sirloin steak 07.12.06

i arrived in porto, but the flight getting there was the scariest i'd ever encountered. the plane shook us up like a james bond martini, shaken not stirred and there was certainly no twist of lemon included. were kids inebriated on wine gums controlling the pilot's joystick, fending off the commie bastards,or was it just turbulence, according to the pilot, that rocked this wee boeing?. i clutched my olives tightly,but if the plane was going down ,well i was going down with it. extreme cloud cover and the flashing wing lights left me feeling as though i was in the scene of Die Hard:with avengeance and was hoping for another take but this was no movie, ooh it was scary. i sniffed the air on arrival and i could smell portugal. what it smelled like i cannot say, was it prego roll,was it chourico or was it the flame grilled peri peri nandos half chicken and chips?popping outta the metro ,i emerged blinded by the glint of the blue white tiles that clad the old dirtied church before me. the moonlight bounced off the haphazard mosaic paving, leaving me with a warm rich cadbury's chocolate milk joy in my heart. it was a randy lil impression that i first got of porto. the pavements, although not the yellow brick road, left me feeling that this lil town was my Oz.

again the guttural dutch architect, rem kolhaas left me numb at the knees at his casa da musica.the balding not barefoot dutchman plucked the identity of porto from its grimey, spatchcock chicken,port wine stained mosaiced streets and weaved it into his modern day sandstone, stainless steel glinting edifice, that is neither straight nor curved, but was dropped from the sky and so as it landed it shall be. koolhaas has created or manipulated spaces humans simply aren't accustomed to. he rearranges space in a way we´ve only experienced in the movies. was i walking straight, were the walls skew or was i just drunk from the fresh air?. its a kick *ss piece of architectural dreaming that inspires.

the museu serralves that i walked hours to find is the modern art museum. the building designed by the now buried alvaro siza, sits in the most awesome gardens,lush with greenery,wetted by lakes,ponds and falls and scented in crushed eucalyptus, and houses a whole bunch of contemporary art which turned me green, and left my throat drowning in bile. aargh somebody hand me a noose so i can hang myself and feel the burning sensation of rope against my skin rather than look at contemporary art.

it is not wise to be a member of alcoholics anonymous and to vist porto, for porto is mothership of port wine and bachannalian activity. the nipple from whence the juice flows is in Gaia, which is nestled in and amongst hills and that lies across a grey black cast iron triangulated bridge designed by an apprentice to Eiffel himself. tearing my calf muscles up cobbled windey walkways, only to endure that for the sweet syrupy taste of port. i visted 3 cellars,did the walking tour 3 times, leaving me well versed in the production of this fine juice, and shlurped loads of free port. hmm hmm. having consumed the ruby red, i know i aint a scottisher, aint an englisher but a porto-geezer.
the 10.12.06 saw me arrive in Aviero. i was so tired from too many late nights that i walked this snazzy lil town with only half an eye open. but that half eye new that the sun was a fireball in the glassy blue sky and the bright glint and vibrancy of the ceramic tiles on the coloured houses informed my spongy brain straight away that i was by the sea. returning to porto from aviero, i was stuck on a train with a whole bunch of portu-geezers. usually i'd have stood up and offered my seat. this time i just sat slouched and drooled down the side of the train while staring into the sunset.
i paid and made the 3hour journey to lishboa.it's the most torturous city you'll ever walk through. i enjoyed the city for it seems to still be etched in the granite rock of old europe. globalisation still has not quiet sunk its claws into the once great super power. this rough diamond has begun undergoing the process of polishing with its flashy, efficient metro and having been cradle to the Lisbon expo of 98-a futuristic expression of portugal with its sail like vasco da gama tower,ski-lift and oceanarium which sits on a man-made island, stands out amongst talked about cities. my eyes like venus flytraps sucked the creativity outta alvaro siza's catenaried pavilion, santiago calatrava's oriente station-an organic sculptured master piece and the other back-bending architectural feats.
belem and its custard pies left my shirt stained. there i was confronted by da gama and friends staring at me out of the stone that they were carved. a wee wooden tram powered itself up 45degree inclines and dropped me in Moorish alfama. i hit sintra, a mountainous city. got a jungle fever stumbling through under ground grottos, and rising turrets at the quinta da regaleira, a mystical, fantasmagoric landscaped garden. i ate something portuguese, ordered it off the menu, my finger being the pointer. i dont think it was a portuguese but im here to tell the story. thank goodness it came with a side order of beans to help indigestion. i ate the tapas too, without knowing that it wasn't for free, they carved me big dineros, big bobby dineros. i didnt know what i was getting into.and finally having spent my life savings on a beer in a bar that was decorated in all the GI joes i could ever wish to stand alongside,i felt at home. it was just about time to leave this old rice paddy and so off to spain to siesta i rode.i had booked over night passage for madrid.
stay chooned my far flung friends. yours in the smells of tangerines, the russian bear hunter and master swordsman,fighter of fires and rider of red bicycles. all additions sold separately
ps all action heroes are breast fed, so ensuring powerful immune systems to fight unwanted disease and to fend off colds and flus. the russian bear hunter supports breast feeding. this was a public announcement

