The Olympic World European Championship Cup of Books - ECUADOR VS GERMANY PART 2

When I concocted the Olympic World European Championship of Books, I had in mind a whimsical journey through literature, an enlightening process that would give me a greater understanding of cultural nuances, an appreciation of intercontinental writing styles and would eventually spit me out the other side of its polished innards a better, more rounded person.

Then, Huasipungo happened. It happened hard.

We’re currently 5 (five) months into the challenge. By this stage, I should be through 14 and ¼ books. I have just finished my second. My second book. In 5 months. Fuck you, Jorge Icaza.

I can only imagine that the reams of positive reviews on Good Reads for this book are by Ecuadorean people instigating some sort of cultural sabotage, ensuring more people go through the unbelievable ball ache of sourcing a book with ONE translation, of which maybe 40 copies are in the UK. This book cost me £14, and in every sense other than the literal, I was mugged for it.

To give a brief synopsis of the book; fuck you, Jorge Icaza, for wasting my sweet time. It’s a tale of subjugation of a simplistic indigenous people, who live in villages called Huasipungos. Everyone who isn’t an Indian in this book is a complete dick, and at some point will rape, accidentally kill or just be incredibly rude to someone who is an Indian. That’s the book. There’s some other bullshit about a road that seemed significant, but by this stage I wanted to call Jorge Icaza’s remaining family and give them a piece of my mind, so I wasn’t concentrating.

If I was a completely fair and rational person, I’d say that this book isn’t badly written (though the translation was apparently a very difficult task). I’d say it’s packed with pathos and strong emotions and - credit where it’s due - it does have a beginning, a middle and an end. It is a very worthy book, and it’s an incredibly significant piece of art in Ecuador’s history.

However, I am not a fair and rational person, I am an idiot who conceives of badly named book challenges. When I was on the tube with this book, I opted for reading adverts about supplements for pregnant women and emergency payday loans. It took me THREE MONTHS to read this book. It’s about 215 pages long. I have never experienced less compelling fiction.

(Better than Huasipungo despite not even technically being a book)

I would literally rather read the instructions for a Baxi Duo-tec 28 HE Combi boiler over and over again for the rest of my natural life and throughout the afterlife than read another page of Huasipungo. Huasipungo may be an incredibly significant piece, historically, however I hated it so much I have plans to dropkick it into the ocean next time I’m near the coast.

To stick to the football theme of this challenge, this book gave an insipid, Spain-esque performance where - though undoubtedly impressive - they bored the living shit out of millions of people globally. Final score, Germany 3-1 Ecuador.

Next, Switzerland vs Lebanon ffs

Dear J

This is a letter I wrote to Sainsbury’s at some point in 2010 with all the responses from Sainsbury’s below. I’m reposting it here as the other blog I wrote it for is a dickwad

This letter is for the attention of J, proprietor of J Sainsbury’s, Sloane Avenue, South Kensington, London, SW3. 

Dear J,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I’ve never seen you on the shop floor of your branch near my work on Sloane Avenue, so I assume you’re more of a hands off manager, however I have an issue which I would like to bring to your attention in the hope of righting the grievous wrong that you do me on a daily basis. 

I am a frequent visitor to your grocery emporium on Sloane Avenue. I work across the road, and a dearth of local sandwich shops often drives me to your doors in a low level, sidekick-less quest for nourishment. I find the shop to be clean and tidy at all times, and the staff pleasant and often fragrant (there have been the odd occasions when they’ve been unable to understand my northern dialect, however I take this as an occupational hazard working in Kensington. It’s possible that the only other northerners your staff have heard have been on popular cops and robbers show Police Camera Action!).

My complaint, J (if I may call you J), isn’t about your staff, nor the cleanliness of your store, nor the fact that I often forget which aisle houmous is on. My complaint is of a far darker, more sinister nature. My complaint, J, concerns your undeniably lackadaisical attitude towards the provision of lunchtime baguettes. 

