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

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

NIE

N.I.E. - Numero de Intentidad de Extranjero - Basically a certificate that has a unique number on it and your name too.

Any European who wants to legally work in Spain needs a NIE. So it was essential I get one as soon as possible. Realistically speaking it takes about an hour to sort out. It took me 63 days to do this. That is not good. I'm pretty sure it took less time for Frodo to trek all the way to Mordor and back, not to mention having to deal with the deadliest of evils and going through some major character development. In 63 days the only evil I've had to battle is my bank account, and the major character progression has been learning to stay away from the prostitutes on la Rambla, which I'm still getting the hang of. At this rate I'll be lucky to have a job before I retire.

To be fair I've had plenty of distractions. Visitors, the beach, walking around, and of course I've been really busy eating three meals a day, every day. In all honesty I have no decent excuse. It just became something I kept putting off (like that guy in North Korea, Kim Lapsang-Souchong blowing up the world). My main antagonist in this quest was having to wake up early, the office opens at 9am and closes at 2pm, thats a small window of opportunity for a fellow like me.

Another problem was the internet.
Now I love the internet, I can't imagine having to pay for things like pornography or classified CIA documents (more often than not, the same thing). But sometimes when you are looking for some simple information it can be ridiculous.

I was trying to find out what was needed to get this NIE, and I must have consulted about 10 different websites. All completely contradicting themselves. Some sites offered a printable version of the form so I could be ahead of the game, the problem? Each site had a different form. One site said I needed to go to one side of Barcelona in the morning, another told me a different office in the afternoon, then there the ones that said things about the police station, but they kept saying different police stations. Turns out it was a police station, in the morning. But what to bring? Oh, what to bring. Passports, photocopies of passports, photocopies of photocopies, driving licenses, bank statements, dna, children, cakes? Just a passport and a photocopy as it turns out.

So on this day, I awoke at 6.30. Completely unnecessary. The office opened at 9am, I have no idea why I awoke at this time. Was I nervous? Not particularly when I woke up, but whilst lying in bed for 2 hours awake before leaving, I had time to think. "What if I get lost?" "What if I really can't understand what they are saying (I get this all the time)?" "What if they laugh at my passport photo?"

Anyway I nervously arrived at Barceloneta, I practically counted the steps to the police station. Then counted the steps back to the photocopy shop i accidentally walked past.

So this is me. When I know that I have to speak Spanish, I get a little bit nervous, little bit excited. I never know whats going to happen, it could be amazing, it could be shockerama. And then. The photocopy place happened. I was excited this time, the girl was fairly hot and all the signs were good. I gave her a mug of my verbal tea. She just nodded, took my passport, photocopied it and rang it up on the till. At the time I was not impressed, I wanted at least a bit of a response, just "hola" and a smile would have sufficed. However, in retrospect I can understand. She works in a photocopy shop where the most money she ever rings up on the till is fifteen eurocents, that must be a bit depressing.

I went back to the police station and began the waiting game. There was a police officer manning the queue. If there was ever a reason why the police are referred to as pigs, by street thugs such as you and I, this officer was it. I don't mean to be rude, if anything he was a bit cute and cuddly, but his neck fat was bigger than his face and he looked like he belonged on a barbecue.

Then I went through all the bureaucratic procedures, filled everything out, paid my ten euros at the bank, and returned to the police station for my certificate. There is no point lying, by the end of it I was basically on the same MDMA from bestival 2007. I was extremely happy. The clerk behind the desk looked genuinely happy for me too, and him smiling made me feel happier still. I was so happy that on my way out I squeezed Piggy McPig on the shoulder and said "gracias", he looked at me with contempt. He was not impressed. No one touches Piggy McPig. His glare took me from bestival MDMA to cheap pills in an instant. Oh well, I was super high for a few seconds and it was lovely.

Now I can apply for jobs...

i'm a taurus, not an old man

So. About a month ago when I was in Valencia, I went to a bullfight. I know what you're thinking. "Charlie, you are about as right wing as Nemo the fish. You obviously weren't going to enjoy this". But every once in a while, one must dip their wick into the candle of culture and this seemed like an opportunity to do just that (although I am fairly sure getting chased around by a cow was pioneered on a farm in Yorkshire somewhere).

It was unplanned a bit like 'nam, we were wandering around Valencia in the ridiculous heat, between ice creams, and we stumbled upon the plaza de torros. It was cheap and we were bored. In 'nam, with this kind of approach you end up sleeping with a boy that looks like a girl and in Spain, you see a bull getting killed.

