Christian Yorke

Last night Ace came to me in a dream whilst I was bummin’ a lift in the luggage hold of some tourist coach. It was an unholy sacrifice, but the coach would take me most of the way to Andelfingen where I had to get me some wheels. 

I confess that I’m tired of bummin like a nomad in dark places, hidin out from a twisted world and stealin from bars and postin this muck from trucker’s joints on blagged hardware, but I ain’t got no choice right now. I almost iced my bollocks off in that iron hold and I faced death more than once. It was after snorting a full can of deodorant that the light burned brightest behind my closed eyelids and Ace La Rouge came to me. She wore a yellow catsuit and little else, looking every inch the hottest tits-out rock honey alive and the only woman powerful to take back the lead vocals in my band. In my delerium she floated above me, snapping her fingers to some tune on her ipod. I was writhin between the suitcases, feelin down and troubled, needin a helpin hand. Everything was goin wrong, my sorry life was dark as penguin fur and filled with clouds. And then she sang to me; her voice like a perfect flute, hitting every note in more than one key. Hours later, when she disappeared like a sprite, I wrote everything out in my jotting pad with a green crayon under a flickering lighter. It was an unholy mess when I tried readin it the next day, but as far as I can make out my dream went something like this:

Ace: When you’re down and troubled and you need a helping hand, and nothing, whoa nothing is going right. Close your eyes and think of me and soon I’ll be there to brighten up even your darkest nights.

Me: Here I wrote about how Ace looked like an angel (I’m keepin my actual words private) and think I went on to beg her to tell me how I could get her to give up the private dancing and come back to the band and take me seriously, or some shit like that…

Ace: You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am I’ll come running, oh yeah baby, to see you again. Winter, spring, summer or fall all you have to do is call and I’ll be there yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve got a friend.

Funk: I was screamin “Ace, come to me, don’t leave me with these leaches and sick swine crushin my dreams,” and noted that the wind was battering the coach and that my heart was cold in the black box…

Ace: If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds and that old north wind should begin to blow, keep your head together and call my name out loud

Funk: At this point my jotter reports that I had never shouted so loud. I doubted that this vision of Ace was being 100% truthful. I suspected foul play and demanded to know when and how she would reveal herself to me whenever I commanded her to appear.

Ace: And soon I’ll be knocking on your door. You just call out my name and you know wherever I am I’ll come running to see you again…

In the time that we shared I forgave Ace for almost everything and knew that if only I could get the band back together then we could make it big. But I had to follow the Samoan’s plan and get the Red Shark. When I tipped myself out of that coach and started the 30 mile walk from God knows where to Andelfingen in the canton of Zurich I was hurtin real bad. My ribs was all busted to splinters after the beatin I took at the hands of that mob of street bitches in Montreux. I looked like a sleazy tramp; even my Sean John Hill denim jacket was ripped and quality shit like that don’t rip easily. When I got to the village the sun was goin down and I asked around for Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. The way the mums shielded their kids eyes and aimed their dogs at me suggested that they hadn’t heard of Tiff’s uncle’s cousin. I was ready to chuck myself in the river Thur when I fell to my knees on Thurtalstrasse 3 near the Marketplatz calling Ace’s name, calling Tiff’s name and hammering my bloodied fists on the paving slabs.

Then, from nowhere, a giant mountain of pure fat bastard loomed over me. I expected to be beaten to death there and then just for being a hot rock rebel, but to my amazement the man mountain helped me to my feet. I had been in this situation more than once, and knew that I would be too weak to fend him off if he dragged me into a nearby alley to soil me; but I was amazed for a second time when he introduced himself as Tiff Pennisbrith’s uncle’s cousin: Patrice Phannybaahteur!

We ended up in some dive either called Zivilschutzzentrum or Spaetzlipfanne or some other combination of Germanic consonants. It was a restaurant of some description and I thought at one point that Patrice (who had a gentle voice, much softer than Tiff’s) was trying to get me drunk and fatten me up on rosti for some consensual romp or other, but no! He just seemed even lonelier than me and kept bangin on about his sad old memories from when Tiff was a boy.

