Two word review of Is Tropical

“Brevity is the soul of wit.” So thought William Shakespeare and er… Spinal Tap.

Is Tropical, MAO Livehouse, August 24, 2012

“Is shit.”

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Hmmmmmm sandwich #2

Because sometimes, spread in between two white-bread slices of everyday life something happens that’s… hmmmm… weird, or interesting, or eyebrow(s) raising.

My Nostrils Smell…

“Of course they do!”, I hear you cry. Well no, I don’t mean it like that. I mean they smell funny. They stink.

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“Of what?!” I hear you cry. Well, it’s like a tub of parmesan did a fart, shortly before crawling up my nose and dying.

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“All the time?” I hear you cry. Well, no. Think about when you crush a lavender flower to activate the scent. It releases all those lovely frangrant oils all strong and sleep-inducing. Well this is similar, in that he smell is activated when I touch the inside of my nose. However, although strong, it does not induce sleep! Whether it’s blowing my hooter or mining for green gold, touching the nasal wall seems to crush the stink right into life, inducing the most almighty urge to fling my guts through my face and splatter them artfully over the nearest wall like some tuberculic Jackson Pollock. BTW that’s defo my new DJ name.

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“Why does this happen? Why are you telling us? Is this just you?” I hear you cry. Well, hold your horses, one at a time. Firstly, I think it happens as a result of the frankly rank (which is, BTW, defo my new DJ club night name) Shanghai air. So rank is the air in fact that, according to the latest Environmental Performance Index compiled by Yale University, China ranked 128th out of 132 countries for air quality. And I would lay down my hard-earned kuai on a bet that Shanghai’s car-choked streets are amongst some of the most air-polluted in China. So that’s why.
Why am I telling you? I’m a sharer. I’m raising awareness. Some people do it for conditions like dyslexia, medical issues or for a political cause. I’m a one-woman nostril-whiff warrior. There’s hundreds of us out there, so rise up and declare “MY NOSTRILS STINK, AND I’M PROUD!”
So no, it’s not just me. One particular friend told me a story in empathy that’s just begging to be the first scene is some14-year-old-boys-just-love-this stoner comedy:

SCENE 1
[Int. Hancock’s apartment. Evening]

The camera pans through the small bachelor-pad. Hancock’s belongings are scattered haphazardly, very obviously turned out of place. We can hear him frantically rustling around just out of shot. At first we can’t be sure what story this scene of destruction has to tell. A recent earth-tremor? Robbery? Psychological breakdown? At the end of the panning shot, the camera settles on Hancock, and tightens focus on him. He is naked, and intently picking up items, sniffing them, and tossing them in frustration.

[V-O:] Sometimes days are lazy and short. They get lost on the couch or in movie-marathons. Others just won’t let you rest; you HAVE to fix this wire that’s been bugging you for weeks, or clean even though no-one’s coming over, or make those lists that cement your life plans into some kind of order. Today was the restless kind.

SCENE 2
[Int. Hancock’s apartment. Earlier in the day]

Hancock is leaving the bathroom, just having showered, his towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet. He reaches for a tissue and blows his nose. Immediately his face wrinkles in disgust.

[V-O]: What is that smell? Sniffs his arms. I just showered, it is not me. But… His face continues to wrinkle. He knows it can’t be him, and yet he definitely smells that smell on his arm. He sniffs at his towel. Woah… this stinks too. Can’ t be… Very fast cut to laundry basket, as if to suggest it’s fresh from the laundry. Hancock proceeds to sniff things around him. Each time his wrinkly nose non-relenting. EVERYTHING stinks.

Cut to rapid-pace montage of Hancock increasingly frustrated and sniffing at everything. Becoming more frantic, his towel drops, but he keeps on sniffing as though he hadn’t even noticed. The montage shows his obsession escalating, and eventually we see him as we first found him: amongst piles of his dislodged belongings, nakedly scrambling around and sniffing as though possessed by the spirit of some meticulous blood-hound.

Cut to Hancock, sitting, silently exhausted on his couch. Depressed and blankly staring into the lens of the camera, which is slowly zooming in on his face.

[V-O]: That’s the day I learnt my nostrils smell.

