My Glorious Day at the WRIST!!!!

Today, I was off work!

Be careful not to tell anyone, for I have no defence. I called work and told them I was suffering from a trapped nerve in my neck. Having done this previously and legitimately, it had dawned on me that this was the ultimate excuse for gaining a day off work. One is incapacitated for only a morning with movement punishable by searing pain and a desire to die quickly and prematurely. The next day, a complete recovery manifests itself in a return to work where no-one can legally question the extent or even sincerity of your illness…

The reason for my somewhat desperate indulgence in unpaid sick leave is that Hong Kong – wonderful, weird, wacky and tacky Hong Kong is this week playing host to the world – WORLD – Simon Says Championships (or WRIST as they have been somewhat inexplicably and entirely inaccurately abbreviated). After my disastrous failed attendance at the World Hide and Seek Championships (Ironically and tragically, I couldn’t find the venue…) there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to see one of the hallmark games of my childhood played out by the greatest professionals of the discipline.

The big news inside the arena was that the Belgians were once again refusing to participate, still apparently smarting from their two-year global ban for Simonsaying the Americans to dress innocent Muslim men in orange jumpsuits, illegally transport them 5000 miles around the word, torture them and hold them without trial before charging them with crimes confessed to under torture under U.S. laws despite their ‘criminal acts’ not being perpetrated on American soil or – necessarily – in a manner that would compromise American national security. As one fictitious competitor remarked:

“Ssh… Don’t tell anyone but I’m only here because I convinced these morons that “Arsemania” was a real country.

That was of course the best sound-bite achievable regarding the American situation as – as is well countenanced within this hallowed event – no-one talks to anyone immediately prior to competition. It is a time for setting the mind. The important attached to ‘setting the mind’ for such a competition is nothing but underlined by the cruel turn of events that conspired against imaginary legend of the sport Cesare Alberto Hidalgo Ramirez, whose extremely long name detracts from his extremely short fuse:

“You fuckers! Why won’t you fucking leave me alone! So I didn’t set the mind for that fucking competition and so became convinced that my face was made of cheese and tried to eat myself! We’ve all fucking done it you fucking cunts! I just happened to do it right after team Bosnia had Simonsaysed me to ‘be a mouse’. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

There was little doubt about it. Beneath the exterior face wretched with reddened rage and fury lay the emotional testament to what befalls a man who fails to set the mind. Some would argue that this quote was the result of six weeks of constant haranguing and stalking but those same people could surely be harangued and stalked into realising that they were mistaken.

To the competition, where no less than seventy of the worlds nations were defeated by the application form on the basis that the section requesting their signature did not say Simon Says sign here. Their complaints fell on deaf ears, primarily because by sheer coincidence the entire judging panel for the competition suffered profoundly from deafness…

Another gigantic wedge of nations were wiped off the competitive map when they refused to wear seatbelts on the aircraft bringing them to Hong Kong as the announcement was not preceded by ‘Simon says”. An unusually bumpy flight put paid to their chances and they were ultimately concussed, unruly and jailed before being labelled ‘tragic’ by the South China Morning Post and ‘wankers’ by the unknowing and put upon flight crew.

With only two teams left in the tournament - England and Arsemania - it all came down to a single sentence uttered in the opening exchange of the match. The competitor for Arsemania (Climate – Windy; Population – Handsome) simply stood before the audience of 750,000 gripped spectators and bellowed:

“SIMON SAYS, ENGLISH GO HOME!”.

At great personal expense, the English team were forced to concede defeat as nobody – especially not deaf judges – could accept their return of fire over the phone from another country. Primarily because none of the judges could hear a thing. One of them thought he was being sibjected to static noise impersonations of former Coventry City goalkeeper and self-professed son of Gof, David Icke.

The victorious Arsmanian athlete, when asked to account for his brilliant ‘Simonsayance’ told the Liverpudlian reporter to go the fuck home and it was subsequently revealed that he was in fact a mad racist Scotsman, that the competition didn’t exist and was a complete waste of time attending or reading about and – more controversially – it was revealed that if indeed there ever were to be a Simon Says competition, no deaf persons would be invited to adjudicate.

And that my friends is a fucking sad sad indication of the times we live in…

*Source: Weber’s Bogus Almanac & Sundries “Simonsay – a verb used to convey the experience of a party being contracted towards a specific action by another party who have prefixed said action with the phrase Simon Says, as in “Simon Says, go fuck yourself”.

Dining With Sugiyama: Tastes Like Chicken

Now I’m no structural engineer, but unless the coming of Satan is occurring outside my bedroom window, I’d guess that another Saturday shift has started on the construction site next door. As the first pitchfork strikes hard into the ground, steeling the air like a drunk man clattering through a church, I look at the clock and see that it’s 8am; breakfast time.

