How not to turn 30

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 22:15:00 +0000

NEW START
New year. New job. New life?

Work has been a huge shock to my sedentary system. After three months off, my body and I were becoming accustomed to neverending days of nothingness. Now I'm up at the crack and don't get home till it's closed again.

And as I dither over whether I ought to watch the end of Newsnight or start reading the biography of Marco Pantani, now is probably as good a time as any to take stock.

So what have I learned about turning 30 and surviving it?

1) Don't fall in love with your best friend. If you must, don't tell her. And if you do, don't bother blubbing like a Norwegian whaler who's forgotten his Neutrogena.

2) Don't stay in a dead-end job longer than is necessary. And if you do, try not to play a pivotal role in getting an unknown Congolese IT man on the News, and then watch in horror as his career as a novelty celebrity takes off and his appearances on TV multiply while yours become a distant memory.

3) Don't follow up a five-year old fantasy and expect the reality to match. And if you do, do it properly. Don't be lulled into thinking that, despite the distance, the time, the boyfriend of three years, and the 48 hour time limit, you're going to make her fall in love with you.

4) Don't look at years gone by with rose-tinted glasses. They weren't that great. They were just years you'd lived in a particular time, in a particular place, and perhaps with a particular person.

5) Don't write a blog that no-one reads, and even less people bother posting on. If it's for catharsis, then write a diary. Some things are best kept between you and your cluttered mind.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 04 Jan 2007 03:13:00 +0000

MAN Vs BEAST
It's 5am in Tel Aviv airport. A middle seat, no doubt sandwiched between an blubbery-arsed mother and her three whining children - beckons.

Memories of the previous few days are blurry. But that's more to do with having gotten up at a ludicrous hour in order to sit in the waiting area for two hours before my flight actually takes off.

The highlight of my trip could have been the Yank I accosted on New Year's Eve. Sartorial disasters aside (she wore a backless top with an Atlas-sized purple bra to support her planet-sized bosom), she wasn't too bad. Though I only went for her because she and her friends had a corner table in the bar, and my friend and I could no longer be bothered to stand.

That said, the best bit of my trip was my first encounter with what must be television's winner in the race to the bottom: Man vs Beast. I was amazed at how a black, Alaskan bear trounced world (human) hot-dog champ Kobayashi; mesmerised at the sprinter who thought he could outrun a zebra (in fairness, I thought he'd lose to the giraffe too); and frankly disgusted by the score of dwarfs who tried to outpul an elephant tugging a aeroplane.

If I may be so bold, I'd like to see Beast vs Beast grace our screens. This would include fights to the death between an Orca and a rhino; a swimming race between a sea-horse and Lonesome George; and mud-wrestling between a blue-arsed baboon and a poodle. If it must be Man Vs Beast, however, then a who's-the-strongest face-off between an Anaconda and the Producer of Man Vs Beast would be my hope.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sat, 30 Dec 2006 21:48:00 +0000

OLDER STILL
I suppose I ought to change the name of this blog. I am now, after all, 31-years old, and no visibly the worse for that. But as the thoughts that have been zipping back and forth across my synapses began their uncertain journey a week ago, I'll outline them on this page all the same.

Not that there is that much to say. Except that it seems that as I have grown older, I've become less encumbered with the social graces I spent so many torturous years learning; I have, I've concluded, become a social liability.

The evidence, I think, has been there for all except me to see for a while. The thin line dividing chutzpa from rudeness - which I thought I trod so manfully - appears to have become worn out, like a septuagenarian's arthritic hip. I'm 31-years' old and I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease.

Last week, at a conference lecture, there weren't enough handouts to go around. My mate B had to share with someone else.
"Do you want to share," he asked an attractive, young (married) woman sitting behind him.
"Sure," she said.
"Oh, yeah," I bellowed, as she moved seats, with Cadbury's Double-Decker still filling half my mouth. "You say that all the time just to sit next to good-looking women."

I said it to tease my mate. An hour later, he pulled me aside.
"I know there's a thought-process," he said. "But you could have embarrassed her."

He was absolutely right. I just never saw it that way. He told me of at least three other occasions in the previous 24-hours when I'd been equally obnoxious. Yet I was oblivious to it all. Living in my own little 31-turning world. Let's hope the process is reversible.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Wed, 20 Dec 2006 09:42:00 +0000

GAME OVER IV
Ten days on and I feel almost back to normal. This, I've concluded, either makes me a very cold emotionless soul, or it means that the foundations on which I had built my fantasies for the past five years were flimsier than I had feared.

