peasant tunes.”

“They sound pretty good,” I say.

Ali looks a bit worried and tells me: “Have some Russian vodka.”

I’m tempted to dance the hora but maybe not. Last time I tried that, many years ago, at a lavish wedding in the lovely village of Miercurea Sibiului, Romania, I kicked some guy up the ass.

Towards the end of the night, a convoy of guests carry flaming torches into the hall and stand in rows, opposite each other. Down this corridor come a couple dressed in traditional clothes, like they’re from medieval times. The place is so crowded I watch them on the flat screen TVs instead, like in a sports bar. The medieval couple carry a bowl of fire to the top table and give it to the bride and groom. It looks like an accident waiting to happen. 400 guests barbecued at wedding party. I glance towards the exit, just in case. Ali pats my shoulder and tells me: “We’re Zoroastrians, fire worship is part of our culture, from years ago. Have you visited our famous temple, where the fire comes out of the ground?”

I shake my head but promise him I will try, if I get out of here alive.

It’s late. Time to call the F1 Taxi service. I say my farewells to Tania and wave to the happy couple. The bride is too busy dancing to notice my departure. The two little girls are still dancing around after her, holding her train, dreaming of being queen for a day. They look very sweet, until a third, smaller girl approaches and tries to hold the dress up too. They scowl and push her away: Hands off, bitch.

(This story first appeared in FHM in December 2011 and reappears here with permission from S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL).

When a difficult person enters your life, they will stay until you learn the lesson that they came to teach you. Or so I heard.

Mick Wormwood entered my life when I was twelve. He left it fifteen years later. Perhaps I’m a slow learner.

Mick was a tough lad from inner city Liverpool who moved to our suburb ten miles out. I first met him playing school football.

He was smallish but strong, fast and fearless. He had flame red hair and beady eyes. His broad back hunched when he ran – Quasimodo in a football kit. He had a terrible temper – ready to fight anyone, including the referee. He scored three goals, including the winner, and smirked when we shook hands at the end of the match, captain to captain. “Nice team you got,” he said.

Next time I saw him, he was leading a gang of local troublemakers around town. He pointed at me and they laughed. Nice team, asshole.

Mick was mad, bad and dangerous to know. Always fighting. Even his surname – Wormwood – sounded like Wormwood Scrubs, the infamous prison of Victorian London.

But there was another side to him that I witnessed by accident, one day when I was carrying my books home from school. Mick never carried books, but that day he was carrying shopping for two tiny old ladies, up a steep bridge over our local canal. He seemed surprised to see me.

“Nice team,” I said, and wished I hadn’t.

Mick stared at me and said: “I know where you live, mate.”

He knocked at my door an hour later in his jeans and Dr Marten boots. I thought he had come to beat me up. “What you doing?” he said.

“School work,” I said.

He rolled his eyes and said: “Want to play football?”

I told him I would meet him on the field in twenty minutes. But I was there in fifteen, in case he changed his mind.

We were soon firm friends – both named Michael with the same red hair and the same love of football. I liked the contradiction in his character – Mick the hooligan with a good heart. Maybe he was curious about the jerk that did homework and loved football.

I kept my distance from his gang, though, after I saw Mick kick some rival black and blue, and smash a hammer through a car window. Next day he was sitting on my parents’ sofa, drinking tea.

“He’s a gentlemen, your pal Mick,” my Mum would say. I wanted to say: try schizophrenic

 Mick left school at 16 and got a job tending the local parks. His face was soon tanned like an old boot and lined by the merciless wind that blew in from the Irish Sea.

When I went to college in Cardiff, Mick would hitchhike down for the weekend, arriving at midnight, dripping with rain. My flat-mate at that time was some spoiled rich kid, a film student who was always leaving his soiled clothes on the bathroom floor. Once he asked Mick: “Have you seen ‘My Beautiful Launderette’?”

Mick replied: “No, but I’ve seen your dirty washing.”

He was quick with jokes but also depressed at not being a professional footballer. Big clubs tried him but his temper was a liability. After too many beers one night, he told me:

“When I get angry a black curtain comes down and I cannot see in the darkness.” Then he asked me how come millionaire Bono still had not found what he was looking for? Bit of a philosopher, was our Mick.

The final time I saw him, Mick was in London, suit pockets stuffed with cash. He was now ‘a businessman’ in the East End.

