This continues on from my hot air balloon flight over Cappadocia in central Anatolia, Turkey. If you like, you could also read about all of my adventures in Turkey.

Below us, as we flew over the unique, wild moonscape of Cappadocia, were thousands of hand-carved dwellings and churches. From above, we couldn’t make out much — just valley after valley of ancient villages and cities. I couldn’t wait to get down there and actually explore on foot; getting lost in some of the most ancient man-made structures on Earth is a dream very few people can fulfil, but I was about to!

I’d booked a small tour to Goreme (Göreme) National Park for later that day. Just three of us, and a tour guide. To say I was excited would be an understatement. Fortunately, I would be sharing the tour with a lovely, young American couple — and Americans can’t get enough of hairy, bouncy easily-excitable British guys!

Cappadocia and its ancient cities are so unique and so special that it’s actually a UNESCO ‘World Heritage’ site. That’s no surprise, considering some of the world’s most ancient, recorded history occurred there: It was the home of the Hittites in the Bronze Age and later provided considerable resistance to Alexander the Great, even as he was riding high on the wave of a world-spanning empire after destroying the Persian Empire.

Coming up to ‘modern’ history, and birth of Christ, Cappadocia was a safe haven for religious types. While Christians the world over were being persecuted for their cultish beliefs, priests were holing up in the hand-hewn caves now found in Goreme National Park. While it’s impossible to date when the structures actually became churches, it’s believed there were sites of Christian worship long before Emperor Constantine ratified Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire.

Today, Goreme has the remains of the oldest churches in the world. To tell you that it’s weird to walk through a hole in the wall and find a 10th century Byzantine fresco would be a gross understatement. Around 900AD, the monastic complex at Goreme was carved out, and within 300 years, scores of churches were cut into the earth itself. Fast forward to today and there are still more than 10 fantastically preserved churches; churches that you can simply walk into!

What I found interesting was how small these churches were. Perhaps due to the constraints of their tools, or their knowledge of engineering, the largest churches were only 3 or 4 meters square. You’re walking into a single room — soom of which were vaulted — literally plastered with murals and frescoes. I wonder if they were small for another reason though: perhaps these churches were built back when religion wasn’t about being grandiose and self-important. Once upon a time, religion was probably about prayer, and finding solace in some greater entity than ourselves. A small room, with a priest, would be more than suitable for that, right?

Somewhere along the line, probably hand-in-hand with advances in engineering, churches became bigger, vaster and more pompous. If you’ve been to a truly huge cathedral, I think you can relate to that feeling of awe and wonderment as you cross the threshold and look up at the stained glass window above the altar — but that’s the majesty of the building, not God touching you. I assume that churches grew in size as faith swelled, and their eagerness to reach the firmament increased. It’s the same reason banks are always large, imposing structures — they inspire you to trust and believe in whoever dwells within, whether it’s the bank manager or high priest.

I don’t want to get too stuck into the topic of religion, as it’s rather obvious that the churches in Goreme were certainly not used as some kind of control structure; there were simply too many Churches for a single priest, or some particular rites of worship, to prevail! They were meant only as places of worship; vestibules of silence where you could be on your own, or with God.

We poked around for a few hours, scampering from room to room, trying to avoid the incredibly hot summer sun. There were houses, baths and even halls where they would gather to eat (but again, they were small, only a few meters across). My favourite features, though they scared me senseless, were the pitch-black escape tunnels that ran out of the city into adjoining valleys.

Building a city at back of a valley is already fairly hard to penetrate — you have to climb a mile-long incline to get there, with almost no cover — but, if an aggressive force actually made it to the top, there were a few tunnels that had been carved, by hand, out of the solidified volcanic ash.  These tunnels — which could be longer than a mile! — would enable the women and children to safely escape to another valley.

They also enabled poor, hapless, home-sick tourists like myself to escape to… ’safety’. Egged on by some hopelessly enthusiastic American (’Dude, I bet it’d be totally awesome…’), I finally steeled myself and climbed up some near-vertical stairs into the escape tunnel itself.

What followed was an experience I don’t really want to relive, but I will anyway, for your sake and certainly not mine. The stairs you see in the photo were just the beginning — there were two more flights, each one more run-down and life-threatening than the next. On the last flight, before the tunnel itself, the American in front of me slipped, fell, and broke the torch he was holding.

We were plunged into complete darkness. Most people have never experienced real darkness — the kind of darkness that you only get when you’re surrounded on all sides by at least 100 meters of rock. You’d probably consider a dark, moonless night ‘quite dark’; dark enough to bump into other people, at least. Let me tell you, a moonless night is about 10 times brighter than that escape tunnel — an escape tunnel that I was sure would shortly become my final resting spot. How ironic.

‘Eric?’ I called out quietly. I don’t know why I called out quietly; probably because of some primordial urge to lay low and pray the velociraptor doesn’t eat me.

‘Seb?’ came back the hushed, not-quite-so-enthusiastic voice of Eric the Enthusiastic American.

‘You’re right, this was totally awesome.’

‘I think I’ve busted my ankle, Seb. I can’t move.’

And so we crawled on in darkness. Or rather, I crawled on, using my super-human inner geek-strength to drag Eric behind me. Minutes went by, and soon hours. Scrapes from the jagged lining of the tunnel turned into bruises when we tumbled down some stairs and ended up in a pile of scared, sweaty man flesh. But we persisted, and eventually — about 2 hours later — we emerged into another valley to be greeted by a beautiful Anatolian sunset.

We were cut up and bleeding, shaken and stiff, rendered blind by the return of the sun. Worse than all that though: we had no idea where we were. The agreed meet-up time had long past, but when you don’t know where you are, it’s very hard to know where to go. Somewhere, Eric’s wife was eagerly awaiting his return.

