Category Archives: PLAYBOY (Eng.) 2012

Christmas is coming…

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scalextric cars big

At this time of year, I often remember the first line of a little poem in English that has been passed down the generations:

‘Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat’. I learned it as a kid and it hides in my memory like a silver ‘sixpence’ coin in a plum pudding.

Something else I remember from my childhood – the day my brother opened my eyes to how the world really works. As you may know, the advantage of having an elder sibling is that you pick up their ideas early by cultural osmosis.

The disadvantage is sometimes, you learn things too soon.

I was 5 or 6 years old when my elder brother Eddie summoned me upstairs and poked a broom handle at the ceiling to open the trapdoor to our attic. “See that, Mikey?” he said, pointing a finger.

I stood on tiptoe and peered into the attic. It was dark up there but I soon spotted a cardboard box showing model racing cars and a track shaped like a number ‘8’. I knew immediately what I was looking at: Scalextric, the exciting toy that every little boy loved. But wait – why was it in our attic?

“Because it’s our Christmas present,” Eddie said, and raised a finger to his lips. Bug-eyed, I asked him about Santa Claus coming down our chimney on Christmas Eve. I’ll never forget the pitiful look Eddie gave me, or the difficult questions his revelation raised: Why would Mum and Dad lie about Santa? Should I tell my friends?

“No, you should be quiet,” said Eddie, and Christmas was never the same.

But times change and twenty-five years later, as an adult, I helped my Dad perpetuate the myth for his grandchildren. Want to try it? Listen up.

You need a red Santa Claus suit and hat, a silver wig and beard, a black bin bag with a few gifts inside and a video camera. Here’s what you do.

First, you film ‘Santa’ with his black sack, creeping around the house, late on Christmas Eve, enjoying whatever ‘snacks’ you left for him (in England, we leave a little alcohol and a mince pie). Then you film Santa as he enters the kids’ bedroom and places their presents, while they are fast asleep. Next morning, you show the kids the video and say, “See that? Santa came while you were in bed.”

Trust me, the look on their faces, when they see a video, is worth the effort. But be prepared to answer difficult questions. For example, our ‘Santa’ insisted we film him walking up the street at midnight, in his red suit. Next day, my nephew said, “Why was Santa walking, where are the reindeer?”

Also, when our ‘Santa’ sat down on our sofa to sip his whisky, my nephew froze the video and said, “Santa wears the same socks as Granddad.” We told him it was a coincidence; Santa probably shopped at Marks & Spencer, too.

Eventually, of course, it’s time to grow up. One year, I was based in Yekaterinburg, 1,400 km northeast of Moscow. The December weather was awful and getting worse: non-stop snow and temperatures of minus 40C. My girlfriend suggested we visit her sisters in New York for Christmas. It sounded like a good idea, but New York would be cold too and if we wanted good weather, we should head further west, right? We checked a map and counted the days. We drank a vodka martini and came up with a plan that would change our lives.

We flew to the States, spent a few nice days in the Big Apple then took a Greyhound bus into Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming and Utah. En route, the weather got warmer. I remember how I tried to talk to some Amish about that but they refused, presumably because I represent ‘modern’ and they prefer ‘traditional’, in which case, why were they on the bloody bus?

But most of all, I remember getting married, on Christmas Day, in Las Vegas, Nevada. It takes a few days to set it up online, but it’s fun and our pastor’s speech was profoundly moving. We had one guest – the lady who worked at the Little White Wedding Chapel. The walls were covered with photos of all the happy couples before us: Bruce Willis & Demi Moore, Slash and Mrs. Slash, Mr. & Mrs. Michael Jordan etc. I doubt they used Greyhound.

That’s all from me for 2012. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

[First published in Playboy by Mediafax Group, Romania, Dec 2012]

The Road to Rio

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Most of us nurture a goal – maybe to own a luxury car, attain enlightenment or find true love?

25-year old ALEX DIACONU is a pro triathlete and his goal is to compete for Romania in the Olympic Games in 2016. He took time off to tell Playboy Romania what it takes to reach the top.

Alex, what is your typical day in November?
I focus on volume. I wake up at 06:00 and at 07:00, I go to the swimming pool. I swim 4,000-5,000 meters (about 2 hours) then rest. I sleep for an hour, maybe ninety minutes. Around 13:00, I cycle 80-90km (3 hours), after which I run 15-20km, to simulate the race-day transition from cycling to running. My spring and summer program is similar but I vary the distances and intensity. I try to sleep about 10 hours. I am usually in bed by 21.30-22:00, all year round.

Don’t you you get bored staring at the tiles on the floor of the swimming pool?
No. I do this sport because I love it, not because I have to. I don’t get bored. Triathlon is liberty and diversity combined.