Oh really? I suppose I could imagine how his roguish charm might play well with Cockney wide-boys, but I was disappointed that he thought they were a solution to his broken dreams, dead end job and failed marriage. He was no longer digging parks. But was he digging his grave?

Sure enough, a few months later, some kids found Mick’s body swinging from the bridge over our old canal in Liverpool. I heard he had been knocking on doors around the neighbourhood, asking for a washing line so he could tow his car, which was odd, since he never learned to drive.

If you’ve ever lost someone to suicide, you know how I felt. If not, i hope you never do. Grief and guilt wrestle in your soul and it never really goes away. Mick was a rare individual, tough but funny, violent but kindhearted, McEnroe, Tyson and Mother Theresa, combined.

I suppose he taught me not to judge a book by its cover. I picture him now, playing football in heaven, as captain of the fallen angels, arguing with St Peter about the offside rule.

(This story first appeared in FHM in November 2011 and reappears here with permission from S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL).

In a few minutes, as you finish reading this, I will suggest a simple but interesting exercise to test your mind and body at the same time. But let’s start with how I learned about it.

In 2008, I spent a weekend hiking in northern India. I slept in a tent, swam in the strong current of the freezing clear Ganges, I rode in a battered bus with people sitting on top, I saw the snowy Himalayas, far in the distance. It was fun. On those steep hills, my skinny guide was as nimble as a goat and as strong as a bear. At dawn, he would do stretches, lithe as a cat, outside his little tent. I asked him how come he was so healthy. He was standing on his head at the time. “Yoga,” he said and closed his eyes to meditate, breathing deeply. I sipped coffee in golden sunlight by the misty river, and promised myself: Someday, I’m going to try that.

I finally got my chance here in Azerbaijan. One Friday night I was having dinner with some Azeri friends, talking about our busy week, the stress of city life. Samira with the bright eyes and corkscrew hair told us that Saturday morning yoga was the perfect solution. “But can you stand on your head?” I asked. She just smiled – silly English – and looked at her watch.

Soon, I joined Samira’s yoga class: 90 minutes, three times a week in a gymnasium on the 9^th floor with a spectacular view of Baku and the Caspian Sea. I’m glad I did. We do a variety of stretches – asanas – and finish off with five minutes of breathing exercises and fifteen minutes of meditation, lying on our backs listening with the lights dimmed, listening to chill-out music.

To be honest, it was a bit difficult at first. I found some yoga positions hard, despite all my years of running and swimming. Yoga also gave me headaches afterwards. But it gets easier and after just a few weeks I now feel stronger and more flexible. It’s a different sort of fitness. Something has changed in my mind too.

Our teacher is the quietly spoken Mr. Rasim Hasanov. He is a gentleman and a scholar, and I asked him a few questions about yoga, just for you.

FHM: Rasim, how did you discover yoga?

Rasim: A book fell on my head! I was 17, visiting a friend. His dad was an academic. I was browsing his home library in Baku and an old book tumbled down on my head. It was about yoga, published before the Russian Revolution. I borrowed it and started teaching myself.  That was in the Soviet era and yoga was banned. My parents feared the KGB would arrest us!

FHM: Why did you persevere?

Rasim: As a teenager I was feeble and always getting sick. But after three years of yoga, I felt like a new person. No illnesses, no more medication. I’m 60 now. I’ve been doing yoga for 43 years, in my spare time.

FHM: What did you do for a living?

Rasim: I was a researcher for gold mines. I have a PhD in geology. But after Azerbaijan gained independence, I became a geography teacher. I also compose music.

FHM: What advice would you give to someone just starting yoga?

Rasim: Find a teacher, learn properly and take it slowly.

FHM: What are the most common misconceptions of yoga?

Rasim: Some people think it’s a religious sect, aerobics or psychological training. But in fact, it’s a way to re-discover yourself. There are over 20 different types of yoga. Some people prefer the meditation to the physical exercises. But you should beware of ‘hot’ yoga, in a hot room – that’s a dangerous gimmick, trust me.

FHM: What are your worst and best experiences of yoga?

Rasim: I hurt my legs when I started. That was the worst. The best was when my masters – B.K.S. Iyengar and Ravi Shankar – approved me to teach yoga. I was also pleased to give a class at a symposium of 2000 teachers near Zurich, and to publish my first book. I’ve written two – yoga for the spine, yoga for pregnant women. Now I’m writing about yoga for children.