skin graft 26.11.06

ah so brixton academy dialled my number and having left a message, i returned the call. outside the academy it said 'the killers. sold out'. but i was luggin tickets.
i had purchased some wild cherry flavoured stimorol in a dark purply packet rippled for effect in denmark. they'd cost me many a danish crown but hey i was getting rid of small change. i was packing these chewy flavoursome gums for the tasty rush id need while sweating like an afghani in a deseret hole hiding from the allies.so i get to the front door of the brixton and the fecking bouncer stops short of an anal probe and then says, 'whats this?', so im like, 'whats what?' and he's like, 'this?' and i'm like 'what?, oh thaat, its my chewing gum from denmark', and he's like, 'well can you please toss them in the can'. So i stare at him like he's a vegetable. 'well then ill chew them before i go in.' 'no can do'. so im like, 'why?'. so the bouncer retorts, 'cos if 50 000 people throw their gum on the floor someone's gotta pick it up.' at that point in my mind i was thinking, 'go f*ck yourself buddy, those gums were important to me, they had sentimental value.' and so it came to pass that i lobbed the poor bastards in the trash can and there they huddled all lonesome amidst the half consumed bottles of water. farewell gummies.
anyhoo lb and i headed straight into the bowels of the gig, but first i had to take a leak. finally when the flood gates had been evacuated we headed into the venue and similar to the iraqi people's pain and suffering we too underwent a gruelling task of listening to two bands, one whose frontman had jeans way too tight and who squealed like heidi and another band who i simply have forgotten. so much for presentation, buddy. we were stood by and subjected to the over eagerness of two 'hobbits' from the island of wight, who warned us of their impending over reactions and excitement to the onslaught of the killers. hell i didnt give a toot, they were unaware too of my transformation into the hulk at the riffs of rockn roll. he he, mwah mwah
set up like a cheap surprise party, the stage was littered with coloured flags, fake rats and mini skeletons. and emblazoned with the title of their second album, sam's town.lead singer flowers dressed in a penguin suit, and sporting a hairy 'stache like a squirrel stuck to his upper left played the crowd into frenzied vegetarians in a butchers shop. i sweated loads and shed kilos. i elbowed, i stood on, i jumped and i screamed. it was a moshing pit and i was loving it.it was a super duper gig, and one more dream come true.their tunes are pop rock and easily listened to, they rocked until i couldn't hear, i stopped short of blowing loot on merchandise. i was a winner. it was an uber nightand one for the scrap book.
thanks to lb for the pics

caesarean section 19.11.06

having peeled myself off of the velcro that is the hot swedish babes, i made a run for it jumping onto a moving ferry. once it docked, i jumped ship and landed in Helsingor, denmark. so i get there and start missioning for a hostel. i land up walking like tom hanks in a liquorice factory for about an hour, i get to the frikkin hostel which was honestly in the sticks and the cherry behind the desk choons me, 'sorry buddy but we're allbooked up' so i swear like an ally thats been dropped into a ring of maraudin iraqi insurgents, forget about the city, hopped on a train andlanded on a large manure heap called Arhus.

