Who taught you those manners?

Canada really must be one of the friendliest countries in the world.  I haven't been to many other countries (yet) but in the handful that I've visited I'd say we Canadians are above and beyond the nicest.  I don't like to generalize because we've got our share of assholes in Canada and I've met some incredibly nice people abroad, but the cultural feel is definitely different.  And often, it just comes down to what I thought was common courtesy.

For example, I often smile and say "hello" or "how's it going?" to strangers.  In the park, on the street, in a café etc.  Over here, I RARELY get a response!  The person will look right at me and then choose not to say anything back!  It stuns me every time.  Another example happened the the other day; a young couple was walking by me and the guy sneezed, quite loudly.  I said, "bless you".  He looked at me, and then kept walking.  I stood there for a moment, a little shocked and then commented to my friends that I couldn't believe he didn't say thank you.  Then I looked down the street towards the couple and I shouted, "YOU SHOULD SAY THANKS!!!  I JUST GAVE YOU A BLESSING!"

But here's the best one:  Yesterday, I went out for drinks with a buddy from work and his friends.  It was a great night and I met a lot of friendly people.  Near the end of the night, we ended up at REFLEX: The 80's Bar for one last drink.  I walked up to the bar and ordered two pints of lager.  While I was waiting for the drinks to be pulled, a couple of nice looking young ladies approached the bar and stood next to me.  I made eye-contact with one, so I said, "Hi, how's it going?"  She replied by sarcastically mocking my Canadian accent and saying "Hi, how's it going?"  The bartender placed the tall glasses of beer in front of me and I handed him some money.  I looked back at the girls and said, "Wow, I'm sorry I bothered you."  Realizing that I really talk like this, the girl's friend asked me where I was from.  After I answered, "Canada", the girl who had just ridiculed me got all excited, touched my arm and asked (in her own Welsh accent), "Ohhh, what's Canada like?" 

I picked up a beer in each hand, looked back at the girls and said, "Polite."  

Then walked away.

A Hallowe'en Miracle!

I LOVE HALLOWE'EN!

Hallowe’en combines two of my favourite things in the whole world:  Dressing up in costume and the consumption of unnatural amounts of alcoholic beverages.

I usually start planning my getup around August.  That’s not an exaggeration.  Anyone can buy a Hallowe’en costume, but it takes time to carefully craft a clever garb.  Costumes that are pieced together with dedication are always the best ones.  Plus, it’s a lot more fun to create something.  I particularly like constructing not only the physical manifestation of a costume, but also the persona to go with it.  Think about all of the people who seem to have put a lot of thought and effort into their costumes, but then act like themselves.  They walk the same, they talk the same.  “There’s Mike dressed as Jack Sparrow,” or “Tom dressed as Batman.”  That’s all well and good, but I’d rather BE Jack Sparrow or Batman.

For the past couple of years I dressed as preexisting characters; Elton John and Edward Scissorhands.  One year I got to be an eccentric, oddly-dressed, makeup clad freakshow, and the other year I was the title character of a Tim Burton film (HA! I kid, I kid. Much love for Elton.) Putting the outfits together were great, but staying in character all night is the really fun part.   And doing so enabled me to win costume contests both years.

This year, the fate of my Hallowe’en celebrations seemed to be in more trouble than the residents of Elm Street.  Having recently moved to a new city in a new country, my funds were limited and my list of friends even more pathetic.  The only spark of hope I had at doing the Monster Mash this October 31st seemed to extinguish when I found out that Jamie and Sarah were going away for the entire weekend.  I decided it was time to accept the fact that there would be no Hallowe'en for Mojo in 2008.

The night before Hallowe'en I was at work and there were a couple of cute girls at one of the tables I was serving.  They asked me about my accent (a frequent question, but one I never get tired of answering... I'm very proud to tell people I'm from Canada, and dispel any assumptions that I might be American).  The girls reacted with a lot of excitement at the mention of my Canuckatude (trademark, Mojo 2008).  They began a series of questions that didn't stop until the blonde one abruptly changed the subject and said, "You have the nicest teeth I've ever seen."  It was kind of an odd, but very sweet compliment.  I bashfully thanked her and excused myself because I think I was turning a little red.

At the end of their meal Laura, the blonde, and Nicole, the brunette, mentioned they were going home to work on their costumes for the next night.  Absolutely gutted, I admitted my love for Hallowe'en was going to go unrequited this year.  Without hesitation, the young ladies invited me to join in their celebrations!  They left me their phone numbers and gave me hugs goodbye.  Like Dr. Frankenstein's monster, MY HALLOWE'EN DREAMS HAD BEEN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE.  There was only one little problem; with less than 24 hours to party-time I didn't have a costume!