The camera zoom speeds suddenly and we disappear into the black holes of Hancock’s nostrils. Black.

Hmmmmmm sandwich #1

Welcome to the new feature on me blog, yo – “Hmmm… sandwich”: Because sometimes, spread in between two white-bread slices of everyday life something happens that’s… hmmmm… weird, or interesting, or eyebrow(s) raising.

Walking down the street. Need to find an ATM. Oh, look! Here, outside this restaurant, FOR NO REASON, there’s a bra on the floor. Now THAT’s an eeeeepy sort of welcome-mat. I also distinctly think that maybe it’s a covert sign this place is the kind where you might get a happy ending to your duck a’l’orange. However, mainly I am struck by the fact that when I walked past this place 5 minutes earlier, the bra wasn’t there, and instead there was a granddad, who had his toddler grandson’s tiddler out so he could answer nature’s call. ON THE VERY SAME SPOT. I have clearly found a mystic and ancient layline, where the distinction between public and private is seriously out of whack. Maybe I’ll go there tomorrow and try do a poo on a velvet cushion. See if anyone bats an eyelid.

Hmmmmm… brothely

Stealing ritzy-glitzy fun in the Hawaii of China…

When visiting Sanya you really have two choices if you want that high-end, ritzy-tropical glamour experience. You can pay through the nose for it, or grow a pair and steal it! Here’s how *mischief ensues*…

Hang out on the beach at Yalong. Do beachy stuff till you’ve got sand wedged up each and every crevice. This beach really is beautiful and that’s partly why I wouldn’t recommend shelling out to stay – legitimately, anyway!- at one of the glitzy resorts. It’d be far too tempting to spend your time glued to a pool-side beach-lounger, in which case you’d miss these beautiful shores which are –in the words of my Antipodean travel buddy- better than those on Australia’s Gold Coast. High acclaim indeed!

So go comb for your shells. Build your castles (mine had a moat, natch). Sip your coconut juices through a straw. But THEN –when your feet and knees are sore from the rub of the shale and your sticky-sunscreeny skin is coated with sand that makes you look like a glasspaper model of yourself it’s time to treat yourself to a little luxury. Follow in my footsteps…

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1)      You’ve stored your stuff in the PADI locker-hut that’s about (in beachy-pirate speak) 50 paces to ye right as ye first entered the bay. Here, for 20 RMB you can rent a locker, thus avoiding someone running off with your bag full of treasures (read: passport/camera/money etc) as you pull your best beach-bum moves. Now, when you collect your stuff, exit the locker hut to the left, following a decked pathway up to the 4.5 out of five star “Aegean Conifer Resort, Sanya”. There’s a sign that says entrance is for guests only, but -meh- who’s checking? Time to throw caution to the wind like jetsam from a sinking ship (OK – enough maritimey lingo) and just walk on in. Step one accomplished!

2)      The main draw of the Aegean for me was the labyrinth of pools that twist and wind around the hotel gardens. Lined with sun-loungers and complete with swim-up bar I would have probably koshed a member of hotel staff on the head if they’d tried to stop me swimming. However, overactive imaginations aside, violence was completely unnecessary here as simply installing yourself poolside with enough confidence to assert your right to be there is plenty.

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Reccommended internal monologues to boost your blagging gusto:

“Prevet. I am Natascha. It is real shame in heart to be in tropical paradise without my husband. Boris so busy what with the cosmonauting and the oil tycooning and the international football team-managing. Peasant, please wipe my tears with this meagre 10 million rouble note. *sigh*”

“My mission (and I accept it) is to secretly grade the hotel for World Hotel Rating project. I am meant to feel shady, but in an oh-so-snooty way. Yes. I judge you, experience. I judge you hard.”

“This is the eighties and I AM Joan Collins, dahhhhling.” (This was my preferred.)