I'd like to say I enjoyed myself a bit, but I didn't. It's not the worst thing in the world, but its right up there with midget porn.

We were sat right in the eye of the sun, literally the sun was staring at us. Personally I think it is rude to stare. But what can you say to the sun? Technically it controls the universe, so it probably doesn't care about me getting burnt.
Of course we were half an hour early, so I used the time to increase my chance of skin cancer and watch the old people struggling to get to their seats.

Old people in Spain. I think these people look much older than English old people. As usual I have a theory on this. It's because there is more sunlight in Spain, their wrinkles cast deeper shadows and are therefore more prominent. I noticed the other day in lidl that old people cough a lot here, and that they don't really bother covering their mouths, even in the supermarket. Twats. Whilst choosing bread, chorizo and activia yoghurts, I witnessed three separate coughing fits, by three separate perpetrators. Its probably all that smoking, or maybe there was an asbestos leak in lidl. Or both.
Then I was approached by one of these veterans. She was obviously suffering from some disease, and I'm not just referencing the fact that she was speaking in catalan, this broad was crazy. Not crazy good, like Fatal Attraction, although on second thought that would have been worse. As soon as she started speaking to me, I looked around for a security guard or someone who was getting paid. No one. I finally figured out what she was saying, she wanted to know the date her cheese went off. I told her. She asked again. I told her again. She said something else. I kicked her. No, but I wanted to. Once she got the point that my Spanish was limited, she started saying something like "Seven languages for the humans, one for the dwarfs, and one for the elves. One world language to rule them all.", again that's a lie, but she definitely said something about the world and she looked a bit like a goblin. Whilst at the checkout, I'm sure she was slagging me off to her mate. When leaving I cursed her with arthritis from Mordor.

So. The bullfight. You can guess what happened. They killed some bulls. I could probe deeper, perhaps consider the underlying issues of bullfighting etcetera, but I'd rather talk about how they were dressed. These men didn't belong in a ring, they belonged in Ghetto on Tottenham Court Road. To say they looked gay does no justice to their attire. Tight outfits complete with shiny diamante looking accessories glistening in the sun, waving around pink flags, even Elton would say they were overdoing it. When 'shanking' the bull, they deem this a suitable time to dance around like a fairy. The best part is all these old Spanish men go and cheer them all on, like a beauty pageant with bulls.

After two fights I was growing bored with their outfits, and I was getting slightly irritated by the whole murder thing. Don't get me wrong, I would not take a bullet for my cat and I am not a vegetarian. One of the things I miss most from home is the sainsbury's taste the difference burger range. But when you just taunt an animal for ages, tire it out, gradually stab it some more, finally kill it, then stand absorbing the crowd's applause, well frankly you look like a tosser and its a bit boring. Then expecting me to watch the same thing five times? Not likely.

Then they go on to drag it around the stadium, covering it in sand and making it 100% uneatable. Waste. So I left, secure with both the knowledge that I would only ever go to one of these things again if there was a barbecue after wards, and that my skin was a shade of red not even Dulux could match.

The positive thing that I noticed was that everyone (tourists not included) who attended this pitiful attempt at a sporting event had grey hair. Old people. After speaking to Spanish people my age, I realised this is very much a dying tradition. They told me they are not fans at all, they think it is cruel and inhumane, then we all ate chorizo.

My busiest week by far.

During my time in Spain this week particularly stands out, because I had things to do.

Firstly, I was having my first real visitor to stay. Oliver Davis, gym addict.
Secondly, an old friend of my dad's had invited me to a week of writing workshops/lectures (in English).

Balancing the two would ultimately prove too much for a mere mortal such as myself to handle, but I gave it my best shot.



I had arranged to meet Ollie at 12.30pm on Sunday. Daylight-saving would be my first test. I was destined to fail. The phone rang, after a moment of contemplating whether I should pick up or not (due to the financial pain inflicted upon accepting foreign calls), I hesitated and pressed that little green button
"Where are you" Ollie demanded,
"In Bed"
"What are you doing there?"
"I'm doing sleep"
"You do know what time it is?"
At this point I check the time on my phone. It reads 11.38am.
"11.30"
"No, you dick. It's 12.30"
After trying to convince Ollie that because he had just come from England, he obviously didn't know the real time. Surely he was jet-lagged. I remembered that pointless daylight-saving thing and conceded defeat. Taking an hour from any man is a sin, but when he has already been cursed with ginger hair, it feels even more like a kick in the teeth.
"I'll be there asap, sorry"



Around two weeks prior to Ollie's arrival, I finally realised that his trip was clashing with my writing lectures. I had known about both things for a long time, but failed to see the schedule conflict. So I dropped some verbs and adjectives regarding the whole writing lectures thing and got him an invitation too. He agreed to attend the first one on Monday with me.

