Coming soon: The Male Contraceptive Pill

First, before we get down to the nitty gritty of a baby-preventing development that lets men join in the fun of taking a contraceptive pill, let's just take a moment to appreciate this advert:

A and B aside, let's go straight to that brilliant C. Yeah, the Anguilla National Aids Programme (ANAP?) are introducing a new verb*. No biggie, but the word is Condomize. Seriously. Brilliant. Imagine one of the countless beautiful movie sex scenes we've found ourselves actually living and how they're so often brought crashing down (to the reality of a desperate one night stand on a sofa because you weren't expecting to get lucky and hadn't changed your sheets in four months) by one of those awkward, overly-wordy pre-sex "do you want to get a condom?" whispers. ANAP have just paved the way for a glorious "Condomize yourself, baby" or a romantic "Condomize me, honey" moment instead. Who on that sofa could turn down an offer like that? Watch out unwanted pregnancies and Chlamydia.

Now down to business; as this word helps us remember, condoms exist and are actually pretty helpful in stopping STIs and naff unwanted egg fertilisation if you're the lucky 98% of the population. But for all those unlucky sorts who often find themselves losing their winning lottery tickets or tripping over unexpected banana skins, you need a back-up. What are your options as a single man or woman or a couple committed to an immediate future as a couple and not as a threesome**?

Well, back in the day you would have been fairly limited. Here's a brief, selective history of contraception:

• 1550 BC: Egyptians sometimes placed honey, lint and acacia leaves in the fanny to block the route of sperm
• 500/600s: The Book of Genesis suggests the use of Coitus Interuptus (withdrawal)
• 1564: Probably not named after Dr Condom (historians and researchers, you've killed the fun again) but after the Latin 'Condus' meaning receptacle, Gabriel Fallopius (who I'd put a fiver on being linked to the naming of the Fallopian tube) was the first to actually describe a condom; he advocated sheathing your penis in linen to prevent the spread of syphilis
• 1839: The American Charles Goodyear discovered how to vulcanise rubber, making it more durable and a potential material for a more reliable condom
• 1909: Richard Richter developed the first intrauterine device, made from silkworm guts. "Ladies, ladies! One at a time!"
• 1916: Margaret Sanger opened the first Family Planning Clinic in the USA (Marie Stopes followed in the UK in 1921). She helped Gregory Pincus get funding to begin hormonal contraceptive research
• 1957: The combined pill was approved by the US drug board, though was not marketed for contraceptive purposes until 1961 (it was for women with menstrual disorders previously)
• 1960s: IT ALL KICKED OFF

Army of Lovers - Sexual Revolution

So we reach 2013, and the list of contraceptive methods for women makes for one intimidating NHS booklet:

(Natural family planning is a lolz read. We've all definitely got that much time and patience before we want to do the dirty).

So that's 16 contraceptive options; 13 for women, 2 for men, and 1 romantic sharer. Note that Coitus Interuptus doesn't feature, kids.

I do have a calculator and an A-Level in maths, but it's true that you don't need to be a mathematician to see that this is a little uneven. Whilst the impact of female contraceptive measures on revolutionising the female role in society is still incredibly apparent, it seems that now might be the time to mix it up and give lads the option of sharing the hormonal, weight-gaining, acne sprouting burden of a daily contraceptive pill.

The aim of some of the key, high-profile current male contraceptive research is to produce a pill for men that stops the production of sperm, thus leaving the female partner's eggs alone to see out their limited days in peace. The issue so far has been that scientists have not found a way of restricting testosterone levels enough to halt sperm production without reducing the male sex drive. However in August 2012, a US collaborative of scientists from Houston and Boston announced a breakthrough; they had produced a drug which had been successful in temporarily rendering male mice either infertile or reducing the movement of their swimmers to a non-offensive snails pace. Sort of like a boyband slowly standing for a key change, giving it a few emotional fist clenches and then sitting down again. As soon as the mice were taken off the drug, their sperm levels and fertility returned to normal.

"Will a drug like this affect ejaculation?", I hear you yell. No, that will continue as usual, no problemo.




Well, with a 2% reduction but hopefully that's not noticeable. Sperm is apparently only 2% of the ejaculation. The rest is just harmless, non-impregnating semen. Which is a relief to both Kleenex AND sad women apparently, though I'm not sure I trust the motivations of the source I got that latter gem of research from.

"Oi, but will it affect the size of my testes?" Well it might, as they won't be carrying so much as during your enthusiastic sperm production years, but unless you're this guy I doubt the ladies will notice it.

The drug is now going through the stages of being made ready for human testing ("yeah, you don't want to mess about when it comes to your own testes") and even when these tests are declared successful, these things take a while to get to market. But research like this, along with key exploration into gold nanaroid injections into the testes in China and research in India into easily reversible forms of vasectomy, is an encouraging step in the attempt to balance family-planning responsibilities and opportunities across the genders.

To highlight, there's a massive opportunity here that goes beyond women just not wanting to risk a few spots each month; in certain parts of the world societal judgements are such that women cannot be seen obtaining contraception for fear of indicating that they're looking to sleep around. Even those that are married. On top of this, unwanted teen pregnancy is still an important global issue that could hugely benefit from a fresh method that brings boys into the equation more. Whilst there are deeper social issues here that need to be addressed, it may be that the male contraceptive pill will be available before they are, and so it's worth pursuing.

