Posted on January 27, 2008


Cairo will make a football hater out of you. Everyone loses their shit over what appears – to the uninitiated eye, it seems – to be a small leather balloon being kicked pointlessly back and forth. And the “strategy” talk: if even a twentieth of the brain power that went into discussing the relative merits of different players – with oh-so-scientific an air – was put into, oh, curbing infant mortality rates, Egypt would be a different place today. But on a more personal – and therefore infinitely more important – level, it gets fucking crowded, there’s a lot of cock swinging, and you have to pay a cover charge at the door of shisha places you don’t even like and they won’t let you use the money to buy alcohol. Or food. Or shisha. And yet the trim little girls with minute cardigans and identical ballet flats still sashay through the doors in droves while two frantic waiters don’t bring you a bottle of water even after an hour and half have passed. Your friends note – separately – that their tea glasses smell like wet dog, an observation you had made but kept to yourself. Fuck Café de Paris – boycott that shit. They can shove the African Cup up their bum bum.

I had a bad night last night, see. The redeeming point of the evening was when I looked over at a table of acquaintances and remarked to my friend, “Isn’t that the dude who persisted in kissing your wedding ring hand at that party?”

“No, man,” she said. “It’s…”

No lips!” I shrieked.

“You mean ‘Slot mouth.’ ”

And then I pontificated to our other friends on how his lip lack flew in the face of all that was Egyptian, he didn’t know “uncouth”, and so on. I like to milk a story.

You might have remarked that I was in a particularly pissy mood to bring in the insertion of trophies into the anuses of wait staff. This is because on returning home from visiting Piglet I found my apartment centimeters deep in water. It’s been pissing down lately, for which Cairo is wholly unprepared. While I stomped around on the squishy carpet spewing vile my friend K found a mop and quietly began to mop it up in the direction of the bathroom drain. Supreme lovability, I thought. Then I rolled up the fragrant carpet and called the landlord. When negotiations to lower the rent proved fruitless I announced that we’d be moving out at the end of the month. We painted the walls! Sure, the walls are now an unintended flamingo pink (or as Montana Mary said, the colour of cartoon babies) but anything was better than the delicate shade of urine prevalent on the walls before. And I’m hooked now – I can’t go back to the boonies! So if you have a room going in Zamalek let me know. Although I’m not desperate enough to live with the likes of people who send me such emails:

It is cool that you’re a girl, and very cool that you’re Egyptian (that’s actually my favourite combination), but unfortunately someone has already taken the available room. Of course, things can always fall apart, and if he happens to back out of the deal, I’ll make sure to send you an email.

It’s too bad, I think I would much rather have had you take the available room too! Didn’t we exchange facebook messages a while back?

I wrote back:

It’s ok. I think I would rather live with a chick anyway, no offence. What would we have exchanged facebook messages on?

The reply:

“On” as in the topic? I think I friended you and you asked where I knew you from, and I had no good answer. And I know what you mean, btw…I prefer to live with chicks too.

SKETCH, I think you’ll agree.

I think it’s important to note that I have my period.

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