Proof that I'm over the worst was my being at my lecherous best last night. I met a 25-year old bobbed beauty called K - though she had a whiney voice.

I chatted with several German girls who I would have probably been attracted to were it not for the fact they always sound as if they need to cough up phlegm.

And then there was a Canadian who looked like the pretty, younger sister of a bloke I went to schoolw with. But I couldn't ask her for her number because potential long-termer D was standing right behind me. So I memorised the Canadian's e-mail and drove home contendely through the fog.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 14:09:00 +0000

GAME OVER III
Four days on, the pain has eased. I still think about L. I still wonder if things would have turned out differently had I had more time, had she let me in behind her fortified walls.

More than this, though, I feel confused. It's almost as though I was never there. I'm not in denial, it just seems so strange to think that I went to see someone I went out with five years ago, spent three solid days with her, only to be heartbroken by the same girl, in the same way. It was such a random interjection in my otherwise "normal" life, that I feel detached from it.

Simultaneously, I do feel sad that the fairytale scenario I had in my mind for so many years didn't reach the conclusion I'd longed for; that she didn't see in me what I saw in her.

But I have to respect her decision. I have to deal with it and, given a bit more time, I'm sure I will.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 20:12:00 +0000

GAME OVER II
I feel better today. The mist has cleared, the tears have dried and I'm back on home soil.

It still hurts - rejection, frustration, loneliness. But I need to be strong. I need to realise that if I'm not for her, then she can't be for me; that if she was so wonderful you would have felt it; there would have been a chain-reaction with each of us feeding of the other's inspiration. The thin lady sang and it's over!

Maybe things would have gone differently if our bizarre social (a hybrid of Big Brother-cum-blind-date-with-a-pen-pal) experiment hadn't been so intense. But we tried that five years ago. No, it didn't work because it could never work, because she doesn't want it to work. I need to believe that.

But if she called tomorrow to say she'd changed her mind, I'd come running back like a wounded puppy.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 22:02:00 +0000

GAME OVER
I came, I saw, I failed. And now, after crying myself home along the frosty, cobbled streets of this Balkan capital I don't much feel like doing anything. I don't feel like sleeping. I can't stomach any food. I don't even feel like writing. But it beats lying awake in bed thinking about the moment that my fantasy turned into heartbreak.

My friend T had warned me before that there was very little chance of the reality of L - or rather the image of L that had distilled in my brain over the years - matching my fantasy. She was wrong. L is as beautiful, as graceful, as decent and passionate as a I remembered her. Seeing her again merely brought these feelings back to the fore, even stronger than they once were. So reality did live up to my fantasy in that sense - the trouble is the reality of me didn't match up to hers.

As we walked home after a night out with the local community I asked her what she felt. In her inimitable style, she simply said that she was glad I came; that yes, it had been intense, but that now at least we could move on in our lives.

Her words were expected, but not the ones I'd hoped for. In a way, I kind of would have preferred her to have pinpointed my failings, or the things I said, or the things I did, which convinced her that I wasn't the one for her. But either because it was too hard for her or - let's be charitable - to spare my feelings, she didn't.

Could I have done things differently? I don't think so. I am, after all, me, and even with all the effort in the world it seems clear that whatever it was that made her break up with me all those years ago, it was still there today. True, what with her having a boyfriend and my having just two days to prove myself, it was always going to be an uphill struggle. But I guess I let my faith, my fantasy, my overwhelming desire to meet "the one" become detached from probability.

I told her that she was was gorgeous; she was a great person; she had a good heart; and that she has all the qualities that I would look for in a girl. Just seems that when measured against the qualities she was looking for, I was left wanting.

"Take care," I said to her as I handed her her father's umbrella outside her apartment. I kissed her lightly on the cheek and embraced her. A single tear rolled down my cheek from my left eye. I'm glad she saw it. I took her cold hand in mine. And I kissed her again. She went to hug me, but I had only gone in for the kiss. I walked away and the lachrymose torrent began.

Up until now, about 45 minutes later, I've managed to control myself. But I know that as soon as I go upstairs, I'll lose it. Right now I want to be back in London; I want to dig a hole, climb into it and wallow in my own-self pity until my new job starts in the New Year.