All these gender equality issues aside though, I'm pretty sure there are a few considerate boyfriends, cautious mothers worried about their little horny Timmy sowing his seed recklessly about town and lovers suspicious that those goddamn gold-digging girlfriends they're entertaining are trying to trick them into shotgun marriages, who would view this contraceptive method as a preferable addition to the current 16. Well at least this guy:

*I'm pretty sure ANAP didn't invent this word, but it was the first picture I found and liked
**Not like that

Craig David

Craig David; we all know the name and genre-defining music. Notorious self name-dropper, chronic eyebrow pruner, partitioning facialhair artist, 7 day seducer and talented garage singer. But how did this unlikely tee-total lad from Southampton rise to fame? In light of Craig’s recently announced 2013 world tour, I’ve set myself the challenge of delving into the rise and fall (ft. Sting) and subsequent rise of the superstar from humble beginnings in Southampton to 12 Brit nominations at the height of his career.

Born to a carpenter and a Superdrug shop assistant, Craig Ashley David appeared into the world on one wet and dull spring day in 1981*. Raised on the Holyrood Estate, located less than a mile from Southampton Ferry terminal and the National Oceanography Centre, by his mother Tina and father George until their divorce. Superdrug’s Tina was of Jewish heritage from her grandfather and converted grandmother, and related to the founders of the Accurist watchmakers. Doubtlessly it was this family history that made him so inspired to document his activities by time. The music in his blood came from his Grenadian father George; when he wasn’t knocking up a few garden benches, he played bass in a reggae band called Ebony Rockers.




Craig spent his youth learning about oceanography (presumably), playing knock down ginger (presumably) and pursuing a footballing career as keeper for the Bellemoor Boys School team. Craig wasn’t distracted by silly sports for long though, with his music heritage proving too strong a lure. He started DJing at local youth clubs and writing his own music, gaining his first glimpse of the limelight when he was invited to work on a B-side for Baby Spice’s personal bit of spice (Jade Jones)’s R&B boy band Damage. A few more local DJ sessions and it wasn’t long before he met Pete Devereux and Mark Hill, better known as the Oliver Twist-inspired garage band ‘Artful Dodger’, also from Southampton.

First featuring on the somewhat unknown track ‘Something’ with some signature ‘mm-mmms’, Craig finally hit the big time in 1999 with epic anthem ‘Re-rewind (The Crowd says Bo Selecta)’ featuring the first of many self name drops in the memorable line ‘Craig David all over your...’**. For all of the embarrassingly ignorant out there, Bo Selecta means Good (Bo) DJ Selection (Selecta), so like a shout out to the DJ that he’s picked a good tune. Craig would prefer that we don’t mention the song title’s later use in Leigh Francis’ Channel 4 show so swiftly moving on to the song’s placing in the UK charts at number 2, encouraging our star to re-release the track on his own album ‘Born To Do It’ a year later. Experts even consider this song the point at which garage music entered the mainstream. Craig David; groundbreaking ‘ye-eeeah’ and ‘mm-mmm’er but also a genre defining maestro.

Re-rewind was the platform from which Craig David launched himself into super stardom, with one hit after another. First came ‘Fill Me In’, a track with I’ve only this week realised is not about Craig worrying his girlfriend is cheating on him, but in fact is a pained cry of woe at his new lady’s interfering parents questioning why she changed her outfit from white to black. Aged just 19, this song blasted straight to number one ahead of ‘Flowers’ by Sweet Female Attitude of ‘I’ll bring you flowers in the pouring ra-aa-ain’ fame. 


Next came track of the decade and probable*** highlight of Craig’s early career ‘7 Days’. A track which documents his quick-working seduction of some 24 year old cinnamon honey lurking in a London subway who responds to his advances with the line ‘I’d love to rendezvous’. It’s called 7 Days, but really, after a brief meeting on Monday at...oh...what time, Craig? (Must have been about quarter past three) they don’t meet until...wait, what did you suggest, Craig? (A date with me tomorrow at nine), so the seduction really takes place in a much smaller time scale. Unless of course, they were msn messaging in between the first meeting and the Tuesday rendezvous and Craig couldn’t fit this to rhyme. Needless to say, this song set the standard for all UK youth courting going forward. In Southampton circles, it’s deemed failure if it takes a guy any longer than two days to get into a girl’s pants. The Craig David Curse. 

After this second number one single, Craig had success with ‘Walking Away’, ‘Rendezvous’ (presumably detailing that Tuesday night date with the Cinammon Queen), ‘What’s Your Flava'****, Hidden Agenda (huh?) and Rise & Fall ft. Sting. Between 2001 and 2006, Craig released three albums (including the sexily named ‘Slicker Than Your Average’), notched up 4 MOBO awards, 2 MTV awards and 12 BRIT nominations (but no awards. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING JUDGES?). First album 'Born To Do It' was even voted 2nd greatest album of all time by MTV in 2009. Celebrity fans followed, including Quincy Jones, Missy Elliot, J-Lo, Usher and Arctic Monkeys:

Alex Turner said "One night me and Matt did a duet of Craig David - we made Serge from Kasabian throw up." 

Despite this success, his popularity seemed to wane and with the exception of 2007‘s Bowie sampled ‘Hot Stuff (Let’s Dance)’, later singles and albums struggled to hit reach the top 10, and in the case of single ‘Officially Yours’, the top 150. 

But that’s just the music. We all listen to and love that already. What you really want to know who is the man behind the Craig David mask? Well, that’s Leigh Francis of Bo Selecta fame. I’ve not watched the show because it looked well shit but apparently some people did and it had a negative impact on, if not Craig’s career, at least his mental wellbeing. As the R&B legend himself said:

"Inside it was absolutely pissing me off and hurtful beyond belief. There were times when I thought I just want to knock this guy out".