FHM: Is yoga popular in Azerbaijan?

Rasim: Well, these days, I have military generals and politicians in my classes. It’s funny how times change! As for the future, I want to start my own academy. I need investors. I hope for the best. The world would be a better and more beautiful place if everyone did yoga. My best wishes to Romania!

That’s all from Rasim. But finally, dear reader, try this: Remove your shoes, stand straight and bend your right leg back at the knee, holding your right foot behind your bottom with your right hand. Extend your left arm vertical, reaching for the sky. Close your eyes and try not to wobble. Tricky huh? This is one version of the Lord of the Dance position. It will tune your body and mind. And by the way, I’m typing this standing on my head.

***

This story first appeared in FHM (Romania) in October 2011 and reappears here with permission from
S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL .

Some ideas take days, weeks. This one takes three seconds.

It comes to me in a flash, at 5.30 one Saturday morning, when I’m knee-deep in snow in Yekaterinburg, 1400 kilometres north east of Moscow, temperature minus 40C. I’ve had enough of this place, this job. I need time out from training journalists. I need a change. I want to chase my dream. I will move to California. It’s as simple as that.

Twenty minutes later I reach my desk at BBC School. I sit at my computer, log into the chat room and type with numb fingers: Sorry I’m late, 35 cm of snow last night. My five colleagues are already online. Most of them are in Los Angeles, where it’s 5 pm on Friday, and they’re chatting about going later for cocktails by the ocean. We’re learning how to write and sell a movie script. I ask our trainer if I should move to Los Angeles. He replies with an icon : )

Six months later, I’m standing in an empty apartment looking down at tanned swimmers. The landlord tells me those neighbours are friendly and work in the industry – actresses, editors and producers. He’s probably bullshitting but the apartment is clean and well located. “Twelve months?” I ask, and he hands me the lease form. “Welcome to LA,” he says. His wig is the worst I ever saw.

I spend a week furnishing my new home, buying a car, registering for screenwriting classes at UCLA. The neighbours are curious more than friendly. But Daphne from next door is very helpful, smiling with those big blue eyes. She’s 70, Jewish, born and bred in LA. She knows the score and she senses I could use a friend. Soon, she is my best one.

When I’m not attending class I do my laundry or cycle the boardwalk at Venice Beach or drive up to Malibu and swim in the breakers. I sign up for the LA marathon, why not.  Best of all, my script is going well, sci-fi with a twist. You always need a twist. My tutor Anne seems genuinely interested in helping me get it right. She knows people in the industry.

One weekend, my block buddy Daphne invites me to a barbecue at some big house on a hill to meet her family and friends. We sit on a terrace sipping beer. The other guests are real estate agents and teachers, programmers and surf dudes who say Hey instead of Hello. They’re easy company and wish me good luck. But the guy who arrives wearing a bathrobe and flip-flops is morose and distant, chews a chicken leg and seems as if he could not care less about this pale-faced Brit who took a sabbatical to develop a script. He drifts back to his buddies.

Driving home, Daphne asks if I had fun. Then she tells me that Bill-the-bathrobe recently earned $2m for co-writing a comedy, starring Jim Carrey. I stare at the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. Why was Bill so unfriendly? “Because in LA, you’re competition,” says Daphne.

“No way Daphne, I’m a neophyte.”

She smiles and says: “Not if you know words like that.”

The millionaire’s attitude leaves me in a state of paralysis for a few days. I stare at my laptop, convinced that my sci-fi script is weak, amateur. I should have stayed in Russia, training journalists in the sticks. At least they were friendly. Screenwriting is lonely. Why even bother?

My luck turns after my next session at UCLA. My tutor Anne introduces me to a friendly middle-aged couple visiting campus. John is an experienced movie director and Mary is a well-connected producer. They respect my spontaneous decision to move to LA. “Decent script too,” says John.

A week later, I visit their home in the Hollywood hills and inspect their stack of videos. They have worked on almost 300 TV movies. We sit at a big black table. Mary flips through my script, scribbling her red pen, telling me how to improve it. “And then what?” I ask. John pats my arm and says: “We’re going to make this movie.” I stand in silence, stunned, staring at the ocean through his big window. A gull soars on a thermal because it’s easy when you know how.