J, I’m going to come clean with you, since we’re on first name terms and lying to a friend would feel somehow wrong - I am a vegetarian. No meat passes my lips. If you raised an eyebrow at that, J, I suggest you raise your mind from the gutter, or our friendship will not be a lasting one. Not a morsel of animal based meat will be ingested by me (to the best of my knowledge, anyway. Ham can be quite sneaky). I made this decision some years ago in the face of the relentlessly smug Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, who suggested I should eat goat anus out of respect for the animal. This is my recollection, however time may have fogged my memory. Whatever the cause, I am a non meat eater. No meat do I eat. I am a meat free man. 

And so it is, J, that we come to the nub of my point. I realise sometimes that I ramble on. This is a remnant of a state education system that prized vocabulary over knowledge. I once spoke to a Jehova’s Witness for such a long time they asked to be excused, subsequently climbing out of a bathroom window and making good their escape. It takes me a while to come to a point, J, however a point we have now reached. Not just any point, either - the entire point of this letter. 

Your sandwiches, J, are (by prepackaged standards) top drawer. Correct filling to bread ratios, adequately chilled, well presented. I imagine them to be packed by aged artisans in some foothills somewhere, the cardboard woven by exquisite boys. I am a fan of your sandwiches. Or, should I say, I was a fan of your sandwiches. For 3 days. For it is at the 3 day mark that I had exhausted your woeful supply of meat free sandwiches. I’d had the houmous and crunchy vegetable wrap. I’d feasted on the goats cheese and red pepper (which is a bit soft altogether, if we’re being as honest as friends should be, J) and I’d made short work of the mature cheddar club (the plastic tray that accompanies this sandwich is a nice - if unnecessarily lavish - touch). 

I had eaten these sandwiches, and I had become bored and resentful of the meat eaters that surrounded me. Oh J, the joys they had to choose from. Bacon, beef, chicken, salmon, ham (the sneakiest of meats) they had the world at their feet, J! Whichever direction their culinary whims may have taken them, your staff were ready to provide the travel costs. While I gummed my way (not literally, I still have all of my teeth. People often ask me if this is the case, which I find odd and minorly insulting, given that I am only 25 years old) through the same sandwiches on a daily basis, they feasted on a cornucopia of delights, tears brimming in their eyes, wild grins spreading crumbs onto their meat greased cheeks.

I was a broken man. Dejectedly I tried new lunch combinations. Salads, soups - I even tried nachos and salsa for lunch. Crisps and dip for lunch, J, can you imagine? I had given up trying to find a food delivery system as convenient and effective as the humble sandwich. And then, one day, she arrived. 

I say ‘she’ as I like to anthropomorphise my food. I once had a brief but meaningful affair with some cress. She was a slender, well formed, supple mistress. She had brie, leaves, tomato and unidentifiable but not unpleasant sauce. She was a brie, leaf, tomato and mystery sauce baguette, and I loved her. I gorged on her curves, lost myself in her fillings, cut the roof of my mouth a bit on the top of the baguette (that’s another letter for another time). I was a man possessed with happiness. And then, J, then you committed the foulest deed of them all. You took her away from me. Upon returning to your store, I found no brie, leaf, tomato and mystery sauce baguettes. There were only meat baguettes. Day after day I returned, hoping to catch a glimpse of her proud, bready visage. Day after day I was disappointed. I arrived at different times, hoping to catch her off guard. I stayed up all night like Humphrey Bogart, but to no avail. She had left me, and you, J - my old friend - had helped her escape into the night. 

So, J, it is with heavy heart and crumbless lap that I implore you to improve your vegetarian selection of prepackaged sandwiches, for we are technically people too, and we need to eat, J. Improve the selection and make a fully toothed 25 year old man happy. Improve the selection and cease the relentless smuggery of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You have the power, J. It’s in your hands. 

Yours hopefully,

Jim

PS - someone I work with says your bananas are always green. How is this possible?

SANDWICH UPDATE

J, proprietor of J Sainsbury’s has engaged one of his friendly and helpful minions to deal with my weekday saga in hot pursuit of tasty, meat free sandwiches. 

