It never got weird enough for me

It never got weird enough for me.” Hunter S Thompson

This is a mantra I keep in the back of my mind.

Keeping an open mind trying out different things is important in keeping your brain healthy. Mine is going to medical science when I finally expire. Wearing a clean pair underpants in case you get hit by a bus is also important. I remember being told this on many an occasion, but why, I don’t know. When you’re hit by 10 tons of Routemaster, soiling oneself is the last thing on your mind. And to be honest I don’t give a damn.

But keeping a healthy mind is important to me. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to the medical students who finally get their hands on mine.

As Marty Feldman found out, Hans Delbrook was a genius, Abby someone, Abby Normal, wasn’t.

I remember sitting in a fetish club one evening. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d normally frequent but I had been invited by a friend. It wasn’t one of the major clubs like the Torture Garden, in fact I don’t know exactly what it was.

I was sitting at the bar sipping a beer when this guy came and sat on the bar stool next to me. My friend had buggered off. I remember him vividly from his appearance. Mid to late thirties perhaps, overweight, shaved head, random tattoos which had become blotchy over time. He was sweating. I remember him because he was totally naked apart from some chains strategically, or from where I was sitting, not so strategically placed around his body. Where the sweat had gathered around his ample frame and was touching the chain there were streaks of rust running down his body.

Not the look I’d go for on a night out. But then it takes all sorts. I thought about striking up a conversation but he seemed distant, almost embarrassed by his predicament. I finished my beer and left.

To me a fetish is similar to a phobia. Something uncontrollable that one has to do. Not a cliché. I think that’s why I’ve never had much love for the scene. Dressing as a schoolgirl, leather and rubber just doesn’t cut it. Wandering around the streets with pockets of rancid, festering meat to get your rocks off, is a fetish, but is just plain disgusting.

To me the world an odd place to inhabit. I try to keep an open mind and read around subjects hoping for the best. I’ve tried to read some of the most influential texts in history and my results are a tad skewed. I got to page 86 of Mein Kampf, 28 of Mallus Maleficarum (Hammer of the witches) and page 6 of the Bible. The first two advocate genocide, the latter love. I think there may be something wrong with me. Although, all have contributed to mass slaughter over the centuries. I rarely get past page 3 of the Sun, and as for the Daily Mail, just don’t go there. I’m not that evil.

So while I don’t think the World Cup will be that weird an experience I’m hoping for the odd curve ball, the odd persona to keep me on my toes, to anchor a photo essay from. Any takers, let me know.

Then again, maybe one day, it’ll get too weird and I’ll end up a gibbering wreck.


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