I drive back to my apartment. Is this a dream? No. I work my ass off for two weeks, night and day, swapping drafts with them by email. Finally, John is happy and Mary will chase the money. They’re confident and I’m walking around in a bathrobe and flip-flops.

They take a short vacation. I fly to Indonesia to train journalists for 2 weeks. I tell people oh sure, my first movie is in development. But I get worried when the emails from LA stop coming. Eventually, John writes and tells me he’s bored with Hollywood. He wants to teach at UCLA. Mary has applied for a job at the Gene Autry cowboy museum in Griffith Park. They need a change. My move from Russia was kind of inspiring. The idea came to them in a flash.

(This story was first published in FHM Romania, Sep 2011 and reappears here with permission of S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL)

He’s very friendly, the man standing outside our hotel in shorts and polo shirt, with pink knees and a tennis racquet. He’s waiting for his ride. We look at the blue sky and chat about the weather here in Chad – it’s warm again, 35C at 08.45 am. He reckons it will be even hotter in a few weeks. He sounds fed up, restless.

He checks his watch and suggests we should have a beer sometime, get together on the hotel terrace. He asks my room number then says: “Hey neighbour, I’m right next door!”

He climbs into a dusty jeep. I can hear him complaining to his driver. How come you’re late, every Saturday?

As for me, I’m going to get a haircut. I stand and wait for my lift, watching lizards doing push-ups in dry grass.  They stare back: what’s your problem? It’s a fair question. My problem is security: every place I go, I’m assigned an official driver who takes me from A to B. Even for a haircut, 300m down the road. Fair enough, except when he’s half an hour late.

Eventually he turns up we drive down the main street. It’s full of honking cars and grinning kids but the salon is closed so we cruise around for an alternative. I spot one that looks OK. My driver parks the car, reclines his seat and pulls his baseball cap over his eyes.

The large African lady in the salon puts down her magazine and says: “Good morning! Haircut? No problem, hop in the chair, you’re my first customer.”

I hop in the chair and notice it’s a bit dusty. I also notice she doesn’t know how to tie the shawl around my shoulders and she squints at the buttons on her electric clipper. It sounds like a broken lawn mower when she plugs it in. She runs it over my head, yanking my hair out in clumps.

“Sorry,” she says, “I don’t know where they put the best clipper.”

I catch her eye in the mirror. “They?”

She checks my head and says: “The previous owners. I just took over the business.”

We get chatting. Ella is from just across the border in Cameroon. She asks me what I’m doing in Chad. I tell her I’m a media consultant, and she seems satisfied. I don’t tell her I am mentoring local journalists whose job is to produce and distribute radio programs that will counteract radical Islamist propaganda and promote religious tolerance. I don’t tell her people are worried about the thousands of unemployed young Chadian men who are bored and disenchanted and vulnerable to the influence of charismatic preachers and sometimes drift off to Pakistan. I don’t say the Chadian government is worried about extremist ideology. Because after fifteen minutes of the lawn mower, right now I’m worried about my hair. It looks like a dog got bored chewing it.

The hairdresser pokes her tongue from the side of her mouth like pink bubble gum, while she works. I ask, politely, where she trained. She squints at her clipper again and says:

“I’m not trained. You know what? I think maybe I need spectacles.”

I stare at her in the mirror. “But you are a hairdresser, right?”

She shrugs. “Me? No, I do manicures and pedicures. Would you like one? It’s only $50.”

“But your sign outside says hairdresser. You said I was your first customer today.”

“That’s an old sign. I meant you’re my first customer ever. For a haircut, anyway.”

I look at Ella. I look in the cracked mirror. No wonder my head resembles some old carpet. Ella squints outside towards the busy street and says: “Do you know where there’s an optician?”

I ask Ella if she knows where the previous owners put the best clipper. She says: “Good idea, I’ll have another look.”

She leaves me sitting in the dusty chair with my shawl hanging. I sit in silence, gazing at my reflection. A kid taps on the window: Ca va?

Next morning, I’m my hotel room when Benjamin knocks. He works here as a cleaner, but he’s also a budding musician. Benjamin plays in a church band and once a week, I give him a short lesson on my guitar.  He’s making progress. His friends are jealous. I show him the blues scale so he can practise. Halfway through the exercise he looks at me and says:

“Mister Mike, you have a funny haircut.” I tell him about Ella and he says: “You know, those Cameroonians…”

Later, I meet the friendly tennis player on the terrace. His name is Jim. He works for an embassy, spends a fortune building model aeroplanes and is single, which doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is the fact that Jim has been living in room 107 of our hotel since 2007. I gawk at him and say: “Four years, are you serious?”