October 31st, 9:00pm.  I finished work and took a seat at the bar.  Within seconds, a fresh pint of Carling was placed before me, compliments of Gethin, the South African bartender.  I pulled out my cheap, plastic pay-as-go mobile and dialed Nicole's number (editor's note: I didn't actually dial her number, I scrolled through the phone's database and selected her name).  She answered the phone, but all I could hear was loud... very loud... music of the techno genre.  We were disconnected, I took a sip of my lager.  A few minutes later I received the following text, "COULDN HEAR U. WE.RE AV BANK STAUNDOU. BONE MEET US!"  I figured Nicole wasn't paying attention to her predictive texting, or was already a few vodka coolers deep.  I wrote back asking for clarification and finished off my first pint as I waited for the reply.

Pint #2 was gone and still no word from Nicole or Laura.  I looked down into the plastic bag at my feet that contained my costume and wondered if I'd ever get to wear it.  At about 11 o'clock the only thing that had changed was my blood/alcohol level.  I noticed a few of my co-workers were just finishing their shift and asked what they were doing tonight.  They all replied that they weren't sure whether they were going to go out or just head home.  I leaped off of my barstool, "LET'S GO OUT!!!!!!"

My enthusiasm won them over quickly and I locked myself in the staff toilet to apply my makeup.  Minutes later, I emerged...

... as a Mountie who has been trampled to death by his horse.  I, along with Jake the vampire, Alice the cat and Sarah the devilette headed up Wind Street.  I was the happiest man in Swansea!  We entered a bar and ordered a round a Jagerbombs.  And thus, a night of mayhem began...

Pint... Beetlejuice... Pint... The Grinch... Fuzzy Navel... Sexy cops... Pint... Large man in same costume as Sarah... Pint... Sexy pirates... Jagerbomb... Sexy construction workers... Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovitt... Traffic cone on my head... Kiddie ride outside of supermarket...

I LOVE HALLOWE'EN!

Back to the Gower

When Doctor Emmett Brown's plutonium powered DeLorean DMC-12 reached 88 miles per hour it produced enough energy to activate the flux capacitor and travel through time.  

I don't have a flux capacitor.  

I certainly don't have any plutonium.

But on Sunday evening I went back in time in a blue Mazda 3, at about 35 miles per hour.

With Jamie at the wheel and his wife Sarah riding shotgun, I sat in the rear of the little Japanese hatchback as we veered through the narrow streets of Swansea, jamming to Bob Marley.  We hung a left on to an avenue with a Welsh name that had too many consonants and not enough vowels for me to even try to pronounce, but you can give it a go if you like;  "Cwymbwrla."  Yeah... I know.  There must be some RIDICULOUS high scores in a Welsh game of Scrabble.

The road continued to narrow, almost beyond reason.  We drove up a two-way street that was about as wide as one lane in North America.  Every time we passed an oncoming car we must have been only inches from taking off a side mirror.  Perhaps I should have felt a little tense due to these near collisions, but Mr. Marley's reassuring voice was telling me not to worry about a thing, because every little thing was gonna be alright.  And I believed him.  So, I sat back and enjoyed the view out the other side.

It didn't take me long to notice that things were looking a little different.  Everything looked older.  Not run-down, but as if from another era.  

"Jamie," I asked.  "Where are we?"

"We're in the Gower."

"Oh.  Lovely."

The "Gower" is how locals refer to the Gower Peninsula- a beautiful stretch of coast in the South of Wales.  So beautiful in fact, that it was one of the first places in the United Kingdom to be officially designated an "Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty".  Another nickname for the region could be "The Place That Time Forgot", because everything looks exactly as it must have 100 years ago.

Our destination was the village of Port Eynon.  At one time this little port town was booming with oyster fishing, crabbing and lobstering, but the community also has an infamous smuggling history.  At the far end of Port Eynon Bay is an old, derelict Salt House that was once used to extract salt from the sea water.  It is commonly thought that even the Salt House was set up as a cover to smuggle goods (think of it as the Welsh equivalent to an Italian restaurant in New York).

It was here that I turned into a ten year-old boy again.  The ruins were like a playground that I just had to climb.  And climb I did.  I ran ahead of Jamie and Sarah like an excited little kid runs ahead of his parents and started to mount the stone structure.  I climbed over walls and under walls.  Through a window and down a chimney.  My surrogate parents stayed below and took pictures.  I reached the highest part of the ruins and looked out across the bay, humbled by the beauty and vastness.  After a few minutes I looked behind me and realized that the Salt House was just the beginning.  Looking down at "mum and dad" I declared:

"I... have got... to climb that."

 

To Be Continued...

Playing with myself in the Swansea Vale Nature Reserve

There is a sign in my neighbourhood that reads "Swansea Vale Nature Reserve", and behind it, a path leading into the brush.  Every time I pass that sign I'm overcome with curiosity, much like Alice when she stumbled across her rabbit hole.  I want to know what's down that path, but I'm always on my way somewhere when I walk by.