I stood up, and looked down at Eric’s scratched, crumpled heap of a body.

‘She’ll be wondering where I am, Seb…’

‘I’m not the most athletic person in the world, Eric. I’m not sure I can carry you all the way to safety, after dragging your broken ass through a mile-long half-meter-wide tunnel…’

He grunted pathetically up at me. I sighed deeply.

And that’s how I walked off into the sunset, with an American called Eric in my arms.

I’ll start with something most people don’t know about me: I can’t drive.

(This will seem like a total non sequitur, but hang in there, I’ll deliver the goods, trust me.)

I’ve driven rally cars at high speed down treacherous dirt tracks. I’ve competitively raced quad bikes. I’ve taken a Dodge Viper to almost half the speed of sound.

But… I don’t have a driving license. A little odd, considering I once dreamt of being the world’s greatest rally driver.

The question that everyone inevitably asks is ‘Why don’t get your license?’ I’ve even owned and insured 3 cars in the vain attempt that it would spur me on to take my test. It didn’t. I’ve taken numerous driving lessons, and even passed my theory test… but still, 8 years on, I still haven’t taken a single driving test.

Why?

Because I always meet interesting people on trains and planes. There are other reasons, like the running costs and how fat I would get if I drove everywhere. No doubt, the benefits probably outweigh the inherent problems of having to get trains, planes and taxis everywhere.

However, if I drove a car, I would never have met Donald Rumsfeld’s chief political analyst. Neither would I have been invited to join the American secret service.

It was a blisteringly hot day in July. I’d just said goodbye to my beautiful, blonde hostess in Los Angeles and climbed into a train that would take me through some beautiful vineyards to Fresno — the armpit of America — and then onto Yosemite. Just a few seconds before the train departed, a small, wiry-haired man stumbled up the stairs into the carriage and sat down opposite me. He smiled at me apologetically as I hastily took me feet off his chair — my comfortable trip to Fresno had been scuppered by a very innocuous-looking, slightly-rotund man!

After he’d caught his breath, I introduced myself.

‘Hi.’ He nods back at me. ‘How’d you do?’ (I actually say that — sue me!)

We banter a little. I explain what I’m doing so far from home, alone; he explains why he’s on a train to Fresno, alone. He seems awfully friendly, but then most middle-aged, geeky bachelors tend to make the most of human contact when they can get it — something I have to get used to, I guess…

‘So, what do you do?’ I’d noticed he had a very expensive-looking suitcase, but that was the only hint of affluence about him.

‘I work for the government.’ He grins. My mouth forms a little ‘o’ and every muscle tenses. An awfully large number of misdemeanors from my younger years quickly flash before me. Was this really going to be the end of my short but sweet tale? He must’ve noticed my alarm because he quickly elaborated: ‘I’m a political analyst.’

I relaxed and sunk back into my oversized, supportive Amtrak chair (they’re made to be comfortable for large Americans, I guess). ‘I’m just back from the Middle East, actually.’

And so we talked, and talked and talked some more. I quickly learnt that this guy had a very serious job: to visit countries that America would soon declare war on, or were thinking about declaring war on in the future. It was his job to visit Iraq and find out if the populace would welcome an American invasion and occupation. He was there, in the Balkans, before NATO bombed Yugoslavia, calculating if the risk was worth the reward.

Who did he report to? How was he actually connected to the government? He finally opened up, a little way past Bakersfield, with the grape vines of Central Valley sliding by in a blur. ‘Donald Rumsfeld. He’s my boss.’ He grinned again, and not for the first time he looked apologetic. Humble, resigned to whatever fate he’d cast upon Iraq, and the other nations he’d visited. He flew around the world, analysed the political climate and then reported back to Donald Rumsfeld; if his findings said ‘go’, they went.

If he had reported back with different findings, Rumsfeld might never have given the command to proceed with such shock and awe. Perhaps that’s why the analyst looked so bashful and minced his words. Sitting opposite was his most loyal and unswerving ally: a man from Britain, an allegiance that had been quite severely tested.

As the conversation twisted and turned — my eager inquisition digging deeper and deeper –  I could tell he wanted to talk about different things. He was single, without kids, travelling to see his mother. He wanted to talk about his life, and how troubling it was to be responsible for so many millions of Americans, and the citizens of other countries that might soon feel the brunt of the world’s only super power.

I listened for the rest of the journey. Eventually, we came to a standstill in Fresno. He stood up and smiled properly for the first time since we’d met 3 hours ago. I don’t know if it was my awesome listening skills, or the fact that he was going to see his mother — I like to think I was at least partially to blame.

As I was gathering my bags, he begun to make his way down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs he suddenly stopped and turned around. He said my name and paused; until he had my attention, or steeling himself, who knows.

‘You know, Donald was always against the war in Iraq.’

This is a series of posts (Time-Travel Thursday) which so far has looked only at the beginning of my time at university, between 2003 and 2004. After the events of last week’s entry I begun a relationship that would span the remainder of my time at university; it wasn’t an uneventful time, but it was particularly peaceful. I’ll write about sometime, just not today. I want to talk about the past, so you can understand a bit more about me today.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you’ve probably noticed a recurring theme: I’ve been hilariously unfortunate when it comes to girls. I’ve been fortunate too — heck, I still consider myself lucky to have been with all my girlfriends — but, inevitably, bad relationships end. I remember the good times fondly, of course, but it’s the bad times that really stick with you. The pain and emotional distress from a bad relationship and the ensuing break-up really bogs us down! Some people are still plagued by uncertainty, unknowingness and doubt from relationships that ended a decade ago. Bad relationships haunt us.

