Buy the Ticket Amigo!

'You're pretty sure we're going to Yuma.' 'And you're pretty sure we're not,' Scallen said. 'Well, I've got two train passes and a shotgun that says we are. What've you got?'

Three-Ten to Yuma, Elmore Leonard

Very few people become Mexican wrestlers. As a youngster I thought that it seemed almost a perfect job that married my childhood desire of hurting other people, mainly by kicking them in the balls, and swearing in Spanish. But as the years went by we grow older and the dreams of wearing colourful latex masks and ripping out the tongues of our opponents slowly diminishes. The death knell for this particular dream was when Mr.Hendry, the school guidance counsellor, marched me forcibly out of the office after I asked him what the requirements were for becoming one of these behemoths of the ring. He said mean things to me and shook his head a lot and said 'May God have mercy on your miserable black soul.' before slamming the door in my face.

And so we become things we never intended to be. We become architects and photocopier repairmen and bank tellers, living from one laundry day to the next. Maybe that's a good thing. The world can only sustain so many Mexican wrestlers who enjoy hurting each other and swearing in Spanish.

But if best selling motivational books and Robin Williams movies have taught us one thing, it's that you have to grab each day with your bare hands and tackle it to the ground, like you would a kid brother. There's affection, sure, but you have to be a bit brutal with it as well. Give it Chinese burns. Heap on the wet willies. Kick it while its down until you realise that you may have broken a few of its ribs and it might have internal bleeding. Because one day our destinies are going to be 8-foot tall and wanting revenge for all the times you were mean to it. Its going to be waiting around the dumpster one night with some of its mates, who have been drinking a bit too much and angry at something, and its going to beat the snot out of you when you least expect it.

I've been hell bent on going on the Trans-Siberian for a while now. I've been saving like crazy and not going out and trying to learn another sodding language on Saturday effing morning so...I can catch a train on another side of the planet. Now, the money could probably been better spent on helping rebuilding a poor African village but I want to experience Russia before it gets engulfed by tourists. After the journey is over, once I've regaled everyone with anecdotes involving guys named 'Dimitri', I'll probably go back to my usual self-complaining about pizza toppings and watching late night re-runs of Tommy Lee Goes To College. But for the next two months the Mexican wrestler that I've kept within is out to play.

Smell ya later,
Fatman