Am I glad I came because now I know we're not meant to be? Not really. no. I feel heartbroken. I feel crushed. I feel sick to my stomach. Right now I would rather be anywhere but in this three-star hotel in this heart-breaking city in the loneliest hour of my life.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 17:53:00 +0000

NO CONTROL
So after years of fantasising and self-inflicted torment, I've finally arranged to go and see the object of my affection.

And then what do I do? I go out on more dates in the past week than I normally do when my mind isn't elsewhere.

Right after Emma's wedding, I arrived back in London exhausted and disinclined to do anything more energetic than be absorbed by my leather couch in front of Curb your Enthusiasm.

But London-based L called. She had tickets to some Jewish music festival on the South Bank.

I agreed to go, not realising that the only thing Jewish about the spectacle was the audience, the songs (which were written by one), and the hilarious transformation of "Get me to the Church on Time", from My Fair Lady (I think) to "Get me to the Shul (synagogue) on Time."

Dull doesn't begin to describe it. I walked out halfway through. L was upset, so we talked in the cafe till the show was over. She dropped me home. It was at this point that brain disengaged and willy took over.

I asked if her if she wanted to come in. She did. And as soon as she was inside I miraculously found my missing energy...

Even as I was fondling her bee stings and sliding my hand where it really oughtn't, I asked myself what I thought I was doing. I had no answer. The red, trident-wielding devil sitting on my shoulder won - again.

On Tuesday, I met up with R. Sweet, pretty South African girl, with a cherubic face and awkward affectations that reminded me of a house-mate of mine at university.

After two rounds at an overpriced Hampstead pub (£16!), I walked her home. I went upstairs. She showed me the view, gave me some wine, and within about 10 minutes I was in her bed. Fully-clothed, I should point out, but in her bed nonetheless.

"What are you doing?" I asked myself once more. Again, brain disengaged. I brushed aside my doubts and went straight for my target.

Thankfully she behaved reasonably well. I left around 1am. But as I walked through the freezing mist home I felt like a tart. And I feared that I might be prejudicing my impending visit to see the L my heart has desired all of these years. I pray that I am not.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 23 Nov 2006 19:11:00 +0000

DON'T BALKANISE MY HEART
I could be on the brink of falling in love with the woman of my dreams..or the greatest folly of my life so far.

For years I've fantasised about jetting across Europe to visit L. I'd arrive at her office with a bunch of flowers, persuade the receptionist to let me go inside unanounced, and then just tap on her on the shoulder and have her melt in my arms.

But now I don't have to. As the three people who read this blog will be aware, earlier this month I took it upon myself to tell L how I felt. I told her everything - that my heart always skipped a beat when an e-mail of hers dropped into my inbox; that I'd been smitten with her for five years; that I'd never met anyone like her and that I didn't think I ever would.

Her initial reply was disappointing but expected. She was with someone; she couldn't invite me to visit, but if I wanted to, I could still come.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I said. I didn't want to be a muppet who travels across a continent when he knows he's not welcome.

Then it happened. I came home last night and there was an e-mail waiting for me. It was L. In an uncharacteristically detailed and heartfelt missive, she told me that she does think of me; she does want to see me; and she does want to know if we are meant to be together.

I was gobsmacked. Had I misunderstood her initial snub? Had I blown my one chance of happiness with L, something I'd literally prayed for and cried myself to sleep over?

Not yet. I'm flying to meet her next week. My heart and my head are both in knots. I'm in ecstasy, I'm scared, I'm excited, I'm exhausted. I could be on the brink. This could be it. L and I could finally get together, fall in love and lock lips as the credits roll. Then again, I could be about to be shat on from the greatest height imaginable - I could soon be floored by a massive, heart-breking turd. But I want to do this. I need to do this. If it's meant to be, I know that it will...

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sun, 19 Nov 2006 15:18:00 +0000

DRUNK AND CONFUSED
My toungue felt like it had been tenderised and toasted. My stomach bubbled like a witch's cauldron. And I felt confused.

I didn't drink much last night - probably a half dozen or so bottles of Budwar. And as the morning mist cleared, I realised why I felt lost.

Just two days after the Croatian object of my affections had finally put an end to five years of fantasy, I was having a heart-to-heart with N.

N and I are that curious hybrid of friend-cum-partner. We first went out six years ago. I was hooked. She broke my heart. I hated her. I forgave her. We got back together again. I went away. We were friends. And now...Now, I think I want a third bite of the cherry.