The relationship I’m going to tell you about still lingers hauntingly, affecting my decisions when it comes to other girls — potential girlfriends.

If you’ve ever experimented with blindfolds in the bedroom with a loved one you’ll know that the experience is intense. With our visual sense deprived, other senses kick into overdrive, competing and clamouring to be heard by the brain. Before you know it, you’re flinching and squirming and whimpering, unable to predict what will happen next. Your partner has you in the palm of their hand.

Ultimate gratification is a boon that only your partner can provide in such a situation. Or, alternatively, your partner could walk out of the room and leave you there on the bed, blindfolded, prone, alone, unable to act and defenceless.

A relationship itself is like being emotionally blindfolded. In a relationship, our remaining senses are heightened, our emotional empathy increases.  In exchange, our foresight disappears. Love is blind(ness)! Objectivity flies out of the window. The world you so gracefully inhabited beforehand slides into a blurred, grey background — out of sight, out of mind. It’s just you and your lover, spotlit, center stage. In my case, it was me and The American. She had me blindfolded, but it wasn’t so dark that I couldn’t make our her brilliantly bright form, picked out by the focused spot light of my love.

(Ironic, now that I think about it, that I put it into photographic terms. I’ve known her for 8 years, and I possess just 2 photos of her. And about a million mental images of her.)

In a relationship, our happiness is completely at the whim of our lover — the lover that has us chained down in a bed, emotionally blindfolded. You can’t force her to bestow upon you the heavenly, nirvana-like pleasures of love, intimacy and sex. It’s up to her. Where there isn’t an equality of control, where one person controls the entire flow of the relationship, where one partner holds the keys and forces you to jump through hoops to attain love, and thus happiness and satisfaction — these relationships are destined to fail.

If only I’d known that when I was 16.

If only I’d known, as I sat there on the bench, watching a beautiful blonde girl slowly wend her way through a throng of school friends towards me, that 8 years down the line, I’d still be nursing a fragmented heart.

She was short. Really short, perky and cute. It was a strong start, certainly. She’d finished traversing the crowd of kids and stood before me.

‘Hi!’ A ready smile, too. Good teeth. A grin that lit up her little face.

Unfortunately, she had an American accent.

‘Ah… you were doing so well, until you opened your mouth!’

The opening words of a relationship that, one form or another, would span almost a decade. Middle school, highschool and college.

I’ve told you before that I’m really mean to girls that I like, right? It’s probably a self-defence thing; a self-esteem thing. Pushing a girl away before she gets close enough to tease my heart-strings, and then inevitably dump me for a stronger, hairier and manlier man than I. Well, try as I might, this one wouldn’t be pushed. She sat down next to me and just continued to smile. I perservered. Continuing with low blows, sarcasm and a neverending, incessant pick-pick-picking of her American accent and mannerisms, I just couldn’t shake her off.

She loved it. She’d never experienced it before, being America — the dry, English wit; irony — or perhaps she just fancied the socks off me. I like to think it’s because she wanted my babies. Perhaps I was so funny that she wanted my babies?

She only stayed for the summer that time but she promised she’d be back. If she hadn’t come back, I would’ve gone to her anyway; 5000 miles was nothing for a couple of smitten, lovesick teenagers that craved each other’s company.

A year later and I’m in the process of finding a buyer for one of my kidneys when I receive an email from her: ‘I’m flying over in August. We need to talk.’

She refused to tell me about it over email.

In fact, she must’ve realised sometime between writing the email and the amazing 3 months we spent together that summer that her mother could talk to me instead.

And so it was that, one day, sitting outside eating lunch, her mother sat down beside me.

‘We need to talk, Sebastian.’

‘About what?’ I’d completely forgotten about the aforementioned ‘talk’ and I had a big grin on my face: I didn’t like her mother particularly, but it made sense to smile at your future mother-in-law, right?

‘This relationship of yours, between you and my daughter. It can’t continue.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘Why…?’

‘She has a fiancé in America. Her childhood sweetheart. She’s marrying him this winter.’

To be continued…

If you haven’t read the first half of the story you really, really should. In fact, this entry won’t make much sense, nor will it have anywhere near the same emotional impact if you don’t start from the beginning — so go and read the first half!

It’s the last night of school, the summer ball. A coming of age for many, but I still haven’t had my first kiss. We walk away together, muted, numb, hand in hand. I turn to face her when we reach the car park and I’m reminded of just how much taller than her I am. She’s at least a foot shorter than me and still as beautiful as the day we first met, 2 years ago.

We continue to wait in silence, not really sure of what can be said; what should be said.

‘Would a kiss be out of the question?’ I’m the one breaking the silence. It would be quite a different story if she’d been the one asking.

‘You know I can’t… we can’t…’ She sounds so incredibly disappointed, held back by a promise made to someone I’d never met, her childhood sweetheart. Her fiancé. Her thief, unwittingly and unfairly stealing away the love of my life.

My dad arrives and we hop tentatively into the back of his car. I cry quietly. At least she can’t see my face or eyes. She too begins to cry. We head back to her place, both in some kind of dark void — limbo — unaware of anything beyond our immediate surroundings, intent on keeping one last crystal-clear shared memory, sharp and  deeply etched. Maybe wind rushed in through an open window, or music tumbled lazily out of the radio, I don’t know. We’re both lost in the moment, crying.  The car stops and for a moment silence rules. The memory of her opening the door and slowly stepping out into the dark night is quickly and vividly seared into the memories of my adolescence.

I open my door and follow her to the doorstep.