Craig David looking angry, and a bit wary

But Craig took the higher ground and didn’t resort to fisticuffs, instead choosing to focus on more worthy pursuits. In 2010, he became Goodwill Ambassador against Tuberculosis and in 2011 undertook a desert trek for Red Nose Day, alongside Dermot O’Leary, Lorraine Kelly and Nadia Sawalha. In 2012, following a fan video request here, Craig David surprised the video creators and self-declared 'number one fans' by attending their wedding. This humanitarian and fulfilling work seemed to spark something in Craig David, and in between hosting and DJing a weekly party at his own penthouse in Miami called ‘TS5’ and aired on KISS radio, mingling with Fern Cotton and Justin Bieber (the former is a mate, the latter is a HUGE Craig David fan6) he resumed his musical endeavours and was signed to Universal Music in January 2013. 

He revealed his new physique (see below) and announced his world tour in February, starting with Jakarta (Indonesia obviously a big fanbase of garage music), then a few Australian shows before heading back west to mainland Europe, hometown Southampton and a final show at the IndigO2 in London. 2013 is Craig’s year. Be there. 

This is what four shags a week will get you.

*http://www.london-weather.eu/article.120.html 
**Can’t help but feeling Craig sounds a bit like a rash here?
***I say probable, as Craig David is only 31 at the time of writing and so has plenty of time to produce material of an even higher calibre
****Street lingo for ‘flavour’

Game 9: The Jolly Dodgers vs. The Incrediballs

I have to actually start this on quite a serious and painful note. After a few beers and in the spirit of learning more about fellow dodgeballers, one player unexpectedly opened up and revealed that some young kids in their family were suffering neglect and abuse. I won’t mention real names for legal reasons as they’re both about six years old but the gist of it is they’re not being fed properly, they’re not washed, they're left to wallow in their own excrement, and they’re confined to a small enclosed space day-in-day-out. As the conversation developed, it came to light that this horrible physical abuse was being coupled with emotional abuse, with neither of the kids ever shown any affection or even being communicated with, which had resulted in them suffering with severe speech and language problems and an inability to walk, dress themselves or even use the bathroom. Everyone looked on completely dumbfounded and pained. Proper Jeremy Kyle. The Dodger Moores were completely unable to believe that this can be allowed to go on in London without authorities stepping in.  James and Pat seemed most upset by it, and without a second thought offered to adopt these innocent, abused youngsters.

The cruel abusers? Let’s just call them Smabbie and Stony (and in some respects, equally guilty onlooker Snicole) from the Sholly Shodgers. The victims? Let’s just call them Chips and Ian. Because they’re goldfish and those are actually their names. 

Of unknown origin, Chips and Ian started their childhoods in an all-male home (not like that) in Tooting along with several other adoptees who didn’t make it past their early years; victims of fish flu, gang warfare and sometimes victims of simply being so stupid they forgot to breathe. Concerned about the effect of bringing up kids in Tooting with so much violence and death around, Stony found them a mum and moved them to a flat in Bermondsey. Like many council estate parents, knowing how tough life was and the fish-eat-fish world we live in, they decided they had to be cruel to be kind. Chips, a poor, orphaned, estate fish clearly wasn’t going to grow up to be Rock Starfish and downtrodden, permanently under-nourished Ian wasn’t going to end up in the diamond-encrusted pond of Elton John’s estate. It just wasn’t on the cards for them. But maybe, just maybe they could become undercover police sting(ray) officers. Or if a career with the filth wasn’t for them, perhaps ruthless, but successful loan sharks. They were treated fairly but with discipline; never given things on a plate and having to work for their survival. It was harsh, but in the mid-naughties in South London, it was necessary. They grew up tough, with a chip on the shoulder (well just Ian, but that’s because the tank was small and he often had to be a chair for his fried-potato friend) and with aggression in their swim. But time had come for them to move on. Doubting their abilities as parents and concerned about their futures, like the Fresh Prince’s mum before them, on this night in the Loft in Clapham, Stony and Smabbie agreed to send their little ones off to the Bel Air of London; the What If! Offices in Baker Street.

So this Wednesday night, Chips and Ian whistled for a cab and when it pulled near, were helped in and driven through Elephant and Castle, Kennington and the grim streets of Stockwell to Clapham Leisure Centre, where their Uncle James was waiting to take them to their new home. We walked in, just casual gym visitors holding a large bottle of water with two frantic goldfish inside. Nothing weird about that, Clapham. Stop looking at us like that.

Yeah, they were going to a new home, but not before they got to watch their first (and probably last) epic game of Dodgeball though.

Just so we could say goodbye properly, we arrived 40minutes early. The goodbyes were cut short though as Abbie and I were roped into playing for a team with too few girls. We ended up playing for the Deadly Donkeys against Dodgy Style. Teams 1 and 2 in the league apparently, and after a whole three sets, it was pretty clear how they’d got to the top of the league. I won’t reveal too many of each team’s tactics and approach, but let’s just say it included a flagrant disregard for rules and sportsmanship, an unpleasant level of aggression, shouting and swearing and a willingness to override any referee decisions regardless of the accuracy of those decisions. The most unpleasant game I’ve ever played. Both teams as bad as each other. The only thing that made it redeemable was the comical reactions from spectators who’d picked up on the unsportsmanly tone of the match and were booing and heckling anytime anyone touched or threw a ball. Never again.