You hope to qualify for the Olympics. How many rivals do you have?
Romania has 55 Olympic  places but more than 625 contenders. The qualification process begins in 2014, I’ll start accumulating points then. My objectives for season 2013 are, to finish in the top 5 at the Half-Ironman in Israel (January), and top 10 at Abu Dhabi Triathlon (March).

It seems triathlon in Romania needs more investment. How should it be spent?
Many triathletes do other jobs to survive. More investment could help us and our coaches to focus on the sport.  Most days, after my own training, I work as a swimming coach. It’s difficult, doing both. All I need, to represent Romania at the Olympics as a triathlete, is better funding. Most pro athletes in other countries spend around € 40,000 per year on coaching, kit and competitions. If anyone reading this could help me, as a sponsor, I’ll be one step closer to Rio!

How ‘fraternal’ is the triathlon family – big buddies until the race?
Exactly. We train together, eat together, stay at each others homes sometimes. But we are fierce rivals and all expect to finish first. After a race, no matter who won, we all hug like children.

I first came to Romania in 1994 and when I was out jogging, I felt like a circus freak; some drivers would swerve at me for fun. But many people jog in Romania these days how come?
In recent years, sport began to grow in our country. People want to look good, be healthy, so they began to train.

At the Hungary Ironman in 2009 you competed well but spent the night on a glucose drip?
Yes, because I had given my last ounce to reach my goal: to finish in under 10 hours. I lost about 8kg in weight during the race and had problems at the end. When I was on that stretcher attached to that drip, I felt odd – both terrible pain but satisfaction that my efforts had been rewarded. I had reached my goal.

Why do you suffer mental blackouts, during some races?
Because I push myself to extremes. The lack of oxygen produces gaps in my memory.

Timex or Casio? Garmin or Suunto?
Can I pass on this one?! I prefer not to advertise anyone that does not sponsor me! So far, I have 8 sponsors who support me financially or in kind (kit etc)

What was the last book you read?
‘I’m here to win’, by Chris McCormack. He inspired me a lot.

Romania’s most experienced triathlete Russian Marius has been your mentor since your teens. Will you coach triathletes, one day?
Sure, when I retire I would be delighted to be able to do for others what Marius did for me.

Most people with the goal find it hard to ‘turn off’. How do you unwind?
A goal is a dream with a plan! As long as you really want something, you’ll do anything to achieve it. The key is not to get downhearted with hardships along the way, and try to remember: every effort will be rewarded…

[First published in Playboy, Dec 2012 by MediaFax Group, Romania]

The Magic Words

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The elderly woman in the centre of Brasov, Transylvania, has sad eyes and a book of fairy tales. She holds it up in a wobbly hand, showing me the bright cover: Brothers Grimm. “20 lei,” she says, and looks as hungry as the wolf on the cover.

Her clothes are clean but worn. Her shopping bag dangles empty from her wrist. The book is all she has to offer. I peep at the paperback, flicking the pages. The illustrations are good and she needs the money so I offer 10 lei and we agree on 15. She tucks the cash away and says,  “Multumesc, God bless.” She has impeccable manners; I have Hansel & Gretel and all the rest of them, in Romanian. Just what I need. This and a train home to Bucharest. Time to go.

I ride a bus to the railway station, looking up at the big hill  – Tampa – that overshadows the centre of the ancient city. I would like to live in Brasov, if I could. The mountain air is fresh; the place has a nice urban/rural vibe. I believe the winters can be hard, but late summer seems just right.

At the station, I buy my train ticket, walk upstairs to the marble balcony and sit on a plastic seat. I sip coffee and watch life go by. Forty minutes to wait. Dusty hikers pass with silver sleeping mats rolled in their rucksacks. A middle-aged Romanian man in a safari suit squints at the schedule on the wall. A skinny drunk lies face up with his mouth wide open. What if a pigeon craps in it?

A young girl walks towards me, about 8 years old, dressed in a clean white t-shirt and pink jeans. A denim bag swings at her shoulder. She’s very pretty and has a sweet smile. “Give me money,” she says, as if that’s my job and she’s my boss. I chuckle and ask her, “What are the magic words, when you want something?”

She shrugs. I tell her the magic words are va rog. That means please, in Romanian. I give her two lei and ask her, what’s the other magic word? “Va rog,” she says, and I tell her no, it’s multumesc. Thank you.

She trots away to the café but two minutes later she’s back, chewing a sticky bun as big as her head. “Thank you,” she says in near perfect English. I’m impressed.

