Rear Window

I’m sat at my desk right now trying desperately to do work from my apartment. It’s 9:30 on a Wednesday evening, so we can assume all the working people of Copenhagen are at home. In front of my desk is a window. Through my window is the street below. At the other side of my street is an almost identical block of flats to mine, as this photo demonstrates (snow not included).

I’m now staring at these windows across my street. Some have lights on, some don’t. There are even some candles on the top left windowsill that looks like some saucy mood is trying to be set up there. All these lights, and yet no people. I can see twelve separate living establishments, but there’s no one in them.

I’m beginning to think Hitchcock’s film Rear Window was a bit of an exaggeration. No one is playing the piano; there isn’t a shifty looking bloke on the ground floor in a trilby; and I can see no evidence of any scantily clad actress-to-be lunging up and down while cleaning the fridge.

This is an outrage. Come on Copenhagen you boring city – what is the point of me trying to pry into your vacuous void of a life if you don’t do anything exciting to fill it?

The best I’ve got at the minute is one dark window on the third floor with an occasional blue light illuminating the chasm of boredom in front of it. It’s the telly, of course. Heaven forbid anyone do anything amusing for my benefit.

Good lord! OK so this is genuine. Having written ‘for my benefit’, I looked up from my desk and saw a woman – relatively young as well – hitching up her pants on the third floor directly opposite me! My heart honestly skipped a beat then. Maybe I should take off my shirt in return…

Nah too risky – she’s gone now anyway. Probably to the sex dungeon she part-owns below the bike sheds. The old couple above with the mood candles are stirring though. Granddad is looking attentively at something in the middle of the two windows, while Grandma keeps popping in and out. Oh, she’s gone to light more candles.

Granddad’s got up now. Suppose it’s been seven minutes since he went to the toilet. I think he was sitting by a computer. The flat next to the oldies’ has metal blinds on the windows. How dare they – don’t they know I’m trying to peek into their lives?

What was I blabbering on about earlier? This is great! OK, if I stick my head out of the window and look left, the next building has a flat with three windows – all with plants on the sills. What a posh tart. Oh look, and he’s got a real lampshade as well.

Oh, Granddad’s back. That porn film must have downloaded by now then.

Well apparently there’s more to Copenhagen than I thought. Although to be honest if it wasn’t for that brief glimpse of female thigh I’d probably not be saying that.

Relationship issues

I have a major relationship crisis at the moment. On Monday I was cycling in the east of Copenhagen when I heard a loud clang below my feet. I tried to continue pedalling but my bike was having none of it. In a few seconds I was by the side of the road, my hands covered in oil, trying to figure out what had happened.

It appears buying a 20-year-old bike is not smartest thing to do. My gear cog on the back wheel had disintegrated, falling onto its axis and basically making the bike uncyclable (definitely a word).

So, yesterday I took the bike to my local bike shop. In Copenhagen bike shops are like pubs or newsagents: everyone’s got a local. Mine is just across the road from the flat, which is lovely. Anyway, I wheeled the poor wounded animal over to the shop and let the guys have a look at it.

"She used to be obedient."

I now realise what it must feel like when you take your car to the mechanic only for the guy to take a sharp intake of breath and basically inform you the thing is buggered. My bike was completely rodgered in that respect.

The verdict of ten minutes poking and prying: the cog would have to be replaced. Now, this is a problem with a bike almost as old as you are – no one produces parts for it anymore. I have five gears on the cog at the back; unfortunately five-gear cogs are unheard of in the modern age of ipads and sexually transmitted infections. The smallest available was a seven-gear cog.

‘That’s fine’, I said, ‘just whack it on’. Unfortunately when we messed around with it, it appeared seven cogs would be too big to fit between the wheel and the frame of the bike. The solution: change the wheel. I realised this was going to be a bit of a fiddle. I left the guys to it and went to the laundry. When I got back, we found out the chain wasn’t long enough, so I got a new one.

Anyway, 650 Danish Kroner later (apparently £81), and I got my bike back. And you know what: something’s changed.

It doesn’t purr anymore as I glide down the road, nor do the gears change freely. To make matters worse, there is an annoying clicking sound coming from somewhere below my arse. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, but to me it sounds as if the bike just doesn’t want to move.

These suspicions have doubled since I realised that when changing gear the chain rattles like hell. All this noise is putting a serious strain on our relationship. I used to be able to pick the thing up and go for a spin, no problem. She used to be obedient. Now, I have to negotiate a high enough gear just to get off the starting blocks.

