Get a hair cut . . . Greaser!

I work with someone who will remain nameless and the details will be clearly vague, to protect him from any possible repercussions. He came to England illegally ten years ago, when his country was at the height of civil war in the East. He came on a truck delivering pharmaceuticals, and a small boat crossing the sea between Albania to Italy with 15 other people. He says it was the scariest moment of his life, and he didn’t know if he would make it to the other side. The long journey he took across Europe had seen many perish before him; people also had died from exhaustion in trucks, or drowned at sea, this couldn’t deter him though. Nothing could. Because like so many refugees without a home or a country to support or defend him – there was no choice! Stay and be slaughtered, defending yourself against a mass army hungry for blood, with commanders hungrier for power – this was his only choice! Now, he is a jovial man, happy-go-lucky with a dry sense of humour – willing to get on with all the staff he works with. He takes life in his stride; I guess when you have been so close to death, and near to such suffering you value one’s life! So it must sadden him, which it does, that his x-partner who has custody of his child, is with a man who is on Welfare, staying at home all day and not really ‘living’! Oh my, how much my fellow worker has risked for freedom, but he doesn’t see how the current partner of his X can ‘waste away’ and do nothing! So it’s humours to me when the BNP party a far right Nationalist movement say that immigrants come here to suck money out from the government, while the ‘real’ Brits work tirelessly hard – when this situation shows the exact opposite!

This type of BNP thinking is probably not far-out-of-line with two chefs that I sometimes work alongside in the basement kitchen. Both stocky, one looks over 30 the other just under, their talk about staff, is either your classic racist rhetoric or misogynistic. I’ve heard them say, the waitresses in the Brasserie get tips and are paid because they have tits and half-a-brain, but of course their tits is the sole reason (according to them). They also complain the kitchen cleaners and/or kitchen hands don’t do their job properly, and it’s due to the fact they are from “backward 3rd world countries”! Being from New Zealand I hope I’m alright; but they probably think that’s part of Australia (apparently the nation with the biggest ‘over-stayers’ with expired Visas in the United Kingdom) so probably not!

You cannot blame the Aussis, and all the other ex-pats, London is the ‘centre of the world’ – a lot is happening over here and everything seems so close. New Zealand is far away, and would be lucky to get Jay Z for example, whereas he is over for several festivals! However it must be said, ‘New Zealand is probably the best country in the world’ (there’s a facebook group I belong to), with an excellent standard of living. However, despite the pollution, bad weather, over-population, and even crime – London is a very cool place to be when you’re young!

I’m really young! Especially when 40 is the new 20! I’m approaching my mid 20’s but nothing about me would resemble this. Without a proper job, or no sense of a career; and my easy-going ‘take it as it comes attitude’, I’m not ready or concerned about growing up! Here I don’t have a lot (in monetary value), but I have my experiences and a great feeling – this is the most important thing to me . . . at the moment anyway!

Taking on this philosophy of getting out-there and seeing the world, I got a somewhat radical hair-cut. Rather than just cutting my long hair short, it was cut in an interesting manner. Interesting is the only way to go when Jasmine your Italian work colleague (who has shorter hair than any other guy in the establishment) runs a gallery in the arty suburb of Bethnal Green (near Brick Lane), and suggests I get a hair-cut by her business partner Francesco. So I did. Cut by this Italian who has worked in salons in Milan, Italy, but he will tell you this detracts from what his real creativity is personified as, since he is much more than just a hairdresser – Francesco is an artist. Whether it be: installing artistic pieces, putting together animated comic material, or just cutting hair – his creative tendencies means anything he does, he does with flair and intuition. Hence why he came to London; a place where he can express himself, be anything he wants to be, with the right to live as any representation he sees fit to uphold! This was the problem with Italy he says, it is a very narrow minded conservative society where only the rich can prosper, and there is little opportunity to break into ‘the market’. If you want to be successful you have to oblige by what the elite deem as acceptable, and to him this is repulsive and unacceptable!

So it was no suprise that my hair-cut took place technically outside the ‘Milk and Lead’ art-house, on the curb of the side-street, (this is the Italian way). And like my new type of hair-cut, my new type of friend Jasmine feels, it is your clothes and hair style that define who you are, well with my original hair cut, I must be fairly cool!

A beginning of a Social life . . . ?

Recently on Facebook, (it was just a matter of time before I mentioned this all-encompassing tool that governs the social life of many youths, not just mine by the way), I updated my status: "I'm an overly keen geek, but can I be your friend". This is totally indicative of who I am! I find people interesting, I love people, I will express all my mind has to offer, and anything my mouth can articulate or can't in most cases. This is the bane of many that cross my path, but either way, I guess that's who I am! Nonetheless, a social life has started to come together, somewhat, ever-so slowly . . . Pool on a Monday night; invited out to funky Camden on Wednesday by the Polish lady with her French friend who works in the Brassiere upstairs; out on Thursday to celebrate a different French lady's 25th birthday - and maybe a barbeque on Sunday for the chef's 22nd anniversary. That is a bit of a packed week, by anyone's standards, I think Paris Hilton would be proud. So clear your schedule people Gil wants to hang out! The Geek is taking London by storm! Geek? Yes, who blogs about his social experiences, I do, that's right!