Now, while Mark’s response is friendly (bordering on flippant, if we’re being honest with each other. We should be honest with each other, since we’re all in this together), I am unsure as to whether he holds enough clout to make any serious changes. 

I do not mean to insult you, Mark. I am sure - beyond sure, in fact - that your sandwich knowledge is beyond reproach. I am sure you are well presented. I imagine your hair to smell like a meadow, or a fragrance from the Lenor range or fabric softeners. However I am unsure as to your commitment to this undeniably noble cause. 

I will ruminate on this, Mark. You are a noble adversary, and one I intend to respect. Let’s not allow this grumble to come between us. Perhaps one day, when this is all over, we can watch sports together, or run with the deer in Richmond Park (I use deer as the plural as I’m unsure as to the collective noun. I’m not just referring to one deer, I don’t know any of them that well). Who knows, perhaps we can be friends one day. The ball, Mark, is in your court. 

Yours suspiciously, 

Jim

PS - any word on the banana situation?

SAINSBURY’S PLAY HARD BALL!!!!!!!

The hardest, in fact. J, proprietor of J Sainsbury’s has sent his finest, most aromatic of minions - Mark, of previous blog fame - into the breach once more, calming the righteous flames of my rage with the soothing Gaviscon of kindness. 

Read these from the bottom to the top. This caught me out, the topsy turvy minx. 

But where is J? Where is the shadowy figure behind this exceptional marionette performance? Will he ever show his face? What are the remaining characters of his forename? No one is just called J. Even Jay Kay was called Jay Kay. 

For now, J, the actions of your noble pawn Mark have saved you from my scorn and ire. For in Mark you have a kind soul. The sort of man who allows wasps to sting him rather than risk harming them. The sort of man who, when confronted by one of those toilets that has a big flush and a small flush, always presses the correct flush.

As for you, Mark, your performance has been exemplary. I put it to you, sir, that you are wasted in your task of doing J’s diabolical bidding. Your talents at diffusing tricky situations and negotiating happiness would suggest to me that you are more suited to a career as a market stall owner or psychiatric nurse. 

And so, for the time being, I am thwarted. However, barring a marked (not you Mark, a different one) improvement in the quality of meat free sandwiches, I will return. I do not tire or get bored (making me an excellent chess partner, Mark, if you’re free at any point), and I will not deviate from my cause. 

I’m watching you, J. Figuratively. I’ve never actually seen you. 

Yours temporarily satisfied,

Jim

PS - apparently the bananas were ok today. You act quickly, J. Almost too quickly. 

Drinking in pubs alone, a guide

It’s a weeknight, and your office malaise mixed with your permanent background hum of disquiet is urging you to stalk and kill a tall, cool, foaming pint of non-specific European beer. You’ve contacted all of your friends and each of them has come back with an excuse that is just ‘you can’t come’ enough to not hurt your feelings but leave no questions as to whether you can join in with their plans. Your friends have deserted you, but the pint lust hasn’t. What do you do?

You go to the pub alone.

For a lot of people, this is anathema. The pub is a social experience, to not share it with someone negates the entire point, but do you know what those people are having when they’re alone? Zero pints of beer. Well, that’s not happening to you. Not on our watch.

If you’re too intimidated to make the step into ale house solipsism then we’ve created a handy guide of dos and don’ts for the noble solo pub adventurer. Read on and be fortified, you are doing the right thing.

(This guy gets his own spotlight, no one else is getting that)

DO

Choose your reading material wisely

You may feel obliged to bring along Proust, Voltaire or some other ‘look at me’ lit no one ever reads for pleasure to convey an image of a deep thinker just trying to get some peace. Do not do this. You are already drinking alone in a pub on a weeknight, no one in that pub is judging you based on what you’re reading, trust us. Take something you enjoy, and think logistically; might you want food? In which case take a book and a magazine, holding a book open whilst eating a meal is difficult, and if you’re not reading while you’re eating you’re just…looking at shit, which unsettles the natives.