She sits a few meters away and keeps glancing at me, curious. Maybe she knows a sucker when she sees one. She’s chewing and grinning like I’m an ATM on legs. She has big brown eyes and I can see her future in there somewhere.

I curl my finger: You, come here. She trots up, wiping crumbs from her hands.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She tells me Rushinta. That’s a new one for me. I ask if she can read. She nods, sigur, domnu’. So, I pull the Brothers Grimm from my bag and her eyes pop. I ask how to spell Rushinta, because I want to write a dedication in the book. She takes my pencil and writes it herself, taking her time, with elegant handwriting. When she’s done, I write underneath: From Mike. I add the date, give her the book and she gasps.

We sit side by side and she starts reading Hansel & Gretel, mouthing the words, running her finger across the page. After five minutes, she looks up at me, with a contented sigh, and points at the open page, keen to show how much she has read. “Ten lines domnu’, see?”

“Well done!” I reply. “But is it any good, that book?”

Rushinta nods but seems puzzled. “So why did you give me this?”

I sit there wondering how to explain. I pull out my house key and say, “This is a key to a door.” She frowns, as if I’m dim. Next, I point at the book and say, “But books are the key to your life. So read, Rushinta, every day. You’ll get smart. Promise to read?”

She nods and reads again, aloud this time, perhaps for my benefit. I sit there listening to her hesitant voice. I’m watching the comatose drunk, and the pigeons soaring above and I’m thinking about probability, about an old lady near the end of her days who sold me the book because she needed money, and this young kid, just starting out in life, who probably needs more than a sticky bun.  I feel as if I have done something useful today; something important, which makes a change.

Half an hour later, I’m on my train, waiting to leave Brasov for Bucharest. The guard in a hat is tapping the wheels with a steel rod and I notice a blur of white and pink in the distance – Rushinta is begging on the platform, moving quickly from one person to another.

Eventually, she sits on a bench, swinging her heels. She pulls the book from her bag and carefully turns the pages. Her feet are still as she reads the magic words.

***

[First published in Playboy, Oct 2012 by MediaFax Group, Romania]

No smoke without panic?

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It’s late summer and I have a question.  Suppose we go on holiday, to a hotel.  We enter our room and drop our luggage, at last. What next? Check the mattress, mini-bar, TV remote? No, no and no.

According to an interesting document I received recently from New York, sent by my Romanian sister-in-law, the first thing we should do is turn around, leave the room and find the fire exit, because this might be our last chance.

OK, so now you’re thinking, “No way, Jose, I’m tired from travelling. I want to lie on the bed and watch TV.” OK, I hear you. Lie down. But read this, before you press the remote.

My sister-in-law works with firemen in Brooklyn. They assess the safety of buildings, including hotels, in terms of fire. They make recommendations to the managers, and advise them how to stick to the rules and stay safe. They have seen a lot of fires, and deaths from fires, many of them in hotels, and here’s why.

First, it seems most people who died in fires were unprepared, presumably because they thought it would never happen. But what if it does, in our hotel?

It seems we cannot rely on hotel staff. History proves some of them don’t even bother to call the fire brigade, until it’s too late.

Now a third point: despite what we see in movies, fire victims don’t usually get roasted like meat and die in flames. Most fatalities are caused by superheated gases (that means smoke) and by panic (that means us).  Those things can cause death, long before the flames reach our floor.

So, how do we avoid smoke and panic? Let’s start with smoke.

Smoke accumulates first near the ceiling, where we may not notice it, and despite the proverb, smoke does not always mean fire, at least not on our floor, because smoke can get transferred through the AC from below. If we see smoke, we should get out, but it stings our eyes, and very soon, they will close, and no matter how we try, we cannot open them. So, that’s one problem. Another problem is that thick smoke obscures the exit signs, in the corridor. Solution? We get on our hands and knees, where the air is fresher. Sounds easy, but here’s what happens if we are unprepared.

A fireman in the Brooklyn report says: “One hotel guest woke up at 02:30. He went into the hall. It was full of heavy smoke and he had no idea where to run. His chest hurt and his eyes stung. He got disorientated. He panicked. We found him dead at 02:50. What caused the smoke? A small fire in a room nearby, for spare mattresses.”

The fellow who died was near the fire exit; all he had to do was walk on his hands and knees, and count four doors. So, let’s make a habit of checking where the fire door is located: to the left or right? How many paces? Any turns, on the way? Could we find it with our eyes closed, people screaming and panicking all around us?

Next, let’s think about panic. It’s a natural but deadly response to a crisis, and once it starts, it seems to grow and can make us act irrationally. We panic and we die. However, if we understand what’s happening, what to do and where to go, we can avoid panic.

