Atavism Blog  -

The first winter we were here, I was on a deserted bus in North Vancouver one rainy day when the only other passenger got on his mobile phone and ordered one of his minions to provide 'bitches' for the evening.  He was very specific that he wanted 'Asian bitches' for various (suspect) anatomical and cultural reasons.  At first I thought he was joking, then that he was trying to indimidate me but as he got off the bus still itemising his requirements it became apparent that he was actually unaware of my presence and was simply phone shopping. For bitches.

The whole experience made me feel a little sick, but particularly the way in which he never once used a word for women that acknowledged they were human. He must have been all of about 25, yet it was apparent that his whole vocabulary for the female of the species was composed of derogatory terms. (A fun game for you to try: write down all the words for and related to women that you can think of on one side of a piece of paper, then do the same with men for the other side.  I guarantee you that the male list will be shorter and far less unpleasant. It is also interesting to explore the connotations of words for women which initially seem quite anodyne. Hell, even the definiton of plain woman can be controversial.)

Recently I've been watching the 2nd US series of Hell's Kitchen, in which 12 would-be chefs accept being roundly bullied by Gordon Ramsay in exchange for the chance to helm their own restaurant in Las Vegas.  The teams were initially divided into men vs women, which was nonsensical, given the context, but became mixed as more men than women were voted out early on.  Ramsay himself clearly has difficulty dealing with women in many ways, (although this is often masked by his monstrous unpleasantness to all the contestants, male and female alike) but has irritated me less this series than the final men left on the show, the deeply unlovely Keith (or K-Grease as he inexplicably refers to himself in the third person) and Garrett. Both seem to think that none of the women have any chance of winning and have repeatedly used the word bitches, although noticeably not to the women's faces. 

Garrett has now been sent packing by Ramsay but lumpy K-Grease is still in the running.  Like the world of chefdom needs any more meathead misogyny.  I hope he loses, and the next time I hear anyone ordering bitches by phone I'm going to deliver him one sooner than he expected.  Nice bite to the left thigh, sir? Coming right up.

Received a slightly strange freebie from the advocacy office this week: free tickets to a match in the Whitecaps Nations Cup 'soccer' tournament.  Earlier in the week a capacity crowd had watched the home Vancouver side, The Whitecaps, beat the Indian national team; we were lucky enough to be part of a decidedly non-capacity crowd who saw Cardiff City FC massacre the China Under 20 National Team 5-0. 

It was all rather peculiar.  The Whitecaps current stadium is out in Burnaby, in the middle of a park, with a great view of the mountains from the stands and an athletics track round the outside.  Very different from Carrow Road.

Quite a few Chinese Canadians were out to support their youth team but their voices were as deafened by the chants of the few Bluebirds fans who had made it to Canada as their team were dwarfed by the strapping, First Division Cardiff side.  It was a very good-natured affair, if a little slow.  The Cardiff supporters kept it mainly clean with more "China, give us a song"s and "bring on the Whitecaps" than "you fat bastard"s, which was a relief.  It's been a while since I saw beer-bellied, sunburned men take off their polyester shirts to reveal team tattoos, so that was quite a treat.  I actually enjoyed the game and was pleased that Cardiff, although obviously not playing at their maximum velocity because it's a friendly, it's out of season, they were probably jetlagged, it was freaking hot, and they're Cardiff, were quite determined that the China side should not get even a consolation goal.  In the new world that is so much in evidence here, to be British is often to feel obsolete as the Chinese dragon roars so it was oddly comforting to be on the side of (Swansea/Cardiff rivalry temporarily forgotten in the face of a greater enemy) the superior team, both players and supporters.

This evening Cardiff will take on the Whitecaps for the cup and as much glory as can be mustered in the hot suburbs of Burnaby.  Last year the Whitecaps beat Premier side Sunderland 3-0, apparently, so let's hope that this time the only dragon roaring will be Welsh. 

My viewing choices this evening: Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and 3 episodes of South Park. If Beavis & Butthead, 2 Pints of Lager or Dumb & Dumber had been on I would have watched them too. Sometimes only a bunch of fart gags will do; either that or it's been way too long since I have been under the civilising influence of a trip to the RSC or a meaningful literary discussion.

Whatever. RESPECT MY AUTHORITAHHH!

I've got the fear, big time. As pretty much everyone seems to know, by some weird process of osmosis, moving back to the UK is on the horizon for us. More about this later, but for now, although I am very happy about this on many levels, one area of deep trepidation is really beginning to prey on my mind: what on earth are we going to eat when we get there?