Take cash

You’re not buying rounds, genius, and won’t breach the £10 minimum card spend that too many pubs arbitrarily impose. The barmaid will laugh with you as she takes your pint away so you can run to a cashpoint, but she hates everything about you.

Relax

Rather than thinking of yourself as the benign growth on your friendship circle’s neck, the relationship-less pariah forced to drink alone, think of yourself as the guy who’s confident enough in his own company to sit in a social environment alone and read Viz. You’re that guy. You’re the King. Or Queen. Most likely King though, let’s be honest.

DON’T

Whine

You chose this, no one else. Don’t tweet about being alone in a pub because you have no friends. Just read the last sentence back to yourself and imagine the judgements you’d make seeing that tweet.

Tell your colleagues

If you have the kind of colleagues who ask about your life and what goes on in it, lie. They’re not interested in the real answer and they will judge you. Say you watched Grand Designs, they like that.

Make conversation

Who wants to talk to the guy drinking on his own in a pub? Do you want to talk to that guy? No, you do not. Solitude and mystery are your friends, not the loud teenagers fucking up the wall around the dart board.

Break the three pint barrier

You’re having a pint, not getting drunk. Getting drunk on your own in a pub is the line. Cross the line and before long you’re in Wetherspoon’s for a pint and a full English breakfast before work because it ‘represents value for money,’ and soiling yourself noisily on buses within five years.

Leave your table for any reason whatsoever

Imagine this: you get up to go to the toilet but don’t want to leave your coat and belongings at the table. You run to the toilets and run back out to your table and BAM! Three men in Stone Island jumpers are all up in what used to be your shit. Now what? You can’t stand on your own in a pub, that’s the most uncomfortable situation on earth. Do not surrender your position for anything other than hometime.

The rest is up to you. Make us proud.

The Olympic World European Championship Cup of Books - Germany vs Ecuador

Let me begin this by saying that this matchup has taken me three months to complete so far, meaning I’m approximately nine weeks behind schedule. Now this is, in part, due to the anti-Ecuadorean sentiment that is obviously inherent in literature - finding an Ecuadorean novel for less than 20 English pounds has been next to impossible, and if I was to place the blame for that on one person, it would be permanently upset Ecuador and Manchester United right winger Antonio Valencia. I hope you read this, Antonio, and your infini-frown deepens.

Now, on with the match. The Germans fielded a strong side for this opener, represented as they were by Lothar-Günther Buchheim’s tale of derring do and danger on the high seas, or low seas or whatever, Das Boot. Characteristically German both in its industry and stamina, Das Boot is a meaty tome that charts one mission of the crew of U-Boat U96 during World War II.

Buchheim sets the scene wonderfully in the opening minutes, packing a book’s worth of character development into a chaotic chapter set in the naval officers’ mess. Furniture is destroyed, politically questionable views are aired, a superhuman quantity of alcohol imbibed and a sense of impending dread around the next morning’s mission expertly conveyed by the author, himself a veteran of the U-Boats - of the 30,000 Germans who served on U-Boat, only 10,000 survived, so he himself is of a rare breed.

The party ends and so comes the morning after. The sailors strut around with affected bravado, complete the final checks on the boat, talk voluminously about the prostitutes they encountered whilst on land and, finally, are played out to see by a brass band while people above throw flowers onto the deck. The story is underway.

Except…it wasn’t. What followed was hundreds of pages of description of the minutest of details. How the engines worked, what each sailor was meant to be doing, the dimensions of the cabins and page after page of the colour of the sky. While this is all obviously necessary to convey the boredom and nervousness of war, it’s reminiscent to an extent of Moby Dick, which seemed to alternate between the excitement of the quest and the tedious minutiae of whaling. Like a book written simultaneously by Dave Lister and Arnold Rimmer. I am aware this identifies me as a simpleton. What makes that fact even more obvious is the raucous laughter when I discovered that Das Boot has not one, but two chapters entitled ‘Frigging Around.’