The problem is I can’t do anything about it. I’ve tried fiddling but there just isn’t any way of sorting this problem out. It’s like when your girlfriend comes back with a new haircut, and you realise you don’t like her as much as you thought you did. You suggest trimming the fringe or pining it back, but whatever you do it just isn’t the same anymore.

To make matters worse, imagine you’ve booked a two-week long holiday with your new freakish-looking girlfriend that you can’t get out of. I haven’t a clue how I’m going to manage cycling to Amsterdam in June with this horrible, whinging old hag between my legs.

New shampoo

As people who know me are well aware, I am the ultimate 21st Century metrosexual man. I own top of the range hair straighteners; I read FHM magazine on the toilet; I shout “she’s fit” at passers by on the bus; and of course I moisturise thoroughly after masturbation.

Sad to say, I am not actually this idealised god of a man. My neck isn’t as thick as my head, nor do my pecks strain to burst out of my t-shirt. Instead, I like the non-commercialised things in life: bread, cheese and 2-in-1 shampoo.

Maybe it’s a self-respect thing, but I genuinely don’t have the confidence or tenacity to strut around showing off my CK boxers waistband off to the world. Therefore, when I am forced to buy a brand, I get very annoyed…

Last week I was forced to buy brand, thanks to Netto’s disgraceful policy of not catering exactly to my niche in the market.

This tag line here on my new bottle of shampoo denotes everything that’s wrong with modern marketing, and the gullible fools that lap it up in the vain hope that the words on the product are somehow gospel. ‘Healthy looking hair in 10 days’ – there’s no quote marks, or expert scientist with his thumbs up stood next to it in guarantee. There’s not even a tiny asterisk in the corner leading you to even tinier writing on the back of the bottle confirming the statement is in fact bollocks. It’s an irrelevant statement that will never be challenged.

And yet, this little quote – critical as I am of it – still did enough to entice me to buy this particular range of shampoo. For it seems Copenhagen does little to cater for the simple man, unless you want so simple you may as well just scrub a soap bar into your skull. The Netto I was in last week offered ‘Pantene Wild Minx’, ‘Lynx Ferocious’ and of course something along the lines of ‘L’Oréal Fruit Infusion’. It’s the same old crap on every bottle: you smell great, you look great; hey, you even feel great!

Netto deal with the other end of the market too, but sadly an industrial sized white bottle with the word ‘Shampoo’ on the front and an ingredients list of simply ‘Shampoo, yeah?’ on the back does not really appeal to me. I need a good old 2-in-1: quick, easy and effective.

Sadly I had to punt with ‘Repair and Protect’ – whatever that really means, as there was no simple, economic – yet not completely Orwellian – product available. I’ve been using this shampoo a week now, and I must say my hair doesn’t feel any different; although I do still have to wait three more days to get that desired effect.

I fully expect to wake up Monday morning with a John Travolta slick back barnet, spring out of bed; check myself in the mirror, click my fingers and point at my reflection in a ‘still got it, kid’ kind of a way, and swagger down Strøget with my leather jacket cast nonchalantly over my right shoulder; arse bulging out of my tight pants, CK boxers on show.

But for the time being I have to remain dismayed with the over-priced shampoo I’ve bought. Apparently this shampoo helps protect against styling damage. This is interesting, as my styling approach boils down to an ‘attack hair with towel until sufficiently dried’ practice. It works for me, but it’s probably not the ‘safest’ way to dry your hair.

Honestly, this bottle just makes me feel guilty about apparently not being able to maintain a healthy head of hair. ‘Repair and Protect’? Well how bad is my hair? It’s not a car with an MOT problem, it’s hair.

On the back: ‘Do you have hair that is dry/damaged and more prone to split ends?’ – the answer: I really don’t know! But you suggesting this to me makes me think ‘yes, I probably do’. Suddenly the bottle is in my shopping basket next to the bread and cheese (non-brand) and I’ve sold myself out to a day-time TV advert with fake eyelashes, heavy blusher and some pathetically camp guy stylist claiming he offers ‘salon products without the salon prices’.

Do I want to look sensational? Not particularly. But will this shampoo guilt me into thinking I look like crap? You bet it will…

Boxer shorts

I’ve just spent the last two hours wandering around Copenhagen in search of boxer shorts. This is my personal nightmare.

For me, clothes shopping is a stressful activity. The slow walk around a shop gently fondling a leather jacket and admiring the soles of a pair of shoes can get very tedious after the eighth store. Asking a staff member each time where the men’s section is while surrounded by scantily clad female manikins seems to be a right of passage when clothes shopping.