I smile in the darkness, my lips twisted into some kind of disgusting rictus; irony and self-pity rolled into one. She’d played me all along. A game that, while beautiful, had had its outcome set in stone since the day we’d first met. I’d fallen for her and she’d fallen for me, but try as we might, this parting moment had been inescapable. Preordained is the word I think they use, and I wouldn’t have minded if someone Up There had taken her from me. But it wasn’t God, nor some angelic, oiled-torsoed Adonis: it was some pesky, backward farmer boy with a predilection for big, shiny tractors.

‘Bye, Sebby.’ I nodded with finality and turned to leave. I stopped for a moment, looking over my shoulder.

‘You owe me a kiss.’ That was me talking again. I meant it.

Five years went by. Five. A lot happened in those five years. I aged from 17 to 22. In truth, I’d almost forgotten about her. She was always there, in the back of my mind, one of a few ‘what ifs’. I’m not one to linger and dwell though; my thoughts of her were of platonic curiousity rather than visceral yearning — I wondered how she’d been, if marriage had been worth it. If she regretted not kissing me that night on her doorstep. Most of what you’ve read on this blog happened after she vanished.

I know it sounds like some kind of awful Hollywood, silver-screen cliche, but I knew she’d come back. There was too much unfinished business to simply… up and leave. That’s not to say I wrote sappy love letters, or abstained from sex and relationships, hoping that one day the phone would ring — no, university came and went without contact. I begun my travels around the world — there were even trips to America and Los Angeles, close to where I thought she might be. But of course, I had no address — her mother forbade any contact. I briefly thought about quizzing people on the streets if they’d ’seen this girl’, but the only photo I had of her was 5 years old and probably no use. Plus, people don’t really do that in real life… do they?

It was now January 2007. 20:00 January 17th, 2007 — midday, Pacific Standard Time, her time. I have new email, and it’s from her. I can’t really describe how I felt at that instant, but I should at least try: light-headed euphoria. Righteous vindication. I’m so rarely wrong — I so rarely make a bad call — but I was seriously starting to doubt if I’d got this one wrong. 5 years is a long time to leave a guy hanging for a kiss; I’m patient, but there are limits! When that email finally arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Returning… — January 17th 2007

Hi Sebby.

I’m considering returning back to the UK very shortly to live there for a bit.

Saw your photos. Very nice! Quite the world traveller these days, aren’t you?

I’m sure I’ll hear from you soon.

Love,

Understated, as always. A fluttering, torrential storm of mail followed as we quickly caught up, though a lot remained unsaid until we finally met again in person, a month later.

To this day, I still can’t believe she was reading my journal and looking at my photos — keeping tabs, like a voyeur. She could’ve said Hi, just once, but no, she made me wait. I guess that should’ve been the first sign that the ball was still very much on her side of the court. My heart thumped a rhythm dictated by her carefully-orchestrated maneuvers. 7 years had passed since we met, but nothing had changed.

If only I’d known that in March, when we first kissed, that this wasn’t going to be the happily-ever-after that I — we? — had so hoped for. Nothing had changed for the better — or for worse — we were still very much in love, but it wasn’t going to be an easy ride.

A year later, after some of the most blissfully memorable moments of my life, she left me again. A year of apocryphal magic — times of love, of her tiny body wrapped in my arms, her soft skin teasing my fingertips — tainted by lows that still haunt me today: would things have turned out differently if I’d whispered different sweet nothings into her ear?

Seven years of strife for a single year of part-time love.

I haven’t seen or heard from her since. I don’t think she’s coming back this time, either.

If you can’t see the audio player, you’ll have to view it on my blog. But it’s only a minute long, and not that exciting, so you can probably skip it, unless you want to hear my impression of a throat-cancer victim.

If you hadn’t gathered already, I’m big and imposing, like two conjoined Pavarotti Siamese twins. I’m a fairly prolific person; I don’t do things on a small scale. When I take photos, I take a lot of photos (and I’m getting quite good — proof below!) When I play games, I play them for hours and hours (immersion is key!) When I write, I write thousands of words; carefully thought-out, heart-felt and well-researched words. The great thing is, no matter what I turn my attention to, I love doing it! There’s a reason excellence is one goal we all strive for: it feels damn good when we finally get there. No one ever feels good after finishing half-assed job, right? But when you put down your paint brush or pencil or microphone and you’ve done good, it feels great!

The problem with typing on this kind of scale is that it causes repetitive strain injury (RSI) in my fingers. You just can’t sit at a desk and type for 12-16 hours a day without repercussions. Fortunately it’s not permanent — yet. Normally I catch it, slowly creeping up: I take a break, go for a walk; stretch my fingers and my lungs (don’t get me started on my cardiac fitness…) Historically, I’ve interspersed my computational orgies with travel, but this year all of my trips have been scuppered! Three of them! Wales, Ireland and Scotland; February, March and April. I hope to make it to Ireland later in the year, but until then, I’m stuck here in front of my computer, sucking on my sore fingers (which is surprisingly soothing, even when you do it yourself).

Can you believe the trip to Wales was cancelled because the incredibly cute girl pulled out at the last minute? Usually that’s my job. After I’d booked some hotels! Man, she had the Welsh accent and all… (Obvious when you think about it, considering she’s from Wales, but still, a wistful sigh is required at this point.)

So today, instead of solid, insightful prose, you get a few pretty photos and some audio tomfoolery. My travel stories are almost up to date (with the huge exception of America), so it’s actually time to write about my most recent trip: Italy! I’ve been wanting to write about it for ages — strike while the iron is hot! — but I’ve been a very good, patient boy and kept to the chronology. I should do America — I owe it to all of you lovely Americans — but after all of the ‘how I blew it with yet another girl’ stories from the last few weeks, I want to write about something else.

