It has been estimated that golfer Tiger Woods will reach career-earnings of approximately a BILLION dollars in the next five years. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! That is nine zeroes for hitting a small white ball with a stick, walking around on perfectly manicured lawns, surrounded by perfumed poser people and luxury everything. I bet even the air is Louis Vuitton’s latest.

I really don’t know how to feel right now.

This might just be the absolute cuckoo pinnacle of unfair insanity. Golf is more philatelie than sport, yet Tiger will become the first ‘sportsman’ to amass a billion bucks in his career. Eat my pink Lacoste pique shirt! What about other athletes, who actually get sweaty and dirty, who train like crazy animals, who risk their lives to put on a show?

The leg-spreading sponsors are to blame, obviously. They do anything to associate their shady business with the clean-cut and safe/dull image of golf. Money saved by Chinese child labour is spent on golf. Urgh. I feel sick…

…sick that I did not take up golf when I was 3 months old.

back to the grim butcher

I had a horrific nightmare the other night. Thing is, I think I know why: I have another operation coming up, fast and choo-choo-choo like a runaway locomotivo, now fifteen days to 19th April. And even thou it should be a glass of sangria in the park this time, I’ve been butchered in seven grueling episodes earlier… somehow it just gets more and more repulsive after each passed recovery.

Quite like a cat + a bathtub full of water, I shy the slaughterhouse. This time, they will slice open my busted heel in order to saw away some sharp bone fragments in there that point every which way but the right way. (Since I learned how to walk again, I’ve had to watch myself – if I step the wrong way, I go through the ol’ roof).
That done, they will snip-snap open a toe (it is an experiment – I actually wanted all the little toes done), cut away some bone, try to straighten it out. If by the chance this works, I’ll probably demand to go back for the scalpel sequels.

Ironically, these small ops won’t make my life much easier. 97,86% of the pain comes from both ankle joints, and will, always. But it has to be done, and I am thrilled to bits about getting it fixed before summer. Frankly, I’m hoping to be walking again (without crutches) no more than about a week or two afterwards.

Oh, about that nightmare? I slept peacefully, when I suddenly noticed a loose tooth in my mouth. I touched it with my tongue. It was really loose. Soon it fell down in the mouth. I spit it out, and tried to calm down. Then I felt the rest of the teeth with my tongue. They were all loose! In a moment I had empty gums and a mouth full of rattling teeth, and I was struggling not to swallow them. The teeth kept an awful racket, like my mouth was a spinning washing machine stuffed with lots of small stones.
I usually dream a lot, in colour and sound, and about everything imaginable (just like my Grandma). But this dream felt particularly macabre and real; so real, that, when I woke up, I made damn sure all the white chop-choppers were securely in place… and I think I let out a sigh of relief when all was good…

Are you a dilettante dream interpreter?

boyos will be boyos

A laugh and a half later and the lads have been burning the fossile fuel again. This time from the waist-hugging cabin of a shiny 2006 BMW 320; me and my friend Viktorinox were on a myth-busting mission to find out if Beemers really are ‘the ultimate driving machines’, as the ingénieurs from München so proudly state in their commercials.

Gentlemen, start your engines. It is DSC OFF-time! And what do you know – it is true. 50:50 is where it’s at. The front wheels bite, the rear comes along at any angle you want, and it is simply up to you to do silky smooth circus tricks. It’s so easypeasy I could juggle three oranges while doing this, all day long. Man, I bet my bottom dollar I could take Nick Heidfeld on ice… why are you not answering my calls, Quick Nick?

Note: It was not me who wooeee planted it firmly in the snowbankie… had not the ol’ farmer appeared from nowhere, we would still be digging… hihi! (Just messing with you, Viktor. It’s part of the game).

Today it is raining. Enjoy; this might be the end of the winter bend.

the black monolith

It is with deep sadness in my heart that I report death in the family. My TV gave up the ghost yesterday… I am lost without it, lost like a feather in a tornado. I wander the streets aimlessly, mumble incoherent words ohne sentences, and burst into sudden tears at the most random of places.