Right. Now down to the serious business of Jolly Dodgers 2.0 vs. The Incrediballs. We’d had subtle word from Go Mammoth's James A. the previous night that we were potentially looking at an easy match, as our opponents were supposedly lurking near the bottom of the league. The actual bottom of the league of course reserved for the lovely (but shit) Dodger Moores. Without wanting to make others complacent, I kept this info to myself ahead of the match, but took in a healthy dose of complacency myself. Error. As the first set began, I realised this team were actually a threat. They had some really strong throwers and catchers, with one girl being particularly lethal in her mopping up of our thoughtless high throws. The first set was fast, fun and finished a close 3-2 in the Jolly Dodgers’ favour.

Knowing this would be the last memory Chips and Ian would ever have of us (with all previous memories presumably forgotten), we made every three seconds count. Less concerned about the fish, Kira and Matt teamed up Canadian style with Matt producing some insanely good throws and Kira probably racking up more on-court minutes than the rest of us; Greg was back in town and as energetic as ever, spending his game creating as many different body shape jumps as he could; Thom had nailed the middle line rule though sadly helpful stand-in Adam hadn’t quite; Tony dropped to the floor a few times in what might now be his signature dodge and did an amazing cross court slice, catching an Incrediball by complete unawares and Abbie also caught the opponents by surprise by abandoning her scoop of a floor ball to catch the opponents long throw mere centimetres to the right. It was actually so mindblowingly unexpected and unlikely, understandably the other team didn’t think it had happened. WE didn’t even quite believe it, but it definitely occurred right there in Clapham on Wednesday 6th March at around 8.40pm. The ref hadn’t seen and our cries of ‘Catch! Catch!’ fell on deaf ears as the Incrediballs presumably thought we were cheating, so played on. Mid next game I took a second to clarify to the thrower that we weren’t trying to cheat, and whilst it looked impossible and ahead of it I would have given Abbie a 5% chance of catching a ball like that (at most), against all odds she really had done it. He appreciated the explanation and apologised for not going off, and we parted laughing about it. Good cross-team banter and honesty. Something other teams – not pointing any of my donkey fingers as that’s not my style – might want to consider. Just saying.

As seems to happen most weeks when he’s not busy *cough*going out with his new lady friend*cough*, Andy hid off court as the game started, just so he could appear mid-game in a dramatic fashion without warning. It’s almost like he just emerges out of the wall like that bit in Terminator 2 where T-1000 liquid-metal shapeshifts out of the floor. Or more realistically like Harry emerging from Kings Cross onto Platform 9 and ¾. Always unexpected and always explosive. He had a great game.

I, on the other hand, got hit in the face. And Matt caught a ball which had deflected off me before I could catch it, thereby getting me out. WE’RE ON THE SAME TEAM, TOE-SHOES.

Thom also showed himself up a bit when we had a near full side against one Incrediballs girl and he lobbed the ball at least 10m away from her, and across to the other court. We asked him to sit the next game out and think about what he had done.

The Incrediballs were fun. We won the second set, but it was still a close match. As well as entertaining by bringing their best dodging, one player also entertained by losing his glasses every few minutes on the floor. One time they slid across to Tony who hilariously put them on and tauntingly continued the game. I mean, it probably sounds like bullying, but it was seriously funny. There didn’t seem to be a lot of laughter from Glasses McGee, but presumably that was because he couldn’t see what was happening. They had the last laugh though as Tony failed to master the Incrediballs superhero ray-glasses and couldn’t see the ball flying straight for him. Well played, Incrediballs. Well played.

Final set flew by and we were 2-1 up and ahead in the next game (the last game of the match as it happened, because we ran out of time). The Incrediballs found themselves with one player against a school of Jolly Dodgers (fish reference. A call back.). The Incrediball knew the only thing you could do in this instance was go for catches so he helpfully passed all the balls back to us. A little too helpfully actually, and in a moment of forgetfulness he just did a gentle underarm throw to Tony. Game over.

Hand shaking to finish and then all off to to the Loft for drinks, where we only just stopped ourselves from agreeing to a hunger games battle-to-the-death wager of Chips and Ian vs the Japanese Fighting Fish at James' office. There was a round of drinks at stake, but after the lives they've led, like 16th Century British nobles who've spent their lives and energies on battle fields fighting the French and Scottish, they deserve to retire to their castle in peace.

Chips and Ian; A Journey:

 The Halcyon days

Literally poo-ing themselves with excitement

The 'tank to jug to bottle via a man-made funnel' manoeuvre

For transit

Editor's note: Some photos aren't real and are intended to demonstrate a stage in the proceedings that wasn't photographed. I'll leave you to spot the fake

Thursday morning. From James's flat to the What If! offices

The Castle, and peace at last...I give those other fish 5 minutes. Tops

Day 144-146: London to Berlin

Highlights:

• Torsten, EasyJet employee
• New German friend. Age 12 and 1/2
• House Music
• Alt-J at Astra Kulturhaus
• The ultimate Bucket List entry

Day 144
When I packed for 6 weeks around Europe, I wrote a list, set aside several hours and yet somehow came away without headphones, socks and, most importantly, underwear. On Thursday, very hungover after Dodgeball drinks and within 20minutes, I packed absolutely everything I needed. I think there's some sort of lesson there.

I checked in at Gatwick airport (through electronic boarding pass gates and after some chat with the first friendly baggage check assistant I've ever seen at an airport) and headed for some food. I felt adequately ashamed at heading straight for Wetherspoons, so I pretended to read the Cafe Rouge and Frankie and Benny's menus before slinking back to 'The Flying Horse' for some wine and Fish and Chips. The bartender 'warned' me that my food might take up to 10minutes to arrive. That was fine by me. I know if you eat food straight from the microwave it can be HOTTER THAN THE SUN. Better let that top quality cuisine have some resting time.

I'd been sitting for 3 minutes when my food arrived. Fish and Chips within 5 minutes. Hot fish and chips. Thank god for microwaves. I might have starved to death if I'd had to wait that whole 10minutes. 

