From Hades to the Antipodes
There is a mecca of female beauty somewhere in Latin America. The Gods were in blithe spirits when they created the women there. They spoke among themselves and agreed on an approach which would surpass everything they had achieved everywhere else. Their method was novel: take the best attributes from each continent, slowly mix them up with a little spice and then steam-cook the mix over a few centuries. The result is hypnotic.
I chanced upon one such specimen in London many years ago in the form of the Venezuelan Venus, Paulina. She worked as a waitress in my local branch of Café Rouge in west London. I often went there for a light evening meal after work if I was hungry and couldn’t bear the thought of stepping into my insalubrious kitchen. One evening, while sinking my chops into a steak sandwich, the door to the kitchens opened and a waitress whom I had never laid eyes on before emerged into the restaurant area. She was so bewitchingly beautiful that, without my realising it, the sandwich fell to the floor and I found my shirt and tie suddenly soaked with red wine.
From that moment on I embarked upon a steady process of wearing the poor girl down. Not an evening would go by without me dropping in at the Café Rouge and offering my soul to Paulina. When I swore – with unsmiling conviction - to sever my large left toe, pickle it and give it to her as a gift, Paulina finally agreed to go for an evening out on the town with me. Things went rather better than I could have dreamed, for Paulina soon became a regular fixture of my Hammersmith flat.
One Saturday morning, after a late night of discussions with Paulina about the six main Ugandan kingdoms, a courier turned up at the flat to deliver a case of wine. He offered to help me carry the case into my room where, unbeknownst to the courier, Paulina lay sleeping with nothing covering her but her skin. Thankfully, Paulina slept like a log, so she remained undisturbed when the courier fell to the floor gasping at the sight of her. I dragged him to the main door and ordered him out but he wouldn’t leave. He instead stayed on his knees hugging my legs and tearfully begging to be permitted one more glance, however fleeting, of the sleeping Venezuelan beauty. He implored me to accept £5 for the privilege. I considered this briefly and accepted it.
It was then that the forces of Hades engulfed my will. I became a peep-show pimp. Every Saturday morning after that, I could be found outside my front door selling tickets to “a glimpse at paradise” at a fiver apiece. Word spread like wild fire. Soon queues of salivating blokes could be seen several times round the block and my pockets began to bulge with Beelzebub’s begrimed bounty.
The inevitable happened. One day, a ticket-holder was so overcome by what lay before his eyes that he dropped to his knees exclaiming “from this day I believe there is a God!” To my horror, Paulina chose that precise moment as her cue to awake. Her reaction was sufficient to cause me to be found, sozzled and swaying, on Hammersmith Bridge at 03:00 am on Sunday morning while contemplating intimate acquaintance with the icy, swirling waters of the mighty Thames below. As I wrestled with my thoughts, I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder and turned to face the snarling visage of an enraged local bobby.
“Listen son,” said the copper, “either leap into the river or go home but I am not missing the start of the Australian Grand Prix while you decide whether to kill yourself or not!”
The Australian Grand Prix has since occupied a special part of my brain that is awakened in March of every year. I can feel it twitching as I write this, for this weekend marks the silver jubilee of the Formula One Australian Grand Prix.
After the deflation of the stultifying, limpid excuse for a motor race in Bahrain, there is understandable anxiety felt in the hearts of many that the FIA got things wrong when they re-jigged the rule book. Like a cook who over-seasons his soup, the rule makers – justifiably – now stand accused of taking things a little extra bit that has proved too far.
As Paulina would, I am sure, testify, I am a generous fellow. I have, therefore, chosen to wait a little before drawing too many conclusions about 2010. Melbourne is too popular a destination and the Albert Park too stunning a racing venue to warrant unfavourable comparisons with the hellhole that is Bahrain. I am on record for being consistent in my loathing of the desert sand-bowl and fawning in my admiration of the sunny seaside track down under, so I am optimistic.
Australia should be a good race. The fast corners and near inevitably of an accident usually make for an exciting afternoon of racing. The thing to be remembered at this stage is that we do not yet have a clear picture of the relative competitiveness of the teams and the drivers. Testing was not done in identical conditions, so all we have seen thus far is one open event at which everybody could participate.
Applying the same reasoning, I would argue that, unless Fernando Alonso and Ferrari are extraordinarily lucky and manage to clinch three big wins in a row, things will shake down soon enough and drivers will begin to feel more comfortable. It is too early to predict how some of the big names will fare. Michael Schumacher will take at least a couple of races before he regains his rhythm after three years absence from Formula One. Similarly, Jenson Button will also need a little time to feel as relaxed as his McLaren team-mate Lewis Hamilton.
What we haven’t seen any evidence of yet is the rekindling of the pit-babe battles of 2009. Just before the start of the season Hamilton announced that he was back together with his Pussycat Doll – cynical career manipulation by Nicole to maximise global television exposure, I wonder? I haven’t heard anything of a split between Button and his lingerie model, so things look set for a resumption of hostilities. Bahrain wasn’t a sufficiently alluring location for the likes of the two glamour girls but I bet you they’ll have their designer frocks and sunglasses on track-side in Melbourne on Sunday.