I was zoning out, thinkin of Ace and tryin to call her name without bein too obvious, when I realised that I had to pop the question. I spent about an hour flattering the bastard (complimenting his thick neck and jaundiced eyes) and then told him straight that Tiff needed his 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible (the Red Shark!) for a bit of business.

Patrice Phannybaahteur laughed in my face, and when he stopped laughing he hit me with it. He no longer had his Red Shark. I spat my drink (Smirnoff Black Label) in his face and made a speech about how he had to give me that car, that my future wealth and fame depended on it. And when I’d calmed down (Patrice had a fork against my groin under the table in the rapidly emptying restaurant) Patrice explained that Tiff had already collected it not 24 hours earlier.

Holy Mary, Joseph and Solomon! Patrice hurt my feelings in the worst way when he told me that Tiff had formed a new band with Ace and that he was taking her to Rome in the Red Shark! In that moment I knew exactly what to do, but Tiff had a head start and I had to move fast. When Phannybaateur disappeared to bleed the lizard I stole his coat, keys and cash and made off into the night full of booze and cheese based potato, like a black panther with a score to settle and a damsel to save…

I felt as though I had drifted into a parallel reality when 16 Scoobydoos swigging from bottles of Hooch bounded into the Departure lounge, tails a wagging. I was sat impatiently with my wife in Heathrow’s T3 on a rock hard chair waiting for the last flight out to Madrid. Everyone seemed to be watching me as I failed to internalise my frustration, although the Scoobydoos (who were now trying to mount what must have been the Stag or birthday boy) cheered me up no end.

When it was time to board we were already an hour behind schedule. We were shuttled like tortured battery hens to some dark corner of a runway in a creaking bus before settling down for take-off. Once the stragglers and drunk cartoon dogs had stopped arguing about who should have the window seat (even though it was pitch black outside) my wife continued her motivational speach, trying to keep me centred. And then it happened. The engines died, the lights turned off, the air con failed and the temperature rose.

Let me tell you, that dead craft was hot. Over two hundred confined humans, breathing and grumbling with nothing to do except generate heat. As I sweated and ached one of the sky candy fired up a megaphone to tell us that the electrics had packed in. They needed to find some engineers, then the engineers had to find the parts, then they had to fit them and finally some machinery had to be summoned from somewhere to start the engines. It was going to take at least an hour. So we just sat there, in a dark, boiling coccoon filled with people who had now started to emit strange smells that reminded me of a long distance runner’s sock. I wished that I’d had more than two bottles of Budvaar with my burger at Chez Gerard’s. I wished that I’d bought the Persol shades that had been on a bank holiday special offer. Above all I wished that I hadn’t agreed to come to Madrid in the first place.

This saga had begun life last November at the Grosvenor House Hotel in foggy London town. I had been attending a Spinal Injuries Association dinner, which as well as being a big fund raiser was themed to honour the “magic” of the FA Cup. For those not in the know, the SIA is the largest spinal injury charity in the UK. As part of my day job I act for the spinally injured to recover damages that enable them to lead decent, fulfilled lives. I was on a table of fellow lawyers and as the wine flowed we decided to bid for one of the auction lots. Driven by our chief gastronome we went hell for leather to “win” an unrivalled dining experience at Lur Maitea. At times I am certain that we were bidding against ourselves, the upshot being that we did indeed win a meal at said restaurant for ten people; all for the bargain sum of £2,400. There were some second thoughts as the hammer fell and we were all rather subdued as we enjoyed the after dinner entertainment provided by Trevor Brooking, Gary Lineker (the evergreen silver rabbit), Steve Bruce (at least I think it was him), and a clutch of old soccer pros whose names I forget.