I boarded my Easyjet flight via a tunnel. None of that walking out in the cold and boarding the plane from the ground for Easyjet anymore. Oh no. I sensed this was going to be a good flight. I picked a random seat on the plane before realising that Easyjet now have allocated seating. What's happened to this airline? It's suddenly become civilised, organised and not unpleasant. I was sitting next to a German woman before her 12/13 year old son swapped so she could sit next to his dad a few rows down. He started speaking to me in perfect English and after a few attempts at responding in German, I resorted to it too. I imagine this sounds patronising, but I'm pretty sure as a 12 year old I was scared of sitting next to strangers and yet this kid not only did that but also started a conversation in his second language. Impressive. If I were 13 years younger...This family were on their way back from London where they'd been visiting his older sister who was studying there for the year. With a twinkle in his eye, he told me he'd had to miss school to visit her...quite a sacrifice on his part. We took off after a funny introduction by Cabin Manager Torsten (Easyjet have started making jokes? This is mental!) and I watched this kid play Temple Run for the majority of the flight. We shook hands as we came into Berlin and I told him English was good. With a smirk he told me mine was too. I headed out from the airport to catch the train to Schonhauser Allee to where Gurk lived. It was snowy in Berlin, and there was a rail replacement service on the line I needed. Berlin; like home from home. 

Day 145
I did very little during the day. Aside from a quick coffee trip out and a visit to Netto, I sat in Gurk's apartment watching the snow fall on the Cuban embassy until she finished work. She came back for dinner and after some wine we caught the tram to Warschauer Strasse to meet my friend Harry who was staying at the Hostel Plus. Wow. What a hostel. It was massive and like some sort of Mediterranean hotel with potted plants everywhere and a 'super cool' (their words, not mine) swimming pool. Gurk and I headed to the bar to find lots of 18 year olds watching MTV videos and drinking sugary cocktails; we crashed back down to earth then. Harry was with a crowd, some of whom I imagine had risked hyperglycemic shocks with those sugary cocktails, though in his defence he only really knew one of the group; he warned us about two of the guys with a description that suggested they were embodying Dick and Dom. Stellar lads. They'd both gone to some sex spa whilst out there, paying €70 for use of the swimming pool, spa and sex workers. Classy. Last night one of them had slept with an insecure teenage blonde who kept coming over to us asking where he was. They appeared with childish energy and giggles and we had our first interaction when the guy leapt over to us having just spoken to the blonde, smacked his hand three times on the table gleefully, yelling 'what do you do when she tells you you've got a big dick!'. We left soon after.

We headed to a club called Prince Charles which was set in an old swimming pool. The bar area was in the sunken pool area which was still tiled over. We ordered a glass of wine and received BEAKERS of wine in return. We spent the next few hours dancing to House Music. Which apparently I love. House. I don't think I knew what that was before. 

When we were housed out, we caught a train back (they run 24h it's amazing!) and got a kebab.

Day 146
Gurk is moving back to London so is selling every single item in her apartment. We were woken around 9am when a guy came to collect a stand-alone clothes rail. Gurk dismantled it and put it in a bin liner. We were about to go back to sleep on her mattress without bed (that got sold last week) when we heard the comic sound of the bag ripping and metal poles bouncing down the stairs. For €3, he wasn't getting any extra assistance. We went back to sleep.

Gurk had to go to work (ON A SATURDAY) so I lounged about before going to join her at Zoologischer Garten. It was freezing cold. I was waiting a while outside Burger King before I became fed up with drunk men coming up to me (it was 1pm! There are so many drunks in Berlin) and headed inside to keep warm. The only people who come up to you in Berlin are people looking for ein feuer (a lighter) or drunks who I presume want the same but can't form words properly. Gurk arrived and we went to a really cool homely, unexpectedly spacious cafe called Schwarzes cafe. Apart from the slow service (because it was so busy) and the mammoth menu, it was great. Gurk says it's open 24h so she often comes here for a quick beer after she finishes work at 11pm. There's only one good thing in that habit. She ordered some sort of Kaiser crepes, deliciously crusted with caramelised sugar whilst I had ein Omelette. Gurk had to shoot back to work so I sat with a huge soup bowl of coffee, reading the New Statesmen, learning about the real issue behind the Horse Meat scandal. We're not cashing-in on British agricultural potential apparently. And we feed cows expensive soya, instead of the free grass.

We headed back to Gurk's apartment at 5.30pm to find her Canadian friend Sam waiting for us. Sam's in a band called 'Dear Reader'. We drank a Magnum of champagne and then headed back to Warschauer Strasse to go to Astra Kulturhaus to see Alt-J perform. I've seen the band a few times. I mean, they're constantly touring. Barely a week goes by without another Alt-J tour being announced. And they're not known for amazing live performances. They're alright, but not much is normally added to the music seeing them live. Might as well sit at home listening to the album whilst doing a crossword. The band came on around 8.30pm. Pretty early for a headliner, eh? They started with intro and played their socks off. They'd really kicked it up a notch. Perhaps fuelled by the enthusiastic and upbeat audience, or just having got the hang of it after numerous shows, but either way they killed it. The songs were much more powerful than usual and the formats changed slightly to fit the live setting. Brilliant. I've never seen them smile so much. After an encore of Tarot, the house music came up and rather than some gentle post-gig Led Zeppelin folk number, some sort of house music came on and the crowd went mental. It really was a great show.