I am pulling some legs here – but only just. It died – but did not quite go all the way to television heaven. (It is only a couple of months old, being repaired on guarantee, and should be fixed in a week or so).
My LG 44″ DLP TV, which I affectionately call “the black monolith”, has corrupted me completely & thoroughly and for all eternity ever more. Imagine how spoiled one can get; I’m now forced to use a decent modern 28″ widescreen Philips – BUT it feels like looking down at pitiful ants from the top of Empire State Building!

There is no return. Size matters. You never know how amazing it is until you have a big one in front of you. In the future, all my penis extenders will be triple digit.

oh lordi

When the event occured I did not have the time to drop the line, but the topic itself has kept me quietly smiling away the days lately. Then yesterday I limewired ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’ into my iTunes library… and I am still smiling. Not because the song is good (it is not bad), but because they are so durned pretty and cute.


This is Lordi, the band who will represent Finland in the Eurovision song contest – and hopefully in the final, too. Many lovers of schlager (wow) up here have been rather upset about it, ranting on about how shameful it is for our country to send this creature to this fine and traditional institution of music…
Well, I’ve heard enough “Finland, zero points” to last me a lifetime (sorry – I actually watch the Eurovision sometimes… great, there goes my image, in one fell swoop…), and I think it is high and dry time to give the establishment the finger. A real monster finger, long nail and all, up yours! Lordi is just what we need to rock the kitschy dancing boat of feely-feely über-gay schlager, the worst kind of music there may be.

If Lordi manages to slaughter his way to the final with the gurglingly over-guttural ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’, I’ll be cheering and kicking ass going for the win, from behind my monster mask.

number 8, 1949

But, but… is it art? Why, my dear, it sure is. Proudly presenting Jackson Pollock’s Number 8 from 1949, cut and glued into a glorious backdrop tapestry for my words – the good, the bad, and the really beautiful.

I’d like to thank my technical department (MPY, bro) for carrying out my wild guggenheim wishes.

Then, let’s just lean back and wait and see how long it takes for the Pollock estate to sue me…

ice ice baby vanilla

Could it be the last day of proper winter today? If so be, I won’t be sorry, since I am a hippy child of the ever-shining sun. But before I bid farewell to Father Frost, I have also recently enjoyed some of the best things His Coldness has on offer. Ah, water in its hardest form… ICE. It is not just good in drinks, you know…

I ask of you, what is the most fun you can have with your pants on (not including motorcycles)? Well, it must be driving a car as hard as you can on a frozen lake! It just must be!
Earlier this week a rumour was circulating that the semi-legendary iceracing track on Kjulböle lake was ploughed and in tiptop condition, and I was not late in seeing for myself. Safe to say, the last three days I’ve been paying extended visits to the track, honing my best ballerina craft, busting out my fabulous Finnish flicks. Left, right, left. Boot it. Watch the scenery unfold outside the side windows. Laugh like a madman because you feel like God, corner after corner… until you stick it firmly in a big vanilla snowbank.

Iceracing demands the right tool for the job. I used to own a screaming scalpel Fiat 600 that painted circles around every damn Opel in sight, but my baby is gone (godspeed), forcing me to settle for anything rear-wheel drive. Luckily, little bro JP has medicine; right outside these walls sits a huge blue deluxe time machine, glorious and phat.
Sound the bugle: A Volvo 740, prince and pride of Scandinavia. More barn door than scalpel, it nonetheless swings in fashion… and in soft comfort… like you’re just sitting at home on the sofa in front of the tv twisting and pushing, twisting and pushing. Uh yeah, when you swing out that kongo booty of the Volvo, no one can pass you. There is simply no room left on the track…

Obviously I have amused myself so royally these past days I’ve almost felt like I’ve been living in Buckingham Palace. Today, when really burning the fossile fuel and revvin’ the nuts of the Volvo (if JP reads, I have treated the lady with silk gloves!) trying to shave off those last few tenths, I really went through the snowbanks and deep into the white unknown. Twice. I’m glad I was packing a snow shovel… yes… I’ve done this before. It is so much easier to dig a car out with a Fiskars shovel than to do it doggy style.