As I sat on the plane pondering life’s wonders I realised that if we ever arrived in Madrid I had no idea where out hotel was as I had forgotten the booking confirmation. Hotel Urban had  looked glitzy enough on t’internet when I booked it, but if we pitched up at 2am would they have held our room? Tramping the streets in search of alternative accomodation was an unbearable thought that lingered when finally the jet was patched up and we hit the sky.

On arrival at Madrid’s Barajas International Airport the next challenge was to navigate the almost endless escalators, dead ends and an internal tram . My shoe laces were undone but I no longer had the strength to fasten them. Instead I swore a lot as my wife counselled me in an attempt to keep me out of the Spanish cells.

When we eventually collected out luggage I felt certain that we were through the worst. I thrust by bags at a taxi driver and ordered him to take us to the hotel. Now Hotel Urban is a 5 star establishment and I had no doubt that every taxi driver worthy of his badge would get us there in minutes flat. But I was wrong. The first driver looked at me as though I had lost my mind, which looking back was not far off the mark. We tried a second, then a third but each non English speaking driver had never heard of the place. A group of taxi drivers soon gathered round us, pointing and whispering. One asked for the address and I said “Madrid” and he explained kindly (with hand gestures) that Madrid was a “big place”. In the end I had to pull up the hotel’s web site on my Crackberry and, buried in small print, I found its location. Hallelujah!

So, in the wee small hours we pitched up and checked in. And things were finally on the up. The hotel’s bar (the Glass Bar) was jumping and check-in was a dream. Within minutes we were shown to our duplex suite (it had been on special offer) and I hit the mini bar. 

Tune in next time to hear how we spent a fun filled Saturday and whether we made it to the restaurant in one piece!

After my last confession I grabbed my Gretsch and hit the road. The scene with Tiff Pennisbrith in T Bar had bent my soul badly out of shape. My music, my band, Axl (my pet rattlesnake) and the cops could all go to hell. I was so stoked that I couldn’t even be bothered to burn the Magnolia Glock master tapes, but I did find time of source a gallon of ether and a range of clean(ish) hankies.

As I trudged down some rain lashed path I remembered the Samoan’s kind words back in the slammer. Damn the consequences! I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and steal his red ‘71 Chevrolet Impala. That way I might still get to Rome, hook up with Stockton and  do a deal to bring my music to the world.

After hours of painful trudging some hot chalet girls, who owed me about a million favours (they like ether even more me), drove me half way to Montreux. It was a tight squeeze and hotter than Satan’s ass crack in the back of that Fiat but they knew how to party. Man they knew how to work their private muscles. It was like a rodeo until the lights went out.

I woke up hours, or days later spitting blood. My left eye was sealed shut. I was coughing up blood as well. My Gretsch was gone, as was my ether. Those musky bitches had screwed me over bad style. All those fanny hags had left me was my Remixdakickz black splash custom Air Force One sneakers, Rocawear “Block Party” jeans, Johnny Blaze hoodie, Sean John Hill denim jacket, Chinchilla coat and Angorra bucket hat. Man I was boilin alive. My sweat started fizzin when I realised they’d f****d off with my gold plated icey highlighted cross pendent and chain, my icey silvertone mic pendent and chain, my Coolio pendent and chain and my Jesus Head and Goldtone bracelet. Damn those jizz smudged vixens to hell and back.

As I crawled out from behind the dumpster I could feel that my balls had been comprehensively emptied. For my next mistake I dropped my jeans to check for further injury and a pack of street wise goons came at me, flashing their blades in the sun. Man, I took one hell of a beating. That night I busted into some grannie house and lifted a fist of francs and later found a bum who scored me some NASTY acid. That was one bad bastard night. Holy Jesus, I never knew bats came in so many colours. In the twisted grip of a trip I found a writing pad and a box of crayons and started bangin out some kind of diary that I’m now deciphering to bring this to you. I must have spoken to the Samoan, at least in my mind, because I’d scrawled out the followin discussion:

Funk-F***k you man, I’m dyin. Those p*****s screwed me real bad, real bad. I ain’t hangin in here. I’m on a bridge you flabby c**t. Yeah man, there’s shit loads of cars below ready to squash my lilly white ass all the way to Palookaville.