 

I only ever eat breakfast on weekends. During the week, I refuse to get out of bed any earlier than I have to, preferring instead to rise twenty minutes prior to work and dart around like a duck on fire before scurrying into the lift unfed. The hunger pangs are all I usually ruminate on until lunchtime.

At the weekend, I face up to my demons and the most important but least inspiring meal of the day. I always ate cereal when I was a kid because there were children starving in Africa and apparently that meant I was a complete shit. I went through my childhood convinced that by scraping my soggy Weetabix into the welcoming bin, I was consciously consigning swathes of little African babies to an early death. I became entranced in the belief that I was responsible for apartheid and was ultimately laughed out of University when airing my belief that I was in many ways responsible for Live Aid.

Simpler times…

Cereal is out. I always think it tastes like something weeded out from the gnarling jaws of a combine harvester. And if God had wanted us to drink rancid post-Coco-Pops chocolate milk, he’d have had the Kowloon Dairy bottle it and sell it to the general public even though it tastes like ass...

Oh that’s right… They do. (Miaow… What a bitch!)

I decided that I’d just starve again until lunchtime and as a treat, allow my weekday habits to invade and impose upon my weekend tendencies. Sufficiently hungry and in need of distraction, I happened upon an article online in which a young Japanese man was being charged with indecent exposure. It turns out, this self-styled asexual illustrator had procured surgical assistance to have his genitals hacked off and returned to him in presumably vacuum packed form.

Now I don’t know about you but, when a man decides to have his genitals hacked off for the craic, I don’t think that guy should be placed in charge of said bag o’ genitals. It is highly likely, as is the case here, that the aspirant eunuch will preserve said genitals, arrange a dinner to be attended by some rich ghouls and serve said genitals to said rich ghouls.

HIGHLY LIKELY!!!…

Apparently, each guest paid $200USD for their share in a professionally cooked meal, the centrepiece of which was dishes inspired by the contents of the bag o’ genitals. Seventy five guests ultimately arrived to witness the spectacle although all but five had to be content with beef dishes due to the limited contents of the bag o’ genitals. I can only imagine their disappointment.

Although none of the guests were willing to offer a casual, somewhat bitter Come Dine With Me assessment of the evening, one can only assume that – as is normally the case – it tasted a bit like chicken.

Of course, it’s pretty sensational to think that a man would have his genitals severed and that some dodgers would pop round and extend the sensationalism by devouring the severed package. What’s probably more sensational is the fact that, somewhere out there, is a chef who was confident enough in his knowledge of cooking human body parts that he was able to charge an astronomical fee for his experience. I don’t know about you but I don’t think I’ll be inviting that guy to flambé at my kids’ birthday parties!

As I mentioned above, our asexual illustrator/eunuch/host has been charged with indecent exposure and this for me is probably the most sensational aspect of the whole case. Apparently, even after your genitals have been detached from your body, you are still responsible under the terms of secual indecency legislation for your management of them. This seems absolutely astounding to me. I would like to think that, if I were ever circumcised or castrated and afforded the luxury of retaining the scythed tissue, that the state would allow me the entertainment of illicitly livening up birthday cakes with it or dangling it from the unsuspecting ears of drunken friends at parties!

Nanny state! Bloody hell! What’s this world coming to! Oh fuck it, I’m gonna go buy the Daily Mail…

Ever Drank An Alcoholic Drink? You're Probably Dead & You Don't Even Realise...

 

 

19:30 Alcoholics Anonymous, Kowloon Branch

"Hello, my... my name is... Gavin (cue smatterings of applause) and I haven't had a drink in two months (cue generous applause). It's a hard road but I feel I'm getting there"

 

Great men have been utterly destroyed by alcohol. It's a little known fact that Louis Armstrong would become so irritable under the influence that he would dance himself upside down. How people would laugh at "ol' Satchmo'' dancing. In fact, the laughter never abated even as he was being wheeled back to his apartment to begin a gruelling soul-crushing five day period of rehabilitation in an attempt to right himself prior to his next performance. As Neil Elderweiss, a fictitious contributor, redundantly explains:

"How people would laugh at "ol' Satchmo'' dancing. In fact, the laughter never abae... abated - what kinda made up shi' is this - even as he was being wheeled back to his apartment to begin a gruelling soul-crushing five day period of rehabilitation - ngah... college boy huh?... - in an attempt to right himself prior to his next performance".

 

Regardless of whether Mr. Elderweiss was bleeding profusely from his premolars as he was interviewed, the overwhelming evidence of this one made-up incident speaks for itself. Babies, mortgage lenders, presbyterians, the Belgians, Morgan Freeman and even British athletic sensation Chris Akabusi, none of you are safe! Alcohol will kill us all!