I planned to tell her at some point. Just not last night. But when she started telling me how my friend D and I were a perfect match, I had to tell N why I disagreed.

"We get on brilliantly," I told her. "We play off each other. You make me laugh like no-one else does. I enjoy being with you. And then, when I saw you at your mother's funeral, I saw a side of you I'd never seen before. I saw you had a heart as well."

Her reply was, well, typically enigmatic. She felt the same about me. She fancied me, enjoyed being with me, could snog me right there and then, but wasn't sure if I was right for her. When she saw me with D she was jealous, but then realised that D and me were probably a better match.

"Try it with her and then come back to me if it doesn't work," she said, seeming to echo Sting's exhortation that if you love someone you should set them free.

But I'm unvonvinced. While I like D, find her attractive and get on with her, there just isn't the same chemisty as there is between N and me.

Still, I called D today all the same. She wasn't there so I left a message. Then I called N - she's the one I want. And she knows it.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 13:35:00 +0000

AN OASIS OF IRONY
I'm on a 747 somewhere over Borat-country. I haven't a clue what time it is. All I know is that I'm hungry and that the more I read the hungrier I get.

I put this down to two things:

First, I'm flying Oasis Hong Kong, the new budget carrier from the people that brought you Dragon Air. For the second flight in a row they've forgotten my kosher meal and after wolfing down the unmelted tuna-and-cheese melt I'd bought at the airport, together with a gourmet cookie the size of Ireland, I haven't got any food left.

And second, I'm reading the fascinating, though poorly-written, expose of America's fascination with Competitive Eating: Insatiable: Competitive Eating and the Big Fat American Dream.

Once I've ploughed through Jason Fagone's murky prose and his references to parochial cultural icons and events, I'm left reading page after page about sauce-drenched chicken wings, garlic-laced hot dogs and bucket-sized portions of Tiramisu.

Being a budget airline, Oasis sells food to passengers. But after munching on one Snickers, there's nothing else to munch on that isn't a pot noodle, smoked almonds or yet more chocolate.

I turn to my book for distraction. "There'll be a non-meaty sandwich on its way in just a few more hours," I told myself.

When it finally arrived, I attacked my cheese-and-tuna focaccia with all the good grace of a hyena that's just stumbled upon a dead zebra. It was gone in 10 seconds flat. "Maybe I should get into competitive eating?" I thought. "I always clean my plate before most people have even made a dent in their food. It can't be that hard!"

An air-hostess passes my seat. I ask her for another sandwich. I am less ferocious, but I destroy the hapless creation in record time. And I reflect on my predicament.

When I was at school, there was a joke that lippy public schoolboys used to tell:
Q: What's the definition of "suspicion"?
A: A nun doing press-ups in a cocumber field.

I now have a definition for irony: "Reading a book on competitive eating while starving on a plane."

Oasis itself was pretty poor: four-year old films; delays; forgotten food; and a flight time longer than any other because the company forgot to get permission to fly over Russia.

Still, as a result of my complaints I've now been offered a free return flight to Hong Kong. Next time, I'll bring a packed lunch.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 09 Nov 2006 14:56:00 +0000

HOT ROCKS
Five beers and a curry into the evening and the James Bond credits are rolling in front of my bleary eyes.

I've just come from Le Grand Hotel d'Angkor, a unashamedly pompous palace of a hotel in Siem Reap, Cambodia, where the doormen are so posh they wear ivory-white Prussian-esque Pickelhauben. The architecture was French colonial in style, the pool was Olympic in size and you need a mortgage for dinner.

Yet this isn't even the most impressive hotel here. Everywhere I look, I'm blown away by the builders. Sipping beer alongside the FCC's saltwater pool I felt like a sweaty, French civil servant from the 1930s.

Even the new hotels, which could have ended up like a tacky version of Las Vegas, are mind-blowing. If ever I come to build a gaudy mansion on The Bishop's Avenue, I'm going to ship over boat-loads of Cambodians.

Ealier today I had two of them catering to my every muscular need, kneading my folds of flab and aching limbs with their hands, elbows and boiling hot stones. The chef d'oeuvre involved one of them leaping on to my torso and pressing down hard on my groin. Needless to say, I finshed myself off back in my room.