Suppose we smell smoke, in the corridor? We roll off the bed, stay low to the floor. We touch our door with the back of our hand, before we open it. If it’s not too hot, we leave, take our key and close the door (open doors help fires to spread). We do not go to the elevator. We go to the fire stairwell and walk down, using the handrail, to prevent people bumping us. If there is smoke coming up the stairwell, we do not try to descend through it. We turn around, grip the rail and walk to the roof, even if people are running down. We go to the roof and leave the top door open, so smoke can escape. This is the only time we should leave a fire door open. On the roof, we wait for the firemen.

But what if we can’t leave our room? If our phone works, we call someone and say we’re stuck. We open the window, if we can, to let out any smoke. We don’t wave and scream. We fight the fire: we fill the bath, wet some sheets and towels and put them around the door to stop smoke. We throw water at the door and the walls. If there is fire around the window we pull down the curtains and throw water around the edge. We don’t panic. We wait for help to arrive. We stay cool. Maybe we watch TV. Maybe we survive.

***

[First published in Playboy, Romania, September 2012. Republished with permission of Mediafax Group.]

In search of lost Cheerios

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THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE…

“Romanian potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” Nigel says, holding the microphone under my chin.

“Yes, and tomatoes. And brinza, the crumbly white cheese, best in the world. I’m serious, Nigel, if you’re asking me about my first impressions, from the early days, I want to include the food. It evokes powerful memories, emotions.“

“Marcel Proust would probably agree,” says Nigel. I’m glad to hear it. We’ll get to Marcel later.

My friend Nigel is working in an interesting project, interviewing non-Romanians about why they came to Romania, why they stayed here, and how they see it.  He has recorded 35 people so far, one hour each, and hopes to put the answers on radio, on the Internet and in a book. Nigel is inspired by Studs Terkel, an historian and broadcaster, who interviewed over 7000 Americans in the 1930s and ‘40s, to create a remarkable collection of oral history, preserved forever in the Library of Congress.

I don’t think Nigel plans to do so many, but the results are sure to be interesting.

When the interview is finished, he packs away his expensive recording gear and promises to get in touch, when he’s edited and transcribed our chat.  Bye for now.

That evening, I boil some potatoes, let them cool and eat them with brinza and tomatoes, olive oil and herbs, on my balcony looking out over Bucharest. It’s a perfect meal for summer 2012, but in my mind, it’s autumn 1994 and I’m here for the first time. Nigel was right about Proust: certain foods have a magical effect.

You’ve surely heard of Marcel Proust, but just in case, I’ll explain the connection.

In his most famous novel, In Search of Lost Time, published in 1913, the narrator eats a madeleine cake dipped in tea, the taste of which triggers an intense flashback to his childhood in a French village, and the seven-volume novel unfolds. Proust called this feeling  ‘involuntary memory’ – as opposed to voluntary memory when we consciously try to recall the past – and his idea helped to popularize the development of modern psychology. Today, we readily accept that tastes or smells or a combination of both can trigger our deepest memories, as they did for Marcel.

But back to the present.

A few days after Nigel’s visit, I’m shopping in Cora and buy some Cheerios, because I like the bright logo and I can’t remember the last time I ate them. Back home, mid-afternoon, I rip open the packet because I love cereal, anytime. It’s fast and tasty, just add cold milk and eat a spoonful and hey…. wow, what’s happening…?

Suddenly, I’m no longer sitting in Bucharest. I’m in Toronto, I’m aged 9 or 10, staying with my British uncle and Canadian aunt. They’ve invited my elder brother Eddie and I to visit for two weeks, because mum is in hospital back in Liverpool and dad work nights in a factory, sleeps all day and would find it difficult looking after us as well. So, we came to Canada.

It’s an incredible place. Uncle’s car is big; his fridge is big and we can drink cold apple juice from that big carton inside. The yummy brown stuff is peanut butter and my aunt sits in the garden, orders food by phone and some guy brings it in a box, by motorbike. Imagine that? It’s called pizza. And for breakfast, we have Cheerios with milk. Dead tasty. I send a postcard from Niagara Falls, to Mum and Dad and finish with the words: Wish you were here.

It was perhaps that trip to Canada that made me want to see the world, to travel far and wide as soon as I left high school. Back then, I was in love with France, and, these days, whenever I taste Dijon mustard, I’m 18 years old again, standing outside a café in Lyon, trying to hitch a ride south. French mustard is milder and tastier than English mustard, which, of course, reminds me of roast beef and serving Sunday mass every week as an altar boy, dressed like a Christmas tree.

