Hilarity Ensues With the Oddball Neighbour

Fernando with a bobby pin. Kickette found this to be objectionable, I just liked it. Good luck to the real Fernando at the Confederations Cup in his game against New Zealand on Sunday!

I had a lot of trouble writing this week. I sucked. I tried to write from Fernando's perspective, but that was an abysmal failure, so I stopped. I feel like I'm in over my head in writing Olgando, since it is basically going to be really depressing until the end, which could still be depressing anyway. But there is always room for hilarity. This is a sad/funny scene that I want to share with you:

Fernando and I moved into our new house on 13 Cutestory Lane in Woolton (a suburb of Liverpool) in January. We moved from small and comfortable to large and imposing. We had built a life in our new apartment; it had started out with box furniture or furniture that was yet to be put together, but it ended up as a real home. Fernando had taken classes so he could learn how to put the furniture together (yes, he really did have to do this) and we put up photos of our families and friends. I started making crafts to add that special touch, which probably gave the impression that a particularly artistic child was living with us.

Our new house was beautiful, and had everything anyone could want. Four bedrooms, four baths, two storeys with a large basement, huge windows, a wrap-around porch, a balcony coming out of the master bedroom, and there was even a tree house in the backyard. But it was just the two of us, and we didn’t need room like that. We didn’t have enough furniture to fill up the cavernous rooms. Before, our apartment had been so small that you were forced with the other occupants, even if it was against your will. The house was so big that you could lose someone, even if you had been looking for them. Our apartment had been full of love, but this place just felt empty.

Maybe I was just waxing nostalgic for our first little home. This would surely be the place where we could make new memories. You can always buy new furniture, or you could even invite people over. Maybe we would have children here, and the house wouldn’t feel big enough. Maybe.

What was interesting about our home was our neighbour, Liverpool goalkeeper Julio Iglesias. I knew he was weird initially, but when he was my neighbour, things continued down that path a lot further than I would have liked them to. For example, on our first night in our new home while Fernando was humming to himself and softly strumming his guitar, I began to hear distant drums and sounds of bugles coming from afar. You need to understand, this is not the typical sound mosaic of Woolton. That, my friends, consists of silence, rich snootyness, and more silence. Not drums, nor bugles. I stepped out to our balcony to investigate the source of this ruckus, which can only be described as several people (perhaps a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal) coughing loudly simultaneously. I immediately discovered the origin of this ruckus was Julio, on his porch that matched ours, and apparently was much too close for my liking.

“I heard Fernando plucking away on the old five-string, and I thought I would join in for a jam sesh,” Julio told me, cutting off my planned question of ‘what the fuck are you doing.’

“Oh,” I responded, “I didn’t know that you played the, uh… bugle…”

“Oh yes,” he almost shouted, enthusiastically. “Some women say that a guitar is sexy, but I’ve always found that when I whip out my bugle, it’s like attracting flies to honey!” Or me to a pile of jock straps. But I didn’t say that. Also: there had to be a better way to say that.

So, in this situation, apparently he is honey, while women are flies. Inappropriate, at best. I couldn’t help but wonder what Julio’s wife must have been like, or, as I would now always picture her, the “winning” fly. I made a mental note to go over there and introduce myself as soon as possible. I was enjoying myself.

“Hey Fernando, Julio wants to jam with you. Why don’t you two serenade the whole neighbourhood?” I turned and asked him, despite the fact that he was furiously mouthing ‘no, no, no!’ At this point, he had no choice but to participate.

When we re-emerged on the balcony together, I was able to get a better look at the spectacular outfit on Julio. Alone, I could have accepted his red and white zebra print parachute pants. It would have been difficult, yes, but I could have chalked it up to an ironic fashion choice had I really put my mind to it. But that wasn’t all. He was wearing a stomach-exposing wife beater, with what appeared to be a bedazzled Emilio Estevez in profile. Upon further inspection, I determined that it was not circa ‘Stakeout’, but circa ‘Men At Work.’ When he turned around, he revealed a bedazzled profile of Charlie Sheen circa the same film. Underneath in glittery gold loopy scrawl it read, “Friends by choice, brothers by Martin.” His abysmal outfit was further aggravated by the fact that he had painted cat’s whiskers on his face, but only after several failed attempts. There were smudges underneath the final product. Underneath, there was a tiny moustache.