What, I hear you ask, do I have against alcohol and what has it ever done to me? Well you might be surprised to hear that I don't drink alcoholic drinks. Drinking alcoholic drinks for me is like standing on a pier where in fact there is no pier. What you thought was a pier is actually your wardrobe and you've just pissed in your own wardrobe. The harbour master is gonna be well pissed with you.

And the thing is, what you thought was a pier but is not a pier but is actually your wardrobe is not actually your wardrobe. It's the wardrobe of mildly successful Australian soap opera star Dan Paris, he died from horses and now here you are pissing in his wardrobe. It's people like you who make me sick. As Dan himself explains:

''I died from horses and it's people like you who make him sick''.

 

When a man dies from horses he has to ask himself one question. 'Did I die of horses because I was carelessly inebriated on the job? Will I ever work again and can I attribute answers in the 'no' camp to dying of horses or to years of appalling storylines typecasting me as an unuseable joke?'. If we're being truthful Dan that's actually two questions and nobody likes a greedy guts. But perhaps famed 1940's socialite Eva Braun can help us:

 

"The person you are calling is dead. If you are a Buddhist, please call again later".

 

And there you have it! Everyone knows it's statistically and factually impossible for people from the 1940' to be dead. Thanks to drinking alcohol, they are too drunk to realise this or to appreciate that when a man dies of horses you don't drown your sorrows and then go pissing with reckless abandon in his wardrobe.

22:00 Non-Alcoholics Anonymous Hotline Transcript.

"Hello, my... my name is... Gavin (cue a flurry of office noise - someone actually called!) and I'm addicted to Alcohol Free lager. I'm drinking it right now and I'm standing on a pier. I'm a little confused... I can hear a loud Australian accent... It's really loud'.

...

My Life Interpreted By P.G. Wodehouse (Phase One in which The Child Has Eight Fingers)

Slapped and baited, I wailed my descent and intent with a solid howl that merely accentuated the brutality with which I'd been squeezed, eased and dragged into the world. The midwife remarked with evident precision the well 'hearsed observation that I weighed as much as sixteen bags of sugar and carried the humour of sixteen bails of shite'.

This was widely frowned upon in that Cornish maternity farm as a compliment too endearing to a baby with such an unfortunate disposition, and it was only then that the doctor was summoned.

Whisked away, prodded, projected, neglected and rejected, I became the group W. baby of my age, a condemned cripple for whom this life could not contain the pleasure of a public upbringing.

Heark the doctor that, save for two missing fingers I was as healthy as a mounting mule, but I should never likely amount to anything more than a street side mockumentary clicking my tangled octet into recogniseably pleasant rhythm patterns for the dubious amusement of passers by.

Nurses spanked my increasingly spare behind with abandon, enjoying the steady relief that one designated as unworthy of life introduces to the job. Doctors imparted upon my parents that they should prepare for the worst, for who could socially recover from the curse of missing the core components of delivering a solid impregnable accusation. It was in that moment that the surgeon was called.

He abandoned his charge instantly and flew inwards from theatre trailling the intestinal profile of some poor departed soul and carrying a faint odious scent of carrying too much financial clout and oppositely dwindling amounts of time in which to aggress with it...

'His toes' cried the surgeon, content only to swallow his own air even in spite of himself.

'We shall liberate him of two toes in pursuit of the perfect hand' he bargained with himself, content that a man with a firm hand could wave off the cruellest of abuse as he hobbled in only a slightly obvious arc towards the Centre for Veterans of Strange and Unusual  Surgeries (CORK - inexplicably).

'We shall graft, until we can graft no more for eighteen years. We shall build an ark upon which this synthetic fingernail can tread the sweeping tide of disability. What say you to that parents of this uncompromising genetic monster?!' he drew air in like cheap leaden gasoline from an equally economical hose emanating from an equally forgettable motor vehicle.

He resumed, a hail of suggestions raining upon the parents ears and undoubtedly impairing those still developing in their infant. He plotted a somewhat opulent trajectory awaiting the nasal structures and observed the likely Eastern and Westward trajectory of each eye at such inconvenient junctures as when photography was essential or when mother-in-laws were passing judgement upon the poor little fellow.

'The nose shall be stapled and the remains kept here within a tight-fitted bottle 'n brine! For the eyes, skin shall be shorn and sewn from the finest of pigs,  the rarest of breeds the mightiest boars!' He was for some reason carried away into a steamy illogical arm-heavy dance.

Imagine his horror, imagine his shock whence the parents of this shredded whelk shrieked 'STOP! FIEND!' in their race to rein in the musings of this asumed madman, content as they were in their knowledge that hopping on chastened toes was, is and will remain a most ill-convenient means of transport at any rate!