The Samoan: Cool your boots little one. Sounds like you need a hug. Imagine me there with you. Let me hug away your tears. You’re bigger than any of those chalet girls. You can’t let them break you, or the street wise gangsters who beat you senseless. Find your destiny, like I advised you. Get to the Ethereal festival in Rome in a ‘71 convertible Chevrolet Impala, find Stockton and all your troubles will be far away. The world will queue up to suck your c**k when you are famous, it’s just a matter of time.

Funk-But look at me, I’m havin an out of body experience and the sun is cookin me! I ain’t got what it takes man, I ain’t gonna be a star, I’m a second rate shit fiddler.

The Samoan-You’re suitably at one with your body and the sun, yes you are! You’ve read Karl Marx and you’ve taught yourself to dance, you’re the best by far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that.

Funk-When will I see my picture in the paper?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that. You’re a slave to fashion and your life is full of passion, it’s the way you are! You’ve suffered for your art with your jogging in the park, you know you should go far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-Oh I can’t tell you when you’ll see your name up in lights.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-You keep asking me babe.

Funk-I can’t wait!

The Samoan-You’re a talent, you know that I’ve noticed. You’d like to be a legend, a big star overnight! I can’t answer your question.

Funk-I can’t wait. It’s driving me insane…

The conversation must have ended there because the following three pages are filled with crayon sketches of a unicorn being hunted by three dragons and a male pornstar. But, as ever the Samoan had made me see sense. I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and get his car. Then a small matter of tryin to get the band back together and finding fame in Rome.

Funk tired. Funk out.

It has been a long time coming, but I am now officially privileged. Although I can almost hear the rumbling laughter of my vast and loyal readership I have not lost what remains of my cynical mind. Far from it, because I am now a fully signed up member of A Small World.

I will understand if you haven’t heard of ASM. It is somewhat niche. In fact, in its own words, it is quite simply the world’s leading private online community of culturally influential people. And membership is strictly by invitation only. High minded, ultra-chic trend-generators one and all. And now I am one of this glittering, white-toothed and tanned elite. Sometimes even the noble Homer nods, as they say.

I have now spent a few cautious minutes creeping around the site like an imposter. There is a lot to take in; so many rules to remember. For example, members cannot contact another member unless they already know them, privacy is paramount, offensive language is forbidden and the first rule of ASM is that nobody talks about ASM.

In contrast with the ubiquitous Twitter and MySpace, ASM feels intimidating and austere, at least initially. However, scratch about through the forums and posts for long enough and the unhinged, self-absorbed comedy brilliance of the site soon gleams like Tiffany’s finest.

The site seethes with double, triple and quad barrelled names. Henrik-Jan Van der Sante, Maximus Brutus Weinstein and Zeus Raphael-Prante debate the big issues with junior Vice Presidents, millionaire interns and tobacco heiresses. One such debate concerned the following request: I Want a Trophy Wife!

The (very) young male author concluded that there are three categories of spouse as follows:

1) The dedicated housewife-who stays at home perfecting ways to make her husband miserable when he gets home after a hard day at the office,

2) The career wife-who puts her job first, leaving her husband as the proverbial third wheel,

3) The trophy wife-who puts herself first but looks hot and makes people jealous.

Some might argue that the above analyst needs a cavewoman, but I’m sure he was only joking. His tongue in cheek style was clearly within ASM’s rules and was extremely well received. The ladies lapped it up; honestly, they couldn’t get enough of his cheeky, even flirtatious, posturing.

On another forum a debutant asked whether party girls are dangerous. Although “party girl” remained undefined, a young emperor in waiting described such a person as an uncontrollable femme fatale and argued that men should avoid what they cannot cage. And this was obviously the correct answer as dozens of people tapped their keyboards in concurrence.