I hate it. I can never find what I want, and I feel constantly watched by some teenage store assistant. The pinnacle of stressful clothes shopping, however, is the search for underwear.

The main problem I have is that, simply, it’s embarrassing. Underwear companies seem to pride their marketing success on how much cock they can reveal to the consumer without actually scaring small children. This is what I noticed in the first shop I entered, the fashionable Magasin du Nord, which I think might be the Danish equivalent of Harrods.

The department store is enormous, and it took me quite a while just to locate the men’s section – having gotten lost in the kitchen appliances department. I found an entire half a floor dedicated to underwear. It was hell. Each brand has its own little shelf with packs of underwear from loose cotton pants to the man thong, which is basically just a knob bag.

To make matters worse, a manikin of a guy’s midriff sits atop of each shelf. I’ve not seen so many arses in one room since the Leeds University Medic Society held a Friday social in the student union.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as metrosexual as the next guy. If people want to reveal the contours of their penises to the world then that’s fine by me. What I do have a problem with is, as I enter the underwear section, an attractive Danish girl comes up to me and asks if I need help with anything. The embarrassment is almost too much. I mumble in English that I’m “just browsing”, but that just sounds like I’m there to ogle at the manikins.

Anyway, I get away from the staff member and find a private corner of the department where I can browse without interruption. This is where I encounter my second problem: the picture of the modelled boxers on the front of the pack. Why is it always some rippling, muscular Adonis staring back at me? Does anyone actually look like this? Does anyone genuinely stand with their pelvis thrust so far forward it could divert oncoming traffic? Take a look at this guy for example. No man actually looks like this unless he’s rolled a pair of socks and shoved them down his pouch.

My embarrassment comes from the fact that, if I pick up some boxers with a strong guy and a bulging knob on the front of the packet, it looks as though I want to emulate that guy. Underwear manufacturers seem to assume that the idiot customer’s mentality will be ‘if I buy these pants, I’ll look like that guy and get all the ladies’. I therefore look vain and yet insecure if I proceed to the checkout where that lovely Danish girl waits and make my purchase. She’d surely snigger and make me feel all queasy inside – not worth it.

To be honest I got scared in Magasin du Nord, and so I left. There were too many people near me. Underwear shopping should be a private affair. The danger of someone seeing me nonchalantly starring at tightly fitted male pelvises for twenty minutes is one I simply cannot risk.

I carried on my walk around Copenhagen in search of a cheap, non-fashionable clothes shop. However, every store I entered had the same branded pants with misshapen willies glaring out. All I want is something comfortable. I don’t want to expose the brand of my pants to the world as though it somehow makes me more attractive to suggest I can afford luxury under garments.

The pinnacle of ‘luxury’ pants seems to be from the Björn Borg collection. In every store I entered, there was Björn staring back at me. I wouldn’t mind, but at 350 kr. per two-pack, that’s a bit extreme. That’s roughly £19 per pair. How good can a pair of boxer shorts be? For that price I want a guarantee that the child labourer in China who made them at least got a mid-morning coffee break.

There is no way in hell I would pay £19 for some underwear. I feel sorry for the Danes who I assume have no other choice than to buy them. Luckily for me, I stumbled across some plain, black, probably boring but definitely comfortable, non-restrictive boxers in the supermarket (large, naturally).

As you can see, there’s no penis. There’s no six-pack. There’s no embarrassment.

They’ll do me. I didn’t have to seek assistance or stare at a cock. If they don’t fit me then that’s fine, they’re cheap. Now that would be a kick in the bollocks: £19 for some underwear only to get home and realise that fat arse of yours does not mirror the toned rump of the model on the packet. Nineteen quid to tell you you’re a porker? Nah.

Postcard

The last time I wrote on this blog Australia was widely regarded as a competent cricketing nation.

The world has changed since December. The winter uprisings in the Middle East and Africa mean the start of a new political era for the Arab world. The Japanese earthquake has once again shown how nature’s destructive force can be far superior to our own. My personal ability to get lost on the London Underground surprised even myself.

There are some things that never change however. One is the holiday postcard.

Last week I was in London. Having finally emerged at ground level after navigating my way round the finer parts of the London tube network, I set out to buy a book. The one I had brought with me had lasted less time than the United Nation’s ‘no-action’ stance over Libya; I needed a good read.

I found myself in Pimlico, an area of London probably most famous for a tedious black and white film from the ‘50s about an unexploded German bomb – gripping I know. It appears the film writers got it wrong however, because from my viewpoint on Pimlico high street, that bomb exploded.