But then, frigging around is what these men were doing. Sailing around the Atlantic in a tiny tin can, following the instincts of the ‘Old Man,’ a commander in his early 30’s. It is during this period of endless description that you really begin to feel a love for the characters - you endure their boredom and routine. Buchheim puts you through purgatory so you can understand hell. When, later in the book, the inevitable action begins you want each of their foibles to continue to the end. There are Nazis on the boat, of course, however the vast majority are career sailors, as indifferent to Hitler as they were to Bismarck.

The Chief, the Navigator, the Old Man - all the very best at what they do. The British Destroyers hunting them are regarded with deference and respect rather than hatred. Perhaps the greatest enemy of those on board is central command, who favour increased tonnage of Allied ships sank over the welfare of their submariners.

This is a very, very good book. A slog at times, granted, but well worth the drudgery of the opening for the rewards of the second half (obviously others will disagree with the ‘drudgery’ label, but I’m sticking with it).

To review this book in terms of football - as is inexplicably necessary - the Germans would have had a lacklustre first half, placed a few wayward passes but generally kept possession well. The manager got it right at half time here, applied the hairdryer technique in the dressing room before his side came out and knocked in a couple of worldies and a six yard tap in.

Ecuador have a lot to do, represented as they are by Jorge Icaza’s (probable) classic Huasipungo.

Germany 3 - 0 Ecuador

My Experience With the NHS

One Friday night around a month ago, I visited a friend’s house for drinks, music etcetera. When hometime came around, I was moderately inebriated and found I was having a degree more difficulty walking than is normal in these situations. My right foot dangled from my ankle like a useless lump of meat, and walking necessitated lifting the entire leg to prevent the toe from scraping the ground.

Putting this down to an unusual side effect of gin, I ventured out into the January snow and - after a couple of icy tumbles - arrived safe and sound at home. When I woke up the next morning, however, I found that either I experienced hangovers like no other human alive, or I had something seriously wrong with my leg. From the knee down the leg was completely numb, I was unable to lift my foot beyond a right angle to my leg and walking was becoming impossible.

A resolute sense of Britishness struck me; I wouldn’t visit the hospital, I don’t want to waste the doctor’s time, these things have a habit of sorting themselves out and frankly, I have far too much on today. Fortunately for me, my French girlfriend had no such qualms and frog marched (or frog hobbled) me to the urgent care centre at Guy’s Hospital, London Bridge. It was here that the absolute brilliance of the NHS began its work on my maimed appendage.

(Backless, of course)

The receptionist at Guy’s UCC, my very first point of contact in this saga, was a kindly, middle aged woman who - despite this being at 6pm on a Saturday evening - greeted me with a warm smile and genuine interest as to what had happened to me (I believe there was also a bit of hospital banter when she caught me trying to steal her pen). I waited no more than 15 minutes to see my first doctor, and he himself wasted no time in referring me to the accident and emergency department at Guy’s sister hospital, St Thomas, a few stops up the Jubilee Line at Westminster. He warned St Thomas’ A&E I was on my way, and they were ready for when I arrived.

After another wait of less than 15 minutes, I was seen by my first triage nurse, a no nonsense woman of roughly my age who laughed at my rubbish jokes, refrained from wincing when handling a stranger’s foot and did her level best to calm my jangled nerves (more on those later). There was no room in the Urgent Care Centre at St Thomas (to be expected, they’re there to take the strain away from A&E), so I was sent straight to resuscitation. Resus is the part of the hospital where serious things happen. My Britishness struck me again; I’m occupying a bed that someone else will need, I’m not ill enough to be here. No one would hear anything of it, and I remained in resus for the next 6 hours as doctors, nurses, neurologists, consultants and registrars got to the bottom of what was happening to me. I was seen in total by four doctors that evening, three nurses, two receptionists and an extremely austere ward matron. I had blood taken along with my blood pressure and heart rate, was poked and prodded with needles, had my leg and spine x-rayed and was asked hundreds of questions as everyone tried to get to the bottom of my leg.

(The view from my bed in resus)

At no point was I made to feel as if I was wasting anyone’s time. Everyone was treated with the same level of professionalism, concern and humour; from the old lady who’d had a fall to the chap in the bed next to me who’d had an allergic reaction to some crisps and was outraged about it. At no point either did anyone enquire as to my income, my ability to pay for my care or my insurance details.