We awoke in some bracket of time around 12pm. The screening of Control with an introduction by the writer would be starting in 30 minutes. Its a shame, because I really wanted to go to that one, I quite like that film. It would have been impossible, what with it taking an hour to get to the actual place. So we decided we would go to a lecture at 7pm entitled From Shorts to Features.

Everything was going to plan, we caught the metro, we caught the train, we laughed, we cried. There was a moment of panic when we almost got off at the wrong station, but we survived and are stronger for it. We arrived in Terrassa (the town where this shindig was going down) and it was raining much more than was necessary.

Exiting the station I was fairly sure I had no idea where we were, Ollie could see right through me. I pulled out the notepad on which i had tried, to the best of my ability, to replicate a google map, freehand. The rain smudged the cheap ink across the pages.
"Shall we ask someone?" Ollie inquired. Still not confident in my Spanish speaking ability, I didn't see this as a viable option.
"Lets... just... look behind the station" I replied, pretending to know what was meant with those words. Maybe we would find a goblin offering us his navigation for a couple of gold coins or perhaps someone had misplaced Aladdin's magic carpet in a skip. To my surprise one of the roads behind the station had a name that I had scribbled down on my homemade map. We marched through the rain triumphantly.

Eventually we found the ESCAC building and although we were wetter than Madonna in the eighties, we were overjoyed. We got to reception and as is common when speaking to all people of Spain, I asked the receptionist if she spoke English.

I have found that usually when the Spanish say "a little bit", its much different to when us English say "un poco", we mean we can say a couple sentences about our family or a holiday we took in France, for three weeks, camping, and if the listener is lucky they will hear about the mode of transport we took. When the Spanish sheepishly say "a little", what they really mean is that whilst they are capable of disscusing abortion, they are not quite comfortable talking about quanttum mechanics. Not just yet anyway.

Well this lady was an exception to the rule, between my broken spanish and her limited English, I managed to obtain some directions.

Standing outside the lecture room, Ollie and I considered eating some pastries we had picked up on our voyage of moisture. What we thought was bacon, turned out to be some disgusting fish. So we chucked them in a bin and crammed kinder bars into our mouths, in an attempt to stifle the ferocity of our breath. We then established a sniffling code in case more kinder bars were needed during the lecture.

The lecture started familiarly enough. A powerpoint presentation read "Hola". Rather quickly it dawned on Ollie and I that we had stumbled into a Spanish lecture, which had something to do with mobile communications. The lecturer said something about facebook, people put their hands up, I put my hand up. Ollie glared at me. The lecturer started asking questions. Me and Ollie looked at each other, this would not do.
"Ollie, lets run away", a statement that would have had such different connotations had it been only a few hours earlier when we were lying in bed together.
"Definitely", the response expected in either situation.
Momentarily, the thought crossed my mind that this would probably be a really good way to improve my Spanish. I don't know if "momentarily" quite sums up the abruptness of this thought, but it will have to do. The lecturer looked down at his notes for a split-second, but that was all we needed. We got out. We were free men. I can't speak for Ollie, but the freedom I felt was similar to one I would associate with this scenario;

Somewhere in middle America, a black male (Kendal) is sentenced to 14 years for a murder he has not committed. A couple years of hardship pass by, culminating in the death of his only child at the hands of avian flu. He isn't even allowed to go to the funeral. All seems lost, then out of nowhere, a 20-something hot-shot lawyer (Lindsey) takes on his case pro-bono. After her early doubt, she soon realises his innocence and their relationship develops with only bars seperating their love. Finally Lindsey realises her father is actually the murderer and she has to choose between her white-hood wearing father and her chocolate lover. After a successful re-trial, Kendal is free.

I felt like Kendal. I know that seems a bit over the top, but I was really scared.