You get 3 photos. Two beautiful landscapes and one idiot. If you can correctly identify the odd one out, I’ll give you a cookie.

Florence:

Venice:

Venice again:

Also this month:

• More guest blogs! One of which I am promised will involve indecent exposure; another will be far too intelligent for any of us to understand (damn doctorate students)!
  
• Why Americans rock! A long-overdue piece that will probably come towards the end of the month.
• Things I don’t like. So far I’ve been fairly fluffy and easy-going; philosophically benevolent, even. Now I’m going to write some slightly more angry entries (in the absence of sex, hitting a keyboard angrily and with gusto is about as good as it gets. Help.)
• And much, much more! How about another ‘Pirate Special‘, but this time… ‘The Animal Special’! Watch this space as Seb gets down right bestial.

I really shouldn’t be left alone with a copy of Photoshop, chocolate biscuits (cookies, if you’re illiterate) and my muse, Eric the blind cat.

And for the non-Americans: there’ll be just enough irony that’s hilarious to us… and invisible to them. Tune in on Monday.

Welcome to my first American special: Why Americans are awesome. I appreciate that I haven’t actually written a whole lot about America, so you might question my authority — and rightly so! I’ve visited a few times — about two months in total on five individual trips. I don’t claim to know everything about the States but as you probably know by now, that won’t stop this entry from being highly opinionated. Bear in mind then, as you read this, that ‘awesome’ doesn’t necessarily mean really neat, though it often does. Awesome means ‘awe inspiring’ — mouth-agape and stupefied — something you tell your kids about! Awww-sum, dude!!!

That’s why I chose that word in particular. America is awesome, no matter which facet you gaze upon. Either in military might or economic growth, America rules supreme. From the sheer vastness of their natural splendours — Yosemite, Yellowstone, The Grand Canyon — to the rich oil and gold and mineral reserves, America really is an adventurous place.

You have to imagine what it would’ve been like for an Irishman, pushing west across undiscovered America. How it must’ve felt to experience those sense-shattering sights. Mountains, glacial valleys, geysers — it would’ve been overwhelming! As I explored America, I liked to think I felt an inkling of the awe that those tiny colonies of trailblazing frontiersmen felt centuries ago as they pushed west across the New World.

It is perhaps no wonder that Americans retain an adventurous glint in their eye and bounce in their step — an enthusiasm and appetite for endeavour that precious few nations have. I guess, unlike many other countries, they still have something to be enthusiastic about. They’re still looking through rose-tinted spectacles left by their one-sixteenth Irish-blood great grandfather.

They’re big and brash

No matter which way you look at it: over wide, beautiful vistas or around the orbital curvature of an obese chest, Americans are by far the biggest race in the world. It’s no surprise, considering the seemingly never-ending expanse of their virgin habitat, that they’ve evolved into the largest of the Homo neanderthalensis. Animals tend to grow to occupy a given space — in high-density areas, animals tend to be smaller. America is huge and its population equally expansive.

The equation isn’t quite so simple though. The reason Americans are so large is because they are so self-sufficient. They have so many natural resources and such huge swathes of land suitable for agriculture that they have an abundance of cheap, locally-grown food. Couple in the fact that tropical conditions are available just short boat ride away, across the Gulf of Mexico, and it’s really no surprise that Americans are big (see Appendix A).

The brashness comes from being big and knowing you’re a force to be reckoned with, both on a global scale thanks to a huge military, and in the dusty, windswept saloons with your natural body armour. The confidence that Americans ooze is one of the (desirable?) traits that separates Americans from the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s because they’ve never really tasted defeat like most other Western nations, or just because they’re still so incredibly young in the grand scale of history.

The rest of the world knows about its weaknesses only too well. Americans are sure that they have some weakness, some flaw, somewhere… they just don’t stop to think about it. Maybe they’ll stop to think about it after yet another conquest — following yet another war that they can’t possibly lose. Because losing has never been an option.

That’s why Americans are confident.

They don’t have a class system… kind of

While the rest of the Western world is still battling with an archaic, feudal hand-me-down class system, and the undeveloped world still qualifies its leaders by the size of their ears or gonads, America is essentially classless. In England you can spot a millionaire from 100 meters. In America… good luck! A millionaire might wear a suit, or he might just wear jeans and a t-shirt, depending on how he feels. Or what’s fresh out of the washing machine.

This is because America is primarily made of new money. There are certainly a few British-occupation throwbacks — old, rich slavers  — but most rich people in America today made their own money. They struggled against adversity to become stupendously rich. Capitalism might be frowned upon by many other developed nations but people forget that America has only had a couple of hundred years to catch up with the rest of the world! Without capitalism, America would probably still be a farming country (and some of it is!)

It’s only classless by definition though. Americans still strive to be better than their neighbours, it’s just more of a low-key, Cold War affair. Bigger cars. Greener lawns. Smaller dogs. Prom, rodeo and Mardi Gras queens. Beauty pageants. Bigger cows; riding rowdier bovines and horses. America is competitive. Without a defined class system, with nothing more than the equivalent of a league of comparitive penis lengths, Americans go out of their way to be bigger, better, faster and wholly more awesome than everyone else.

That continuing, never-let-it-lie attitude of trying to one-up its compatriots and the rest of the world has resulted in their global supremacy.

You can buy anything

Thanks to capitalism everything in America has a price. Really, anything; it’s shocking and at the same time strangely impressive. In most of the Western world, manners, deference, politeness and etiquette grease the cogs of society. In America it’s money. A big, toothy smile helps too — but mostly it’s cold, hard cash.

My trips to America have been liberating. I’ve known that at any time, as long as I have some money in my pocket, I’m safe; I’m enabled. I can (and did) literally anything I could think of. You’ll have to wait for my travel stories from America before you hear about those!