My favourite dessert in an Indian restaurant is Gulab Jamun. As you may know, it’s a small, round cake in sugary syrup. I find the taste triggers such vivid memories that, whenever I eat Gulab Jamun, I am transported back in time. I am sitting in a café in Lucknow, on lunch break from my job at a local university, working with student journalists.

I picture my friend Rajiv sitting alongside, pointing across a busy road to an old statue of some guy in a long coat clutching a book. We can hear laughter and applause because a young bride and groom are having their photo taken, nearby.

“For good luck,” says Rajiv. “We call it the Honeymoon Statue. Or sometimes, when we celebrate our Hindu god Hanuman, we call it the Hanuman statue.”

Now I’m lost, and ask, “So who’s the statue of? Who’s the guy in the coat with the book?”

“Samuel Hahnemann,” says Rajiv. “The father of homeopathy. German, I think.”

The name rings a bell, and, after a moment I say, proudly, “Hey, I’ve heard of him. He invented homeopathy in a basement in Sibiu. It’s a museum now, the Brukenthal.”

Now Rajiv seems lost. “Sibiu, where’s that?”

“In Romania, my adopted home.”

I watch the young couple and wonder if they know about clever Hahnemann. Rajiv still looks puzzled and says, “Romania? Oh, how interesting. I thought you lived in England. So how do you like Romania?”

It’s a good question, and I will definitely mention the potatoes.

***

Dear Reader, please rate my story, see yellow stars, above, top left? Thank you! MO

(First published in Playboy, July&August edition, 2012 by S.C. Mediafax Group SA, Romania).

Gettin’ Better

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ABSENCE MAKES YOU WONDER: WHAT’S GOING ON?

You know how it feels, right? You’re leaving a place you think you know well; except maybe you don’t, not anymore, because the place and the people have changed, somehow. In my case, it’s the UK.

I’m sitting in a train to Manchester for my flight to Romania, listening to a song called Gettin’ Better, by Mamas & Papas, it’s perfect pop, you’d recognize it.  But Mama Cass is singing about romance in 1960s California, not about the people sitting opposite me in England 2012.

Mama Cass was, however, overweight, so there’s a link to what puzzles me: why are so many Brits obese, these days? That’s not better. it’s a health hazard.

Maybe it’s hormones, or too many calories? Whatever, the average Brit now resembles the average American and I notice it because I’m not here often. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but does presence – in the UK – make you more likely to get heart disease? Not to mention diabetes, gallstones and high blood pressure? In the airport I watch families queue for fries, doughnuts and ice cream.  Wake up, Brits!

I browse the BBC, checking the latest from Syria. But the top story says British women are the fattest in Europe, 24% are obese, and British men second on 22%. One in three British kids are overweight, or obese by age 9.  TV chef Jamie Oliver and footballer Steven Gerrard are urging our government to fight obesity through cookery teaching in schools. We Brits also win at binge drinking, above Finland and Ireland. Rule Britannia, and pass the aspirin.

Soon my plane is soaring over Transylvania and I ogle it like a lover because Romania is my adopted home and one day I’ll have a sheepdog. Bucharest’s Otopeni Airport glitters like some Vegas casino and even the taxi driver takes his time. Of course, there is no seat belt in the back, because the laws of physics do not apply here and his clients would presumably prefer to crash through the windscreen than sit on a buckle. But what’s this? The car in front just INDICATED. Another car SLOWED down.  It happens again, and my eyes pop. What’s going on, here? Has President Basescu put Valium in the drinking water?

But no, wait…I recall a recent chat with a Romanian friend in Azerbaijan. We were both complaining about Baku drivers (who are terrible) and I mentioned Romania being third in Europe for traffic accidents. My Romanian friend argued that the reason for this is not driving, speed or seat belts. “It’s roads,” he said, “Romanians drive well, now.”

If that’s logic I’m Aristotle, maybe but he has a point: driving here has improved and I notice it today, because I have been away for a year. Fewer cars? It doesn’t feel like it. Stricter driving tests? We’ll come back to that later. Or maybe Romanians have simply realized that life is not Formula 1, and death is just a kiss away?

The odd thing is, stats suggest otherwise. Accidents here rose by 20% between 2007-8, with 2000 killed. Between 2008-9, 2800 people died. In 2011, the number was 3,151*. And yet, from what I can see, drivers in Romania are more careful and less aggressive so I’m curious to see stats for 2012. I don’t own a car and I have not driven for seven years, but I hope I’ll be here to read them.

It’s good to be back in Bucharest, catching up with friends, including a bright young lady who works at the Parliament. Maria wears very high heels and very short dresses and reckons there are decent people in politics. She hopes to be a deputy. I tell her many Romanians think politics is all show. Maria disagrees and says: “It’s getting better, there are some good people in every party, and young politicians with smart ideas, there’s hope for us all, we have to try, see ya!”

