Anyway...fair few things have happened lately. Keeping myself busy out here in the Basque Country. I wish I could remember half of these fair few things but I was probably too hammered because I'm such a wwwhacky guy. I'll do anything me. My friends all call me Mad Joe. I poo in baths at house parties and start fights with bouncers. Or maybe I don't.
About a month ago I was asked to participate in a football match against 4th year students (about 17-18 years old). I'd be playing on the staff team along with a few other members of staff, 6-a-side if you will. 10 minutes each way during the school break in the morning. "I'd love to", said I, remembering my glory days at Nigel Richardsons Football Academy (which my sister says I only got in because my dad was fitting his carpets on the day of my trials), remembering that excitement of getting closer to them goalposts, the euphoria of scoring a goal, your dad telling you that "you're fucking shit anyhow, you just wanna lay in your pit and play your guitar, you just look like a fanny anyway when you go into a tackle half-hearted like that, you might aswell just pack it in". I was ready relive them days all over again.
The day finally came. I got changed into my brand new £30 Adidas nylon trackie bottoms tucked into my brand new football socks and ran onto the pitch to the sound of students crying: "Yo! Yo! Yo! (they're not gangster or owt that's just how they pronounce my name here). I was back where I belonged. On the pitch. Ready for kick-off.
Off went the whistle. I tried not to run too much due to being self concious about the way I run since Jamie told me that seeing me run for the bus was the funniest thing he had ever seen. But no, I wasn't gonna let that stand in my way. I ran here. I ran there. I was completely fucked. Not even 5 minutes in and I wanted it to be over and done with. How the shittinghell was I gonna carry on for another 15 minutes? I thought I was gonna have a heart attack. Yet I carried on. Mainly due to the fact that all female members of staff we're watching and that me on my hands and knees, crawling to the sidelines in agony, was not gonna go well with my macho image. Not one bit.
I had trouble breathing for the rest of the day. My legs were killing. I sat there staring at my financially unjustifiable £30 trackies that I'd bought especially for the game and wondered how the fuckinghell I was gonna make it through the day. Never again.
Life out here is good. Finally got paid but thats gone out on rent, bills and christmas presents. I can't wait to see Liam's face when he gets his!
The weather has been prettaaaaay goooood. 20 degrees the other day. Beat that England with your snow! I'm not into snow. Its cold, it delays everything when you least want it to and then it turns to slush. Also, it's getting closer and closer to christmas which means....I'm coming hoooooome! I'm proper excited to spend time with family and friends and even Kynman.
But enough about that...how about some cultural observations? Here's one for you....mulletts. The often ridiculed, Billy Ray Cyrus endorsed, famous hairstyle of the 80s. They're big here in the Basque Country and fuck knows why. The style is usually a short back and sides with a bit of a fringe and a long bit at the back, usually dreaded, accompanied by medium sized hooped earrings. This is common in female basque natives too and apparently this style is very, to quote a basque acquaintance, 'exotic'. What the fuckinghell is exotic about a mullet?
Our university tutors tells us to do whatever we can to not look like an outsider and integrate ourselves, but if they think I'm growing a mullett then they can piss off.
p.s I was gonna go into the recent student protests in London, but I can't be arsed and it may sound like I'm preaching even though I know nothing about politics. The government should've just raised fees for that contemporary dance nonsense. Pretending you're a tree or portraying poverty through the medium of dance is not a degree.