Soon after, I sent L a mail that I began writing the night before. It was one of the toughest things I've ever composed. In it, I fessed up to five years of obsession; that I'd always felt a deep connection between us; and that I'd never met anyone like her nor felt that I ever would. I told her everything. Why? Because she asked. Now I have to wait for her reply. I dread to think what it might say...

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sun, 29 Oct 2006 16:03:00 +0000

DATING DISASTER
It was an inauspicious beginning to my Israeli dating career. After weeks of trans-continental e-mailing, my meeting with H came to a premature end in a cafe just yards from where Yitzchak Rabin was assassinated.

I shouldn't have been surprised, then, when the other target for my trip proved to be both unattainable and undesirable.

Hint one came just as I was leaving my brother's Stepford-esque town. I called M to tell her I was on my way. She said she was bringing a friend along, and not in a "let's have a threesome" kind of way.

We met at a cafe in a town just outside Tel Aviv. I had a milkshake and hot chocolate; she and her friend nibbled on a salad while downing capuccinos.

Hint two was anectodes about a boyfriend in South America; another guy she'd stood up the previous night; and a third one who's exact place in the pantheon of M's love-life I'd forgotten almost as soon as I'd been told.

Her friend was somewhat more perceptive. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned her fellow diners like The Terminator. "What on earth is she wearing...Who does he think he is...Hmmm. Nice."

Likewise, I only had to look at her for her to know what I was thinking about M, and for me to know that she knew what I knew and M didn't have a clue. Third time's the charm?

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:35:00 +0000

ONLY IN PERU
When I lived in Peru, I came face to face with a country that is not only home to the Incas, but to the bizarre, the outrageous and the downright unbelievable.

In what other country would one of the most important trials in the country's history consist of verbal-jousting between a balding, megalomaniac mute and his ex, a zebra-print-top wearing former air-hostess with Farrah-Fawcett hair and the fury of a woman scorned?

Where else would the heart-attack-prone vice-president of a nation be challenged to a swords-at-dawn duel by a rival congressman who felt his manhood had been impugned?

And tell me what other country in the world has had not one, but two (successive) presidents who have been forced to admit to being the proud parent of a bastard love-child?

To be honest, when news reached me that the silver-tongued hulk that is President Alan Garcia had owned up to part-owning a child with a woman other than his wife, I wasn't surprised. Just mildly amused. After all, our Alan probably took no little pleasure in joining the chorus of opprobrium directed at his predecessor for the exact same faux pas (Alan argues that his case is incomparable because he recognised the child from day one, compared with Alejandro Toledo's decade-long denial).

Even so, I can't help but feel sorry for Alan Jr. Being outed as a bastard must be a bitch at the best of times. But when papi is president at the same time (and the man that drove Peru to economic ruin in the 1980s) then it must be borderline intolerable. To add to the woes of the poor boy borne by Alan, as well as bearing his father's name, in Peru you also carry the mother's, in this case Cheesman. CHEESMAN!! Poor, poor child.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 19 Oct 2006 20:46:00 +0000

PERFECT DAY?
Eight am. Time to get up. Phone interview at 11. Must prepare. Why do I want the job? Why do I want to leave my current post? Think, THINK!

For three hours I stared at the computer screen, writing and rewriting my answers to the inevitable, yet still hypothetical, questions I expected to be asked.

In the bathroom, my builder was cutting tiles in half with a diamond-cut blade borrowed from an Irish hardware store up the road. I told him to pause. Five to 11, time to call...

Two minutes later it was all over. I GOT THE JOB! I felt like crying. It was the first bit of positive job news I'd received in over a year. The demoralisation, humiliation and depression of my current position would soon be over...

Within a few hours, my builder had finished the two-week job he'd begun a year earlier (all it took was a threat not to pay up). My flat was now finished with a glossy-white finish.

That evening my parents joined me for a celebratory dinner. I ordered a chilli chicken Balti. Or is it a Balti chilli chicken? Or perhaps a chicken chilli Balti, even? It was the hottest thing on the menu. I washed it down with several Cobra beers, went home and then waited for S to turn up.

It had gone 1am by the time her booty call materialised. And this time I kept the lights on.

Now I like to think that I've seen a fair few front bottoms in my time. Fluffy ones, well-groomed ones, even shaved ones. But I've never once come across a tufty one - if Hitler had been a cunt (and I'm sure most people agree he that he was history's biggest cunt) he would have looked like S's muff. In fact, now I come to think of it, looking down at me while I was going down on her, I must have looked a dead-ringer for the genocidal anti-Semite. Thank goodness I don't have a side-parting.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 22:06:00 +0000

FESTIVAL SHAG
Synagogue has always been a pretty good hunting ground for me. I've lusted after the ladies in the women's section; exchanged numbers at the post-service buffet; and even gotten to go out with a fair few. Last night, I took things to a whole new level, and not necessarily a better one.