He looks at my head and says: “More serious than your barber.”

So I ask Jim if he knows of a good salon, or a good optician.

***

(First published in FHM Romania, June 2011. Republished by permission of S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL)

It’s the little things we remember

It’s a cold winter’s night at Anfield, home of Liverpool Football Club. My Dad and I watch the match from our seats high in the famous stadium. It’s a treat for his 70^th birthday.

We hold our red and white scarves up and sing the songs we know so well. We swap opinions about who is playing well and who is totally useless. Liverpool win and Sheffield lose. It’s a good game, but not memorable, except for two minor incidents afterwards.

First, as we’re leaving the stadium, walking down steep concrete steps, my dad loses his footing. He wobbles like he is drunk, spins on his heel and grabs the handrail. We laugh and think no more about it. Second, in the cobbled streets outside, among fans and street hawkers, Dad forgets which way is home. I point to the right but he looks puzzled. I ask him if he is drunk. He laughs. We had only a cup of tea, at halftime.

“Better hurry or we’ll miss the bus,” he says and walks on, tying his scarf. He has no idea that this is the beginning of the end. Me neither.

In the queue for the bus a guy in a flat cap is smoking a roll-up cigarette. The smell reminds me of being a kid, watching my Dad roll a cigarette in thin white paper. He would pop the lid on his shiny green and gold tin, then pluck some tobacco and tease it into shape with nimble fingers, like a magician.

He would puff the fragrant smoke, give me a wink and say: “Don’t smoke, you’ll end up in a box.”

But he seemed to like smoking. And drawing. Sometimes he would sketch a funny cartoon on an old envelope. I would watch the pencil, waiting to see what came out of the end: usually some fat lady with big boobs complaining to her stupid husband, or a dog talking to a deaf cat. Dad was good at that stuff. He could make a joke out of anything, although he usually seemed a bit fed up with life, probably due to lack of sleep.

Whenever his tobacco tin was empty, he would add it to his growing collection in our garden shed. That shed was his private territory and always a bit of a mess even though he insisted there was a system. He would point at the shelf and say:

“For example, that big tin is for my nails, that big tin of for my screws, and that little tin is for my brain.” I would look at his finger. The tip was missing, from an accident.

“When the bandages came off, it hurt like Billy O,” he would say. I had no idea who Billy O was. But I knew I was Mikey O and Dad was Gerry O.

He worked in a factory, something to do with copper wire and cables. He did the night shift for many years. Mum would make his sandwiches before left the house. Dad would say cheese-please-Louise, even though her name was Veronica. He would take his bicycle from the shed. I would stand at the gate and on starry nights he would show me The Great Bear. Then he would ride away and I would watch his little red light until it disappeared. Next morning he would come home in a grumpy mood with eyes like oyster shells. He would sleep until afternoon, but it was never enough.

Sometimes, we would go shopping together. One day he stopped outside the opticians and said: watch this, Mikey. He groped the window, groped the door handle and went inside with his eyes all screwed up like he was blind and asked the man in the white coat: Is this the opticians?

After he retired Dad found a part-time gardening job. He liked pruning bushes. He should have been a barber. He could make your garden look like a skinhead in ten minutes.

He liked football too. That’s why I took him to Anfield.

A few weeks after the Sheffield game he fell off his bike and bashed his head. Sometimes he would wobble around the house like he was drunk. On milky tea?

My sister took him for a chat with a doctor. When Dad emerged half an hour later he said: “Apparently I’m going to die. But who isn’t?”

He had been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, but was spared the worst because, a few months later, he tripped on a carpet at home and bashed his head again, badly this time. An ambulance took him to hospital where he survived a heart attack but not pneumonia.

My brother was with him at the end. Dad scribbled a last request on a scrap of paper – want my radio – and died listening to a Liverpool match on his headphones.

I left Liverpool many years ago and these days my base is rural Romania. I recently received some of Dad’s ashes in one of his old tobacco boxes and last week, at midnight, I scattered them on a hill in Transylvania. The wind blew the fine grey powder all over me, as if Dad was having a final joke. Or maybe he was just saying: I’m with you.