I didn't have much to do today, so I grabbed my camera and headed for the trail, hoping to find my very own Wonderland.  There were no White Knights, no head-hunting Queens, and not a single walrus or carpenter... but I did have a pretty good time acting like a kid again.  

I returned home and put together the following video.

Foot Fetish

I made a very groundbreaking discovery today:  I don't hate soccer!

(For the rest of this post, 'soccer' will be referred to as 'football'... the actual name of the sport.)

I have tried to watch football on television before but I have trouble fully respecting a sport where falling down and pretending to be hurt is considered good strategy.  I also find it to be incredibly long and uneventful.  In terms of unbearable experiences watching a football match on TV would rank somewhere between paper-cutting the corners of my mouth and sticking a birthday cake sparkler up my urethra (while lit).

Canadian stand-up comedian Tim Steeves has a great bit in which he impersonates an English football commentator: "Desperation is setting in.  Only a glimmer of hope remains.  Down by a goal with only... 4 hours remaining." Ha ha ha..... oh, Tim.

Here in the United Kingdom, football is ALL over the telly.  I can't seem to escape it.  It stalks me with the inhuman determination of a 1980's slasher-movie killer.  Football is Michael Myers, I am Laurie Strode.  Football is Jason, I am an 18-year-old girl about to give up my virginity at summer camp.  Today, I'm going to have to face my fears because I've been invited to attend my first ever live football match.  Aled is taking me to Liberty Stadium to see the hometown Swansea City Swans take on the Wolfhampton Wanderers (Great Britain sure loves athletic alliteration, apparently).

The day begins just like a scene from one of those horror movies.  It's mid-afternoon but the sky is as dark as night.  It's raining hard and fast with drops the size of chocolate Kisses.  Winds are so strong the Hershey's candy-sized precipitation is not so much dropping on me as flying at me.  I'm outside the stadium.  I'm alone.  Aled is late (or dead, if football really is a killer).  I take cover in a doorway and watch dozens of Swans supporters scramble to find a refuge of their own.  Most are desperately trying to control their umbrellas but most umbrellas have been turned inside out by the violent gale.

Aled finally arrives.  "You're alive!!" I shout as I wrap my arms around him.  He finds this to be a rather unusual greeting (I don't blame him) and we awkwardly break the hug with a few manly pats on the back.  He hands me my season-ticket holder lanyard and we enter the stadium.  Liberty is an impressive bowl.  Today it is filled with 15,000 Swansea faithful wearing the black and white.  And 2,500 Wolfhampton fans in their own designated section.  That's right, North American sports fans; the away team sits in their own section, segregated from the home team... with massive police presence surrounding them.  Over 100 heddlu (that's Welsh for police) stand between the Swansea Jacks (that's slang for Swansea fans) and the Wolfhampton supporters (that's pretty straightforward).  This seems a little extreme to me, but it doesn't take long to see why it's necessary.  Despite the number of Swansea's finest on hand, these hooligans can't help but try to get at each other.  Several get ejected before the game even begins.  This is great!  If the game is as boring as I'm expecting, I can look to the hooligans for entertainment.

The starting lineups are introduced, followed by kickoff.  A quick turnover and the Swans are on the attack.  Charging into the offensive zone, a fancy passing play ends with Jordi Gomez firing a low shot right into the back of the netting.  GOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!  25 seconds into the game!  About 10 minutes later the Wolves respond with a goal causing their section of the crowd to lose their damn minds and then spend the next 5 minutes shouting obscenities towards the Swansea fans as if they've just won the game.  I don't understand why they're being so arrogant.  In North America, 1-1 is a tie and I believe that's a pretty common definition in the sporting world.

I have to admit, it's a pretty exciting game.  Even in the unforgiving rain the players are demonstrating lots of skill and more grit than I was expecting.  There is some questionable officiating (which sadly, can be found in any sport) and some terrible overacting by players on the ground (which I still think is embarrassing), but all in all it's a good contest.  Best of all, Swans striker Jason Scotland nets two fantastic goals and leads Swansea to a 3-1 victory.  Yay!

Now, I'm not exactly ready for membership in the Jacks Army but maybe football isn't so bad after all.

The Stag

Wind Street.  As in, “The Long and Winding Road”, not as in, “Dust in the Wind”.  Wind Street is a marvelous stretch of road in Swansea that is almost nothing but pubs and clubs.  The night begins as Jamie and I walk into Bank Statement.  Formerly a bank (ahhhh, now you get it), this bar features 20-foot ceilings with beautiful molding, seemingly of the baroque period.  However it doesn’t take long for my eyes to be diverted from the molding to another subject of beauty:  Welsh girls!