It was Simchat Torah - the culmination of the autumn festival-fest and noted for the copious consumption of alcohol and food that usually accompanies it.

The party began slowly. Some people came in for a quick peek - and promptly left. I feared that, despite all our efforts, it would be a disaster. But within a couple of hours, the mechitza that separated the men from the women melted away, and things began to swing. The older retired to their town-houses; a five-year old child manned the bar; and carnage began to ensue.

Target number one was a petite blondey from South Africa with a pretty face and an endearing habit of wobbling within inches of your face when she spoke. My only reservation about her is that she's mates with a twat I once shared a room with. But I pushed these doubts aside. And, after a couple of encounters, I asked her for her number. She gave me her card and I moved on to target number two.

S was a lanky literary agent with brown and pink polka dot dress. She spoke at a million miles an hour and seemed quite bonkers. I was instantly drawn to her. Come the end of the evening, I walked her home. Her hand took hold of mine. And as we walked, we kissed.

So far so normal. But then I walked her home. Once my friend had gone, we went to her room, where things proceeded at the same pace at which she spoke. Before I knew it, we were naked in her bed and she was rummaging in her draws for condoms. She found them.

So there I was, on a festival that celebrates the receiving of the Torah, shagging a girl I met in the synagogue. I can't say I was proud.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 12 Oct 2006 22:39:00 +0000

BED TROUBLE
I show my bed to most people who come to my home. I have no wish for (most of) them to hop in. I'm just proud of my bed. I gush about its Italian leather frame. And I marvel about its hydraulics which allow the slats and the mattress to lift up, revealing acres of storage space below.

But last night, my bed precipitated a nightmare. Hoisting up the mattress to allow me to pick the next day's shirt, I heard a clunking noise. After several failed attempts at shutting the contraption, I noticed a metal plate had escaped from its moorings. It now hung limply from the side of the bed.

I scrambled into action. Drafted in my allan-key. And tried - and repeatedly failed - to fix the offending bed-plate. I gave up. I mulled the sofa as that evening's companion. But sleeping in a v-shape is not my favourite. So I dragged my mattress into my living room and slept on the floor.

My bed still lies in tatters next door. I don't even have the consolation of a night's heavy humping for my woes (though I did have a fumble or three with a frizzy-haired musician seven years my senior, but more on that another time).

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Tue, 03 Oct 2006 17:46:00 +0000

INCOMPLETE
It's been three weeks since my blinding job interview and still I have no idea when I'll get to meet the big boss.

It's been over a month since I pitched my genius of an Internet idea to the chief executive of a listed media firm, and still he hasn't got back to me. My other business ideas remain frozen in the back of my mind, waiting to be implemented, waiting for me to get off my arse.

But nothing happens. Nothing changes. Boredom grows. And frustration seethes out of my every pore. Today's achievements include: a quote on carpets for my stairwell; a walk to the newsagents to buy the MediaGuardian, only for me to return home empty-handed after I realised it was Tuesday rather than Monday; and two-and-a-half mind-numbing hours watching The Aviator. Now I have to ready myself for another night-shift. Arggh...

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 11:20:00 +0000

THINK WITH THE HEAD
It's all just getting a little too incestuous. Last night, I finally went out with E, yet another Israeli architect, based in London, that I'd met online.

In her pictures she has child-like cheekbones, but a kind, sweet-looking pout. She claimed to be 28. But when we met, she confessed that she was, in fact, 32.

"That's okay," I said. "If you'd been 40 I'd have walked out the door, but what's a couple of years between friends?"

She also revealed that she was mates with the other Israeli architect I'd had the misfortune of meeting one Sunday night. Her friend, K, had told E that the date had been awful; that I'd appeared disappointed from the moment we'd met (am I really that transparent?); but that I was good-looking and that E and me should meet.

In real-life, she had full, bursting lips and a dark, enigmatic stare. We got on well enough, but I wasn't all there. Brain disengaged from body, and willy took control (this, despite my determination to behave myself in the run-up to Yom Kippur).

