Wednesday, April 29, 2009

fucking with me cause I'm a teenager, with a little bit of gold and a pager


Manu



Matteo returned to Italia, for reasons not too far away from that thing called love. Manu took his room. He is from Naples and reminds me of this daily. He is a peach. His English is comically brilliant and just as comically crude. His pronounciation of words like blowjob will forever make me smile, "blujub". The important thing is that he is always up for a laugh. Always.

Here is a Manu experience:

We went out to Apollo on Monday. Again. What separates this occasion from the rest is that I was fairly wasted. You can say whatever you want, €3 mojitos are always a good idea. Even if the mint has gone off. Always.

So it was just Fanny, Marco, Manu and I,
Enchanted flatmates, saviors of Barcelona,
Breaking moves on the dance floor of Eden.

The general consensus was that we had a good night. We left early because Manu wanted to go home. We waited for the number N6, our nightbus. I ended up drunkenly trying to pitch my current feature idea to a random Dutch girl. She wasn't impressed, she kept trying to exploit holes in the plot. I think it'll be a box-office smash. She will rue the day.

We got off the bus. Manu seemed to have a renewed source of energy. He was dancing around as if it were a Christmas production of the Nutcracker. Then he ran over a car. I have witnessed this type of behaviour before, back in 2005:

It was a sad, sad night. The boys of Bath were all leaving for university the next day. We knew we would be making new friends. No longer would it be us against the world, we would have to make new allies. Tension filled the air. Tears were nearby, perhaps only two streets away. We needed to do something fraternal, something we could cherish, something we could tell these new friends at university that would give us an early advantage as a cool kid. I think I speak for everyone that night when I say we weren't disappointed. Thank you Paul Webb. We had all agreed to have our picture taken running over a parked police car. A grand idea, I think you will agree. No sooner had the first of us laid a tennis shoe over the car, when a riot van came storming round the corner. Webby had a split second to make a choice, to give himself up, or to run? Obviously run. He was apprehended via various rugby tackles and spent the night in a cell. He wasn't raped. He might have had a cheeky wank though. His sister bailed him out in the morning and I believe he went straight to work. Mr and Mrs Webb are still unaware.

Anyway. Back to life, back to reality. Back to Manu.

I said something to the boy like "probably not a good idea", although to be fair I was a waste and I probably didn't say anything at all. I like to believe that even when intoxicated, I am mature. He did not heed the warning I may or may not have given him. Manu ran over another car. Then one police man came across the street and said something. I smiled at him and swayed a bit. Another policeman appeared from another direction. Another policeman crawled down from a tree above. By the end of it all there were about six policeman surrounding us, twelve if you account for my double vision. They started asking us questions. In Spanish. It soon became clear, yet again, that I am still terrible at this language. The officer spoke to me in English. Normally I wouldn't patronize a police officer, that is never a good idea. But I was waste city. He said "Empty your pockets and put your things in the car", I said "On the car, I think you'll find that you mean on the car". He gave me a much more aggressive search than was necessary. And broke my home-made wallet that I have managed to make last almost three months. After checking the car for damage, searching us, reporting our ID's back to base, there was not much they could do, so they let us go home. We were outside our front door the whole time. We live opposite the police station. I love Manu, but thats not exactly rocket science, nay, thats not even Pythagorus theory. It took us a few seconds to realise the police had accidentally walked off, still in possession of our IDs. Now they looked like the dickheads. Good.

Living across the road from la policia is a bit weird. I do feel a bit safer, slightly more secure, I guess. I know that if there is ever a murderer in our flat, I can just run out to the balcony and shout across the road, which I think is positive. But smoking weed in your own living room? Well the paranoia gets kicked up an extra notch, maybe even 30%. So I keep those joints to a minimum.

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