Back in England and Europe I’m fettered, restricted by social norms and expectations: who I’m friends with matters, and possibly who my enemies are too. I don’t think it’s any surprise that people searching for a new beginning travelled to the New World where there were no limits to what you could do or accomplish — no more arbitrary limitations  imposed by your family’s history or religious affiliations — just an as-far-as-the-eye-can-see, unspoilt horizon and only one way to measure and compare success: money.

Appendix A: American Food

I’ll continue this tomorrow — there’s simply too much awesomeness in America for one blog entry — but for now, I want to leave you with some truly amazing culinary (I use that word loosely) creations, ripped off from thisiswhyyourefat.com.

The thing I love most about this one is the piece of lettuce. God bless America.

Two Danish pastries. And bacon. And is that the yolk of a sunny-side-up fried egg I see in the mix too?

You probably scrolled off this one quickly because it almost looks internal. Entitled ‘The Cornhole’, this… creation… this… monstrosity means I’ll never be able to look sweetcorn in the eye again. Or anyone else for that matter.

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: God bless America.
That’s a chocolate cake with crispy bacon sprinkles. You can’t see, but right now I have tears running down my cheeks.
Salty-wet trails of pride. The tears of someone that has glimpsed true beauty in the form of cake.
America, you truly are one of a kind. Thank God.

America’s so awesome that I ran out of space yesterday! I’m going to continue where I left off, but not without first wowing you with a recent discovery of mine: The Heart Attack Grill. Words don’t really do it justice, so just watch this little video segment from a very serious-sounding TV news reporter.

With that out of the way — Christ, those nurses were hot, eh?  Did you see that ‘A wheelchair ride to your car’ is on the menu? My kind of establishment! — it’s now time to conclude why Americans are AWESOME.

Guns don’t kill people

There’s something about America and the celebration of firearms. It’s probably tied into what I said yesterday about Americans being big and brash — what better way to win an argument or ensure the cessation of all disagreement than with an automatic shotgun? If that doesn’t work, how about equipping it with a clip of armour-penetrating grenade rounds that can be fired off in under two seconds?

Apparently, it’s your God-given right to bear arms in the United States. Well, not God-given, but granted by the second amendment — which was probably divined under the omnipresent supervision of God. Most things back then were, don’t worry — anyway, constitutionally, Americans are allowed to own a firearm. 200 years ago, y’see, there was still some risk of a tyrant leader forcing their way to the top. It was actually sensible that localised militias were maintained in case of emergency — in the event that they would have to help maintain the republic (by shootin’ the dictator).

Fear of oppressive/tyrannical leadership is a common trait amongst all democratic republics and begun way back in Roman times. Today though, there isn’t really a reason to own a lethal weapon, other than because your neighbours do. And other bad drivers. Do Americans really think that owning a gun makes them safer? I can’t get my head around that one so I’m just going to label that particular logic as ‘awesome’ — perhaps there is a method in the madness. Perhaps you really can whip your gun outta your glove box and shoot ‘im dead faster than he can squeeze the trigger.

Maybe, if the mugger knew you weren’t packing heat, he’d carry a baseball bat instead of a gun? Broken ribs instead of dead on the cold floor.

I still remember the day I first saw an automatic submachine gun, at the airport, cradled gently, reverentially, in the arm of a police officer. I was meant to feel safe; I had never been so afraid.

McDonalds and Starbucks — globalisation — American havens the world over

Most non-Americans reading this will probably have bumped into an American tourist at some time or another. More than likely this would be in a Starbucks or McDonalds — the American’s there to pur-chase a slice of cake that’s just like my momma’s home cookin or a cup of hot, national-pride piss. I’ve found the best way to enjoy Starbucks coffee is to drink it fast while it’s still hot; burn all of them there pesky taste buds off! You then have a tongue that’s ready to sample the finest of American mud. Like KFC: they tell us it’s chicken, as we’re biting down into that slippery, spicy succulent morsel we try our damnedest to believe it is chicken — but is it really chicken? Starbucks tell us they serve great coffee. They wouldn’t lie to us like KFC, right?

(As an aside, the gangster slang ‘homeslice’ originates from from the phrase ‘a slice of home’, i.e. someone that reminds you of what it’s like to be back home. How cute is that? Starbucks, your American homeslice, the only solid bastion in a sea of crazy foreigners; seriously, Europeans, go check out a Starbucks in a busy city like Paris or Rome and just marvel at the number of Amerkins you find.)

The unstoppable sprawl of globalisation is an almost-uniquely American thing. The fast food chains, music, film — television. I’ve seen a news clip of a religious fanatic in Iraq decrying Americans as imperialist pigs with Friends and Joey’s inane face plastered on the TV behind him — you couldn’t make that kind of sweet irony up. A lot of people actually learn English from syndicated TV and Hollywood films and pop music — it always amuses me when I meet a local resident in Turkey or Croatia or Serbia that has an American accent. I wonder if they know just how funny it is?

Realising fairly quickly that they couldn’t actually take over the whole world (damn those commie Ruski pigs) they had to settle for the next best thing — CAPITALISM! Once you’ve reached national saturation there’s only one option left: go multinational! There’s a place in Portland, Washington there are actually two Starbuckses opposite each other. Either side of the street. That’s saturation and that’s why I have more Starbucks stores in London than in New York — I’m not complaining though — their coffee might be shit, but their ice-blended coffees with whipped cream on top… mmm.

