Last Wednesday I decided to branch out in my culinary adventures and avoid the usual pasta with whatever’s in the fridge. I lovingly cleaned some potatoes and red peppers, chopped an onion and some garlic and was just hacking the spuds into small chunks and waiting for their water to boil when I momentarily lost concentration and hacked a big chunk out of the tip off my left middle finger.
The trip to the bathroom must have only taken about 20 seconds but it was already pooling up nicely by the time I shoved it under the cold tap and strained across the porcelain for the bog roll to tap the wound. It pissed bloody merrily for about half an hour until I gingerly peeled away the sopping Kleenex and faced the impending agonies of Synthaskin.
Imagine runny Super Glue (itself invented circa the Korean war to do battlefield seals on gaping stomach wounds and prevent your intestines falling out of the shrapnel wound). You clean up the wound and then paint this stuff on it, remembering to bite down on something as it stings twice as bad as if you’d just poured lemon juice into your injury.
I seriously think they heard my muffled screams in the next street, even though I’d wadded up a towel to stuff in my gob for the treatment. Serves me right for not paying attention I s’pose.
Last Saturday we had another picnic to see off a friend of ours who’s leaving for Belgium for a month. Lots of wine and general drunkenness and I knew I was on form when an Australian girl said to a sweet French girl (who was giggling at my crude “Eeengleesh” humour), “don’t laugh at Lance, you’ll just encourage him”, while giving me evils.
We then trudged off to a nice Italian restaurant in Trastevere where I was sat next to a sweet, big busted, 20 year old, American girl and opposite a rather shy, 45 year old Pakistani bloke.
As the wine flowed my mouth became it’s usual state of coarse, un-PC crudity and the Pakistani guy, wanting to join in but clearly not having a clue, suddenly blurted out “I LIKE FRENCH KISSING!” Me and the girl just looked at him and I replied “thanks for sharing, was that for my benefit or hers. While I am slightly bi-sexual you’re not my type”.
We then carried on talking and he interrupted again with “most men go off after about 5 mjnutes during sex. I would like to invent a robot like that one in the film A.I, to please my woman all night long”.
At this we both burst out laughing and I said “well speak for yourself on point one, but as for point two I think Anne Summers have cornered that market”.
We had a very pleasant din dins and as we were saying our goodbyes I went to kiss the American girl and she said “can I have a British hug?”.
“Sure, provided I can give you a British kiss”.
Nice bit of snogging (which did nothing to impress the French kissing, love-robot inventing Indian) and I asked if I could see her again.
“Sure, if you come to England before June, or Washington after that when I fly home”.
“You realise I’m only going to try and get you drunk and into bed don’t you?”
She giggled and went “well, at least we’ve saved time”.
Wednesday and the shit hit the fan because someone found this blog who was never supposed to. Turns out that some of the content was perceived by him to be about him and not only did he find a blog which does not have my surname on it or a clear shot of my face, AND reckoned content which does not name names was about him personally, he also managed to get my phone number as well,
I was teaching when my phone rang and it was a UK number. Confused I answered it and was met with what sounded like someone impersonating Vinnie Jones in “Snatch” who said “HELLO LANCE, DO YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?” and I hung up.
I got about 6 text messages over the next 3 hours, including claims of being in an international terrorist organisation and wanting to skin me alive, pull the skin over my head like a jacket and watch me suffocate. I was referred to as “piggy, pinhead” and told “you really pulled one out of the bag didn’t you?”. Also claims of never forgetting a grudge as he is “like an elifant” (sic) and to be really uber scary, he kept signing every message with about five kisses.
I got home, got on Skype and rang the little cunt back, opening the conversation with “Hello, do YOU know who THIS is?” and then yelling at him to be quiet while I said my piece which included telling him that threatening a former cop wasn’t very sensible, particularly if you claim to be a terrorist. He then back pedalled and said “I meant when they were being funded by the Americans so they weren’t terrorists then”. I said this was his one and only warning and to back off. I have since been to Interpol with the silly sod’s text messages and they are going to pass them on to the UK police. I haven’t heard from him since so maybe he’s hiding out in the hills of Afghanistan with his brothers in arms (or more likely sitting in his bedroom playing Call of Duty 5 on the Xbox).
Friday and I arranged to host a young woman from Couchsurfing.com for one night. The idea of this site is that you join up and find people in the world who are willing to host you for free or even just meet you for a coffee or dinner. This was the first time I’d hosted, although I’d been involved in CS for a few months now so I was on best behaviour. I live in the south of Rome and as she didn’t know how to get to my place, I decided to be a gentleman and met her at Termini station outside McDonalds. Found she was a cute, 29 year old backpacker (and by that I mean an archetypal backpacker: calf length khaki pants, yomping boots and two enormous rucksacks). I took her back to my place, made some chicken salad and uncorked a bottle of wine and watched a few videos on the PC. Had a good chat and then opened another bottle of wine and then spent the remainder of the night shagging. As she had to be up for 6am we didn’t bank on getting much sleep and it’s only today that I’ve found out what “baise moi” means. She suggested that whispering French in my ear would turn me on and I have to admit that the gentle twang of the language of the Normans being gently spoken in your lughole will hit the spot every time.
Saw her off at 6.20 this morning with the promise of a bed if I ever visit La Rochelle.
There’s two songs I’ve always wanted my life put to. One was “You Know My Name” by Chris Cornell from Casino Royale and the other was “Filthy and Gorgeous” by the Scissor Sisters. I found the delights of a piece of Windows software called Movie Maker and last November did the Bond one, mainly to say thanks to all the peeps I met in Greece, India, Moldova and Rome who brought me back from the brink of self pity last summer. I spent 3 days last week cobbling together the Scissor Sisters one and tagged various bods on it when I uploaded it to Facebook. Most of the feedback was positive, apart from one friend who said “Lance, that kind of attitude is the reason you were beaten up at school. I mean, I know you seem to have found some weird kind of sexual confidence in your late 30s , but COME ON!”
The other was a female friend who detagged herself and told me “you put me in a lewd video, why would you do that?”
I replied that the scene she’s in is her sitting eating dinner and is not even remotely pervy.
She said “yes, but it’s mainly boobs and arses”.
Ce’st la vie….and baise moi.