From then on, flirts became more outrageous. She pinched my arse and even prodded my nob at one point - in the pub! I responded in kind. Then we kissed rather more outrageously than I felt comfortable with in a public house.

"Let's go," I said.

I walked her back to her student digs. She took me up to the balcony. I could see the surrounding city, neon-blue lights illuminating nearby buildings, and the humid night air cloaking everything around me in a damp haze.

We kissed passionately. She groped at me in my jeans. I moved my hand up her legs. She pulled away. She looked out over the balcony. "I didn't enjoy what you just did," she said. I apologised and brain clawed back some territory. She was feigning hurt to get more attention from me. And I don't play that game.

A few moments later, she was blowing hot again. We kissed some more, she put her hand down my pants and she almost felt nuts (to paraphrase the Bloodhound Gang). We said goodbye and I got the bus home.

Somewhere in between Holburn and Oxford Street, she called me. I couldn't hear her well. I told her we'd speak later in the week. "If you want, I don't know?" she said, showing an insecurity that tallied utterly with her earlier demonstration of hot-and-cold blowing.

I think I will call her again. But I know that she's not for me. To be fair, though, I knew that from almost the moment we met. If only my brain didn't shut down when my willy engaged.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 21 Sep 2006 17:14:00 +0000

NOT THERE YET
I'm worried. Although I had an excellent interview at my prospective employers, the way things are going at my current home I could get sacked before I have a chance to quit.

Every time I go to work now, I dread the opening of my inbox, fearful of what awaits me inside. My heart literally sinks and my mood swings lower.

This time it stems from a panic just before deadline, precipitated by a costly new content management system which routinely fucks up. The fact that it does this at random, and therefore may not have affected my colleagues, is only likely to deepen my boss's loathing for me.

As and when my next reprimand comes, complete with the punishment he intends to mete out, I'll already have a considered response:

"I wouldn't do that for the following reason," I'd say.
"One - it's grossly unfair and part, I feel, of your campaign to discredit, demoralise and demotivate me, while at the same time hounding me out because of your managerial incompetence.
Two - I'll take it to the unions and take you to an industrial tribunal - I've been told I have a watertight case.
Three - I'm leaving anyway (please see my notice attached)."

But I need to be careful. Although I've almost landed the new job, they see me coming to them from a position of strength i.e. I have a job already. If I leave before signing for the new firm, then I might look desperate. Either way, I want to be out of there within a month. So let's just hope that new contract lands on my doormat sooner rather than later.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 23:54:00 +0000

KYLIE
Just a couple of months after Kylie Morris was sensationally poached from the BBC by Channel 4 (the Beeb refused to match the salary she was being offered), she's had yet another big break: the coup in Thailand.

The bottle-blonde Ozzy was on hand in Bangkok. Jon Snow, the widely-venerated, veteran presenter of Channel 4 News, was due to interview their hot, new correspondent. The satellite link was up. The story next on the running order. And then this happened:

"Now over to our Southeast Asia correspondent, Kylie Minogue."

Cue hilarity and much mirth in the privacy of my own living room. Did anyone else spot it?

Kylie (Morris, that is), didn't miss a beat. She answered all the questions thrown at her. The interview ended:

"Thank you Kylie (long pause), er, Morris in Bangok."

Don't worry about it, Jon. I know better than most how cock-ups can happen to anyone!

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Sat, 16 Sep 2006 19:55:00 +0000

RIP VAN COHEN
Jet-lag, night-shifts and drink can be a potent mix. I only realised this after waking up at 1pm, almost 12 hours after I'd gone to bed. I can't remember the last time I've slept in so late. I needed it.

Last night was definitely worth it. A Friday night dinner with a surprisingly-low neb-quotient. After wandering around the dining hall aimlessly for 10 minutes, wondering if I would end up on a table with man-eating harpies and 45 year-old saddos who get excited by accountancy and still live at home, I found a friend.

S was with her usual sidekick, L. Better still, they were with two other fine young fillies, one of whom sat up so straight that she appeared taller than me even without standing atop her heels (I really need to work on my Alexander Technique).

S was stunning, tanned and freckle-faced with boyish wavy hair that jutted out at bizarre angles when she pushed her hair back over head. She wore a mole-toothed top, cut just low-enough to reveal the whites left behind by her bikini top.

I asked her if I could call her. She said yes, but there was no hint of whether she was just being polite or genuinely liked me. Until proven otherwise, I'll assume the former (old habits die hard).