(I did a little research, and it turns out ‘two Starbuckses on the same street’ is actually a smart move intentionally deployed by Starbucks. Each cafe would be decorated differently and thus serve a different kind of clientelle! So that’s actually quite smart, Mr Starbucks…)

I don’t think globalisation is intentional though, it’s just a side-effect. In the olden days, only the richest of merchants would have offices in more than one city. Today, our technology-rich world is an environment tailor-made for America’s big corporations. They’ve capitalised on their vast reserves cash to quickly spread their long, gribbly, money-grabbing tendrils all over the world. That’s not to say the rest of the world has suffered — far from it. We’ve reaped a lot of benefits of such quick world-devouring expansion (though there are plenty of arguments against the culture-destroying aspects of globalisation). We have globalisation to thank for cheap fast food (hooray!), a lot of employment and a huge amount of consumable entertainment. Kudos has to be given to Americans for finding some way to conquer the modern world without nukes.

The first black president!!

Apparently, this is fairly big news. Also, curiously, the USA is the first country to have a dildo shaped like their head of state (pun intended, animated and totally NSFW). I can’t wait for the first British-born Indian-parented Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Thinking about it, I don’t think there’s ever been a black president in any of the European countries… Maybe I should another entry  on why Europeans suck!

A turkey, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a duck. Wrapped in bacon. Perhaps America’s greatest invention: The Turbaconucken, courtesy of thisiswhyyourefat.com.

Following on from the rampant, run-away success of last week’s column, I now bring you three more fresh and exciting problems for me to sink my teeth into. Only this week there’s a twist — I’ve invited the eccentric Mr. Apron to also offer his… alternative… point of view on the questions I’ve been sent this week. There’s a chance he’ll get his own column here on this blog, but let’s see how this goes first…

Dearest Sebby,

Can I ever compare to Katee Sackhoff? She’s so hot. Maybe I should just give up and hand my boyfriend over to her now. Of course I probably make better cakes than her, but I think he’d probably still be happier with her.

Please lavish me with your opinions o’ great geek,
Apollo’s Dad Is Sexier

Seb

Well the good news is that Katee — Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica — isn’t conventionally beautiful. There’s certainly something about her though — that rough, craggy exterior that only occasionally breaks open to reveal a soft, supple interior; much like an armadillo, really. By the end of the final season of BSG she also has an attractive element of mystery — what is she?! — something, let’s face it, you can probably never compete with.

My tip to you, like most style gurus, is to accentuate on your strong traits. If your hair is ruddy blonde — bleach it! Heck, even if it’s not, bleach it anyway! If there’s something about you that your boyfriend really likes, work it! If he likes the dirty, greasy, raw look — who are you to deny him that pleasure? If all else fails: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Smother him in baked goods, spread yourself eagled on the bed, covered in nothing but crumbled pieces of meringue and Chantilly cream.

For further advice, please send me a large slab of chocolate brownie.

Apron

Dear Katee Wannabee,

I must not watch enough television– I had no idea who this bitch was.  I had to Google Images her and was disappointed to see that, even with the SafeSearch filter turned off, there were no money shots anywhere.  I disagree with Sebastian on the matter of her beauty, intrinsic or otherwise.  Am I the only one who’s noticed that her left eye is all weird?

Then again, Wannabee, I guess your boyfriend isn’t spending too much time staring at her left eye.

Can you ever compete with her?  No.  Can you bash her in the leg with a lead pipe?  Well, it worked for Tonya Harding, but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Look, seriously, all you can do is put out more.  Five, six times a day if you have to.  Sure, your boyfriend will be thinking about Katee Sackhoff each and every time, but at least you’ll be keeping him busy and off Google Image with the SafeSearch filter off.

I disagree with Seb also, (sorry, mate) that you should alter your appearance by bleaching your hair to satisfy your schmuck boyfriend but, if you do decide to do that, I think you should then shave it all off and mail it to Katee Sackhoff.  That’ll teach her to be sexy.

Feel free to mail me brownies or whatever, too.

Dear Dr Sebby!!!

How the hell do I get an audio player to work on my blog? I think it involves converting MP4 files (like I know what that is) to MP3 (which sounds slightly familiar).

Or I need to know the “location” to something? Basically I want to play 99 red balloons on my blog and I don’t know how!!!

HELP ME NOW PLEASE!!
- Distressed Blogger

[I stripped out lots of punctuation, but I felt the three exclamations and ALL CAPS had to be left in -S]

Seb

I assume you mean the, um, German classic by Nena? I’m not sure how I feel about helping you spread German propaganda, and I’m sure my counterpart Apron will have something to say about that too. Fortunately, I will see past any prejudices I might have and fulfil my Hippocratic oath.

• It sounds like you need to start by converting the MP4s to MP3 by using a program. There’s a guide on how to use it, but it looks fairly self-explanatory: drag music in, click convert, enjoy your new MP3s.
• Next, you need to upload them to the Internet. This is slightly trickier. Start by registering at DivShare and then following the prompts to upload your MP3 files. When you’re done, you should have a link across the top of your browser window — you can either use this direct link in your MP3 player of choice, or click the link, then ‘Embed/Sharing Options’, and use their MP3 player (it’s up to you).
• If you decide to use your own MP3 player (which it sounds like you already have set up?), you then place the above link (http://www.divshare.com/download/something-123.mp3) into the embed code, and voila!

(If you have no idea what ‘embed code’ I speak of, there’s a great YouTube video that’ll walk you through the entire process, if you can put up with some kind of hideous English/Indian/Chav/Something?? accent.)

Apron

Dear Distressed,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having issues with playing music on your blog.  What a serious bummer.

Here’s a thought: instead of trying to snazz your blog up with music to distract your visitors’ attention from the fact that you have no meaningful content, why don’t you try to focus all the energy you’ve exhausted trying to figure out how to set up an MP3 player on your blog and put some of that effort into the actual writing?!