Anyway, I found the Oxfam books store I was yearning for, and bought the slimmest thing that wasn’t a dieting guide in the shop: Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. I found a postcard inside the pages from October 2002. Oh good lord, it fulfilled every stereotype of a typical English holiday.

As you can see from the picture, the postcard is from the beautiful holiday resort of Arnside, Cumbria. Can you see those children playing on the beach? Oh no, that’s not sand. As the writer of this treasured postcard explains: “the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud.”

In all, this postcard is a sad indictment on the British tourist industry. Just how depressing does this picture look! There’s a man in jeans on the beach. Four people in the sea look downright shivery. It’s hardly a Hawaiian goddess draped over a sun lounger, or a wonderful white beach stretching into the distance without a hint of civilisation. No, the image of Britain: a cold mud splat foregrounding an industrial-sized car park and a Weatherspoons.

And, just if you think the picture is boring enough to rot your mind, let’s take a look at what ‘Mum (et al)’ wrote to describe this amazing holiday adventure:

‘Had a stroll here today, and Granny and I spent rather a lot of money between us at a v. nice little cake-shop! Decided to save the bathing for another visit (the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud).
Lots of love
Mum (et al)’

Well wasn’t that a thrilling read. Quite predictably you spent money on holiday; and wouldn’t you know it, Grandma takes advantage of finally being let out of the Home to eat as much sugary baking products as possible. There’s also the assurance that you’ll be visiting again to get back on that lovely mud beach.

I can see why the recipient of this marvellous contribution to literature stored it in a high-security Conrad novel. I’m half way through the bloody book and I can’t see why anyone would really read it out of choice. If it wasn’t for me, this postcard would have remained pristine for centuries, condemning Britain’s 21st Century holiday culture forevermore.

Heading home

I’d like to start with an apology. I was wandering around Copenhagen airport on Monday, eagerly awaiting my flight home when the departures board, instead of offering me a gate number, flashed ‘delayed’ in my face. The setback was four solid hours and, added to the fact I had arrived early at the airport, I had six to kill.

If you have six hours in any airport in the world, you will eventually stumble into a WH Smith. I don’t know how it happens, but they’re everywhere. I did. I needed something to burn the hours away. I looked at the newspapers, but wasn’t in the mood for last Wednesday’s half-chewed copy of The Daily Mail: so I headed to the book section.

This is my apology. Charlotte Bronte, I am sorry for my actions. For, under the dung heap of John Grishams, Dan Browns and ‘Obama: My Path to the Tops’, I found your sacred Jane Eyre. Just two copies; tucked away behind the dross of sparkly authors and embossed titles.

In purchasing your wonderful novel under such conditions Charlotte, I degraded your book from one of the great works of English literature, to a ‘travel companion’. A juicy piece of trash full of sex, gore and adventure. Sentences that don’t make. Opinions that offend entire cultures. Pink, spangly lettering on the inside cover. A semi-erotic silhouette of the author on the back cover. ‘PHWAR, WHAT A READ – The Sun’ tattooed on the front. This is what your book became when I picked it off the shelf Charlotte, and I am so sorry for it.

Well, after six hours I was a third of the way through it. I’d also ransacked every shop in the airport. The gadget shop: with its random assortment of laptops and cameras. I’m pretty sure no one actually buys the expensive items; the shop probably keeps afloat on flogging UK/EU socket adapters alone. There’s always an entire wall of funky phone cases and colourful ipod socks, just to please the kids.

The souvenir shop is also a must. Every souvenir shop around the world must order from the same factory, but just changes the figurine inside the snow globe. I observed Copenhagen’s Mermaid, who no doubt has sat on that dusty shelf longer than the old girl on her rock this year. (She went to Shanghai and forgot all about us). T-shirts, keyrings, Carlsberg bottle openers. All generic with some mild pretence to Denmark stamped on them.

There’s a fine fish bar in the centre of the departures lounge too. No one was eating there except three bald, ageing blokes in suits. Clearly you had to have earned a healthy amount over a good period of time to oblige yourself with dining at that place. I moved on, and found a comfy place to read and eat my prepared sandwiches in peace.

When I flew to Paris in October and my flight was delayed, I was pissed off. I was pissed off because the French had realised they’d been working without interruption for about two whole months, and so a strike was in order. This delayed my flight, and I suppose I became a stereotypical Englishman that day. I can’t stand the French.

In contrast, on Monday I wasn’t pissed off. Even though my flight was delayed, no one can predict extreme bad weather. You just have to accept it. You don’t have to accept a load of whingeing lazy layabouts demanding extra cheese with their lunch portions or whatever it was they were complaining about.