Afterwards we tried to break into the backstage area. Sam's in a band right? He just kept saying 'we're from the label'. It wasn't working. We didn't know what label we were supposed to be from*. This guy in the car wasn't having any of it. Undeterred, we went further back and Sam climbed over a metal gate whilst I pelted him with snowballs. He came back defeated a few minutes later and a mega snowball fight ensued. It was 11pm and as we became increasingly soaked and covered in snow, Sam kept yelling 'no really, we're from the label! Seriously!'. I fell and whacked my head and knee but that didn't stop my attacks. Gurk took photos as we finished the battle with some snow angels. Sam used the snowball battle to resume his break-in attempts but some angry English guy saw straight through it. Sam and Gurk went to smoke so I lingered in the snow watching the tour bus try to turn on the ice. Twiddling my thumbs looking for something to do, I had a brainwave. I was on my hands and knees rolling the body of a snowman when a man came and offered me drugs. As a 25year old making a snowman on her own outside a music venue in Berlin, I must have looked like the perfect client. "No thanks", I said. "I'm making a snowman". 

Gurk and Sam came back and politely waited as I finished rolling the head and added some stick arms. I stood back, proudly looking at my knee-high friend. Gurk was about to take a photo when a new item suddenly appeared on my mental bucket list. Without a second thought, I kicked the little snowman's head off.  

We briefly went to a bar called KPTN (Captain). Gurk hadn't even taken her coat off when some guy hit on her (presumably saying in German 'keep your coat on, love, you've pulled'). We left shortly after and got a taxi home. Gurk was worried he was taking us down some dodgy route when the guy announced that there were problems with traffic due to some guy called Mario Barth playing at the O2 venue. 12,000 fans were blocking the roads. He's a German comedian apparently. Gurk commented that she hadn't realised they existed. 

We got home and on thinking the snow had given my hair an exotic damp look, I realised I actually looked like a lion. 

*Infectious Records we later discovered.

Game 7 (Grudge Match): The Jolly Dodgers vs. Balls Deep

Highlights:

• Fancy dress Dodgeball grudge match against our friends and opposition, Balls Deep
• A Mariachi Band
• Tequila and wrestling chaos

The email had come through a few weeks ago announcing that fancy dress week would fall on the night of our match against friends and nemeses, Balls Deep. The ultimate grudge match with both pride and a night of drinks resting on it after a tipsy bet between Jolly Tony and Balls Santi. After last week's games, we'd decided on a Mexican theme but kept it secret even as we tricked other teams into revealing their plans. Let them squirm with suspense 'til Wednesday. 

It was a week of furious emailing. We all couldn't boast quick enough about what Mexican fashion delights we'd discovered. Greg's costume from the internet arrived, Ben sent us a teasing sultry shot of his outfit and Chris announced he could probably get his hand on a pack of nachos. I was optimistic he was fashioning the tortilla chip equivalent of the lady gaga meat dress between emails.  We struck gold when Chaotic Clare told us her new boyfriend had 20 Mexican wrestler masks under his bed. Kinky anonymous orgies or bank robber disguise? Now was not the time to question it. The plan was coming together. I'm no hippie but I somehow managed to pull three ponchos from my wardrobe. Yeah, you heard. Three. They were the onesie of the 2010s, weren't they? Even better was when Ellie announced she'd nicked an armful of sombrero from the school fancy dress cupboards. When the kids celebrate Mexican Day next week and she's forgotten to return them, I think there are going to be a lot of crying ninos in the classroom. You know we mean business when we risk the tears of the innocent.

A certain member of the team used all the musicians and production equipment at his disposal (and a little extra nabbed from a certain national broadcasting company) and called in 27 years worth of favours to put together the finest Mariachi this side of the Atlantic had ever seen. Previous dodgeballers Bateson and Rainbow were joining the fray with bass and standard ukeleles. Ellie's husband Phil volunteered to play some sort of cajon box drum, and Ellie agreed to split her time between dodging and playing Mexican fiddle. But a trumpeter who was free late notice and could play Mexican tunes remained unsurprisingly illusive.

Feeling the anticipation of a male praying mantis on the way to his first and last sexual conquest (one for the naturalists), we awoke on a grey morning with fire and fear in our bellies. Would we beat Balls Deep? Would Matt's toeshoes make an appearance? Would we get a sodding trumpet player?!

Tony arrived early to set up a mini studio and soon after the Mexicans descended on North Clapham Leisure Centre.  We had wrestlers, we had farmers, we had a cool chilli, we had more moustaches than the 1970s and we had the best attempt at a cactus that two pairs of tights, a weeks' worth of Evening Standards and five minutes could produce. Balls Deep arrived, nicely accessorising their signature orange headbands with some orange jumpsuits: 

And with La Bamba playing in the background we danced our way to our starting points. With an UN, DOS, TRES! we were off. 

It took all of our concentration and will power to keep on track during the first set, and our strongest lip muscles to keep the cheap moustaches in place. Somehow we managed to plough through our fits of giggles and hysterics to hit the opposition and catch crucial balls. With my hands buried between crunched newspaper and under tights, as a cactus (or chilli?) I couldn't hold balls long enough to throw them (though boy could I catch) and due to the restrictive material, the mask wearers' sight was limited to whatever was directly in front of them. As the only female wrestler and adorned with a Mexican flag, Kira looked brilliant and Chilli Greg proved as fiery as his costume as he leapt over balls and into catches:

(a catch and the moustache graveyard)

(Check out the strain on that face)

The Ole Dodgers won the first set and casually fell into the second. The ref did his best to keep things ticking along in a timely fashion but we were having none of it as we all took shots of new player Thom's tequila from the sidelines. Ariba!