I emailed my dad's pal, relaying my troubles of the day and saying I would try again tomorrow. I left out the story of Kendal.
On the way home we bought a litre of smirnoff, because I thought the chances were that we would be going out. I managed to break that bottle at the train station. One whole litre swimming on the floor by the ticket gates. Not for the first time in my life, I felt like a right dick. Sorry Ollie.

We bought another bottle of vodka.
After much umming and ahhing, me and Ollie decided to go to the same club I have previously written about (the one with the naked band). We made this decision at about 12am, so I mixed some coke and vodka and we managed to get on the last metro. Needless to say my days as a bartender have long since passed and there was far too much vodka in this mix. Gross.

We arrived met Marco and some Italian chicks, and waited in a queue for a long time. Then I felt the first tremor pass, a few ripples later and I looked back, Ollie had turned into a slightly sexy girl but with serious eyebrow issues. My gaze stretched further back, actually Ollie had not had a super-rapid sex change, but had been distanced from me by the force of the crowd. I told him to make a power move. He did not make said power move. It felt a bit like one of those Second World War movies where a father and son are seperated by the crowd, without the whole holocaust subplot. Then 'ruck of the year' broke out. Had it not been for the clothes on my body and the lack of an erection, I would have definitely been raping the person in front of me. She gave me a look that quite blatuntly accused me of orchestrating the whole event, just for this moment. I looked back at her, offering a feeble "I'm not actually a rapist" smile. I could tell she wasn't buying it.

As it turned out 'ruck of the year' lead to no-one else being allowed in the club. So we went home. I felt a bit like I had let Ollie down, but truth be told I was kind of glad to be able to get some sleep before the next workshop event.

I could go on about the whole week in Terrassa, but that would be boring. To cut a long story short it gave me an invaluable insight into a side of the industry I have little experience with. I was able to quiz sriptwriters old and new. Of course when I was talking to these people I was concentrating much more on what they were saying, rather than what I was, which I'm fairly sure lead to me saying a few things that didn't make sense. I prefer not to think about that though. It also taught me that I need to network. Networking is like a competition of who can spread their name the fastest and leave a long lasting impression, yes a bit like a vicious STD. So, I need to becoming the AIDs of the networking game. At the moment I am much more like parkinsons, not contagious and not very interesting.

A special mention is definitely needed for the food. It was the best food I've had for ages. On the first day I was cautious and had one plate. By the end of the week, I was simply put; abusing the system.

My dad's pal asked his friend (a feature director), if he could get me running work in London, he said yes. Thats good news. During this particular director's lecture he dabbled in on-set beef, citing an example of being on the toilet and hearing two crew members slagging him off. After his lecture I saw him going into a cubicle. I stood by the sink where I was joined by another tutor, he asked my opinion of the talk. I was tempted to badmouth the director, then when he emerged from the cubicle have a joke with him about it, thus forming an unbreakable comic bond with a famous director, quickly becoming his protégé and taking over the world. After quickly playing the whole scene out in my head, and realising how difficult it would be to successfully pull off, I settled for "yeah, really interesting".

Ollie and I again tried and failed to go out in the evening. Even when we found a bar, we realised that is was likely to be six euros for a beer and decided to walk home in the rain.

It was a good week. I like Barcelona.

a musical arrangment

In England. When going to, dare I say, a club. The conversation is usually something like:

Friend/Aquaintence: "Char, lets get smashed up tonight"
(usually over the phone)

Me: "Yeah okay"
(whilst contemplating what year the transition from polo to water polo may have occurred)

In Spain, saying one thing and thinking another is a luxury I am incapable of. This is a similar conversation in the land of tapas:

Amigo/Compartido: "Hola Charlie"

Me: "Oh, hola, pasta again? Original"

A/C: "¿Que?"

M: "Um, nada. Nada at all."

A/C: "Vamos asjfhajbefbadhfaufajbsfuea, y tu?

M: "Excuse me what?"

A/C: "¿Que?"

M: "Perdone, pero no comprendo"

A/C: (Adding a more confusing accent, maybe on purpose) "Ah, vale, vamos asjfhajbefbadhfaufajbsfuea, y tu?"
(proceeds to smile, possibly in a mean Cruella Devile like manner)

After about five minutes of clarifying that I can't speak Spanish, I finally understand that asjfhajbefbadhfaufajbsfuea actually is discotecha, standard vocab in any phrasebook or entry-level classroom, and yes, of course I want to come.

