:: Life in the Lost Lane ::

Life in the Lost Lane
A collective of English Gentlemen

Thursday, July 27

The Relentless Progression
B's contribution is a post-script to this earler item.

The swirling memories and crippling depression of the events that transpired two weeks ago are starting to settle like the last grains of sand after a windstorm in the desert.

The unbridled passion that flowed just a few short weeks ago was all but destroyed by the Saturday night fiasco. A strange and expensive mix of underperformance and insufficiency drove each man to come to the conclusion that all was lost in a world they once loved. Timeless moments in their lives reduced to historical fact, never to be reborn. It was a place that left desires unfullfilled, and dreams crushed under the heavy feet of life's unforgiving, relentless progression into banality.

Lines three wide and sixty deep were overcome while day turned to night and then turned to day again. The low rumblings that were presented as the showpiece failed to engage hearts and minds, causing instead the deep waters of unrest to well up a sour mood; a lacklustre and lifeless emotion rarely seen at such an event.

By the end of it all looks, smiles and handshakes were exchanged with the kind of inevitable politeness the English possess.

Inordinate heights of pursuasion should be mustered for doubts to be quashed and determinations to be swayed back towards the light.

posted by B @ 10:51 AM

Thursday, July 20

In 1990 a team of researchers from the Clackenstein Institute were asked to investigate the backgrounds of three high profile Italian football players. Over many years the team gathered information through interviews, archive searches and simple leg work. What follows is the result of their efforts.

The story of Swisharama

Swisharama was born in Columbia but when he was three, his family moved to Pisa, Italy because of the civil war. He now has Italian nationallity. Tragically, his mother was killed in a scooter accident when she collided into a bus on July 2nd 1993. Subsequently, his father died of a broken heart. They were only one year away from their Golden Wedding anniversary. A tragic back story I think you'd agree.

The story of Fabarano

Fabarano was first spotted in 1988 at school after he rounded 10 of the 11 players on the opposing football team and slotted the ball in the top corner. Raised by his mother in the back streets of Rome he learnt to look after himself from an early age after his Father was killed with a pizza slicer after a drunken argument with the Russian mob in his favourite restaurant “Luigi’s Ristorante”. His Mother watched him in every game in during Euro 2004 but due to a gambling problem and crack addiction was deported and imprisoned after attacking a staff member at William Hill after a stay in London

A sad story of how fame and money can ruin a family, I think you’ll agree.

Finally, the story of Neatarelli

Born and raised with no name, the player we now know as Neatarelli spent this childhood and early adolescence on a pig farm.

Though the young boy was clearly evolved from apes rather than quadrupedal life forms, Carlita, a farmer with generations of in-breding in her family was too simple to see Neatarelli for what he was. One day a young farm hand, by the name of Johan Bauber (could it be Jack under cover - I'm not saying) came to farm looking for work during the busy harvest season. Carlita gave the lad work, putting him up in a stable between the farm house and the animal enclosures.

After many hard weeks on the farm Carlita noticed that Johan was spending more and more time with one of her pigs. The two seemed capable to sitting together and in some language Carlita could not follow - were able to talk. Fear and confusion filled Carilta's head and she prayed for a way to get rid of the farm hand for good. Harvest though, was far from complete.

As the days passed, the boy and the pig grew closer and even started playing games with each other. Carlitta's worries grew. "What if the villagers find out about this? I'll be burnt as a witch" she thought.

A warm evening on the farm house's porch, as the sun is settting over the fields and Carlitta's body ached from a hard day amongst the crops she heard Johan approach.
"I'm not here to chat and be nice" He said, more firmly than he'd spoken to her before.
"What do you want from me?" she said back. Nervously she played with long grubby skirts, pushing a bench swing along twitching, unsteady arcs.
"The person you think is-a pig. I'a be taking'im away from you" he said in a suddenly affected Italian accent.
"What will you do with that pig, he's'a no-good for de kitchen or tha' market"
"He can play futbol like'a genius. I will sign him up as a young player in the Milan Academy."
"He's a pigga. He nots play la futbol. He canna'play for no-one without a name!"
"He is a good little player. He is neat-a-really"

With that, the farmhand, his accent and the pig-boy left. Carlitta sat on her porch and watched the sun go down. She cried, tasting tears of loam. Each sob made her ache as her body begged for rest. Now the farmhand had gone she was alone again.
She had lost her help on the farm that day. Her chances of gathering the harvest had slipped away too.

She'd lost her pig. Memories of it's birth and the pain that tingled in her pelvis, images of athe trauma she thought she had overcome. Now they were dwarfed by the pain of losing what she had called a pig for so long. She had never named the creature that others would have called 'son.'

The last words from the farmhands voice seemed to waft across the woodland, past the pig stye and through the barn.
"Neatarelli" she heard.
I wonder what will become of my son.

Reviews from popular press and other sources
On Swisharama's story:
"Touching" Jonathan Dimbleby
"A realistic portrayal of the challenges facing migrant communities - often escaping persecution" The Economist
"He was always torn by Colombian-Italian migrant issues. I never knew what hurt him more, the migrants' plight or the fact he could do so little to help them." Dan's personal mentor (1999 - 2003) Jack Bauer.
"I cried well hard" Cheryl WAG Tweedy

On Neatarelli's story:
"An epic in pig/human confusion" sunday telegraph
"An exemplary account of life on an italian pig farm. i can almost smell it." what watch magazine
"Even better than carlos e carrellos 'when pigs play football'" gary rhodes
"So is he a pig or a man?" peter andre' monthly
"The best book i've read since gary the horse learns croquet" compass and maps chronicle.

posted by E! @ 10:39 AM

Monday, July 3

Just 10 short days to wait until the highlight of the summer is upon us.
Sometime between mid-day and six in the evening i and two of my compatriates will pass through those hallowed gates for a third year running. We will walk with guile and vigour into a *tract of land with few or no trees in the middle of a wooded area. (*please see dictionary definition of 'Glade')
It's a place of unquantifiable bliss, a place where time plays it's own game, where days and nights are measured in 'sets', and where laughter and smiles are the only currency you need. (that, and actual cash)
For those three days we can forget the world and live with freedom in our hearts and minds. We can connect with ourselves again. It's a chance to break routine and find a new rhythm. A place to stimulate your sense of humour and cast the crap of life into the deep cavernous pit of yesterday.

There are some surprises in store for our happy travellers. B has organised a 'dream discussion workshop' for 10am on the sunday. It's a group exersise where participants are encouraged to 'work through' any issues that are causing bad dreams, and where they can learn what dreams mean and how to make them 'pay off' for you in every day life.
There is also a 'Get Completely Nailed in the Day and Dance Like No One is Watching' afternoon. This is most likey taking place on the saturday from 2pm. You can sign up at the usual place.
Lastly, and most controversially, there will be a 'Psy-Trance-Dance' test. Day and time TBC. This, the only compulsory course of the weekend will see everyone grooving enthusiastically to the pounding beats, rolling basslines, and twisting, layered sounds of the Origin stage. Prizes will be awarded upon completion.

I think of it like a mini-holiday where you spend all day and night awake, dance, drink, and be merry only to return home completely knackered. It will alas, all have to end somewhere and while I'm sure a good time will be had by all, we'll be glad of our beds. :)

posted by B @ 11:49 AM

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