She wobbles away on her heels and the workmen gawp and drivers beep and if those were votes, Maria would be PM.

My tennis partner Todd the businessman is also an optimist. He says the Romanians are hospitable, not xenophobic. He’s a black Canadian and has no problems here, except for when he wanted EU funds to create jobs in Bucharest. Some VIP asked him for 10% in şpaga (bribe) on a €5m grant. “That’s €500,000!” Todd says, “I told them where to shove it, and dropped my application.”  He flips the ball in the air and hits a serve that almost takes my head off. Game, set & match.

Over cold drinks, I ask Todd about driving in Romania and he rolls his eyes. His Egyptian wife had to pass 9 exams to get her licence, including a psychology test, a gynaecological test, and a blood test for syphilis. “I know Romanians adore their cars,” Todd says, “But do they **** them, too?”

We agree that the problem is probably outmoded bureaucracy, and that those guys who wanted 10% şpaga are dinosaurs and they’ll be gone soon.

Me too, back to Azerbaijan, by the time you read this. Damn! Summer is coming and I’ll miss Romania. But I know what song I will play in my headphones on the way to Otopeni in slow traffic, because…. believe it or not, there’s something groovy and good about whatever we’ve got, and it’s gettin’ better…

* from Eurostat & Radio Romania

First published in Playboy, June 2012, by S.C. MediaFax SA, Romania.

Romanian version:playboy jun

It’s only Eurovision but…

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… I like it.

I’ve been based in Azerbaijan for the last 18 months and I write to you from the capital, a city with fever: Baku has Eurovisionitis. The bug is highly infectious, millions of people are affected and only large doses of international media attention will alleviate the symptoms across the country. As a Brit, I developed immunity long ago but am watching it spread swiftly, like a plague of Biblical proportions. Eurovisionitis zaps brain cells, causes palpitations of the heart and soul, and an irresistible urge to vote by SMS. You have been warned. If your toe is tapping as you read this, please contact a DJ and ask for a check up.

The crisis appears to have started with an outbreak of national delirium following Azerbaijan’s well-deserved win in last year’s Eurovision Song Contest, with the song ‘Running Scared’, probably one of the catchiest tunes since barefoot diva Sandie Shaw won with ‘Puppet On A String’, in 1967. Sandie was British and her success triggered chronic Eurovisionitis back home. Our illness was cured by the decline in the quality of British entrants, by a sudden increase in the contest’s kitsch factor and by the rather creepy politicization of the voting process. Nevertheless, Eurovision seems more popular than ever and now the stethoscope is on Azerbaijan.  Sorry, I mean the spotlight. Question is, what might be revealed?

If and when you watch Eurovision this month, you will no doubt enjoy impressive footage of a country in transition. Azerbaijan is changing and Baku is one of the world’s richest and fastest developing capital cities, its growth funded by lucrative revenues from massive reserves of oil and gas. An American geologist recently told me that one of Azerbaijan’s new gas fields “measures 6 miles deep, top to bottom”. That’s a lot of mamaliga, certainly enough to win friends around the world during a time of global austerity and high oil prices.

Closer to home, the social effects above ground are, of course, more visible – Baku has lots of flashy cars, designer shops and exclusive places to have fun.

Numerous reconstruction projects are underway, including a special arena purpose-built for Eurovision. Some of the buildings make your eyes pop, and at night Baku looks like the futuristic city in Blade Runner. My favourite one is based on the handwritten signature of Heydar Aliyev, the former KGB officer who became president after Azerbaijan split from the Soviet Union. Imagine a building based on your own signature, curling and poking into the sky like some giant meringue baked by Dali? Crazy but I love it.  Maximum points.

The existence of that building perhaps contradicts a recent news item on the BBC, which suggested that the authorities in Azerbaijan ‘lack a sense of humour’, although that reporter was referring to the controversial case of the ‘donkey bloggers’, two young men who posted on the Internet a video of a donkey giving a mock press conference in Azerbaijan. They went to jail for their cheek but were released after an international outcry.

The ‘donkey’ controversy highlighted one of the difficulties faced by a country in transition from Communism to democracy: when is free speech OK and when is it too provocative? More recently, some locals claim to have been evicted to make way for new construction projects, although the local authorities insist they were compensated. When animal rights activists claimed that local police were shooting street dogs in Baku as part of a clean-up campaign, their claims too were refuted.

Whatever the truth in such cases, the organizers of Eurovision hope to avoid politics before and during the song contest. Of course, they cannot hope to resolve the bitter animosity between Azerbaijan and Armenia, but they were probably encouraged to hear one of the ‘donkey bloggers’ recently urging foreigners not to boycott the contest, but rather to come and see it, and the country, for themselves.