Matteo is staying at home, so its just going to be me and Marco. Thats cool, as much as I like going out with both of them, after a few beers it inevitably feels like I'm watching some old Italian art-house film without subtitles. When its just one of them, at least I can try and practice my Spanish. Marco is wearing a shirt and does something with his hair, I put on my hoody that is fading into some kind of aubergine colour.

We go for a swift drink at a pub where each table has its own beer tap. Dangerous.

Standing in the queue is always a good place to check out talent, and probably a good place to chat up girls, always guilty of the first, but never the second. What do you say to someone in a queue?
"I like this queue, its nice and straight. Usually I find queues on the continent rather..."
Some people have a real knack for chatting to anybody about anything, I am not one of these people. So I stick to what I'm good at, casual perving. There is a strong "alternative" theme, a bit like an Avril Lavigne music video with added age. My haunting flashbacks of year 8 are interrupted by the realisation of two things. Firstly, this will not to be a bonding session for me and Marco, we are joined by one of his nice Italian female friends. The key word there being "one". Secondly, there is a band playing tonight. I love music, this is going to be great. Whats the band called? The Fuck? Really? Thats actually their name? The Fuck? As if using the definitive article gives it an edge it might have otherwise lacked. Grammar was soon to be the least of my worries.

After a highly confusing toilet experience that I won't even begin to explain, followed by purchasing some highly overpriced beer, we gravitate towards the stage.

So how were The Fuck? Musically I would say weird metal/rock. What was key about this particular band was how they presented themselves on stage, I will now attempt to describe all four band members to the best of my ability.

Lets start with the drummer, I never saw his face, because he was wearing a bag on his face. Not a deadly plastic bag, but a breathable bag, like one a farmer might put some wheat in. At one point he lifted the lower part of the bag to smoke a ciggarette, all I saw was a piece of chin, I was left wondering who could be under this bag? What man could it be? A man that would have to hide his face in shame? Surely there are only really two candidates? Pat Sharpe or David Cameron. I know for a fact Pat Sharpe is doing a DJ set in Cornwall, and that David Cameron is never doing anything. David Cameron it is then.

Then there was a man who can only be described as a fat fleet fox. He had all the trademarks of a fleet fox, the hair, the beard, even a banjo (do they play banjoes? They look a bit like they should), except he was overweight. I have two theories on this. First, he was a member of the fleet foxes, but was forced out of the group because of his constant whistling, no one likes a whistler. Obviously he was in true pain and fell quite understandably into a glutonous cycle and joined a shit band in Barcelona. Stabbed in the back by his contempories, in a similar fashion to the all mighty Julius Caesar.

Second, he had nothing to do with the fleet foxes and couldn't even whistle, he was just in a shit band in Barcelona. The mere fact that I had been able to conjure up this brilliantly tragic tale was testament to how poor this band actually was, and how perhaps I should be writing a postmodern play of some sort.

The bass guitarist looked like a balding version of The Dude from The Big Lebowski. He was wearing a dressing gown, a wife beater, pink pants (which would later be revealed as a thong, of course), and some sunglasses. He sang on most of the songs, the only problem was that he had knocked the mic stand over in the first song, probably in an attempt to look 'mental', the stand remained on the floor for the entire gig. He had either; forgotten to pick it up, didn't actually care, or wore sunglasses to hide the fact that he had no eyes and didn't even see the incident.

The lead guitarist was also the lead vocalist. He was also completely naked for the entire gig. At first I thought he was strategically placing his guitar over his genitals, then I realised that was just an early coincidence, this man was unconcerned with approximately seven hundred people staring at his penis. Imagine this; a naked man singing about lots of morbid stuff, in english, but between songs he says things in a slightly high pitched voice, in Spanish. Fortunately I don't have to imagine that, I was there, that will be with me forever.

Somewhere between the song about how everyone is going to die, and the song about how everyone is already dead, I notice something. Marco and the Italian chick, are dancing a bit close. Do I see a grind? I can't be sure, but it is definitely more than I can handle. I hope that there is some kind of romance between them, and not that Italians just happened to dance a lot more intimately than I am used to and that I have to sample it. Its not that this girl is in anyway repulsive, just that I really don't want some awkward sexy dancing experience with her. An experience that we won't even be able to joke about, seeing as our mutual vocabulary stretches to pizza, pasta, and taxi.