Eating at home won't be a problem because I will once again have access to that double-edged sword, the British supermarket. On the one hand they are Very Bad Indeed, but I'm sure I can put most of my ideological discomfort regarding the way they drive smaller stores out of business, cause huge pollution with their transportation, fail to pay farmers fairly for their produce, only sell unnaturally perfect-looking vegetables etc, etc out of my mind because hey, they sell creme fraiche, alcohol and olives that still bear some traces of the Mediterranean climate from which they sprang, unlike supermarkets here. (Safeway Canada does not know what creme fraiche is, is banned from selling alcohol and only sells olives that taste like cured boot leather.)

But the restaurants - Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the restaurants. I caught a few episodes of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares recently and it confirmed the vague sense I have had on every visit back to Britain in the last 2 years, (yes, we have been gone 2 years) that decent fresh food with good service and fair pricing seems to be beyond the abilities of the average UK restaurant. Pub food a la Wetherspoons: ew, spit - frozen, nuked or fried by a spotty teen, yum (picture above is from their website; I actually don't think it looks very nice but it's better than anything I was ever served there in reality). Proper restaurants: few and far between, often overpriced or thoroughly up themselves. Pretty much everything in between: aimless affairs usually offering an undersized, unispiring portion of meh, followed by coffee that can best be described as pigwash.

The thing that amuses me about Kitchen Nightmares is that the featured restaurants are all struggling badly, yet the owners, chefs and staff often have difficulty swallowing Ramsay's insights as to why and his suggestions about how to turn things around. Fair enough, he's not the most conciliatory of men and has almost started to become a parody of himself with all the swearing, but he does understand the food business and is a practising proponent of the magic ingredient that is often missing from these places - hard work and a dislike of cutting corners. The most recent episode I saw featured a chef who had the gall to serve up reconstituted Knorr minestrone soup powder, passing it off as homemade Italian. It made me gag in anticipation.

Obviously not every restaurant in Vancouver is fantastic, but it is actually rare to be served something that is not good. Within a few blocks of home, we can eat fresh, cheap Thai, Malaysian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Ethiopian, Eritrean, Filipino, West Coast, vegetarian, Spanish, Russian, Afghan and Mexican food, among others. And the best thing? No hideous smokers chuffing their horrible stink all over my dinner. Ohhh, Yates's Wine Lodge. Can't wait.

UPDATE:
Seems I spoke too soon.  Recently went in a filthy dirty Japanese restaurant in Vancouver and also watched an episode of a series called Restaurant Makeover, basically a Canadian Kitchen Nightmares with a slightly politer chef, e.g. "His chicken is ass" to camera rather than Ramsay's more robust "that is a fucking disgrace" to the chef's face.

Following a night of noise from a party somewhere in the neighbourhood, I was just dropping off to sleep at around 4am when our upstairs neighbour returned. Gordon, who is in his 40's, is normally pretty quiet, but by some horrible mischance he chose tonight to arrive home and sit in the car park right outside my bedroom window with his frigging car radio on full blast, doors and sunroof open. If I'd been asleep I doubt it would have actually woken me but I wasn't, and it was the last straw.

I know I am more sensitive to noise than most people, but even so, I am totally bloody sick of hearing 'whoo' and 'wahhh' and laughing and music and shouting and talking and car doors slamming and engines revving and binner carts rattling and skateboard wheels rumbling and silly girlies giggling and crazies shouting 'get me my fucking money' and whistling and singing and 40 year old men behaving like thoughtless teenagers. I am sick of people thinking their right to 'party' overrides my right to be asleep in the small hours and of nobody standing up to these people and telling them to shut up because you just get told to fuck off.

As city neighbourhoods go, ours is generally quiet but even this is too much for me sometimes.  So I have killed Gordon and stuck his head on a pole on our deck with a repeating loop of Gordon is a Moron blasting as a warning to others.  Tomorrow I leave for Nepal, where I intend to live as a mountain goat.

Hurrah! Started bootcamp again today. Day one is a fitness test and I did pretty well. Rubbish as usual at the plank, but I lasted longer than everyone else at the squat hold - inelegant but satisfying. Followed it up with a swim outdoors in Kits Pool, which has to be one of the greatest places in the world; in the morning, that is, before the world and his wife and his shrieking teens actually get there. It's Canada's longest pool and one of very few seawater pools left anywhere because they are difficult to keep up to health codes. Or something.

Some 2 years after bringing it over here, I also finally got my bike serviced and have started riding it again. This is a braver endeavour than it sounds, since Vancouver's drivers totally suck ass and the chance of getting dead is quite high. Hence I have stooped to the inevitable and bought a cycling helmet. Why these things have to be quite so surreally unflattering is beyond me - what is with the alien style back of head thing they have going on, for example? Never mind, better geek chic than brain pate.