We were at some point in the second set when some Tony-led chinese whispers came down the line suggesting that if we won the next game, we'd win the match. This was the first taste of victory we'd had since playing the Dodger Moores. I think the tequila was starting to take it's toll though as after the whistle blew we all managed to get out within the first minute. All except for Canadian Matt. Toeshoes now firmly in his past and with his moustache long since stuck on the wall in our makeshift facial hair graveyard, Matt found himself the sole player against five. You might write lesser Dodgeballers off, but with his powerful throws, basketball player leaps and ballet spins we didn't lose hope. One by one he picked off Balls Deep, like a cheetah cruelly snatching the young, weak and innocent buffalo from a herd. Wordlessly the rest of us embodied David Attenborough. Commenting in hushed tones from the sideline but not interferring with this natural course of events even as we heard the cries of wounded Balls Deep players. Then, out of nothing Matt made a catch! The numbers were evening up! Greg pelted back on to the caught only to be hit almost immediately and the whistle blowing seconds later ending the game. What can we say, Matt? Player of the week let down by a slow chilli. 

Ole Dodgers won the next game though, sealing victory. Then, like someone had flicked a switch, the game descended into anarchy. Tequila shots were flying as frequently as the balls and Santiago dived across the line, flooring Tony in the process. We turned to see the lycra-clad Mexican-Wrestler Tony in a rough and tumble with prisoner Santiago. It was like watching two lion cubs, if the lion cubs were middle-aged men in fancy dress tickling each other. The Mariachi band were in a frenzy, and after disengaging himself from the wrestle, Santiago took over the mic to give us some genuine Spanish commentary. Who knows what he was saying? I presume lots of rude things about our mums, but it sounded amazing. The set finished with Tony Kamikazi-ing his way out of every game, a swirl of Ben, Chris and Abbie's ponchos, Thom finally learning not to cross the middle line and Santiago hiding behind a blow-up cactus. 

(more photos of the Mariachi band in the background hopefully to follow)

After sticking around to check out the other teams costumes and watch the brilliant Zombie team stay in character for their first game (Shanes of Grah), we headed to the pub for some well earned beers. 

People sometimes talk about London being too big a city, where it's hard to meet new people and your 20/30 somethings being less about fun, and more about building your career, settling down and being sensible. Go Mammoth Fancy-dress dodgeball, mid-game tequila shots, a mariachi band, cross-team wrestling, Spanish commentary, a win and hundreds of celebratory beers with our favourite teams. We had the night of our bloody lives. We are living the fucking dream. 

P.S. We didn't get a trumpet player. 

Bermondsey

Pronounced BURR-munzee. A bit like Chimpanzee and if you change the G to a B then it's also like ‘German Sea’. If you’re one of those witty people who turn Matalan into some sort of Debenhams Designer (Matt Allan) or All Bar One into some Italian bistro (Albaroni) then you may prefer to use the posh ‘Bur-MOHND-see’ pronunciation.  Located on the Jubilee line just one stop from London Bridge and in the ‘is that kid following me home?’(1) postcode district of SE16, Bermondsey is home to Shaltby Street Market(2), Shermondsey Street, Shouthwark Park and the Shite Cube Gallery (haha. Good one, Nicole).
 

In the next few paragraphs, I'm attempting to put Bermondsey on the map beyond being the home of Jade Goody’s mum and in a way that Patrick Wolf’s ‘Bermondsey Street’ album track never accomplished (from that difficult fifth album). You will read a few interesting facts not entirely sourced from Wikipedia, learn some etymology and/or toponymy (and what the words ‘etymology’ and ‘toponymy’ mean if need be) and discover a few celebrity residents you could bump into in the area. So the next time we meet and you ask where I live, I hopefully won't have to describe it as ‘the place where they found the girl’s body in the corporate scandal episode of Silent Witness in the last series’.
 

In brief, the name Bermondsey is thought to derive from Beormund’s Ey, where Beormund was the name of a local Saxon lord and Ey was Norse for ‘Island’. It’s now definitely not an island but there are various rivers running below ground, historically used to power local paper mills and factories and allowing the Morning Chronicle to coin Bermondsey as ‘The Venice of Drains’ and ‘The very capital of cholera’ in 1849. One of these rivers is the river Neckinger which is now completely subterranean aside from a few man-holes (hence being a useful dumping point for the Silent Witness victim) and only links up to the Thames through St Saviours Dock. As you all know (don't let me down, guys), St Saviours Dock is where Bill Sykes gets it in Dickens’ Oliver Twist and where James Bond’s speed boat leaps out from in The World Is Not Enough.

Neckinger, quite upliftingly, derives from the Devil’s Neckerchief i.e. the hangman’s noose, because they used to hang pirates in the area and display them out above the river as a deterrent to other would-be pirates. I think this sets the scene as to the sort of place Bermondsey used to be, and lets me tell the story of its rise from resting place of uber-villain Sykes to the heady heights of being the chosen location of hit TV show starring Gordon Ramsay and Mary Portas, ‘Hotel GB’.

  

Away from St Saviours Dock, after Tooley St has become Jamaica Road and you've turned and gone a little way down Abbey Street (presumably named after the now-demolished Benedictine Bermondsey Abbey) you pass the listed Neckinger Mills building, which was first a paper mill before more famously becoming a tannery (at its end, this was owned and runby Bevingtons & Sons Ltd.). Tanneries were a big feature in Bermondsey; huge names such as Hepburn and Gale, The Grange and Bevingtons & Sons meant that in c. 1792, a third of the country’s leather came from the area. In my research I’ve come across several claims that tanneries used to hire lots of women for the finishing process and as a result of working with fish oil in the glazing process, Bermondsey women were renowned for their beautiful skin and hair. Nothing says sexy like locks smelling of kippers and a face glistening with cod liver. Further on down Abbey Street, you also find the ‘Simon the Tanner’ pub, either named after St. Simon the Tanner/Shoemaker (this Egyptian Coptic saint who plucked out one of his own eyes because he saw it in the bible, before helping Pope Abraham to move a mountain) or a local tanner called Simon (“Alwight, Si. Can ya make me some leath-ah boots, innit? I need ‘em to protect ma plates of meat. Fanks, guv”).