Then I see the lead singer spit into the front row. The front row. Suddenly my sole objective in life is to stay at a hefty distance from this "front row". In my mind I cook up the sordid goings-on of the front row, people urinating on each other and reading communist propaganda. Admittedly all I'd seen was the lead singer project his saliva onto them, but surely it was only the tip of the iceberg? I was definitely much happier making assumptions from my current position, even if I was sure there was about a gherkins worth of smashed glass under my feet, glass I could handle, naked men spitting, I couldn't.

As the gig ended and all the members of the band had successfully spat on each other a good few times, I was slightly relieved. The Dude took all of his clothes off as the lead singer put all of his back on, was that a tactical decision? Like a football substitution in the world of nudity? Yeah, I like to think so. For all the bad stuff about this gig, to their credit they got the crowd "hype" and gave me something interesting to write about.

On the ride home I was compelled to find out what was going on with Marco and this chick. Obviously I had no idea how to say it Spanish, so I tried to say it in English without sounding rude. In the end I just asked "Did you fuck her?", his response "Yes, but I like her friend". Some things are always the same, no matter what language you are speaking.

No puedes aprender nuevas tricks a un perro abuelo or something

Once in a while I poke the back of my head for a bit, in the hope that I will stumble across the Spanish language on/off button. Although I haven't located it yet, I am convinced of its existence, no matter how strange I may look when I'm trying to buy my metro tickets. At this point I'd even settle for a subtitle button.

I don't have a job, so by all accounts I should be spending a lot of time trying to learn Spanish.

The other night I was at a party. Sadly not a middle aged swingers bash, just your average erasmus do. I was speaking to a Portugese guy for ages, I told him I had trouble remembering peoples names, we had a giggle about it. He said he had the same problem. Then after about 30 minutes of chatting of getting along really well, we said we should probably meet up for a drink or something. Nothing gay, just a pal type thing. Then came the bit where he put his number in my phone, I was hoping he would know how to work my vintage samsung flip-phone and put his name in too. He didn't. So I asked his name, he laughed, good joke, a reference to earlier no doubt? Doubt. I couldn't remember his name, and even though I told him I had problems in that department he seemed a bit offended. He knew mine. He knew my name, because we have the same name. He was called Carlos, we had spent a good while joking about the fact we had the same name in the early exchanges. We never met up for that drink. Hopefully I will never see him again.
Anyway the reason I recounted that story was because Carlos advised me that a good way to learn is by listening to Spanish radio. At first I laughed him off, but now I am an avid listener of Huellas Jesus Radio. Anyone who knows me, knows I think Christianity is a bit of a farce. Its responsible for more bloodshed than the menstrual cycle and its more profitable than the tampon industry. But their Latin radio broadcasts are the only talk-radio stations I can find on itunes. And with such clear pronounciation at hand, I am able to look past the messages such ase "you don't need a girlfriend, the church is your girlfriend" and "God is your father". I am fairly sure I can't fornicate with a church, and I know if god was really my father I would have at least gone to private school. So my principle form of learning is by being brainwashed in a different language and it seems that not even that is working. I continue listening to the station, whilst hoping that noone else is. The last thing I need is hot Latin women thinking they don't need lovers. Statistically speaking at least one of them should fancy me.

Some days I'm able to spend almost half an hour at a time doing online verb-drills. Present tense seems to be what I'm best at, so everyone is constantly in the middle of doing something. I am cooking a nachos. We are buying t-shirts for my bed. They are eating plastic. It is tasting bad. You are getting the idea. I have found a couple of cheats (I call them cheats, because it makes the next couple of sentences begin to sound interesting), for example putting voy (=I am going) in front of any verb, makes it in the future. Voy a lavar los platos (I am going to wash the dishes), is much more appropriate for my lifestyle, than lavos los platos (I am washing the dishes). This means I can bypass the whole future tense part of my grammar book and continue to put off the washing up. Which I think is positive.

I really want to improve, it's just that its going very slowly. Thank god I live with Marco, he is the only person that actually speaks Spanish with me all the time.

In the mean time the dent on the back of my head is getting deeper by the day.

Just a friendly game

Somewhere between not looking for a job and not looking for my passport, Marco invited me to join Matteo and him in a friendly game of football.

I tried to think of an excuse. My feet were sore from trawling half of Barcelona in my flip-flops. I needed to look for a job. I'd only just washed my hair the previous night, and didn't want to get it sweaty. My excuses were poor and had strong homosexual undertones, knowing none of them would work, I agreed.

As the day went by and 5 o'clock drew inevitably closer, my apprehension turned into a curious excitement. It'd been a while since I'd played football. Surely I couldn't be as bad as I remembered. Surely not. My bubble of excitement was burst around 3pm. I know Marco was saying it only to be helpful, but really I wished he hadn't said it at all, "We shower there". As if worrying about my lack of football skills wasn't enough. Now I had to get naked with ten other men. Being a beta-male has its plus sides, generally you don't participate in many sports, which means you get to miss out on showering with multiple same-sex partners. Not on this day.

I had already faced this fear when I joined the gym about 4 years ago. After finishing a "workout" with some "gym buddies" they got completely naked, obviously I was compelled to do the same and in all honestly it wasn't that big a deal. It became normal. Until one day I went on my own, and spent the usual hour in the gym. After that particular workout, I did the usual thing, got naked and jumped in the shower. Already in the shower were two kids, and they just laughed at me. They could not stop laughing at me. If it was because I had told a particularly good joke, I would have been proud. However, I hadn't told a joke. I was just naked, hence me not being proud, but rather embarrassed. That was possibly my worst ever cleansing experience. I managed to avoid showering naked in public after that incident.

Anyway. We took the metro to someplace an hour away and went into the university. My flatmates had a short conversation with the security guard that I really couldn't understand. They may have said; "watch out, this one is currently fighting four rape convictions", I just smiled innocently. The security guard smiled back, so hopefully they said something a little more in-line with the truth, just two actually. We got changed. I should at this point mention that I failed to bring a football kit (along with many other items) to Spain. Whilst other people were tightening their shin-pads, I was tightening my leather belt.

Whilst waiting for others to turn up, we knocked the ball around for a bit. I quickly identified the weakest passer and compared myself to him, I was better than him, thank god. Too bad for me, he was actually a goalkeeper, a really good goalkeeper. So I was the worst player. If we had been the Champions League winning Liverpool team of 2005, I would be the Djimi Traore.

The game kicked off. I strung together a couple of successful passes. I was beginning to remember why I was captain of the third eleven at school. I pulled off a brilliant piece of skill and almost set up a goal, this was going to be a walk in the park. Obviously not. I made two errors, that lead to conceding two goals, in less than two minutes. I suddenly remembered why I was captain of the third eleven after all. It was because the team only had one fixture in the whole year and it was regarded as a bit of a joke. It wasn't because I could play football particularly well, but because I was the only person who offered to assemble a team.

As the hour went by, I got progressively worse. You can tell when this is happening, because you receive fewer passes, people pretend they can't see you and even the opposition stops marking you. People learn that you are more likely to lose the ball than retain it. People realise that even with the hair of Carlos Valderama, you don't have his skills. Of course it doesn't help to laugh when your own player gets fouled, or for him to see you laughing. No, that was definitely a hindrance to the teambuilding.

I missed a couple of sitters, got confused by people barking at me in Spanish, but generally had a good time. This was cemented by the fact that the last kick of the game was me scoring a goal, on purpose. Marco obviously felt sorry for me, offering me a sympathetic high-five. I wanted to leave him hanging, to make him look like the fool. I know he was being nice, so I reluctantly slapped his palm. Then I remembered what was next, I lingered for as long as I could at the water fountain and then returned to the changing room.

Penises everywhere.

Its funny, in these situations you are meant to try as much as you can, not to check out what other men are packing in penis land. But once you see one, you figure you might as well look at them all. A bit like popping Pringles, but with less salt (at least you hope less salt). I saw a few of the players leave the changing rooms without showering. Maybe I could just slip out with them? Wait for Marco and Matteo outside?

No, I was going to do this. I wasn't going to let those two children haunt me forever. Its always a relief when you see the first penis smaller than yours, then as you begin to ascend the penis ranks your confidence follows suit.

I'd like to take a moment to say that my Italian flatmates wear ridiculous pants.

I bit the bullet and pulled down my boxers, scanning the room to see who was a pervert. Turns out, I was the only one. I had a shower, did not shampoo. I made sure I was the last one to put my clothes back on. Some sort of endurance test or something, I don't really know why I did that actually, its a bit of a weird thing to do.

I managed to play football, even though I was the worst by a mile, as well as do a naked man-shower again. Not a bad day at the office. I guess I'll go back next week.

Now if only I could put as much effort into getting a job of some sort...