It’s too early to give up on Formula One racing, so I think it reasonable to expect that you will,
Enjoy Melbourne!
Gitau
23 March 2010
I chanced upon one such specimen in London many years ago in the form of the Venezuelan Venus, Paulina. She worked as a waitress in my local branch of Café Rouge in west London. I often went there for a light evening meal after work if I was hungry and couldn’t bear the thought of stepping into my insalubrious kitchen. One evening, while sinking my chops into a steak sandwich, the door to the kitchens opened and a waitress whom I had never laid eyes on before emerged into the restaurant area. She was so bewitchingly beautiful that, without my realising it, the sandwich fell to the floor and I found my shirt and tie suddenly soaked with red wine.
From that moment on I embarked upon a steady process of wearing the poor girl down. Not an evening would go by without me dropping in at the Café Rouge and offering my soul to Paulina. When I swore – with unsmiling conviction - to sever my large left toe, pickle it and give it to her as a gift, Paulina finally agreed to go for an evening out on the town with me. Things went rather better than I could have dreamed, for Paulina soon became a regular fixture of my Hammersmith flat.
One Saturday morning, after a late night of discussions with Paulina about the six main Ugandan kingdoms, a courier turned up at the flat to deliver a case of wine. He offered to help me carry the case into my room where, unbeknownst to the courier, Paulina lay sleeping with nothing covering her but her skin. Thankfully, Paulina slept like a log, so she remained undisturbed when the courier fell to the floor gasping at the sight of her. I dragged him to the main door and ordered him out but he wouldn’t leave. He instead stayed on his knees hugging my legs and tearfully begging to be permitted one more glance, however fleeting, of the sleeping Venezuelan beauty. He implored me to accept £5 for the privilege. I considered this briefly and accepted it.
It was then that the forces of Hades engulfed my will. I became a peep-show pimp. Every Saturday morning after that, I could be found outside my front door selling tickets to “a glimpse at paradise” at a fiver apiece. Word spread like wild fire. Soon queues of salivating blokes could be seen several times round the block and my pockets began to bulge with Beelzebub’s begrimed bounty.
The inevitable happened. One day, a ticket-holder was so overcome by what lay before his eyes that he dropped to his knees exclaiming “from this day I believe there is a God!” To my horror, Paulina chose that precise moment as her cue to awake. Her reaction was sufficient to cause me to be found, sozzled and swaying, on Hammersmith Bridge at 03:00 am on Sunday morning while contemplating intimate acquaintance with the icy, swirling waters of the mighty Thames below. As I wrestled with my thoughts, I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder and turned to face the snarling visage of an enraged local bobby.
“Listen son,” said the copper, “either leap into the river or go home but I am not missing the start of the Australian Grand Prix while you decide whether to kill yourself or not!”
The Australian Grand Prix has since occupied a special part of my brain that is awakened in March of every year. I can feel it twitching as I write this, for this weekend marks the silver jubilee of the Formula One Australian Grand Prix.
After the deflation of the stultifying, limpid excuse for a motor race in Bahrain, there is understandable anxiety felt in the hearts of many that the FIA got things wrong when they re-jigged the rule book. Like a cook who over-seasons his soup, the rule makers – justifiably – now stand accused of taking things a little extra bit that has proved too far.
As Paulina would, I am sure, testify, I am a generous fellow. I have, therefore, chosen to wait a little before drawing too many conclusions about 2010. Melbourne is too popular a destination and the Albert Park too stunning a racing venue to warrant unfavourable comparisons with the hellhole that is Bahrain. I am on record for being consistent in my loathing of the desert sand-bowl and fawning in my admiration of the sunny seaside track down under, so I am optimistic.
Australia should be a good race. The fast corners and near inevitably of an accident usually make for an exciting afternoon of racing. The thing to be remembered at this stage is that we do not yet have a clear picture of the relative competitiveness of the teams and the drivers. Testing was not done in identical conditions, so all we have seen thus far is one open event at which everybody could participate.
Applying the same reasoning, I would argue that, unless Fernando Alonso and Ferrari are extraordinarily lucky and manage to clinch three big wins in a row, things will shake down soon enough and drivers will begin to feel more comfortable. It is too early to predict how some of the big names will fare. Michael Schumacher will take at least a couple of races before he regains his rhythm after three years absence from Formula One. Similarly, Jenson Button will also need a little time to feel as relaxed as his McLaren team-mate Lewis Hamilton.
What we haven’t seen any evidence of yet is the rekindling of the pit-babe battles of 2009. Just before the start of the season Hamilton announced that he was back together with his Pussycat Doll – cynical career manipulation by Nicole to maximise global television exposure, I wonder? I haven’t heard anything of a split between Button and his lingerie model, so things look set for a resumption of hostilities. Bahrain wasn’t a sufficiently alluring location for the likes of the two glamour girls but I bet you they’ll have their designer frocks and sunglasses on track-side in Melbourne on Sunday.
It’s too early to give up on Formula One racing, so I think it reasonable to expect that you will,
Enjoy Melbourne!
Gitau
23 March 2010
posted by Gitau at 12:05 pm
1 Comments:
Sounds like you had the subject of Uganda well and thoroughly covered
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