And in such a merry instant the surgeon washed his hands of the mutant hand of the mutant boy who's presumably mentally mutated parents cared not for podiatric solutions to such Earthly visible atrocities. He cursed these mortal fools to be off from his sight, take their sputous wretched mutant and recommend his surgery to their more spirited and fickle companions.

Later, they stood before the glass of the incubation hall staring lovingly at their baby. It mattered not to the parents that the sweeping mane of curly black hair they observed  spraying from their child's head ultimately belonged to a far more attractive specimen than their obscured balding coot dozing foolishly behind aforesaid handsome specimen.

Their first and only son was in rogue health.

If Beijing Needs a Monster To Explain "Brainwashed Individualism" In Hong Kong, Maybe They Should Look Towards... Themselves?

For many of us teachers - real or imagined - this week marked the first week back at school and, more pertinently, the introduction of 'national education' into the Hong Kong education curriculum. Cue hunger strikes, protests and, in response, protestation from the pro-Beijing camp that such actions were being masterminded by evil-doers in London and Washington. But have the 20th century powers of yesteryear really stuck their fingers all that far into the protest pie?

As a Scotsman and citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I understand to some extent the diasporic skirting of allegiances that many Hong Kong people battle with regard to China. Many people are happy, even at pains, to stress their ethnicity as Chinese, only to add the proviso that they are Hong Kong Chinese. It seems there is an underlying desire to preserve the autonomy of Hong Kong that supercedes ethnic loyalty.

Having lived in Hong Kong for a number of years, I can see that this desire for autonomy is highly pervasive and that a large majority here see self-determination as Hong Kong's holy grail as we progress at an alarming rate towards the full handover in 2047. On the other side of the coin, few could deny China the responsibilty to share an understanding of itself with less than half a century to go until its ideologically unique SAR is assimilated into the maternal fold in less than forty years time.

If there is one legacy for which the British must bear responsibility regarding Hong Kong-Chinese relationships, it is surely in their selective teaching of history. In every age, history is taught as selectively as it is permitted to be. For me, lessons on the British empire leaned more towards pretty silk and elephant rides than persecution, pillaging and exploitation. The fall of the empire was documented almost equally (and wrongly) as the generous returning of nations to their rightful owners as it was the culmination of often bloody and cruel battles for independence. Perhaps political education delivered a generation ago accounts for some of what we are seeing today.

For many, anti-China fears and sentiments pre-1997 led to extremes of anxiety, fear of a crackdown on autonomy and in many cases emigration. Coupled with a sensed and seen infiltration of 'mainland' companies, language, etiquettes and people, this has led to rising anti-mainlander sentiment in Hong Kong. For some - particularly those in the pro-Beijing camp - this is a natural if unsavoury hangover from a colonial past. Indeed, it might also explain why the scars of British-led education have survived and been imprinted upon the new generation now involved in the protests. For others, this is an inevitable attempt to cling to some semblance of preservation in the face of a behemoth.

China's cause has not been helped by the fact that materials heralding the arrival of national education place such pretty emphasis on the value and integrity of the party whilst denigrating many of the values which Hong Kong people benefit from and themselves nurture in their everyday life. In turn, there seems little emphasis on the more controversial aspects of Chinese governance which makes people nervous that their children are going to be 'brainwashed', rather than informed of their mother nation's history, culture and civilisation.

This word, brainwashed, has been emphasised in both camps. In the pro-Beijing camp it has been levied against pro-Democracy politicians in Hong Kong claiming that 'brainwashed' Western-ideological politicians in Hong Kong are polluting the minds of the younger generations. From my point of view, people only fight when they have something to lose. China is the greatest producer of consumable goods in the entire world. A substantial portion of their global brand growth depended/depends on individualism, consumerism and the opportunity to express oneself through consumable goods. When we consume and possess, we attach a value to ourself that inspires us to protect our individual rights and representations. Is it really all that surprising that, in the global age, this trend would filter through to Hong Kong and China itself? Sure people are already being 'brainwashed' but by consumerism and individualism, and the economically brilliant thing is that none of us really see it coming. The difference with national education is they can see it coming, so they want to stand up against it. They want to access whatever website they like, to say what they want, do what they want and be what they want with who they want when they want. Same rule applies again, Britain introduced shopping mall culture in the late 19th century but China took up the mantle and now bears a burden of responsibility for the individualism which partly drives the anti-national education ticket

Rather than imparting a national education upon Hong Kong and dismissing dissenters as fall guys of the colonial age, Beijing should be mindful of the desires of the people of Hong Kong based on their history/socialisation and respect that people here can make up their own minds as individuals and holders of rights. National education would be far more effective if it were balanced, truthful and was not not so obviously anti-the Hong Kong way of life as to ensure it could never catch on without the recriminations we are seeing right now.