So, what I want to say is, on the eve of spring, hoorah hooray for winter.


It strikes me as odd, but many have wondered why there is a big tear running down my brooding face on the opening side of my website. Having thought about it more, I guess there is deep symbolism hiding behind it, instead of that turquoise tear just looking incredibly cool (or corny, kitsch, perhaps even a bit Roy Lichtensteinish…)… as I first thought… hahah…

Lessons in metaphysicism:

1. I am a man of a melancholic disposition. It is a fact I embrace, however. My raging dark side is but a place to sleep well in.

2. I am a man of unfortunate circumstances. I have long suspected I am paying my dues for the absolutely perfectest childhood.
In recent years I’ve lost my father tragically, and far too early. I almost died or had to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, and even though I fought back, I will suffer pain for the rest of my life, and have had to give up many things I loved and lived to do.
Little things are no less important; my dear little brother moved all the way to the corner of the earth, as far away as you possibly can get, to the la-la land of penguins. I quit my swimming-with-the-sharks offshore banking job in Brussels, which was supposed to make me filthy rich.

3. Happy people have boring stories. Yes, they do.

Don’t call the suicide hotline. If you have to call someone, it should be the sarcasm hotline. I am at peace with myself, and probably a lot happier than most. I just don’t fake it. Now, since you feel uncomfortable reading this, and we don’t want that oh no we don’t, I will slice the tension with the sharp knife of comic relief.

4. The real reason behind the idea of that tear comes from my friend Donald Duck, a.k.a. Kalle Anka, who still comes visiting once a week, and we always have a great time together at the dinner table. That tear is nothing more that a chatterbox, a balloon. It is a release, a bladder. I am pissing (tear) out my stories that I have experienced, seen (eye).

Please be my guest and go “Aha… so that’s why.”

(5. I do think the tear looks cool… (cue manic machine gun laughter!!!))

lausanne lounge

The locomotive surge of the vanishing V12 and a busty bottle of breakneck Barolo.
Me and Herr K have history, we go back beyond the swinging student days of London – this time, this late Thursday, we hook up by the classy Beau-Rivage at Lausanne Ouchy, to go a little moitié-moitié over a cheese fondue and vin blanc from the region’s own grapes. It is either that, or buy a Rolex – I am in Switzerland.
Later at the pad, we gossip incessantly and imbibe, among others, a splendid red Mas La Plana that really threw a party in my mouth/brain. Perhaps you understand me better when I say “deep dense cherry colour, with a touch of mahogany, simply a wonderfully intense bouquet, with hints of cranberries, cherries and truffles, and an incense-like quality developed during ageing in wood.”

Herr K. in a certain Kafka-novel did not own a metallic black Mercedes Benz CL 600 with tan leather interior, but this one does. On Friday we park our asses in said interior, and head out on the highway in damned dandy style. I am benched in the scary place, but silently I sit and plot to weasel my way into the driver’s seat, as six litres of twelve pots purr and the road drops beneath us.
We zoom around and up and down with Lac Leman stretching out besides us, framed by Alps of different nationalities. Somewhere along the line we reach pittoresque Montreux, where among many others our own Marshal Mannerheim spent his last years. I quip “This is truly the place you come to in preparation for death” when we strut along the shoreline. But the show must go on; we drop in to have a glas of rosé in a cosy chalet. My oral orifice is adorned by a white-filtered Yves Saint Laurent.
The evening is spent at the White Horse pub in Lausanne, where we abuse the happy hour rules to maximum… i.e, two for the price of one will always be a go-go green flag for boys waving the white-and-blue.
Later, having further sampled whiskeys and desperados, we manage to find our way home, where we feast in late-night time. Was there parmesan in honey, thick slices of prosciutto, big juicy olives, and a nice mouldy and ripe Italian cheese that smell like a potato cellar? Yes, there was.

