Post on the so called demise of footballing heroes – who shroud themselves in expensive suits; courting favours and votes in exchange for the right to kiss the hem of their cloaks. In Bed With Maradona – No More Heroes
Monthly Archive:: March 2011
I can still vividly remember leaning across to my dining companion as I urged him to cast his eyes towards the door of the Pizzeria we were sat in. There, framed by a single light above the doorway was a vision of Milanese beauty so fine, that she turned the heads of most as she entered the room. It was as if the Goddess Venus had found her mortal form; choosing to dine with her worshipers for this one night only. I joked that she was clearly there for me; to fulfil her role as Mrs King in waiting – though I would need to finish my dinner before we were formally introduced. She took a table directly in front of the pass, giving the
Ok, so the title is slightly misleading. It’s not meant to imply that porn is the friend; a crutch I rely on when I’m down or have certain urges. No. What I mean is that I have a friend who works in the porn industry. A friend who now goes by the professional name of Lara Latex – her real world name forever lost to her thousands of fans on facebook and twitter. We met at college. We were on the same course, though she was in the year above. We played on the same Volleyball team, had the same group of mates and went on the same nights out – though I think we both would have preferred to have been somewhere less commercial
Dear Lauren, Fear is a strange sensation that comes in many forms. It can be a unifying bond between us, as you look to me for comfort and protection. You are usually the root cause of my fear, whilst your fears come and go; change and return without good reason. There are times when you have no fear at all – like when you run to the top of a flight of stairs, or tap dance on tables. Then there are times when Hooch runs towards you and you cower, expecting her to knock you over – only looking out from behind your hands when she has long since passed. On the very next pass you will throw your arms out to catch her –
I love Italian food. I love it for its simplicity, its complex nature; the speed with which a dish can be prepared or the age it takes to eat a sumptuous feast. It is the often, contradictory nature that appeals so much – for there is a meal, a dish or a taste sensation for whichever mood you are in; whichever mood you want to be in. Yet even though my shelves are littered with Italian cookbooks, or draws stuffed full or magazines claiming to offer authentic Italian recipes, I’ve started to question if what I eat is truly of an Italian origin; or simply a base note diluted by years of non-Italian “improvements.” It all started with a piece of veal, progressed on to