Another famous factory in the area was the Peek Frean Biscuit factory, originally founded in Dockhead (read that street sign from a distance) in 1857 before moving to Bermondsey in 1866, which created both the Bourbon and the Garibaldi. Seriously. The exotic Garibaldi is actually from Saaafff London. Named after a folically-challenged geezer called Gary(3).

In 1838, a railway line was built from London Bridge to Greenwich, splitting the Neckinger estate owned by Bevingtons & Sons and creating lots of arched retail and storage units along Druid Street and Enid Street. During WW2, an arch on Druid Street under the railway line also suffered when 77 people sheltering from an air raid were killed by a bomb. This included the parents and sister of Bermondsey website maintainer ‘Bermondsey Boy’(4), from whom I’ve gathered a lot of information/hearsay. Things are looking up for the street now though; whilst no there are no specific biscuitries (is that a word?) in the arches, a walk past these in the morning now provides you with a good whiff of croissants from St John’s Bakery and Bea’s of Bloomsbury (which hosts film viewings in the evenings) and a stinky cheese nasal sensation from Neal’s Yard Dairy. On Saturday mornings, these units open up to sell to the public, fulfilling all of your bread, coffee, grocery and mattress (thanks, Beddy Buyz) needs. You might even spot Andrew Kojima from 2012's Masterchef holding a baby(5).

An essential sporting mention is the proximity to South Bermondsey station of noble footballing greats, and my Grandad’s team, Millwall Athletic. Originally from north of the river, The Lions moved first to New Cross then finally onto Bermondsey in 1993 to their current home ‘The Den’. I’m pretty sure they’re not exactly trying to dispute their rough hooligan reputation by calling their ground The Lions’ Den (also see chants such as “No one likes us, we don’t care” and the recent Millwall chant against Luton about the Taliban) and not even having Daniel Day-Lewis as a fan(6) can counteract one of your strikers being convicted of murder (I hope we’re just looking at you, Gavin Grant). Having started as the football team of a preserve factory (the Scottish-founded J.T. Mortons), they grew in size until WW2 during which they suffered alongside a lot of other British teams with the loss of young men and players in the fighting. The stadium also experienced bomb damage during the Blitz and then a few weeks later, some bozo burned down a stand with a discarded cigarette. You stay classy, Millwall Athletic.

Back into non-violent Bermondsey, and just off of Abbey Street you find Bermondsey Square, location of Hotel GB, the relocated Caledonian Market and Gregg’s Table. There’s also a convenient Sainsburys and cashpoint. Well, convenient if you need some bread and over-priced tinned goods. And cash. From the square, leading you up to Tooley Street and London Bridge station, is the adventurously named ‘Bermondsey Street’. This is one of the rare streets that has actually upped and came (upped and comed?) in frequently labelled by estate agents 'up and coming' Bermondsey. But before Gok Wan and his pooch made it the it-place to let your dog poo whilst you drink a freshly-brewed skinny latte, the street well and truly saw some dark days. It was so smelly in the olden days because of all the tannery work and all the fishy ladies that only the most anosmic(7) or cholera infected stuck around. After years of the road used mainly as a route to Bermondsey Antique Market, the street was eventually built up and is now lined with restaurants, cafes, independent shops and cocktail bars, along with the White Cube Gallery and the London Fashion and Textiles Museum. If you’ve ever visited me in Bermondsey, I may have overruled your google maps route to direct you away from the urine-soaked tunnels and dimly-lit estate paths, and down past the middle-class delights of this street.

In terms of local residents, you may find yourself running into Gok Wan (twice), Patrick Stewart (I wish) and Masterchef’s Buttery Biscuit Base(8) in the form of Gregg Wallace (we did when dining at Gregg’s Table. Subsequent googling of him has made me wary of harmless fish and vegetable meal paring tweets(9) but also made me wiggle my eyebrows and say hubba hubba only slightly ironically(10)). Beormund’s-ey-ians by birth include Boxer David Haye, Entertainer Michael Barrymore, Economist Alfred Marshall and whilst-she-did-think-Rio-De-Janeiro-was-a-person-she-did-signficantly-raise-awareness-of-cervical-cancer-in-young-women Jade Goody. A dream dinner party if ever there was one.

End.

(1) He was already going to the flat above mine, but he definitely didn’t need to speed up (he had a limp, but still managed to catch me up), cross the road and walk directly behind me at midnight, before asking if I’d go up to the flat to hang with him and is teenage mates.

(2) Names have been changed to protect the limited visitor capacity of certain visitor hotspots.

(3) Not really.

(4) http://www.bermondseyboy.net/2010/04/17/druid-street-arch-bombing/.

(5) This only happened once, back in March 2012.

(6) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millwall_F.C.#Notable_supporters.(7) Google tells me Anosmia is the smell equivalent of deafness or blindness.

(8) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfeyUGZt8nk.

(9) Wallace met his third wife Heidi, a teacher from Cumbria who is 17 years his junior, in 2009 after she asked him a question about celery and pollock on Twitter.

(10)http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/12/15/article-2248527-168655FC000005DC-53_306x494.jpg