Will is doing a PADI diving course 3 evenings a week this month. I may do it next month if I am feeling brave but in the meantime have stocked up at the video store with some random "oo, I wanted to see that but never got round to" films to keep me occupied. We went to see Pirates of the Caribbean 2 at the cinema at the weekend, which was very entertaining, and also watched Howl's Moving Castle on DVD. It was good but I prefer Spirited Away and My Neighbour Totoro, both of which must be watched immediately by anybody, of any age, world, wife, shrieking teens and squeaking kinder, who has not yet seen them. However, if you watch the English Disney script version rather than in the original Japanese with subtitles, (unless of course you are or speak Japanese which would make English subtitles superfluous, obviously) I can't help it if I want to shout at you for missing the point.  Although I do accept that I am slightly weird when it comes to subtitles, frequently 'reading' the tv even when the program is in English.  I even watched the whole of Batman Begins with subtitles and no sound at all at Christmas. I don't really know why.

It's been a while since I saw a real chav in the flesh since the Canadian version tends more to the mullet but this picture my sister-in-law (ha! first time I've actually written that, Cath!) sent to me brought it all flooding back... 

Somewhat disconcerting... I was in the deliciously-titled London Drugs today buying some mints when the cashier asked me to put my money down on the counter rather than handing it to her and returned my change in the same manner. Thought this was a bit odd so I hung around and watched her for a minute - two customers later (both of whom paid in cash and did not have to go through the same charade) she had still not picked up my money. Next thing I know, she has put her hand in a plastic bag and deposited my money into the till, in the manner of one picking up dog poo. (Or human poo, if you have the misfortune to be Billis this week.)

I was thoroughly freaked out. It's a hot day today but nevertheless I am reasonably clean and fresh, the coins I had proffered were no dirtier than coins usually are, I had not indulged in any visible insanitary practices and I could see no reason at all for this odd behaviour. I was about to go home, baffled, when the peculiar bloodymindedness for which I am occasionally known kicked in and I decided to go in and ask the cashier what the hell was wrong with me or my money.

Will has gone to work (on Fifa, natch) today, even though it is a Saturday and Canada Day, so I am defiantly watching the football, which he hates. Rooney has just been sent off, England are playing with ten men and I am blogging nervously to take my mind off it. Portugal are diving and time-wasting like nobody's business; Crouch of the unfeasible tibia is now on. It's hard to get a real sense of the gravity of the situation, however, as I am having to watch an American channel and the commentary is weeakkkk.

I was going to write something about how I'm too old for MySpace, and will someone please explain it to me, but Charlie Brooker has already done it for me. The Guardian also ran a short piece yesterday echoing my recent disquiet about drinking too much bottled water. So I'll just chuff on about the football, then.

Oh blimey, it's into extra time and the commentators have just spotted Mick Jagger in the crowd. It looks hot out there and is a scrappy match now, but for some reason I haven't been this gripped since Italia '90. I was working the summer in a shower factory and we were allowed to while the day away listening to the football on the radio, avidly reading the tabloid sport sections during breaks. (If you bought a Caradon Mira shower in that year and it was defective, it was probably my fault. The only thing I was any good at was sticking the right stickers on, having been gently led away from the welding room by a supervisor with fear in his eyes.)

Second period of extra time; God save the queen; no penalty for Lennon; an offside goal for Portugal. Gerrard seems to be everywhere, Lampard nowhere. This is really looking like it will go to penalties, with no Beckham or Rooney to take them.  Is Lennon shit at penalty kicks, then?  He's just been substituted, despite his fresh legs.  End of extra time, some twat American correspondent is in a pub in Wimbledon asking football fans dozy questions.  He's obviously been sent there for the tennis but they figure they'll get the most out of him. Time for lots of car ads on the tv and for me to make a cup of tea with the PG Tips my Mum brought over.

Lampard looks sooo nervous... oh, bugger. Hargreaves looks very small, but thankfully competent.  Portugal, even more thankfully, are missing. Gerrard: bollocks. Still 1-1.  Not for long. 2-1 Portugal.  Let's see if Carragher was worth that subsitution; holy shit, he's jumped the whistle.  And the keeper is good with the second.  And it's Cristiano Ronaldo, and it's all over. I would not want to be Rooney right now.  Or any of the other players who played well, but still lost.  Bye, Sven.  Thanks for that.  Don't expect too many kisses on your leaving card.