However, my friend Kolea won’t be watching. Kolea was a homeless man who used to live in the alley near my block and survived on a few pennies from odd jobs. He visited Romania many years ago, as part of the Azerbaijan karate team, or so he told me in one our sign-language chats.  During the recent severe winter he slept in the snow, huddled in his polyester blankets. One day, I asked Kolea if there was a shelter for homeless people in Baku. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I bought him some clothes and gave him some hot food in my flat, where he grabbed my guitar but seemed puzzled that could not play it. Maybe he had forgotten how? A few days after his visit to my flat, Kolea took ill and died, but not because of Eurovisionitis.  I’ll watch the song contest on TV but I’m not sure who will get my vote. The best tune, I suppose. Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

***

First published in Playboy, May 2012, by S.C. MediaFax SA, Romania.

To see the original page from the magazine, please click this link: playboy mai 2012

United We Fall

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Things that bring us together can drive us apart.

I’m getting interested in fashion, these days. I like my Flemings jeans and my Gola training shoes. Most of all, I like my new Ben Sherman shirt with the button-down collar. I have waited months to get one and it’s a beauty – white with blue stripes.

Tom Allen has a Ben Sherman too, of course. We are best friends, although he lives in a better part of town. We met in infants’ school, became altar boys together and enrolled in the same secondary school, not long ago. At weekends we play football and tennis or go to watch Liverpool play at Anfield, wearing our Flemings jeans and Gola trainers.

Tom’s mum works in a bank, she’s quite posh, likes talking more than listening and can be a bit prickly if you cross her. She comes to our house to drink tea with my mum every Sunday after Mass and they agree we look smart in our Bennies. Tom’s is yellow and white check.

So far so good, but we need a special occasion to wear our new shirts and impress the girls in our class, show them there is more to us than they might think.  We are 12 years old when our chance comes: a school day trip to Stratford upon Avon, to see the house of William Shakespeare. He’s a dead guy who wrote comedies that you never see on TV but it will be a good day out.

I’m not sure who suggests we wear Bennies on the trip, probably one of the bad lads that live near me? Anyway, Tom agrees it’s a good idea. The only problem is, school uniform is compulsory for day trips: maroon blazers, grey pants and grey sweaters. The solution, we decide, is not to tell our parents that we are supposed to wear grey shirts too.

The morning of the trip, we line up alongside the school bus, clutching our packed lunches and wearing our Bennies with school ties (full Windsor knot, of course).

We’re feeling good until we spot our strict headmaster standing on the bus. We had no idea he was coming. He’s frowning down at the bad lads ahead of us. “Where are your school shirts?” he says.

“Mine got ripped,” says the first lad.

“Mine is in the wash,” says the second.

The headmaster scowls and lets him on the bus but his eyes pop when he sees Tom and me. He folds him arms and says: “Ormsby and Allen, why the hideous shirts? You know you’re breaking school rules, of course?”

We know it will sound stupid to repeat the lies of the bad lads but we don’t know what else to say because we’re not schmecher. We are altar boys with big ideas and wobbly legs so we remain silent and our headmaster says: “Silence is an admission of guilt. You are not coming to Stratford.” The doors hiss and the bus drives away and the girls from our class stare from the back window. “Now what?” Tom says and it’s a good question.

We could muck about in a park all day and go home in the evening and tell our folks Stratford was brilliant. Instead, we wander home in shock and tell our parents the truth, when they ask. Honesty seems a good idea but it changes everything.

Tom’s mother is very angry that we were punished while the other boys were not. A week later day she sends him to a different school, five miles away. We’ll never sit in class together again and soon he’s got new friends that I do not know. She also changes his church routine so we no longer serve Mass together. Does she blame me, somehow? She stops visiting my mother for tea and chat … have our parents had a row?

I never find out, because Tom and I drift apart and it hurts like hell, as if I lost an arm. We meet only twice a term when our school football teams play and he seems to delight in speeding past me as a striker and I delight in bringing him down to earth as a defender. We are not enemies but we’re not friends anymore.

Tom is 16 when his mother dies of a heart attack. I go to the funeral but he drifts past me like a ghost.

We meet by chance one warm summer evening aged 18, queuing at the bar in a pub. We chat briefly about our plans for college. Tom is wearing a Ben Sherman, I can tell by the stitching and the little loop on the back. They are cool shirts, always will be.

When I take my drinks back to my girlfriend, she says: “Who was that?”

I gaze into my beer and say: “Some lad I used to know.”