Or, for those lacking in near-pathological delusions simply try “I DO have a room in this hotel. I do, I do, I do… ”

3)      So you’re very happily butterfly stroking-along, mojito on the bar top and it hits you – “what’ll I do when I want to leave? My swimwear’s soaked and it’ll look very suspect if I make a dash for it dripping wet. Eeeeep!” Never fear. This is the beach, don’t forget. So you have towels. Dry yourself off poolside, all the while pretending that you don’t want to use the hotel towels (or pleb-rags, as you’re now calling them) because your towels are far more superior Egyptian cotton and kinder to your highly-strung skin. It’s not at all in order to avoid having to sign out hotel towels with the attendant who wants your invisible hotel keycard or anything. No. It’s my precious, precious skin. Once dry, slip on a casual overlayer (mine was a long linen shirt) and bundle your stuff in your beach bag. Then avoid the hoardes of potentially suspicious hotel staff swarming at the back entrance to the hotel by taking a path to the right which leads to the conference suite. Follow the unguarded path, which leads to the equally unguarded back entrance to the hotel – you’re on floor two! Wahey! Once inside the hotel, keep your sashay on. Think Joan from Mad Men.  Follow the corridor around until you hit the lobby, where you can fully dry-up and change in the bathroom. Step out from there looking fresh as a daisy and bam! You have the run of the hotel amenities. Drink at the bar, eat and the restaurant and generally live it up like Lord or Lady of the Manor! Cucumber sahhhhndwichis, anyone?

Chinese New Year on the Streets of Shanghai…

And Lo! the ancient and mystical Gods of the Middle Kingdom did decree that on the fifth day of the Chinese New Year people will go bloody mental with gunpowder

Tip: You may want to turn down your speakers a wee bit…

BOOM!

O, South Korea, how I love thee. Part One.

Ace trip to South Korea. Part One = Seoul. So crammed. No room for full sentences. Don’t ask questions. Just pretend you’re Johnny 5 and read with speed to keep it Ko-real!!

1)      Taxi ride: 4.30AM. Eeeeep – so early! Me and me chums Mason, Bret and Alex. Driver’s advice for SK:

“[in Chinese] Americans. Don’t AIDS.”

Excellent start.

2)      Airport: Bret = going to Hong Kong, not SK with us. Bret = at wrong airport. Bret = brown pants. Oh dear. >_<

3)      Flight: Smooth, although weird beefy noodles.

4)      Arrival in SK:  Accidentally attempt to steal stickers. Oops. Eat fish soup and kimchi (pickled-cabbagey stuff). Drink soju (national drink of Korea) x5. Drink Family Mart (sort of Korean Co-op) soju x[probably?]3.

[MISSING REEL]

Wake up in jimjilbang (24 hour spa, with dorm rooms for sleeping) in orange jumpsuit. Guantanamo, anyone? Hotter than inner ring of hell (despite presence of “ice room”, nattily decorated with polar bears). Too hot = no sleep = 3.3AM check out. Attempt to find KFC (I’ve heard it’s ‘real chicken’ in SK. As opposed to ‘China Chicken’, which seems to be entirely composed of the arse of the bird. And occasionally the feet. Avoid at all costs.

Anyways, attempt to locate ‘real chicken’-based establishment by showing this pic:

to passing Koreans. Group of teen boys tells me “No! Not tasty. Eat kimchi! I love you!” Not helpful. But one man directs me to ‘Lotteria’ “the Korean KFC”. I find it, but amazingly he comes back ten minutes later to check I got there safely.

5)      Realisation: Koreans = Nicest people in the world. N.B. Also have to give credit for near-universal commitment to ‘business casual’ attire.

6)      Cable car trip to N Seoul Tower: Wobbly, high altitude affair.

7)      Lotte World Indoor/Outdoor Theme Park: roller coasters named “Pharoah’s Fury” and “French Revolution”, log flume, indoor hot air balloons, trapeze artists, ‘peanut-coated squid’, dodgy Butlins-esque stage show, Disney rip-off parade, ice-skating rink, laser and pyrotechnics show, monorail, and more corn dogs than you can shake a corn dog stick at. REFUSE to leave this magical place until thrown out.

8)      Day of Korean Culture: Part one = visit to ancient settlement. Part two = visit to one of Seoul’s many ‘HOFs’ (fried chicken and beer shacks). Restaurant review = mixed. Positive side: first time I’ve seen white breast meat since leaving UK (mmmm…’real chicken’ indeed!) Negative side neatly summed up in this lil’ scrawl:

9)      Meet friends in foreigner-ville, Itaewon: Visit “Hooker Hill”, followed by “Homo Hill”. Verdict = unimpressed (ain’t no Amsterdam). Also, heavy US military presence not impressed by my mate’s whooping of “Uhmerrica!”