(Leg brace number one)

Since that night, I have visited Guy’s and St Thomas on no less than four occasions (each time accompanied by my Mum, who’s made the long journey down south from Yorkshire). I have had appointments with physiotherapists, consultants, an laconic neurologist who made me laugh despite electrocuting me dozens of times, the radiologist who conducted my MRI scan and didn’t judge me for admitting to having eaten a penny in my younger days and the blokey bloke in orthotics who has supplied me with two leg braces to keep me walking (the second made from carbon fibre, though the similarities with Oscar Pestorius end there). I have also had the great pleasure to meet Barbara, the receptionist at St Thomas’ fracture clinic, who rules her roost with an iron fist and a spangly jumper.

(Leg brace number two - the Pestorius)

Now, we arrive at the present. Common consensus amongst the doctors and nurses is that I have drop foot, and that’s it’s being caused by damage to the (aforementioned jangled) peroneal nerve in my right leg. In the morning, I visit St Thomas for the final time to receive the results of my scans, so I’ll finally know how long it will be until I can walk again.

Over the past month, I have come into contact with some of the kindest, most compassionate people I have ever been privileged enough to meet. Throughout this tedious, nervous process I have encountered boundless patience, professionalism, good humour and optimism. I haven’t been treated as customer, nor as a burden, but as a patient with all that status entails. The fact that we in Great Britain have access to this service is perhaps the greatest testament to the ideals so many of us believe in ; that anyone of any social or financial status can walk into a hospital and be treated in exactly the same manner as their bed partner - no matter who they are. That’s something that collectively we should be incredibly proud of.

It may not be perfect, but the people on the ground do an extraordinary job of disguising that, despite seeing people at their worst every single day. The NHS may well be the best thing we have, and everything should be done to keep it that way.

Perfume adverts are bullshit

If, like me, you don’t trust your body to emit a welcoming aroma for longer than 20 or 30 minutes post-shower, you fall into the demographic perfume vendors call the ‘they buy or they don’t have sex with anyone’ guys. If, also like me, £40 for a small bottle of magic nose water seems a little steep, you may want to shop around a bit. You may even pay attention to televised perfume advertisements, as I have lately. 

I want to smell like a guy who owns a sports car. I want passers by to believe I holiday in Val D’Isere in the winter and Monaco in the summer. I want this to be conveyed by the aroma I’m drenched in despite literally every other piece of evidence suggesting I’m a tramp who found some house keys. 

Luckily, I have perfume adverts. Whilst admittedly it must be hard to market a fragrance, perfume advertisers appear to have been struck down by some kind of aspirational autism where ‘MORE SPEEDBOATS’ is what we want to see, rather than some sort of description of scent. It’s lifestyle selling at its most disingenuous; an olfactory switch and bait that literally no one should be taken in by. 

In order to prove my point (and be a dick about the hard work and creativity of others), I’ve searched for perfume ads by the first brands I can remember. Here they are. Watch with your eyes open and inhale the pungent gust of bullshit. 

Dior Sport (2012)

Straight off the bat, we have Jude Law driving through Paris in a sports car before sliding his way onto a speedboat and disappearing over the horizon of his own anus, all soundtracked by the Rolling Stones. Then we have the customer, presumably hidden from shot in his stuffy meeting room in Harlsden, hoping his back sweat hasn’t permeated his suit. The best bit about this advert is NO ONE TAKES PART IN ANY SPORTS. In fact, nothing at all happens. Nothing. This ad’s greatest achievement is giving Jude Law a full head of hair. 

Dolce and Gabbana - The One

Another ad, another bizarre celebrity appearance. In this advert for Dolce and Gabbana’s enticingly named ‘The One’, Scarlett Johansson appears to be suffering from the onset of dementia, blurting out semi lucid sentences at random, just looking for help that seemingly will never come. That’s what The One smells like. Futile despair. 