After a late English breakfast on Saturday, we devote the day to Geneva and the Palexpo, 76e Salon International De L’Auto. I am a magpie – I can just not resist beautifully gleaming hypnotical things. Aesthetics, oh the cotton of my ragged soul.
This exhibition was a celebration of excess and I walked around making orgasmic sounds to the beat of visuality. The Bugatti Veyron, Porsche 911 GT3 and Turbo, Masers and Lambos and Aston Fucking Martin and Bloody Hell Bentley, Pagani and Spyker and freaky concepts of strange hedonism… well, I’m just gonna stop.

I completely raped my feet walking around there, but it was worth it. Just a few more days and I’ve recovered…

K bought some Benz accessories. The innocent girl at the stand asked “What kind of Mercedes do you have?” “CL 600”, K stated. Naturally, I had to ask him how good that made him feel. His belly bounced as he confirmed his loud satisfaction.

Then the bus took us back to the parking lot… no, it was not here… or was it… passed it… further… and further. We jumped off somewhere. It was raining. We got seriously lost. I felt like laying down in the street. My feet were killing me. Fury. I summoned up my dark powers. Started walking. Found the car.

After later sitting in a traffic jam in downtown Geneva for a few hours, it felt rather good to get back to K’s penthouse. The view from his huge balcony is fabulous, with naked Lac Leman in front of you, the long lights of the city of Evian on the French side of the lake, and behind that, the Alps up in the clouds, white-nosed and menacing.
I sat back on the couch and chilled in the company of a late GQ, while K hustled the kitchen like a man possessed. Fresh asparagus micro-steamed, some butter and salt. For the main course we eat a sauced-up GrÃ¥lle, who was once an old pÃ¥lle, but he can go down in history knowing he tasted yummy. Horsemeat is not common in Scandinavia…
My iPod connected to K’s Vaio was pushing out songs from new band The Editors when we cracked open the Barolo. The inside of the mouth turns into a raisin, goes into a deep coma of lust, violent convulsions of tastebud love, the taste lingers like the perfume on your pillow of last night’s girl.

At 2 am and a few bottles later it starts snowing, heavily. The Merc is shod with summer rubber. I am supposed to drive it tomorrow.

Wake up early Sunday morning and utter a yuurghh. The whole of Switzerland is covered in chaotic white powder, and I curse my deep-down dirty rotten luck. But lo and behold, the sun comes out for the first time – ever, it feels like. After some sightseeing in old city Lausanne, z.B. climbing the endless stairs to the cathedral and enjoying a splendid view, K hands me the key with the star on.

I am an automatic transmission virgin. The streets are new to me, wet, lined with snow, really narrow and packed with traffic. The car is big and too expensive. But I am the best driver in the world! Let’s rock and roll!
I punch the accelerator in the face and we boom off along the tricky special stages that line Lac Leman. The car is a pussycat, a sophisticat, so sweet and willing, so quiet and refined… but I am not here for sweet. I am bad. When traffic clears I do the same – I clear the space between the floormat and my right foot, unleash the beast. We are up to warp speed in no time, and K fidgets in the passenger seat. The push in the back is very strong and seamless, and you get the feel you could pull the moon to earth if you could just get your lasso around it.
Up in the vineyard mountains we go. Did I say the roads are narrow? Yes, they are. Once in awhile I hit a snowy spot, and the ESP lights up like a christmas tree. But the sun is shine, and the view is diamond. We find a great location for the diamond shine, I park the car, we say oooh and aaah, and notice a restaurant. Soup d’jour, I try to say to the woman, but the timing is off, so we settle for hazelnut petit-choux and tea.

We are waiting for the lights to turn green. I am impatient. Hungry. Eager. I look over to the left, some other guy in some other car looks back. I give him the cool smile of a man with the confidence of 12 cylinders. Yellow… gr.. I hit the loud pedal and the CL 600 squirms on the wet tarmac, finding grip, fucks off like a bat out of hell and becomes a vanishing point.
At the local Agip it seems to be a good idea to hand over the keys to K. I take some photos of him filling it up…

We eat Chinese for dinner. I make the nouilles vietnamese disappear with classic Tsingtao and chopstick bravado.

A Mouton Cadet by Rothschild acts as the sensual evening mistress, accompanied by the last YSLs, fading into continental night. I’ll see you in Nagu this summer, K. Remember to bring the Benz.