its a student town and was described as a 'small city that has everything you need.'i didnt need anything there, i just wanted to get out.and after 2 days ejected my own a*s outta there.but first i had to endure a hostel that was packed with bosnians running a food trade from my room. it wasnt cool-i was scared, really scared. i passed as little time in the room which involved seeing the same city streets over and over again. the city was dank and grey, with a peehole of a city centre, and a dainty little canal. i couldnt wait to get my scrawny a*s outta there.

i screamed running for copenhagen,or koobenhavn,like indiana jones runnning from that big rolling rock. ahh ahh,
if youre into irish pubs, f*ck dublin, go to copenhagen. i watched man united get the false teeth beaten outta them by celtic surrounded by scotsmen, it wasn't pleasant i tell you.its a city of squares and boulevards,of ports and statues. its modern architecture makes front covers of the glossy mags, and even the city hosted the mtv music awards. i visited the docklands. watched bulldozers make reinforcing steel bars look like spaghetti, making way for stainless steel and glass tower blocks, got my sneakers dirty and got denied entry to MVRDV's seed silo apartment block, a modern edifice, again. scuffed my shoes on the dump that is Christiania, now a shadow of its former drug induced self. it rained buckets and i cursed. i travelled for minutes to see zaha hadids Ordrupgaard extension. its an art gallery, moulded in black and set in a forest. it rained and i photographed it till i smelled like a wet puppy dawg. i was told not to take photos inside,i did.copenhagens landscape is pocked with wind farms,its the future now.went to see an art exhibition by robert raushenberg, man alive this dude is shyte hot. he's 79 pushing octagenarian status but i loved his youthful scratching. got my eyes involved in the history museum and dug it like a kid sucking on jelly sherbert. the vikings were a rancid bunch-they loved gold, jewels, and some seriously ornate weaponry. argh argh. i drank reasonably cheap booze and met a theologian who took up a challenge not to drink for a year. that night we met, there was 100 litres of free booze being channeled through the digestive systems of most kids there, bar this oke.
and finally it was time for me to cross the Oresund bridge. to make it from copenhagen to malmo and not get wet. so i jumped a train, and after 20 minutes i was in sweden. i thought itd be like appollo 13´s adventure to space but it turned out like dehydrated ice cream with julio iglesiais´ son singing background tracks.
im not too sure that this was a cool city\country or not. i figured it´s a pretty homogenous european city, although it´s scandinavian. so sorry copenhagen, but this here action figurine aint gonna use you as his hideout lair.
please note:no animals were killed in the making of this email,although some were badly injured and might never walk again

free range eggs 09.10.06

wow so i returned to londres and i hit the tarmac like an over zealous down hill luge rider in a hailstorm. my days have been both lack lustre like south africas batting and yet ive had some absolute corkers.
like a rat in a blender i was off at 100 rpm. i kicked off my stay back in londres with a field excursion to richmond park where i elloped with the deer, spotted their spoor, threw stones into the pond, jumped a bus and landed in kingston which is a right royal blast. so with time running oh so short i visited a scratch on the earth's a*s. it was croydon that i fell and to the croydon museum of all places. i sat in plush red seats in the bleachers, the cheap seats watching buddy bochy in his touring production of gilbert and sullivans Pirates of penzance, and then squeezed my emaciated body in to the brixton academy to see the Raconteurs make meat balls outta the lunatic crowd. fried fish and battersea power station was next on the ol list. its up for renewal, but the chinese preceded its battering with an absorbing exhibition within its carcass. i viewed the tate modern's innards which were infested by sliding shimmering worms. i have a fear of heights, so i said i'd just watch. they called it art, but i thought they were joking.my love of the series ER, and my now extensive medical knowledge enthused me to check out the oldest operating room in europe as well as the royal medical museum full of animals and human severed parts, it didnt even freak this dawg out. i went home to eat meat stew.
it was a whirl wind three weeks, shawowee.