***

First published in Playboy, April 2012, by S.C. MediaFax SA. To see the original page from the magazine, please click this link: playboy aprilie 2012

The one that got away…

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(…and the one that wouldn’t leave)


I spot her on the ferry. Or maybe she spots me. We’re standing at the rail a few yards apart. I’m looking at the horizon towards France. I’m going to find a job there soon, if I’m lucky. She’s looking back at the white cliffs of Dover, England.

I reckon she’s Latino – olive skin, dark eyebrows.  The clothes look expensive – her red silk scarf flaps like flames and her dark hair blows like smoke around her beautiful face. I like that black coat, leopard collar. I can smell her perfume despite the November wind.  She’s everything a woman should be, sexy and mysterious. And I’m a teenager with pimples, looking for adventure, whatever comes my way. She’ll never come my way. I’m 19 and she’s what, 35? I watch the grey sea. Why is the English Channel never blue? How quickly can I get to the Alps?

I’m feeling sick by the time the ferry docks in Cherbourg. I stash my rucksack and skis in an empty compartment on the Paris train and settle in. I’m tired after a long trip from Liverpool and I close my eyes to sleep. I want peace and quiet, not tourists with guidebooks or strangers with questions. The glass door slides open.

I smell familiar perfume and open my eyes. The leopard woman peeps in and asks if she can join me. I can’t believe my ears.

“Sure,” I say, “It’s nice to have company.”

She has lots of shiny leather luggage and gives the sweating porter a tip. He touches his little cap and gives me the eye: lucky you.

The train pulls out and we watch France whizz past our window. The woman tells me she is Vienna.  She has a sexy accent and her English makes me smile.

”You’re going to Vienna?” I say.

She frowns and says: “God, no, boring place. I am Vienna. That’s my name. What’s yours?”

Turns out she’s not a leopard. She’s a Brazilian translator and speaks five languages. And she’s not sad, just exhausted, moving to Brussels. I tell her I’m on my second gap year before college. I’m going to Val d’Isere. If I’m quick, I’ll find a job as a waiter, ski all day and work all night – but not as a dishwasher like last season.

Vienna says: “Why not wash dishes?”

“For six months?” I say.

We share my sandwiches and my Johnny Walker and by the time we reach Paris we’re giggling. “Perhaps,” says Vienna, “You could help me to my hotel?”

I glance at her luggage and say: “Sorry. I need to get to Lyon as soon as possible. But it was nice meeting….”

I’ll never forget the look she gives me. Her bedroom eyes say: we were just getting started. A porter comes running and Vienna strides out of my life like a catwalk model. But I’m thinking ahead. I don’t want to wash dishes.

I’m in the Alps eighteen hours later, tramping through deep snow, knocking at different hotels, asking for a job. I pause for a drink and spot BJ, the Australian ski instructor that I first met last season. He’s 27, tanned brown as a nut. I tell him about my summer in England, and about Vienna.

“You bloody fool,” he says, “She was the one that got away!”

He’s probably right. Or maybe I was the one that got away? BJ buys me a Johnny Walker and says: “Look mate, drink up, this will help you forget.” But he’s wrong.

Mid-December, a funky chambermaid comes to work in the hotel where I wash dishes. Lucy is English, good-looking, same age as me with a posh accent. She has short hair, wears Dr Marten boots and dungarees; she might be a Lesbian, I’m not sure. She wants to go to Art College and shows me one of her sketches, which is entitled ‘Man Fighting Evolution’ but looks more like an octopus fighting a hedgehog. Lucy fucking hated boarding school and she fucking hates cleaning rooms.

However, she seems to enjoy fucking me, until one night when she almost bites my tongue off. I sit in bed, groaning in pain, wondering if Lucy is crazy. She pulls my duvet up to her pixie chin and her eyes sparkle in satisfaction like a naughty kid. She reaches for her book: Nana by Emile Zola, it’s about a woman who destroys men.

After two weeks and two-dozen disputes about everything and nothing, I want Juicy Lucy out of my life. She disagrees – no surprises there – and since she lives down the corridor from me in the warm basement of our hotel, separation is going to be rather tricky. But I’m determined.

One night, we argue about Picasso and soon Lucy is screaming but not with pleasure.  I open my door and ask her to leave, to go home, back to her own room, down the corridor. She sinks her teeth into my bare arm like a dog with a bone and won’t let go.

The purple bruise lasts a week and looks like a love bite. BJ spots it and says: “Enjoying Val d’Isère?”

I sip my scotch and wonder about washing dishes in Brussels.

***

[First published in Playboy, March 2012, by S.C. Mediafax Group SA]

playboy march 2012 < click here to see the original page from the magazine.