faschismus in south-west london

ahhh... yay dahling, i spent the day at wimbledon recently. a dream come true. it's like walking around the set of a gralph glauren catalogue shoot. luckily i had a spanking hangover so i hit up the pimms at 10:31 (gates open at 10:30, within those 60 seconds i leveled two large german women discussing mauresmo's triceps and a boy of twelve in purple and green shorts and shirt standing at attention next to court thirteen). fuck 'em, i got there first.
so, drunk by 10:37 (funny enough, the obstacles above weren't on their way to the drinks kiosk, so i was allowed to lean on the counter and suck down pimms until the gin (or whatever the fuck it is made of) began to seep into my bone marrow) i met my party and settled under the blazing northern sun to watch some russian supermodel kick the shit out a czech supermodel. women's tennis is really worth watching. i have to admit i spent the entire match staring at the two women's asses (four cheeks) in the guise of discovering how they generated such "torque" on their serves (something i overheard some commentators discuss the other day). it was marvelous. divine. unfortunately, the match ended and i was forced to sit through a series of uneventful match ups before another attractive russian hit court 3.
however, within that era of great patience i noticed something singularly disturbing. namely, that i was taking part in some sort of fascist spectacle only humanized by the players themselves. a frightening discovery on par with a recent realization that employment is haunting me once again.
the court itself was manned by six ball boys standing awkwardly upright with two tennis balls shoved up their asses. they occasionally scurried across the court to retrieve the numerous faults rebounding from the net and then turn 90 degrees and rolled the balls in some absurdly giraffic-fashion to the corner-boys and girls. an asinine display. but to make matters worse were the damn ushers next to the courts ushering ushees into seats and

unemployment again. ahhhhh

when i'm not surfing for a bride, you can find me here

oh, the possibilities are endless

this is my favourite website of all time:

mother russia

afromal apology to a certain nana

here:

My dearest Nab., Madame Jorge, Mo' Petting, et al.,

I would like to formally apologize for any words on this here blizog which may have led to an uncomfortable lull in your life of porch swings, fried yolks, handle-bar terrorist attacks, closet explosions, pink denims, nifty dance parties, seam-tearing, lawrence of britainia reading and all sorts of other odd and unsavory habitual rites.

Please do accept this apology along with my sacrificial gesture of tossing all but one pair of khaki pants from a second story window of the men's room in the british museum.

XOXOXOXo

-Rake

turkey is for loners

i've left hell and am suddenly in consumer heaven. ahhh. but, along the way i had a psychological customs check in constantifuckingnople. that's the spot. seriously. i have never been somewhere so conducive to being alone and utterly out of it. i spent three days culture shocking about long lanes of sycamore trees, spooky palaces, public baths and teahouses. i had neither a clue as to where i was, nor why i was there. i just wandered about staring gormlessly off into the distance.
it was a nice change from poppystan. although the women weren't particularly attractive - they were there. and mostly uncovered. although a good amount wore headscarves. ban them! viva la france!
the hagia sofia was as i expected: incredible. it's smoky, empty, stinky, dark, spooky and in a beautiful state of disrepair. one clangs about on floors of splintering marble, and discovers all sorts of errors in wall and ceiling patterns. exquisite.
the blue mosque, which for some reason is often recommended, is dead boring. utterly symmetrical in every sort of fashion and smells like a coffin of wet socks. although the courtyard was nice.

side note: i've recently started wearing british briefs... without any doubt an enormous fashion faux pas.

right, so in istanbul i had a job interview set-up with a certain monsieur nash from some pathetic company called oxford business groupies (no affiliation to the university or city). he was looking for an editor for their research magazine. he said to meet somewhere or rather at a certain time and to look out for a man in a green cotton jacket and jeans. right. so, i marched off to this location' which so happened to be at the highest point of istanbul- on the asian side (the side i swore not to set foot on when i arrived). the galata tower, it was called. well this tower was basically a vertical climb from the bosporus, but in an interesting part of town. it was nice to see that asia could actually look like europe if effort was involved (yikes, ignore that). i climbed the slope (with about seven teas along the way, as i had arrived early) and circled the tower at the peak before settling down to a bench and watching some sort of odd public performance involving a man with a large pointed red nose strapped to his face and a woman with a red mask walking around in circles. i couldn't make heads or tails of it, but was admittedly distracted by the dozens of people walking about in jeans and green jackets. shit. i waited for some time, occasionally making eye-contact with those in uniform, only to be greeted by suggestive stares or fuck-off glares. after about 45 minutes i began to make efforts to inquire as to which one of the bastards was actually mon. nash. luckily none spoke english, other than an exceedingly gay man in a violently striped jacket similar to the cover of an ikea catalogue. he failed to be mon. nash and my quest was seemingly over.
i began to descend the great galata peak and made my way down to the fishmongers next to the famous bridge connecting europe and the continent hosting hell. now, i cannot recommend a better place to eat on earth than a little spot at the end, run by a fourteen year-old boy of a most generous disposition and a large skillet. the boy fired me up some fine fillets and sat me at the corner of the pier where the commuter boats pulled in and out. a wonderful spot for people-watching. i watched half of istanbul disembark and board these horrendous vehicles while squeezing lemon on my fillet and downing a can of efes. heaven (in asia). i had a wonderful view of european istanbul: spires and domes and ugly apartment buildings. and was also nestled comfortably between two generators (powering the boy's business, amongst other things)- which combined with the exhaust of the boats felt lovingly like capult.
so i wondered back towards my hotel (this time stopping off for pints, as opposed to tea, every.. well.. thirty feet). at the hotel, i double-checked my email and realized (much to my dismay) that i was supposed to have met the certain mon. nash at the galata tower tunel station, as opposed to the tower itself. i apologized profusely and said that i could come meet him at a cafe the next morning. his reply the next morning:

Dear D,
I waited for approximately 40 minutes, and was a slightly bemused that you did not show up.

I do not have time to see you.
Yours,...

(please notice the above error in this editor's email)

and my reply:

Dear Mon. Nash,

I am pleased to know that my actions led towards your obtainment of an agreeable level of bemusement.

Listen, next time you are interested in interviewing somebody who has never been to Istanbul before, and has freshly arrived from a country like... say... Poppystan, keep in mind that he or she might be tired and a bit discombobulated. Perhaps it might be better to meet in a location nearby his or her hotel. Or, better yet, put them through to me first. Then I can warn them that if they take the position they will end up working with an asshole.

Take care,

Drake S.

and his reply:

With an attitude like that displayed below (currently above), I wish you the best of luck in finding any form of employment

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fuck. poppystan has turned me into an asshole. but this guy is also an asshole, so fuck it. anyway, i've found a job. damn.

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so since then i have been hiding out in wonderful pub-a-stan. a fucking wonderful place. beautiful plump gals everywhere. things to do. pubs full of booze. heaven.