I'm Moving to New York, because I have Issues... #23

From July, 2015

As I write this, I'm sat in the gorgeous Central Park, packed with thousands enjoying the delightful sun. Suddenly, a man has come charging at another man who is nervously scarpering backwards, shouting: ‘Come near me again and I'm gonna’ call the f**kin’ cops! Get lost and take your f**kin’ gay dogs with you before I take a knife and stab you.’ ‘A bit sensitive, I think,’ the owner of the - apparently gay dogs - replied. ‘I'm gonna’ shoot your brains out’ was the final threatening response. Although I have no idea what happened prior to this, there is one thing I am certain of and that is – yes – the angry man was a wee bit sensitive.

On my way to a Manhattan museum, a slim, attractive woman in a skimpy outfit and heels crossed my path, instantly signalling wolf whistles and the following comments: ‘Bless you’, ‘Lord, have mercy’ and ‘Left. Right. Left. Right’. All of these were absolute classics, so I applauded the group of roughly dressed New Yorkers and smiled – as the complemented woman did. The museum’s extreme abstract and surrealist art was – unfortunately – too pretentious, even for my liking, and after a swift walk around listening to the comical views of the fellow observers, I was ready to leave.

I returned to playing regular football at a New Jersey high school field by the Hudson River I had visited with Rodney on our previous visit. It was always delightful to share the pitch with so many young, down-to-earth and ambitious soccer players of South American heritage. On another day - after a kick-about in Chinatown - I joined a queue of hundreds for a ‘pay what you like’ four-hour period at the Museum of Modern Art. This was an extraordinary showcase of some of the world’s most impressive works by Pablo Picasso, Gustav Klimt and Andy Warhol, including the unforgettable Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh. This is fully recommended with every New York visit.

The price put me off visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but when it's backed onto Central Park, your day is never at an unfortunate end. Whilst sat outside – arguably – the world’s most famous museum, I enjoyed listening to the pleasant sounds of a wide-smiled African American saxophonist singing in Chinese. This followed a pleasant chat with a middle-aged group of Irish Manchester United supporters.

Many great moments were spent in the mesmerising Central Park, and the great water fight was no exception. Thousands took to the Great Lawn with pistols and guns, including myself and a friend. One police officer told people that the controversial event was cancelled and a few people turned round, saddened, as thousands others ignored her and passed her to join the group. The mood from the hilarity of this attempted controlling was somewhat dampened by what I saw next. A drone was often flown above the centre crowd which enticed the Americans to jump up and down firing their weapons into the air, repeatedly shouting ‘U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!’ Despite this atrocity, I still went crazy and shot all those mother uckers.

The most celebrated day in the U.S. calendar had arrived, and I was in the perfect place for the Fourth of July festivities. Following a successful visit to the New York Comedy Club, I went to a bar to overlook the fireworks by Brooklyn Bridge and ordered myself a fine margarita. After talking to lucky women throughout the night, it was only inevitable that my romantic ways would take over on a night when sparks truly were flying.

I returned to the nightlife of Greenwich Village many times but there was one particularly notable trip. As enjoyable as the numerous comedy clubs and classic American dive bars which fuelled my happy hour margarita and nachos addictions were, this one moment will forever stay fresh in my mind. I failed to take my chances with a beautiful girl whilst sat at a bar, and she was soon replaced by a considerably less attractive wannabe-cougar, easily in her sixties. I was literally cornered as this extremely intoxicated and horny woman repeatedly whispered ‘it’s ok’ in my ear, whilst smiling disturbingly, nodding slowly and regularly rubbing my leg affectionately. As she lunged in, I went for my Bud, downed it (still stingy in moments of danger), threw a chair across the floor and ran for my dear life.

Whilst washing my clothes in my New Jersey hostel, I made a big mistake – with bleach. Many of my clothes had now been splashed with the wretched stuff, creating orange patches, conveniently only affecting clothes I had just bought. The bleaching incident, however, was nothing compared to not playing scheduled football. I got to the fully booked event and – unlike all previous sessions – nobody was anywhere to be seen. I messaged the group online and still no reply. I check another place we had played at and the only people there were a group of soccer beginners of and they wouldn't even let me borrow a ball that they were using as a f**king goalpost. I ended up attempting – unsuccessfully – kick ups with a split tennis ball. It was at this point I decided to get drunk on margaritas.

Strawberry Fields is a beautiful 2.5 acre piece of land in Central Park, dedicated to the memory of former Beatle John Lennon. His memorial includes a mosaic of inlaid stones with the word 'Imagine', as a tribute to one of the most inspirational songs of all time. People queued to get a close-up whilst listening to a Beatle-covering busker. Also situated around the park were notable statues of the The Ugly Duckling author Hans Christian Andersen, Christopher Columbus, William Shakespeare, Ludwig van Beethoven and of the characters in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.

A completely unexpected birthday treat took me to the Daryl Roth Theatre to be immersed in the intriguing postmodern, Argentinian production of Fuerza Bruta. The central standing audience watched from all angles as the constantly changing venue showed abstract physical theatre at its height. This included interaction with the audience, musical instruments and DJs, extraordinary use of props and staging and – most impressively – a movable ceiling which lowered, so you were just inches away from swimmers in a pool above.

Although I'm becoming more accepting of public displays of affection – despite being told to ‘get a room, a**hole’ when pecking a lucky lady on the sidewalk (pavement) – I still cringe when I see disgustingly loved-up couples on the street. However – and without trying to sound too liberal, especially in light of recent U.S. State Law changes – when I see a homosexual couple holding hands or showing affection toward one another, I automatically smile, and my disgust of PDA’s seem to go out the window. It was an honour to be in Washington DC when the law was announced and experience the capital’s positive reaction including The White House illuminated with rainbow colours. Now, time to get that room…