bruce kawakimoto 06.11.06

scandinavia, and i'm not done with you.

turku,10 hour ferry,stockholm,4hour train journey, the loss of my only pair of H&M gloves and in malmo,sweden our x2000 train docked. crashed in a hostel which resembled an IKEA show room,and i aint sh*tting you. the light piney wood and greyed steel consumed my every waking moment, even evading like river algae my mind, leaving me dreamless.

the city is the sponge, the old town forms the oozing mousse of this chocolate eclair that me and elli munched like the fat german bastard kid in charlie and the chocolate factory,shmearing our faces sick. the city's cobbled stones,her waynes coffee, her old square, her parks dressed in golden autumnal colours,and the statues green with wear. i surveyed cemetaries,sigurd lewerentz made his mark there with chapels and crematoria,it was a blast. we perused indoor skateparks run by grannies selling pastries and cinamon buns. the half pipes, pools and street set-up -their smell of fresh plywood filled our noses, were being carved by beanies,skinny jeans,connies and the echo of rock n roll band Placebo. wow what a city.

malmo has become an anchor of the Oresund bridge which ties Sweden to Denmark. since the link the city has grown and continues to grow. it's a pretty large city, with a harbour area that's being transformed into multifunctional spaces lying in the shadow of santiago calatrava's twisting torso building which is a beacon that can be seen from afar. elli and i tried to wangle our way into the torso, but were halted by the nastiest swedes we'd ever met. it just peeves me that a company gets a great architect to design their building,yet no one is allowed in to see it. its like creating an artwork and hiding it in the garden shed away from prying eyes. bollocks i say, bollocks. the housing that's been developed consits of all types of design from pure tasteless sh*t, to money-can't-by-class, to absolute peaches. as we snaked our way in and out of the many stone-paved alleyways and over fake lakes,we turned a corner and there in the distance was the postcard picture of the Oresund bridge spanning the sea. ah it was an awesome sight and one i'd yearned for over cornuti pizza. eventually, sadly it was time for me to bid elli farewell.

with glazed eyes, i dropped into a wee town called trelleborg, sweden on the 17 11 2006, a day that has become an infection on my memory. i'll definitely erase it from the deap echelons of my carazy mind. i should have known what to expect having seen a wee hillock, emblazoned on it in white rocks the name of the town. as we approached it, i thought, 'gees what a dump', and figured like all small citiesthe outskirts being industrial tend to look like absolute po*h. i was sure the centre would be awesome and the sea edge would be like the carribean on abalmy day. but nooo... the gateway to the centre was a trashy lil library, then came an empty market square, then an H&M and then some small toy store with crappy toys and then more crap and crap and the long town that it is just resembled the biggest turd, like mr hanky p*oh.ive never given a town so little respect, and so jumped ship after a torturous 2 hours and returned to Malmo.
goodbye Malmo and off to helsinborg, pronounced helsing boerie, 'stop lauging thats how the swedes say it',i trained.what a dainty little town, described by the swede at the hostel as the swedish french riviera. having walked the mountainous port city, i came to realise why it's called HELLsinborg. i walked its glorious forests and bumped into her crematorium.there i drank carlsberg gold 'imported' to sweden via a white van driven by a bosnian from germany,with Jason,a glaswegian ex con who did time for dancing with mary jane. i photographed yachts, ships and panoramic views.
it was time to tear me away from the gropes of the swedes,and into denmark id run.the adventure continues and the boots are looking sturdy.