10)   See covers band at tiny club in Hongdae. They have Beatles haircuts and sing Beatles songs. For all I know, they may well have been called “the Beatles” = super classic. Opportunities aplenty for shaking one’s tailfeather until the wee hours.

Dear Shanghai: take note, please.

11)   Seoul Aquarium: Got there by showing this pic:

to taxi drivers until an old man saw we were struggling (no!?) and came to translate. Kindly re-visit point 5, please. Is a very creative museum. E.G. Fish in tanks? Pfftt…try fish in a toilet, fish in a washing machine, fish in a phone box. Brillo pads.

12)   Despite sub-zero conditions, v. excited about visit to Banpodaegyo ‘Rainbow Bridge’. At 8.30PM, this happens:

Accordingly, in anticipation this happened. Take note of sharp decline in ‘excite’ post 8.30PM:

Then this:

Bugger.

13)   Leaving Seoul: 1PM departure via high-speed KTX train. Every 20 mins announcements preceeded by snippet of music I SWEAR used to be on Pebble Mill in the 90’s. Otherwise EXACTLY same as National Express, only faster and minus the scrote at the back playing DJ Danny Bond on loudspeaker whilst necking a SKOL… I’m arrivin’ in style.

All-in-all: totally ace. Keep yer peepers peeled for Part Two: Busan.

I ♥  SK. ^_^

8 Before 8: Time On My Hands Early Morning Type Musings

It’s 7 AM. I’m leaving super-early to nab the 42 thousand props I need to teach today’s bunch of two year olds their class on the word “monkey”. However, in typical Disney-dysfunction the school is not open. Left with an hour to fill/kill I decide to take a walk to the park.

Now. Imagine what we’d find taking an early morning walk in the park in Leeds…

  1. Geriatric dog-walkers
  2. Joggers
  3. Flashers
  4. The recently flashed
  5. Crackheads and crackwhores
  6. Dog turds
  7. An occasional dead body
  8. More dog turds.

In Shanghai, it’s a whole ‘nutha ball-game. I saw…

  1. Old lady fan-dancers. All in velour tracksuits with HUGE fans in matching colours. Amaze.
  2. The most ever old people in one place since they filmed the last episode of Countdown. They were all doing yoga/tai chi, slowly making their way over the grass like a tide of zombies. Actually chilling.
  3. Three guys dressed as a Chinese dragon.*
  4. A ramshackle troupe of guys practicing their circus skills. Diablos, juggling, unicycling. Bloody mental.**
  5. A 28 piece (I counted) brass band. Just like the Black Dyke, but minus the Alan Titschmarsh affiliation. Home sweet home…
  6. Massive kites, jeweled in LEDs. At night I’ve seen these before. I did wonder if they were UFOs, but now I know it’s just geezers in the park.
  7. Some girl painting beautiful Chinese letters on the ground with what looked like a giant ear-bud. However, she was painting them with WATER. They were evaporating away seconds after she’d painted them. Life is just so….y’know…transient and….it all means, like…nothing in the end….y’know? Woah. Deep.
  8. Walking back to my school, I sit outside. Each Disney school has random letters outside the building. The letters outside my school are DIWAHJ. At first, I thought it said ‘Jihad’. Then I noticed the ‘W’. I toyed with the idea it might mean ‘White Jihad’ and that that’s Disney’s plan for Asia: fill it with Yanks and their culture is for the taking… But I thought it might actually stand for Walt Disney Is A Jew Hater. Or Walt Disney Had Anti-Jewish Inklings. I finally settled on Walt Disney Is A Jovial Holocaust Denier.

All this early morning thinking really drains a gal. No wonder I’m too tired to teach class now. Eeeurch.

* At this point I realize this list sounds a bit like one of the checklists on the back pages of a Where’s Wally? book. Not intentional, but I like it nonetheless.

** Sounds even more like a Where’s Wally? list now. Wow, Wally watchers.

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