It was a starry night, so I looked up at the Great Bear, and tried not to cry.

(This story was first published in FHM Romania, July 2011, and reappears here with permission of S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL.)

“You should stay in an expensive hotel and call room service. Or maybe not.”   

Our Land Cruiser is bumping along a dusty street past barefoot kids. We’re going to a market in N’Djamena, capital of Chad. It’s extremely hot today. But I need to buy a woollen sweater. My driver Isaac looks puzzled. “A woollen sweater, Mister Mike?” So I tell him I forgot to pack one and I get cold at night. Isaac nods. He knows just the place.

We stop and walk through narrow aisles packed with fruit and vegetables, baseball caps and gadgets from China. An elderly Arab is sipping tea from a tiny glass, squatting on a wooden stool among a pile of faded jeans and sweaters. His white turban is wrapped tight, his skin wrinkled like a dried date. He smiles as we approach. I check his sweaters: 75% polyester. I tell him in French that I would prefer wool. He reaches under his stool and pulls out a beauty. Wow. It’s an Aran, a real one. I can tell from the way it hangs over his arm, heavy and creamy-white, like a dead lamb. I check the label and, sure enough, I discover that it’s hand-knitted from County Galway, Ireland. I pull it over my head. I can smell the lanolin in the wool. Perfect fit. I want it.

The wrinkled Arab wants $16. It’s peanuts for this sweater but you should always haggle so I ask for Best Price. He says $15 and sips his tea. I try $14 and he yells: “Pay up or get lost, that’s a good one and you know it!”  I give him $15. He’s not smiling anymore, but I am, back in the Toyota. Isaac looks puzzled until I tell him why.

The traditional Aran sweater is named after the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. It’s a fisherman’s sweater with distinctive patterns, usually a creamy-white colour, or báinín in Gaelic. When I was a kid in Liverpool my Mum would knit them, but not now. I show Isaac the patterns in the wool. “The honeycomb symbolises the industrious bee. The basket symbolises the fisherman’s catch. The diamond is for good luck. See?”

Isaac clicks his teeth. “You were lucky today, Mister Mike.”

He’s right, as usual, and when I drape my new sweater around my shoulders that night on the hotel terrace, I’m as happy as a dog with two tails. It feels almost brand new. I doubt it’s even been washed. But how did this beautiful Aran travel 3000 miles to the middle of Africa and arrive in such good condition?

My luck does not last long. A few days later, my Aran falls on the floor and gets ugly grey lines of dust up the front and down the sleeve. Damn. I phone room service and ask if they know how to wash wool. The little voice on the other end says: “But of course, Mister Mike. This is a 4-star hotel.”

The young guy from the laundry is very keen when he knocks at my door, but I explain just in case: “This is an Aran. You must take care. Use lukewarm water and wool-friendly soap. Squash it in a towel to remove the water. Dry it flat, over a day or two, OK?”

He assures me he knows how to wash wool and disappears down the corridor, swinging my precious sweater like a dead rabbit. I lie on my bed to watch footy. I phone my Mum and tell her about my amazing Aran and the young guy who knows how to wash it.  She replies: “What are you, nuts?”

She’s right, as usual, because the phone by my bed rings two hours later and a little voice announces: “Mister Mike, it’s ready. Shall I bring it?”

I reply: “My sweater? No way. It can’t be ready. It won’t be dry.”

“It’s dry,” says the little voice. He hangs up. I stare at the wall and say a word beginning with F. I say some more rude words when I open the door three minutes later because my Aran sweater is now the size of a teabag, except it has arms. I howl like a dying wolf. I hiss like a cornered cat. The air turns blue with my curses. The laundry guy says: “Is there a problem?” I ask him how he dried my Aran. He replies: “In the tumble dryer, like you said.” He leaves soon afterwards, before I can throw him over the balcony.

Next day I show my sweater to the manager, Claude. “Mon Dieu,” says Claude and agrees to pay me the cost of replacing it. I suggest he teach his staff how to wash wool, seeing his hotel charges $200 a night. Claude holds up my sweater and says: “It might fit a midget.”

On the Internet I find the company that made my Aran. An exact replacement costs €100. I click BUY. I receive the new one a few weeks later. It’s a beauty. The guy from the laundry writes me an apology about how he’s still learning and no piece of work is perfect. I write back: Thanks, do you know any cold midgets?