We make our way over to where Jamie’s Best Man, Aled, is standing.  We grab a drink and chat it up with a few more of Jamie’s mates.  The guys are all standing next to a table with their jackets hanging on the edge.  I hop onto one of the barstools at the table and reach across towards the two gentlemen sitting opposite me.

“Hey guys, I’m Jozef,” I say.

They shake my hand, somewhat reluctantly and offer their names.

“Hmmm,” I think to myself, “I hope Jamie’s friends aren’t all like this.”

The rest of the guys grab their drinks and we decide to head over to a cozy, semi-circle shaped booth that just opened up.  We take a seat, I glance over to our former meeting spot and notice that the two guys I just met are still sitting there.  I lean over to Jamie’s friend Charlie and ask why they haven’t followed.

“They’re not with us,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, as the realization of my error sweeps over me.

“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” Charlie replies.

Well, that’s just perfect.  5 minutes in a bar in Swansea and already I’m hitting on other dudes. :)

By this point, Jamie is wearing a kilt.  But no ordinary kilt.  Underneath the fuzzy sporran (the man-purse that hangs in the front) is a big, foam cock.  I’ve never been to a stag before, but I’m already excited at the direction this night is taking and looking forward to the shenanigans that are sure to follow.  One of those shenanigans has come in the form of Neil:  Neil stands out a little from the rest of us.  He’s in his fifties, and the rest of us are in our twenties.  We have ten fingers, Neil has nine and a half.

The reason for Neil’s semi-appendage was never made known to me, but I was immediately informed of the traditional ritual of “Sucking the Stub”.  Like a right of passage, all men before me have placed the incomplete digit into their mouths and treated it like a pacifier.  I’m still on my first beer and quite unenthusiastic about the idea.  But I know that my 10th beer is only so far away, and so is Neil’s stub.

We change locations and I'm no longer in the upper-class setting of Bank Statement, but in the drum and bass pumping, lights flashing atmosphere of Idols.  Off in the corner, on a raised platform is an antique dentist chair.  Banners hang all around with the slogan, "Dare the Chair".  I never refuse a dare, but it's Jamie's night and we throw his cuddly ass up there.  A cute brunette with the flattest stomach I have ever seen is on duty and she settles Jamie in.  Some dude in an Idols uniform tilts the chair back and the girl starts pouring two bottles of liquor into Jamie's mouth.  They kick the chair up and start spinning my friend around and around.  Bringing the chair to a halt, the male employee pulls him back again and the shooter girl begins to bottle feed Jamie like a newborn.  Resume spinning!!!

Jamie staggers down the steps to a crowd of cheers!  I take my place to go up next, but the two staff members are examining the chair from all angles.  Soon, tools are retrieved and it's clear to everyone that not only did Jamie dare the chair, he beat the chair!

Enter Carrie; a young Welsh girl with a short bob of sun-blonde hair.  She draws me in with her eyes.  Most notably, because she is wearing a pair of novelty cats-eye glasses with pink feathers that say "Sex Bomb" across the front.  She digs my accent and I dig her everything.  We enjoy minutes of flirtatious laughter and gentle elbow touching when Jamie comes over to tell me we're moving on to the next pub.  As I'm torn away from my fair-haired femme fatale our eyes meet one last time and without words we say to each other that if it's meant to be, we'll see one another again some day.

The rest of the night is a drunken haze of beer, shots, Liam McPoyle, rain and curry.  A taxicab delivers us home and brings Jamie's last glorious night of singledom to a close.

And yes, I did suck the stub... salty.

Croeso i Abertawe

September 2, 2008

4:45pm

I step down from the train and on to the platform.  "Croeso i Abertawe," the sign reads: "Welcome to Swansea"!

4:51pm

"CHEERS!"  Jamie and I touch glasses and I take a big swig of my first Welsh beer.  Sitting across the table from my old mate is almost surreal.  We've talked about the day we would once again chat over a brew for so long.  But even as long as it has been, we haven't lost a step.  The pints and the stories start to flow.

I've come to Swansea to see Jamie and Sarah be married.  By about the third beer, the future Mrs. Morris joins us and the reminiscing continues.  We talk about the "good ol' days" in Florida and the good ones to come.  I can't stop smiling.  They say when you fall in love you just know.  Well, I've never been in love but I'd say it's equally true that when you know two people who are in love you can just tell.  Looking at these two from across the table I am so thrilled to be in the presence of true love.

After downing several more glasses, we head to their home and the real drinking begins.  Jamie retrieves two tall cans of Carling from the kitchen for us and a glass of wine for Sarah.  Every few minutes, it seems, Jamie is returning from the kitchen with two fresh cans.  It doesn't take long for the guitar to come out and a heartfelt rendition of "Stand by Me" is performed by the burly Welshman.

I feel very croeso in Abertawe.