Madness of King Skin(head)

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I’m currently lounging in Paris with Neko, who apparently is going through a “no hug” strike. This cat, as much as I love her to nano bits, does get annoying with her overwhelming desire to give me hugs. You might say that I have never been good with pets, ask one of my ex-flatmates, but I have been nothing but a model semi-pet owner with Neko. But try as I do or don’t, it’s next to impossible to give her “hugs” whenever she wants one. If you’re not a cat connoisseur like I am not, you might not understand the fickleness of this stinky shit specie. She’ll want one when you don’t want one and she will flat out fall in your face refuse to give you one and I’m left with nothing but a pair of lazy arms.

But t’is not the point that I wanted to further discuss this post. I’m simply quite outraged by the treatment I received at a football stadium on the British Isles. Although this post may incriminate yours gingerly, I know I’m decadently right on the main topic and therefore I am going to abuse my power to rant out what transpired that shifty evening.

That day, I was in London having lunch with J-Ro. She was enthusiastic as usual about my presence as I was beating myself into a unabashed submission for agreeing with my internal self that the lunch was on me. I have explained to her that as much as she wants to reap the benefits of her being included on my Pulitzer Prize winning speech, I wanted to monetarily pre-reward her for her success as a potential future position as the 2nd Iron Lady. She looks Asian, but she’s got pastiness running in her veins.

After a surprisingly un-curry like Ma-po Tofu, she settled down to change the course of history by Twilight Zoning an incident which shook the world for about 2 minutes. Correct me if I’m completely off, but a suited man in his 40’s or early 50’s was jamming it to the Kinks, rather jamming it into some poor young soul with his Chuck Norris. What we can deduce from the splendid jacket he was wearing, this young man who was getting the beating of his lifetime achievement award was working for the always lovely London Transport or London Tourism association. For unknown reason known to perhaps the suited man’s grandmother in law, this suit man started to pummel this Transport/Tourism man into a post-pummelled lump. As astonishing this incident was to J-Ro, she was more astonished about the fact that none of the other passenger helped this Transport/Tourism man out. Not a single one to say, “Hey old timer, can you take it easy on that young man from the Transport/Tourism association” or “Here, have some calcium”. Although she was in the scene and she’s no slouch as she has won multiple chain smoking awards in various ex-Soviet countries, J-Ro decided that it’s better to have that man have a free face transplant than her breaking one of her nails.

You laugh? Shit man, I’m a decent man with a 2 set of 5 nice fingernails and I’m not going to bust out my Krav Maga moves on a situation like this. You never know these days as this suited man in his 40’s – 50’s might have lost his job the previous day due to his paedophilic downloads on his work computer, came home and the wife was banging his grandfather’s urn, his two kids have left a note that they were getting married in the depth of Kilimanjaro where inter-breeding is recommended national past time, and to wrap it all up, he managed to catch the late show of Falling Down. This mother fucker could be strapped to the 9’s and we wouldn’t even know it. So, don’t you be laughing at her unless you’re the true deal with Bill Mcneal, aka Spiderman (completely random).

With that story in hand, I went to “a” stadium to shoot a Champions League match. Just so you know from the get-go, I have never had problems with the people who were working there. NEVER. After the match was over, I packed my stuff, and stuffed my stuff, and stuff was all around. At this moment, I was positioned with the raucous Scousers who came into the Bridge to get their beer belly’s churned like a deranged butter. So, tensions were high, to say the least. Abramovich’s army were dispersed 10 minutes ago and the Liverpoodians had to wait another 10 so that they won’t have to sit next to each other at a local pub.

Since it’s Champions League, there is this magical board with magical names of sponsors on them. Sony, Samsung, Sri Lankan air. You name it, it’s most likely there. I hopped over to the otherside of the boards, which landed me on the warning tracks. The exit/entrance was on the other end of the pitch and it was natural for me to head towards that general direction. Oh yes, I did take my bib off as I though it was evident that I was a photographer with a huge bag on me as well as not sporting anything red. And I looked like an Asian man who was lost in a maze that was the dumb low life piece of shit security guards who get jobs like this so that they have a legitimate reason to hassle you for the smallest of infractions.

Just so you understand absolutely mind numbingly clearly, I never had problems with any sort of security guards. Yes, they could be low life. Yes, they probably left school at the age of 4. Yes, their mother probably is a whore. Yes, their father is probably their brother. But I have been courteous to them and they have always been courteous to me back. The nicest ones were the people of colour and ones who were well past their retirement age. I’m trying not to use the colour and age thing here, but the truth is that most security guards who work in the British Isles that I have seen (strangely excluding Scotland) have been the cookie cutter kind of this sort.

With some chants inducing Liverpool pride based on their long history and winning the Champions League definitely not last season, I was confronted by a scary looking mother fucker. For some reason, I was glued to his multiple pierced ear as well as his bald head. I also believe he was missing some teeth. Type of person who probably supports the national front, has at least 8 children out of wedlock, and definitely doesn’t like to be confronted other than his leukemia suffering brother who probably is his father. He asked me in an unfriendly tone where my bib was. If he could use his beer and hate goggles, I’m sure he could see that I had it plain and obvious in my left hand. I told him that I wanted to leave the stadium. For some reason he became very agitated by my comment. He demanded I show my Chelsea accreditation card, which is required if you’re shooting a Champions League match. Since the match was OVER and since I didn’t think it was a big deal to take off my bib AFTER the match, I had my card in my bag. To say the least, this man was giving me mad grief and I was getting nervous. I rumbled into my bag, produced the card, and he unkindly snatched it out of my hand. As a reaction to his deft use of his pikey hands, I said again that all I wanted to do was to just get out of the stadium.

Then the impossible happen.

There is always a line of touching when it comes to confrontation. If you are not Sir Bruce Lee, you don’t commence or resolve a confrontation with your 10in punch. Rather, you try to use your mouth in a non-Tyson way.

The egg man suddenly took hold of my jacket and started to push me towards one of the exit. “If you want to leave the fucking stadium, I get you fuck out”. Something with a lot of “fuck” in it. And all I wanted to do was to leave the stadium. He starts manhandling me with his Aryan arms and I’m telling him that all I wanted to do is to leave this damn stadium. He gets more aggro as we near the nearest exit, which I didn’t know existed and as we walk down the corridor with no one present, I’m thinking to myself, “Please just don’t hit my face, my glasses cost more than your alimony fees to your ex boyfriends”. He pushes me out of the door and a breath of fresh air and slams shut the door behind me. Stunned and in disbelief, I have gotten what I wanted. Really, the only concern that I had was that whether that sad example of a human being was going to report my innocent ass, but then I thought if he does, I will make sure they get my story and not his. Although I can honestly say that one thing I did wrong was to not wear the bib when exiting the stadium, but I have been here more than 10 times and I have always taken my bib off after the match and walked to the exit without getting my expensive jacket touched by an egg head.

The most disturbing thing is, why didn’t the other guards or the other photographers help me? Is it because they were scared? Is it because they didn’t want to get involved? Is it because I’m too sexy to be true?

God knows, but it took me back to J-Ro’s story that afternoon.

We all wait for a Spiderman, but we also know that waiting for one is easier than being one.

T’il next time.

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