My flight, which eventually took off, was not one that will stay in the memory for long. Sat in the middle of a chubby Dane reading Dan Brown and a gaunt boy I kept my head down with madam Bronte, happy in the knowledge I was going home.

Oh, and at customs I said ‘tak’ to the guy who handed back my passport, and ‘undskyld’ when I whacked my rucksack into someone’s arse in Sainsbury’s. Evidently old habits won’t die.

How to fix a bike wheel

Snow has descended upon Denmark. Actually as we are all too aware snow has blanketed most of northern Europe. From what I hear of Britain it’s oh so frightful. The media are scaring people with it; desperate parents are filling their non-paid days off with radio phone-ins about it (just happy for a natter); kids are playing in it.

In Denmark, they are simply putting up with it.

Three days ago I was cycling down to university when an enormous toothbrush on wheels roared past. The Danes have invested in road scouring devices to keep the ice away. It looked like an angry car wash. They also clear the cycle lanes, which means biking in the winter is as safe as any other time… or as dangerous.

So there I was romping down the road on my little speedster, when suddenly I encountered a part of pathway somewhat neglected by the council. I didn’t mind though, as I thought I was going through newly lain snow.

Wrong! I smacked my front wheel into a solid block of ice. Before I could react I fell forwards onto the crossbeam of the bike, and clipped a testicle in the process: eventually falling to a semi-crippled mess on the ice.

I’ll be honest; I was pretty sore, and so walked the rest of the way to uni. On parking my bike I hear a whistling sound however. Oh shit – of course, I now had a puncture to accompany my probable trip to Accident and Emergency.

I was in a rush so had to leave it, and walked back home in the dark that night, so I was in no mood to fix the tyre when I got to the flat. Three days later and I’ve decided to stick my neck out and fix the damn thing.

So, how to fix a bike tyre. (This is also my pitch to be the new Blue Peter presenter)

1) Locate which tyre has the puncture. This may sound silly, but last summer I removed the back wheel of my bike – gears and all – only to remember it was the front tyre that needed fixing.

2) Dismantle the wheel from the frame (as seen here). This is your first hand-to-bike contact, and initially you will be aware that a lot of grease and black road grime is all over your fingers. Don’t worry or panic. This is normal, and you will get used to it fairly quickly once the real manual labour begins.

3) Detach the rubber tyre and inner ring from the metal frame of the wheel. For this you will need to use some swanky lifting clips that bike shops pawn off to you for a ridiculous price. Apparently three is enough; the idea is that you lift off one side of the tyre before the other, and three is needed because of the circular nature of a wheel or something like that.

Anyway three clips are apparently easiest, and you can unclip your tyre without the least bit of hassle. I used a single, small flathead screwdriver, and a piece of plastic found in the cellar – as you can see here. Admittedly it’s harder to get the tyre off the wheel – 25 minutes harder to be exact – but the feeling of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile.

4) Find the puncture hole on the inner ring. I looked and looked and couldn’t find it but thought I knew where it was and, in the spirit of acting in any form whatsoever rather than standing idle, sealed the supposed puncture with glue and a patch.

5) This is the most important part. One must make sure the glue is half dried and the patch fully covers the puncture – something that I found to my detriment again last summer.

6) At this point you’re ready to put the tyre back on the wheel, and believe me if you think getting the thing off was hard work, putting it back on is like revising for a Russian sign language examination. It took me – fair to say – a good half an hour to wrestle it back on, but eventually I did it… amazingly just like my successful Russian sign language course.

7) Now you need a pump. I popped across the road to a bike shop where they have a public pump outside – oh how darling. Tyre all pumped up… and shit. The worst noise you can possibly hear after an hour of grappling with a wheel: seeping air.

8) So, repeat stages 3, 4 and 5. Unfortunately I couldn’t quite decide what was a puncture hole and what was simply a rough bit of rubber in the inner tube. I used six different patches trying to sure up that thing. It made a WWI shrapnel victim look like a morris dancer. This tubing was on it’s last… well valve I suppose.

9) Patched up and on the wheel, run across the street and whack on the pump and: air. Great stuff. I decided to give it one more chance, but sadly my luck ran out. As I stuck the screwdriver back in under the tyre for the millionth time I heard a rip, and suddenly a whoopy cushion of remaining air vibrated out all over my hand. I had ripped the tube.

So that was a waste of an hour and a half of my life. I still don’t know if I found the right puncture or not, but tomorrow I think I’ll just go buy a new tube. And what have I got to show for my exploits: raw finger ends, black hands, grime under my fingernails, and a suppressed feeling of my own uselessness.

I’d have never made it as a caveman.