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 05:09:00 +0000

EQUANIMITY
Three hours to go till my latest brush with the night comes to a close. My taskmaster appears to have taken it upon himself to give me extra lashings of nocturnal labour. I'd forgotten (how easy it is to do) how painfully dull these shifts really are. Having a bitch with the face of the bloke in the Beauty and the Beast TV series as my evening's boss doesn't help. So much for northern charm. She's about as agreeable as gastroenteritis.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Mon, 11 Sep 2006 22:53:00 +0000

MILITARY SEND-OFF
I'm standing in a queue at Colombia's international airport. I've gone through emmigration and had my bags screened. Now they want to search me thoroughly.

A soldier, his camouflage-coloured cap failing to hide the fact that he only finished school a year ago, beckons me over. I open my bag. He tells me to remove everything, one half at a time.

My crumpled shirts and Next underwear fail to excite him. He feels thoroughly around and underneath the case, searching for a false bottom (and drugs). I return my belongings and begin unpacking the other side.

"What's this?" he asks, fingering my leather-bound prayer-book.

"It's a prayer-book," I explain.

He opens the book and looks inside. "It's written backwards," he exclaims.

"That's how Hebrew's written."

He then points to my Tefillin. "What does this say?"

"Tefillin," I reply.

"They're made of leather and worn during morning prayers," I say, the Spanish word for phylactery escaping me and probably useless even if my memory hadn't failed.

"You can't open them," I add, in case El Capitan thought I'd stashed an ounce or two inside.

Next on the soldier's list was my Paul Smith washbag. He pulled out a Boots condom (one of several that I'd optimistically taken away with me but had failed to use). He held it between his fingers for several seconds longer than necessary, no doubt wondering what a strange religion these Hebrew-reading, leather-box wearing Jews have.

noreply@blogger.com (David Cohen) — Mon, 11 Sep 2006 22:13:00 +0000

BIGOT'S BANQUET

I'm sitting in a dimly-lit, thatched chalet on a Caribbean island just off Colombia's northern coast. There are no shops here, or many tourists. Just a bar, a salt-water pool and beach with sand imported from neigbours in the archipelago.

It is the volcanification of boredom and it's only 9.20pm. Already, I've left the other four castaways in the dining hut; I just couldn't stand to be in their company any more.

The conversation had begun innocently enough. We were on the beach, the full moon's glow mingling with the neon floodlights to brighten the sea as it nibbled at the shore. Maria-Jose, just remarried and here on honeymoon, was bemoaning the loony liberalism of Spain's current PM, Jose Luis Zapatero.

Pro-immigration, anti-US; my G-d, he's even taking down statues of Franco! The main problem, she says, are the Moroccan (i.e. Muslim) immigrants. Apparently they government pays them 150 euros per child per month on condition that their brood is sent to school. They take up half of all subsidised school dinners, she added; and they use benefits destined for school textbooks for other fripperies.

How much of this is true I don't really know.

Later that evening, as I was swallowing my boiled rice with mashed potato, former jumbo-jet pilot Eduardo Espinoza was moving seamlessly from talking about Hugo Chavez and his plans to monopolise South America's oil production, to how some races are better at some things than others.

So, for example, blacks are good at sport and boxing (sic); whites can do anything; but Indians (like Chavez and Bolivia's Evo Morales) can't lead: it's not in their DNA, said Espinoza.

"Maybe it sounds ugly or racist," he said, "but it's true."

"It is ugly and it is racist," I told him.

"Not for me it isn't," piped in Maria Jose's shiny, new hubby Julio.

"Blacks are racist too," continued Espinoza. "If I tried to live in one of their areas they'd drive me out."

He declined to add that as a wealthy, white, Latino businessman he has no desire to live in a downtrodden, black ghetto. But he hadn't finished.

"Most crime - drugs and murders - are committed by black people," he said.

Not to be outdone, Julio chimed in with: "Gypsies are the most racist people in Spain."

I scratched my chin thoughtfully. Do I launch an unwinnable tirade against this trio of Hispanic bigots? Do I stay and say nothing? Or do I leave?

I'd already told them how I felt, I reasoned. If I leave, they'll know why.

"Buenas noches," I announced, as I abruptly left the table. I may be sitting in a dimly-lit room with a fan blasting warm air at my burnt and mosquito-bitten body, but at least I can sleep tonight.