oops i did it again 02.11.06

you wont believe what bloody well happened to me when i arrived at tampere, which is the city from where i would then go to turku to meet elli in finland. arriving in tampere at 11pm touching down on iced over runways and mounds of ploughed snow, hearing the crazy apple bite of crushed ice under foot,i was sure i could crash in a hostel i'd been to previously,no probleemo... pasted on the hostel door, 'sorry closed for the winter.' written in the conversation bubble of the comic book story that is my life, 'f***ck, not again,why me?'kicking and screaming under the clear icey-below-6-degree skies i head for the boozed bum-filled train station. sitting comfortably i find my nostrils peaking tothe waft of bacon. some pigs come round, it's 2 am and they choon, 'sorry buddy but we're closed tilll 5am, come again soon.' gsus you're joking. now im really in sh2t street, corner ball sack and hairy crack. the boozers and i were discarded like the bums they were.a 150 euro hotel room and i make sure i figure out other options. now its minus 6 degrees,so i walk to this other hostel.....closed.my gob stopping glazed eyeballs just wanted to squeeze out a syrupy tear-to cry like a wee girl just one more time. then this kids story just went and got itself a whole lot worse,as he slipped, bags and all,ploughing himself into the heaped snow. 'i could have died' is what i'm talking about.with hand aching, throbbing and freezing,i hobbled, making notredam look like a sissy.hobbling, hobbling, my hand feels all wet so i pull it out of my pocket. it was just about swimming in its own bloody blood. plunging my hand into the crisp fresh snow i shouted expletives. with my hand in the snow, i thought that id have to saw my arm off with my swiss army pen knife, i nearly died.the golden arches had never looked so inviting. a quick stop in macdonalds gets my sugar and blood levels back to a stable bp 360 over 60. its like minus 6 still. i begin walking to the hotel but then iread this pamphlet advertising another cheaper hotel on the same road, so after a trudge of about 3km in heavy snow,gail winds and icey pavements i arrive at the self service hotel. 55euro a debit to my card,and a supposed access key code which made itself scarce to me. 2 hours spent outside the room trying to work out the code and eventually it was back to the train station. it was properly like a national geographic exposei thought i was gonna die, man. in that cold, but im alright, and havent suffered much more damage than a paper cut. elli the finn, joined me for another chapter of this crazed comic book story. and it was off to Rovaniemi that we did go. billed as the gateway to lapland and the home to santa and his crew if you got 30 euro to fork out. it's where santa has his village and there you can meet the ol' geezer and send a post card, i didnt. one road, one bridge and an iced over river, which left my mouth to dribble. a great cawfee shop, drink as much as you can and an alvar aalto centre, and ofcourse a town square named after the eurovision winners, Lordi. it was a pretty pleasant town/village, but won't get awards for being party central. we breached the arctic circle and into Inari way up north we bussed, carving the snowy fields and sugar dusted pine trees. shawowee it was uber toitwe were heading further north and far colder ,-18 degrees and a great ice creamyou can have. there was so much snow. we saunaed and plunged into one degree water, totally freezed my wee goons off, walked a mountain as the sun reflected off the snowy crystals in the icey cold , it was the most unbelievable experience ever. it was my small step for mankind. and then the hot english mustard on the pot roast of this adventure saw me and elli gazing, dribbling at the surreal northern lights-red, yellow, blue and green,the sky was awash. reminding me of scenes from 'close encounters of the third kind'. spielberg wasn't directing this wee episode. it was an adventure that i could never have imagined being involved in. i was a sunny african calloused from walking barefoot, kicking cans in the streets of cooking jozi,but who was now bundled in woolies thermals, H&M gloves, a primark jersey,a jacket,a set of you-look-good-on-the-dance-floor blue long johns and an austin powers-like hairy chest and a tiger named elli.