(This story was first pubished in FHM Romania, May 2011. It reappears here with kind permission of S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL ).

 ‘Revolution? We’re not angry, we’re exhausted.’

The first thing you notice in Chad is the heat. You step out of the plane at midnight and it feels like someone pushed you into an oven. The desert air thumps you in the chest and sucks oxygen from your lungs. I’ll be halfway through a six-month stay in the capital, N’Djamena, by the time you read this. Most days the temperature is 45 to 50 C. Trust me, I carry a pocket barometer. I have never seen mercury rise so fast.

The second thing you notice is their flag, the same as Romania’s. When I tell the locals I live in Romania, they smile: ah yes. But the shoe cleaner outside my hotel frowns and says: “Your president told us to change our flag. That was not nice. Do you think we should?” I tell him no, and by the way I’m not Romanian, it’s just my adopted home. He asks me how is Romania. So I tell him. He asks if I want my shoes cleaned for $7.

He does a good job. He uses petrol to clean them and three cloths with polish. His name is Jeudi. That’s ‘Thursday’ in French. I’m tempted to ask if he’s read about Friday in ‘Robinson Crusoe’, but I don’t. Jeudi tells me to check inside my shoes every morning for scorpions. “Are you serious?” I say. “About what?” says Jeudi. He looks tired, bored and I’m not surprised. He has few clients. He used to work in construction, but the work dried up. He needs contacts. Do I have any? I slip him $10 and promise to keep my ears open. “And also look in your shoes,” he says, with a smile.

Chadians are friendly but have a weary air, as if they’ve lost hope. You would probably feel the same if your country had recently emerged from a 50-year civil war. There are plenty of bullet holes in N’Djamena.

Lots of soldiers too, hundreds of them, wearing all sorts of uniforms and hats. The elite troops outside the presidential compound cradle their AK 47s and stare at you until you look away.

My driver, Abaka, is a nice guy, quiet and safe with gentle eyes. He wears a long white turban around his head and neck, like we’re riding camels, not a Land Cruiser. I’m in the back seat, asking how’s life. He says life is OK, thanks. I ask if he has kids. He says two girls, but he used to have three. I lean forward, watching the road. “How do you mean, Abaka?”

Abaka says: “I sent my eldest to visit her grandparents in our village. But after two weeks she got malaria and died. She was 12. I was very sad.”

He sounds so matter-of-fact I hardly know how to reply. I assume it happened a few years ago and he’s had time to grieve. Now he’s dodging the potholes, lost in thought. A pick-up truck overtakes us, full of soldiers in smart uniforms with guns and radios. The smallest soldier, sitting on the tailgate, gives me a hard look. He’s just a kid, 12 years old, maximum.

“When did your daughter pass away?” I ask. Abaka shrugs, as if counting in his head. Finally, he turns and says: “About seven weeks ago.”

Over the next month, three of my Chadian journalist colleagues come to work bleary- eyed, walking around in a daze. I learn that their young cousin has just died of a bad tummy; their auntie got knocked off her motorbike; their uncle passed away with meningitis. In Chad, death stalks the land. That’s life.

Life in a hotel, of course, for the privileged few, is easier. Mine has a pool, a small gym and barbecued fish. However, as I write, a mosquito the size of a wasp is howling around my room, waiting for its chance.

I’ve been watching the Arab world ignite on a flat screen TV in the hotel bar. I ask some Chadians if a revolution would happen here. They just chuckle and say: “Mister Mike, we are not angry, we are exhausted.”

One of my friends in Chad is named Laguerre, which means ‘war’. He invites me to a hip-hop show and we sit on stone steps around a low stage under an open sky, studded with more stars than I’ve ever seen. The rappers are strutting their stuff. The guy to my left is dressed all in white, chewing a little stick, his head wrapped in a turban that cascades down his shoulders. His eyes are closed and his flip-flop is rocking to the beat.

Back at the hotel, I ask Jeudi about scorpions. He says they sit on door handles, so watch out. Then he laughs. “When we were kids, we used to pick up little ones by their tails. But you have to know how or they sting.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Like hell for three days. But the big black ones are worse, Mountain Scorpions.”

“What happens if they sting you?

“You die in three minutes.”

Next morning, I check inside my shoes. Then I check the calendar.

This article was first published in FHM Romania (April 2011) and appears here by permission of S.C. Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL.