Attack of the Clones

If someone asked me to describe my appearance I would probably reply ‘kind of funny looking’. I feel like I have an unusual combination of features, assembled about as well as a fridge magnet sentence, which are slowly slipping down the door. Kind of a unique look but not in a good way.

Yet there is growing evidence that I may have a look which is, in fact, somewhat generic. The reason I say this is down to the number of occasions upon which it has been remarked by others that I “remind them of someone they know”. Now this can be a good thing. This statement tends to get said by people within a few minutes of meeting me for the first time, and can be a bit of an icebreaker. The key though is not to press them on who exactly I remind them of, just in case it’s their gay welsh housemate, or their psychotic school nemesis as this extra bit of insight can make one feel rather self conscious for the rest of the conversation.

It is also remarked upon with regularity that I bear physical resemblance to a wide variety of famous animals, vegetables and minerals, both real and fictional. These have included Harold Lloyd, Diego Forlan (Uruguayan Football player), the Fido Dido Character from the 7up adverts, Edward Norton, the children’s cartoon character Arthur, Tim Roth, two separate Big Brother contestants, Bing Crosby and so on. It’s such a random list that it’s impossible to identify a single physical trait they would share which relates them back to me and when pressed further on the subject people usually just shrug and give little to satisfy my curiosity

There won’t be blood

I have been rejected. I am unclean, impure, unworthy. I have the mark of the plague on my door. Why – because apparently my blue British blood is not good enough for Canadians. As a regular donor back in the UK I decided it was time to restart my little token of benevolence this side of the Atlantic. However on contacting the Canadian Blood Service I was politely informed it’s a no-go – I am British therefore they don’t want my donation.

Apparently it’s because of Mad Cow Disease – they can’t rule out that bovine-based disease is swimming about in my bloodstream. I had heard a rumor that this might be the case but was told it only applied in Quebec, which was fine by me as I don’t want to donate to the French anyway – in fact I assumed there was a box you could tick to request this – but as it turns out it’s a country-wide blood-based apartheid.

A right spectacle

I have something in my eye. It’s been there for several days now, somewhere in the heart of darkness behind my eyelid. So whenever I blink there’s this little stab of irritation, which on it’s own is not so bad but the cumulative effect of all this little blinks over the day is building up into a much bigger throbbing sense of discomfort and pain which makes the whole side of my head want to smash itself into the nearest wall, anything to release this neverENDING AGONY OF EYEBALL TORTURE!!!

Sorry about that – but there’s something about the eyes (windows to the soul and all that) which means when they not working properly in any minor way it’s like the whole of your body malfunctions in sympathy. Simple tasks like walking without stumbling into the nearest stationary object become impossible, you lose your appetite, your friends, your family, your reason for existence all because of some insignificant piece of grit has worked it’s way into the back of your ocular sphere.

You would think though that being robbed of perfect vision would not be a problem for me, given that I spent the first eight years of my life (yes you read that correctly, eight years) squinting and stumbling about the place like a miniature blonde Mr. Magoo before anybody realized something was not quite right. My early years on this planet are an excellent example of I think of how you only have your own experience of the world to go by, especially when you’re a child. I had always assumed your vision was something that improved as you aged and the fact I was constantly talking to complete strangers in public I assumed were my parents was just one of those that disappeared as you got older.

Height of madness

Last week I was taking luncheon near Vancouver library – a pleasant place to spend an hour but also an area which seems to attract more than it’s share of oddballs, something which might be said for Vancouver as a whole. On this occasion I spotted what seemed to be an normal guy, middle aged, balding, medium build wearing a biker jacket just pacing about the place. However, on closer inspection I noticed he was wearing a set of those comedy glasses, nose and moustache sets – you know like Groucho Marx kind of a thing – which I think is a pretty good way of indicating to those around you that you might be someone who has deviated from the path of what most people like to call normality. Wearing a comedy nose and glasses as part of your general dress and for non-comedy purposes set is a neat visual shorthand for ‘approach with caution’. He brought to mind this awesome Gary Larson cartoon.

The other thing that struck me about this guy was that he secured his amusing eyewear and associated appendage and facial hair with one of the glasses bands you wear for sport. I like that. That’s commitment to lunacy you have to admire – I mean imagine if he’d been in the middle of some serious spazzing out, and suddenly they fly off – he’d like totally lose the vibe man. Or maybe I’m doing him a disservice and he was on the way to play in the Greater Vancouver Freakoid RaquetBall League. Who knows.

News from Home

Someone told me that, before I left the UK for Vancouver I should take some photos of the grottiest, nastiest, places around and whip them out if I ever became a bit homesick or nostalgic for dear old Blighty. I never got around to it – the choice was just too overwhelming – but I’ve since discovered that, when I find myself pining for the comforts of the familiar the same effect can be achieved simply by browsing the web version of my old local paper.

Now I don’t want this post to simply become and exercise in slagging off my old stomping ground – because it does have a lot of good things going for it and I feel pretty confident you could read the same litany of petty thievery, anti-social behaviour, random unnecessary violence and downright stupidity in any local rag throughout the UK – but I would say, without naming names, this particular fish wrapper perhaps serves as a particularly fine example.

The other thing I should point out at this stage is that local media, as well as reporting the news, also have a remit which requires them to try and promote the area in a good light. I believe this is a much more prominent requirement in news media – so for example if your locality underwent an orgy of completely unrelated violence last night and every night for the last six weeks, you would find this kind of news despite how shocking would very soon get pushed to the side in favour of the local cheese rolling inbred-fest or some old dear who’s making a life-size model of Daniel O’Donnell out of nothing more than paper towels and her own drool. This helps give the impression to out-of-towers you’re little region is a hotpot of quirky community spirit and quaint old values rather as opposed to the ASBO filled Bosch painting it really is.

I add this in because if you want to carry out this exercise yourself you might need to dig around a bit, past the local sports teams latest heroic thrashing and Tiffany-McKenzie-Rose’s wedding joy to get to the real picture.

Less Man vs Wild – more Idiot vs Raccoon

Over the last few days this years battle between myself and a local posse of raccoons has escalated somewhat. Each morning I have awoken to discover a trail of garbage-based devastation strewn across the lawn which I then have to reassemble into a new bin bag, dry heaving all the way, while finding more and more ingenious ways to prevent the little buggers tipping the dustbin over again. Attempts have included placing heavy objects on top of the bin, wedging the bin into inaccessible space, tying the bin lid down with string, and even weighing the bin down with garden furniture, yet somehow they succeed in outwitting my scheme so each day the garden ends up looking like Glastonbury will next Monday morning.

Yesterday evening however the battle of Raccoons vs me reached a new level. Returning from the city I discover once again, despite my ingenious solution of wedging garden implements into the trellis and pinning the bin underneath, they had pulled the contents of last nights dinner all over the place. However I was rather taken aback to see that in fact I’d caught the critters red-handed and there they were sat, munching on a couple of mouldy pita breads, in pretty much broad daylight. There was a moment of recognition between us two antagonists – like when Robert De Niro meets Al Pacino for the first time in the movie Heat, although am pretty sure in that showdown Pacino didn’t have a mouthful of rotten Greek bread (that was Brando in the Godfather I think) – only undone by the intense smell of raccoon urine