Chanel - Coco Mademoiselle

Several moments in the 40 seconds of this video will make you say things out loud. Firstly, Keira Knightley enters a room through a window wearing nothing but a shirt and a bowler hat. Fine, maybe rich people do that, whatever. Then she really, really enjoys the process of getting dressed. Really enjoys it. Then, and this is where I lost track, she hides a bottle of perfume behind her back before smearing some of it on a man’s neck. Instead of him saying ‘what the fuck are you doing, I’m wearing Dior Sport,’ he chases her into a party which is suddenly happening behind them. Then it all goes a bit 1984, with Keira parading past 50 foot high moving images of her own head in black and white. This, remember, is for a fucking fragrance. If you spray this shit on yourself, the world will become a surrealist, dystopian nightmare from which you will never be able to wake up. And to think, you just wanted to smell nice.

Rihanna - Reb’l Fleur

Don’t waste two minutes of your life on this like I did. Basically Rihanna, the victim of domestic abuse, is stalked around a Tudor fucking maze by a mysterious man before being accosted. Then the tape reverses and you see the entire thing in reverse. And they’ve removed the second ‘e’ from ‘rebel’ for some reason, they don’t explain that. 

The only redeeming feature of this advert is the top comment on YouTube:

As I understand it, James, Leonardo leads, Donatello does machines, Rafael is cool but crude and Michelangelo is a party dude. You weirdo. 

I FOUND AN ECUADORIAN NOVEL!

With the opening round of the Olympic World European Championship Cup of Books proving to be a slog in every respect and the Germans grinding out a stoic performance via their representative at the tournament Das Boot, the horizon has looked stormy for Ecuador for some time. 

After a plaintive - and ultimately futile - email to the Ecuadorian Embassy in London, the hunt for an Ecuadorian novel was beginning to appear fruitless. 

Until now. I found Jorge Icaza’s Huasipungo - the quintessential Ecuadorian novel - available from Foyle’s Marketplace ten days ago, and after waiting for it to arrive second class (seriously, it’s 2013, who sends things second class?) I am delighted to announce it has finally arrived!

Here it is:

But…wait…it’s in…

Curse you, Foyle’s Marketplace

FAO Ecuadorian Embassy

With the Olympic World European Championship Cup of Books now in full swing, I’ve run up against a problem. The first match is about ten minutes in, it’s been a cagy display by both teams and the Germans have been working the Ecuadorian keeper with a few long range efforts. 

(The only famous Ecuadorian I can think of gives his approval)

Now half time is on the horizon and Das Boot - the German entry - is about 150 pages in, I need to find an Ecuadorian novel to rival it in the second half. It seems, sadly, that Ecuadorians do not write a huge number of novels that make it into English. Clear FIFA bias, I know, but that’s where we are in the modern game. 

I thought, therefore, that I would recruit outside help. This is the letter I’ve just sent to the Ecuadorian Embassy, London:

Hi there,

I’m currently undertaking a book challenge that matches the format of the FIFA World Cup (sort of) and in the preliminary stages Ecuador have been drawn against Germany. Oh no! I hear you cry. Yes, I respond. Yes. 

I’m trying to make this a fair match, so I’ve chosen a German book I feel Ecuador could give a good game to; Das Boot. It’s a trudging, semi lucid tale of the minutiae of life on a German U-Boat during the Second World War. Laugh a minute stuff, I’m sure you’d agree. 

This leads me to my reason for contacting you. I cannot for the life of me find an Ecuadorian novel translated into English that has the literary fortitude to take on the might of the Third Reich. Can anyone there give me a recommendation? Money is no object, but around the fiver mark would suit. 

If you’ve got a load of diplomatic stuff on then no worries, I’m about 150 pages into Das Boot so you’ve got a couple of weeks. 

Thanks,

Jim

Now, we wait. 

Interview with a football hooligan

Hooliganism is - lamentably - as big a part of the UK’s footballing history as lukewarm pies and players smoking cigarettes at half time. Throughout the second half of the 20th Century, gangs of men of all ages would patiently wait throughout the week; going to work, looking after their children, just waiting for Saturday. On Saturday they put on their scarf, kissed the wife goodbye and went to beat the living shit out of strangers from all over the country.