Now there’s a novel idea, isn’t it?  A blog with words.  That people read.  If people want to hear music, they’ll open Pandora [We can't use this in Europe any more, very sad -S] in a different window and listen to music while they read your blog.  If you want to share the music you love so much with the rest of the world, make us mix tapes, you hopeless romantic, you.

Your blog is also probably rife with exciting graphics and YouTube clips and pictures of cats wearing stupid hats saying “I Can Has Cheezburger?” isn’t it?

Jesus Christ.

Monsieur Seb,

I have a bit of a tricky one for you, one that I think might not have a right answer, but I’ll give your ‘Ask Me Anything’ a shot!

I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend, or at least I think it is love. She’s 3 years older than me, but that hasn’t changed matters. I don’t think my brother knows, but he must be at least somewhat suspicious. I guess he just trusts us enough that he hasn’t entertained the thought of his girlfriend and me flirting.

But yeah, the problem is: she also likes me. We kissed last week, in the living room! Stupid, I know, and my brother came in after we’d finished. We both had the most telling, embarrassed faces. I don’t know how long we can keep it up. Should we elope to Vegas? Haha. His girlfriend has told me she really likes me, but she’s not sure who she likes more… Aaaargh!

Help me, Sir Seb!
In Love And Confused, USA

Seb

There’s definitely no easy solution to this one, sorry. It happens to us all: we fall for the forbidden fruit, the fruit that’s all the more ripe and tasty because someone else has already picked it. It’s like someone has already certified the fruit ‘highly tasty’ and you just gotta have a bite. It’s more commonly seen amongst adults as the ‘wedding ring’ syndrome — married men especially get chased a lot by women seeking a nice man!

Your situation is all the more complicated because it sounds like you’re still living at home, so your brother’s girlfriend is always about the place — no doubt you’ve caught her in pyjamas or other revealing clothing too…?

But to the resolution: first, you should try and forget all about her. Your brother got there first and she says she likes him. That’s the obvious solution. Without knowing the details of your brother’s relationship, it’s hard to say whether you should chase or let go of the girl — if she’s not happy with your brother, or your brother mistreats her… perhaps it’s worth chasing? You’re both young, and if you really love her, go for it! Unless this girl is the love of his life, of course, in which case, forget it.

No matter which route you take, you will have to talk to your brother sooner or later — preferably before he actually catches you doing something dishonourable, so you should probably start with that!

Apron

Dear In Love (Though Probably Not),

I’d love to know how old you are.  From the tone of your letter, I’m guessing you’re fourteen.  Son, you have to be old enough to drive before you can “elope to Vegas” and then you have to be old enough to get married.  As far as I know, the only people in America who can get married at 14 are the Amish, and they have enough problems.

Sebastian, I can’t believe you’re advising this kid to talk to his brother about this– what’s wrong with you? [Sorry, call it my 'inner belief in all things good and proper'... -S] First of all, Americans don’t “talk” to each other, about anything.  They text each other.  Second of all, this kid’s older brother is probably some square-jawed, Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging high school senior who will bury his hockey stick inside this kid’s head at the mere mention that he’s got the hots for his girlfriend.

I’ll bet she is pretty fucking hot, though, isn’t she?  Tank-tops, little shorts all rolled up at the waist, too, I’ll bet.  Mmmmm…

Which brings me quite neatly to the solution to your little problem: it’s this crazy new thing all the teens are doing these days.  It’s called: masturbation.  See, friend, you don’t have to fuck every chick you think is attractive, especially the one who happens to be attached to your brother’s midsection.  You think she’s hot?  Great.  Jerk off while thinking about her.

Problem solved.

P.S. Don’t you love how Sebastian and his fellow Brits write “dishonourable” and “pyjamas?”  Cute!

It’s been a month since I was last alone. Solitary in that naked-in-your-room-listening-to-loud-music kind of way. First I was in the Faroes for three weeks. And then, for the past week, I had a case of the Americans.

Noisy Americans. Young Americans that run circles around my tired, old bones. Even during the few times I’ve found myself alone in my room the sound of their raucous laughter and singing always seemed to find its way to my bedroom

But… their enthusiasm is infectious. I always find there’s a lot more energy that lies dormant just waiting to be tapped into — and being surrounded by tireless, happy-go-lucky Americans is certainly one way to rediscover that energy and thus your youth.

I hopped and cavorted and even danced a little this week. I know… scary.

But now they’re gone! And I’m naked and slouching in my computer chair! Miles Davis’ muted toots and squeals ooze from my speakers. I am blissfully alone.

Now, because my I’m woefully exhausted, you simply get a few photos that’ll hopefully make your Monday morning a whole lot less tired and dull:

I have a landscape version where the rays of sunshine are more visible towards the horizon, but I like this one because of the awesome clouds towards the top of the frame — and the blue! Where did the hint of blue come from…?

Next, a totally disgusting photo of me and two girls. I assure you, despite what it looks like, I didn’t ‘get some’. I’m far too camp for most girls to take seriously. I must go about fixing that some day.

Two great things about this photo: I’m huge (well, they’re tiny); and the little sock. To find out what happened next, you’ll have to visit my Flickr stream.

And finally, a dopey picture of me and one of my photos that was on display last week at an exhibition/gallery (there were actually three photos hung, but I just wanted to show you some proof!):

Those of you that have already bought prints probably just had their value double. Cool huh? I’m still trying to get my head around selling art and the crazy way it’s valued. I’ll work it out eventually and make a million, just you watch!

I have a lot of other pretty photos that I may post later today; will try my best. Otherwise, a happy Monday to you all!