So where I work is stocked with every European nationality you can imagine, the Italians, French, Polish, and many others. But I haven’t spoken about the Indians I work with, they are even more intriguing, to me in a way, than the Italian 5ft10 waitress - though maybe not as attractive. Nonetheless, there are hand-full of them. They are the truly Indian ones of Britain, none of this born and bred in the United Kingdom bull-shit; they are fresh, migrating here as adults in recent years. A male and female who work together in the coffee shop, are married, ooh how cute! I found this out when my manager stated: “Rajan is lucky to have Priyanka”. "No"! Priyanka replies, adding in the most genuine sweetest way: “I’m the lucky one”. Ah lovely! She is quite lucky or brilliant, as she had to pass an interview process in her native India to be accepted as Rajan’s wife. I wonder how many other Indian women were going for the same position? This decision for Rajan's parents was more important than a decision that any job interviewer would have to make about a possible employee. Priyanka is really lovely, and certainly deserved it, it seems! So what a way to be placed with someone for the rest of your life; it boggles my brain, but it is absolutely amazing that this actually works! The commitment is astounding. We choose our partners and still, there are many divorces. Unlike many arranged Indian marriages where the couples are totally devoted to one another, not only for themselves but for the honour of their family; this is totally shown by the respect and perseverance they share. Maybe they know a thing or two we don’t . . . or maybe not?


As there is another (male) Indian who I work with. He sends money back to India, for his wife ‘the home-maker’ and 20 month year old child. He has been here for 5 months. However one of the Kiwis who used to work with us, suspected or was told by him that he was gay. The Kiwi happened to be gay himself, because he was openly allowed to be in the secular society he resided. Interestingly this is illegal conduct in India, and now this Indian male has to live a lie, while giving his life to care for a family. It must be hard; he has little choice, because his family name would be tarnished and thus be going against the faith that much of the country adhere to. I say, ‘big ups’ to him!


Enough talk about a culture I’m not familiar with, and back to a group of cats that I understand . . . investment bankers. Okay so maybe not, but anyway I tried. I went out with my good ol' South African friend, and his work-mates who do 14 hour days, and seem to be paid handsomely for doing it! They deserve it right? Do they? Have you seen the financial markets recently? And what do they spend their handsome pay-checks on, well . . . We went to a club where they pay females to dance on stage, and have a porter in the bathroom providing you with either lollipops or chewing gum – depending what your ‘poison’ is – I got carried away and I took one of each. This is something except for the 7.50 pound drinks, which is well out of my price range! No matter, these investment bankers didn’t mean to mind as much, they like the finer things! All of us, a German, Russian, South African and New Zealander, were no doubt intelligent, but too geeky with little suave, meaning none of us were ultimately successful in the lady department.

That was Friday. Saturday was Soho. Soho, a cosmopolitan fusion of gays, prostitutes, and any other derogatory term I haven’t mentioned. If Lady Gaga look a likes fit into that category them too, as I saw a peroxide blonde with cans that were being used to keep her hair rolled up in buns . . . that is Gaga inspired fashion! I was thinking what my hair would look like after having a 6 pound (15 NZ dollars – cheap for London prices) haircut, at the hairdressers that was sandwiched between the strip-joint and the whore-house! I was in Soho, because, Veronika, the savvy street smart Hungarian waitress, took me to a jazz club, to see her boyfriend play guitar in a jazz band. The lead singer was a (white) Prince look-a-like, with much of his flamboyancy deriving from the ‘real King’ – Little Richard. No doubt an inspiration for his outfit too, mismatched coloured shoes with a scarf type tie. Unexplainable get-up, you had to be there to see it I guess. Anyway this tightly compacted (hole-in-the-wall) Jazz Club with VIP Cushioned booths draped the side of the stage; an establishment Amy Winehouse frequents quite often. A month ago she was spotted venturing there by the tabloids – but where were the tabloids tonight – Gil was in the building, ha ha!


And on Sunday that weekend I was arranged to meet some family friends at their house in Connaught Square. If you don’t know, which I didn’t but found out the hard way, it is where Tony Blair resides. Literally, a square of houses that surround its own private garden, plus it’s a two minute walk from Hyde Park and Oxford Street. The family friends of mine stay in a home their parents own, a four storey complex. They happen to stay at the bottom in the basement ‘flat’ – the prices for such a home is 12 million pounds by the way. So anyway I knocked on the door but nobody was home, so I waited by the private garden a resident happily played with his children, while I sat texting away, next thing I look up, and two policemen are standing over me with armed rifles or machine guns – I wouldn’t know the difference. They ask, what I’m doing there, as I looked ‘suspicious’! Maybe it was the beanie I was wearing? By any means they preceded to ask me if I was packing any ‘blow’ or ‘weed’. They also asked me to open my bag, as my bag was too substantial to be going to a ‘dinner party’, and thought I may have a fire-arm. They asked for my details, to confirm I was in the system and not some illegal migrant. They even made me dictate, so they could jot down a written report. It went like this: “Subject found sitting between parked cars near protected premises in Connaught Square. He stated he was waiting for a host of a party to return home nearby”. Lastly they gave me a card that had ‘Reasons for Stop code’ and ‘Reasons for Search Code’ – with ‘terrorism’ being one of the listed factors.


Well I certainly didn’t come to London to be a terrorist, or drug dealer, they got that totally wrong! So why did they question me? Maybe they were just bored, and it was entertaining for them to make me sweat – while they showed their dominance via the authority they no-doubt held over me. I barely sweated though. I was cold, with my scarf wrapped round me as I waited patiently for the host to arrive home. Simply, I feel my liberties were obstructed, and I had to yield to an authority that was totally misguided – I aint happy anti-terrorism police!