(Image: Guardian)

As a football fan and confirmed wet blanket, I’ve always been fascinated with just what it was that drove these men out onto the streets and into violence. Was it alienation, a lack of opportunities or just a savage streak most of us deny exists within us? In order to find out, we found a hooligan. Meet Steve (not his real name). Steve is a Millwall fan who was a part of Millwall’s firm throughout the 70s and 80s, and who kindly agreed to tell us about his experiences. Currently residing in Sweden - and operating as a hooligan over there - Steve still hasn’t been able to leave his past behind. When asked for a photograph to use in this piece, he responded ‘nah better keep me head down or some cunt will stamp on it’. Steve is, as a great man once said, a ‘right nawty cahnt’.

What was it that got you into a firm? Was it through a lack of anything else to do, a passion for the club or just a penchant for battering people?

The lack of things to do before and after games, and too much anger inside of me. Yes I enjoyed battering someone, but only if he was there for it. A lone stranger would always be left alone.

What was your first proper punch up?

The first one with Millwall was Millwall v Cardiff early 70s down in Cardiff. Got hurt real bad for the first time.

How bad is real bad?

Had the fuck kicked out of me, was black and blue all over, maybe 20 top boys on less than 10, it was like being in a washing machine. A few weeks later Cardiff came to The Den, we waited in a pub at New Cross for some tasty looking cunts to order beers in a funny accent, and punched the shit out of them — happy days!

Was it about the football initially, or just about the fighting from day one?

Saturday afternoons in them days meant just two things - football and fighting, so it was a bit of both from the start. My first football game was when I was 9 years old, I didn’t get into the good stuff till I was around 16/17.

Was there a massive sense of belonging? What were the internal politics of the firm like?

There was always a sense of back up if you needed it, but in the 70s there were no mobile phones so it could take a week to get your own back on another group. Today a quick phone call can get 20/30 lads almost instantly. There is a kind of pecking order in any firm. Top boys are the normally the ones that have proved themselves. Some of them just hang on but if you want in properly, you have to be there when it counts.

Which team did you relish facing? Were there any you dreaded, or did you feel invincible?

Always felt invincible! When you have the lads with you, who cares?

What was the worst thing you saw?

Coming back from Pompey (Portsmouth) on the train when we had just had a good punch up on the platform. Two minutes out I saw a mate with a corkscrew sticking out of his neck just below his ear.

Jesus, what happened to him?

He was taken off a few stops later, had it removed in hospital. Luckily no real damage, missed all vital parts

In the end, what made you give up hooliganism in the UK?

Work came first, working every weekend left no time for fun.

Were you put under police pressure, or were things very different back then?

Back then we hardly ever came face to face with a copper, but over here in Sweden most of them know my name. 

Why did you get back into it when you moved abroad?

The lack of something to do on a Saturday afternoon, and maybe a deep down desire to really hurt someone.

Would you say on balance that you’ve dished out more than you’ve taken in that respect?

Oh yeah, when you’re pumped up there’s no stopping you sometimes. In Stockholm my reputation moved fast, known as “Frosty” by one firm ( Frosty the snowman - too much charlie ), Scary Steve, by some of my own. When I got going didn’t give a fuck.

How does it differ in Sweden to the UK?

When I first started here some 12 years ago the police had no idea, you could go toe to toe with lads most weekends. One night we got virtually 200 lads on the move, had a good fight in the middle of town and it took them 20/25 mins to get there.  Now they seem a bit quicker. In the UK you could do that in the 70s but not now, far too many cameras.

Do firms still operate within the UK? What’s the future of hooliganism in your opinion?

They operate but have to be more organised. Millwall away to Bristol is always a goodie but you need lots of phone calls to get a meet. I think in the UK we are a dying breed, some clubs have stamped a lot of it out but go and watch Millwall vs. West Ham and you wonder where the fuck they all came from.