It is still early days. There are thousands of threads about lambos and Cartier and Sunseekers to work through. And work through them I will, dropping in the occasional remark as I tentatively try to fit in. My initial conclusion is that this site does indeed represent a small world populated by people who set their own rules. Which is a good thing. Free thinking people who know when to obey or abandon rules, or even when to invent some new rules that feel more agreeable even if only for a few minutes, are a good thing. Whilst that may sound like anarchy, particularly for such a heavily regulated site, in fact it is extremely refreshing. And funny, as long as nobody takes the experience too seriously.

Although I fear that I am breaking the first rule, tune in next time for more updates from my travels in A Small World…

Whilst boiling in a BA jet whilst the boffins at Heathrow rebuilt it I thunbed through Highlife, the engaging free magazine. Believe it or not, whilst imprisoned on the super-polluter I chanced upon what BA describes as The Green Pages. Beneath a banner that screeched How Green Are Your Holidays? I was drawn to an interview with a self important creature calling himself Dominic Lowe.

If, like me, you had never heard of Dominic, I can reveal that he is the managing director of Green and Black’s chocolates. This was his moment to promote his chocolate company AND promote himself as an ambassador of all things green. I set out below the short question and answer session, along with a translation of the big guy’s twisted replies.

How Many flights did you take last year?

DL-Five long haul, all work-related, and ten short haul that were a mix of business and pleasure.

TRANSLATION-I’m a seriously powerful and important man. I am an ambassador of chocolate, a statesman like Gordon Brown or Tony Blair before him. I make chocolates for the world and nothing can prevent me from flying about, going to mega meetings and on exotic holidays.

Do you use a carbon off-setting scheme?

DL-Whenever I can, I do…

Translation-A carbon what?

Do you think cutting back on flying is a sensible response to carbon change?

DL-Meeting people face to face is important for building relationships, so avoiding flying is not an option. It’s imperative though that we do our bit for the environment in other areas.

Translation-I am a very important man and I like flying in big aircraft at least 15 times each year. I much prefer international travel to using a telephone or video link. It affirms my importance and gets me out of the office. Someone else can save the environment through non-specific sacrifices as long as they do not interfere with my right to enjoy myself on big boozy planes.

How do you reduce your carbon footprint on a daily basis?

DL-I’ve changed all our light bulbs to energy saving ones, installed an energy meter and I drive a fuel efficient car.

TRANSLATION-What is it with you and carbon? Yes, the world is frying but I’ve got posh light bulbs and a non-specific car that I enjoy driving to meetings and weekend breaks whenever I’m not on a plane, so back off already!

What does your company do to ensure it leaves the planet as it found it?

DL-We buy out cocoa from a co-operative in Belize and turn the waste…into charcoal…

Translation-Haven’t you been listening? My company keeps me in an aircraft for half the year. I love going on expensive long haul holidays and Belize is a really exclusive holiday destination. I am but one man and my gift to the world is chocolate based oral satisfaction. 

I suspect that Dominic doesn’t fully represent Green and Black’s ecological position. Nevertheless, he seems to be one of those people who wants to save the world as long as he can delegate the sacrifice and change to somebody else. However, Dominic may not be entirely to blame for this selfish attitude. The British Government called for substantial reductions in climate changing emissions by 2050. In 1990 (the year used for calculating reductions under the Kyoto Protocol) CO2 emissions from aircraft using UK airports was 17 million tonnes per annum. Ironically, by 2003 this had more than doubled to 35 million tonnes and the Government has forecast that this will rise further to an astonishing 70-80 million tonnes by 2030. At least, in a sense, Dominic is doing his bit to prove the Government right. Gordon Brown and Tony Blair would be proud, as must Mr Green and Mrs Black.

  

Taking flight, originally uploaded by Christian Yorke.

This photo was taken in Zermatt, Switzerland. Check out similar photos at Flickr by clicking the link under “Blogroll”. Enjoy…