Fernando was somewhat less taken aback than I was by his unorthodox appearance, but followed my lead in simply smirking impishly and holding in laughter.

“What do you feel like playing, Nandorino?” Julio asked. I could see the obvious dislike that Fernando had for that nickname in his face, yet once again, he said nothing. “How about some Bread? Creed? Nickelback? Girls Aloud? Ooh, how about the Pussycat Dolls? Or even better, how about we bring in my children, who can act as a children’s choir?”

Fernando may have been considering the jam session before, but after that potential song list, his mind was clearly busy with ways to get out of it.

“I’m sorry, I would love to experience a joint guitar and, uh, bugle jam session…” Fernando began, while Julio smiled in agreement, “but Olga has head lice and I have to comb her hair. You know how it is, with those little combs and how you have to go over every strand. And Olga just has so much beautiful hair, it will take all night if we don’t get started!”

“Hey! That is not true!” I shrieked. “I do not have lice!”

“Don’t be ashamed, I’ve gotten lice from the dogs so many times before,” Julio nodded sympathetically. “See you tomorrow at practice, Tor Whore.”

After we went inside and closed the door (as well as locked it) I hit Fernando on the arm harder than I should have and glared just to let him know how little I appreciated the lice comment.

“You’re going to pay for that, Tor Whore! All of the girls are going to avoid me now!” I cried.

“I had no choice. What’s a little lice rumour compared to hearing a Creed jam session with a bugle?” Fernando asked. I knew he was right. But it turned out that there were even more pluses to the little white lice lie.

“Maybe now Tim O’Shea will stop rubbing his crotch on my head,” I commented.

“Maybe that’s how you got lice in the first place,” Fernando joked.

“I don’t have lice. You made it up, you loser,” I joshed.

“Yet...” Fernando said as he grabbed my head and tried to rub it against his crotch.


Also, a dream scene that inspired a section of Jill's novel. See how much fun we're having!!! I took Chris Baty's advice for bolstering word count with weird dream sequences:

“What am I doing here?” I ask Robin, as we stand at the Anfield centreline.
“What do you mean? It’s the Champions League final, we’re a goal down, and we need you out here! Snap out of it!” Robin responds, in that thick Dutch accent.
“But I’m not a professional soccer player!” I call out to him as the play begins, and I am suddenly being attacked by all of the members of the Dutch National Team.
I run in the other direction, trying to avoid the inevitable pile-up where I would be at the bottom. Anfield echoes in a chorus of boos, and Kickette bloggers take photos of my legs and circle the cellulite maniacally. LoveLamps, who looks mysteriously like Paris Hilton, hits on Fernando on the sidelines, but he is staring angrily at me and yelling.
“I knew that you only pretended to love me so that you could steal my position at Liverpool!” he shouts, running onto the field in flip-flops.
“Fernando, that isn’t true! I don’t want to play for Liverpool! How did this even happen?” I scream back at him.
“Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?” Sergio Ramos asks me while laughing. Confused, I look down to notice that I’m wearing a scarlet crushed velvet suit with a matching vest. I have a sneaking suspicion that my hair is bleached blonde, short and spiky.
“Why am I wearing this?!” I call out in confusion, but no one seems all that bothered by it. The play continues around me, but Fernando rushes towards me, shouting something unintelligible
“You’ve ruined my career,” Fernando spits. “I wish that I had never met you.”
“No, Fernando! It isn’t true!” I cry out. But in your dreams, nothing happens the way you want it to. When you try to run, you can never run fast enough. When you try to explain something, nothing comes out.
“I knew all along that you didn’t care about my career. You only cared about yours!”
The dream fades, replaced by another where I am performing ‘Copacabana’ in the Bram Stoker Museum in front of Bastian Schweinsteiger and Tim Higgins.