Festival of Olly

With the weekend rapidly approaching and constant reminders that it was Olly’s birthday on Friday (primarily from Olly), I was fastening my seatbelt for a bumpy night or perhaps a bumpy weekend. No amount of practice ever seems to prepare me for a massive alcoholic binge, and despite my best efforts with consecutive ‘warm-up’ nights on Wednesday and Thursday, Friday night arrived and the ‘Festival of Olly’ was set in motion.

It began in an ex-pat sports bar, the Goose and Duck; more an amusement park than a drinking establishment. Somewhat like a Timezone for alcoholics, the G&D seemed like an appropriate gathering point for the night ahead. I was responsible for sending out the ‘facebook’ event invite which stated Goose & Duck for a bite and beers followed by ‘Block 8 Beach Party’. Olly, Kristen and I left home at 8, in order to arrive fashionable a-little-late at the Goose & Duck. Which we did, after arriving at the ‘old’ Goose & Duck’ location, wandering around like lost pups and then hailing another cab when we realized the ‘new’ Goose & Duck location was somewhere completely different. Ok, take two! Many of the more astute invitees were completely on top of this and, with seasoned ex-pat local knowledge, arrived at the correct location with just a single cab ride. But many others also did the two-cab-scenic-tour-stop-off before sheepishly arriving to join the rest of the party.

The night was a joint party for both Olly and our new Aussie friend, Laura, a fellow Taurean whose birthday was just around the corner. A clever move, not only because she’s a great girl, but this automatically increased the invite list by 1200%. It was good to see the girls from the BOCOG office actually outside the BOCOG office. Chang Shan, Jane, Tao and Echo arrived laden with gifts and cheesecake (one of Olly’s faves). Once the cake was cut and devoured and the last pints put away it was on to the second leg of the evening, Block 8.

I booked a ‘cabana’ at the Beach… a luxurious cushioned tent with room for 12 while the remainder mingled barefoot in the sand. This place is somewhat surreal when you consider the beach is actually on a rooftop, and although being in the centre of Beijing, creates an amazing atmosphere of late night Ibiza, complete with DJs, bikini clad dancing girls and free flowing champagne and Grey Goose Vodka!

With the name Block 8 scrawled in my mental black book, the beach sadly came to a close, ending amid a cacophony of block-rocking-beats and a swirling menagerie of laughing faces…and an ocean of empty champagne and vodka bottles.

On to Bar Blu, a 15 minute (single) cab ride away, and although it entertains a slightly less beautiful crowd, it’s as good a place as any considering our condition. This place has the added bonus of a kebab shop on the ground floor as you exit. And so, with the sun climbing up over the horizon, a kebab in hand, shooing away two very nice Chinese gay boys who wanted to ‘help’ our birthday boy get home, and with just enough coherence to hail a taxi, we left. But not before Olly did a most memorable and impressive stunt man routine. Before a ready made live audience, he plonked himself on a table in the street outside, collapsing it like a house of cards! Greatly appreciated by the crowd and I laughed so hard I nearly dislocated something.

By the time Sunday came around I was considering a day of pure nothing on the sofa, momentarily forgetting brunch at the Intercontinental Hotel. The Laura and Olly birthday weekend continued with a magnificent buffet of, well, everything. Fine food, free-flowing Veuve Clicquot and a made-to-order Martini bar, meant the festival was far from over. Pacing ourselves like true professionals, we gorged our way through a four-hour feast of delectable gastronomical delights and left completely sated and exhausted.

Pushing the food and drink aside for a spell, we ventured down Liulichang for a cultural palette cleanser. This street is known throughout China and the world for its ancient books, calligraphy, paintings, rubbings and ink stones. We meandered and browsed and some paintings and other trinkets were purchased. Then, with his innate ability to spot a self-promotion opportunity from a hundred and fifty metres, our man Olly lunged in front of a TV camera, pushing aside the presenter, screaming "Can I be on Chinese TV?" Before you could say Brian Henderson, Olly was reporting, mic in hand, from downtown Liulichang. He waxed lyrical about the joys and hidden secrets of this famous street, having had a good 45 minutes to familiarise himself with the surrounds. I tell ya, this kid is a natural. The Chinese media have gobbled him up, paying homage to this exotic English enigma, who has now been captured on tape three times in as many weeks. Watch for him next season in ITV's "Getaway UK: From Bury to Wakefield". TV Gold!

With Olly's travelogue in the can, we regained our senses and headed to HouHai to reclaim ex-pat status atop another roof clinking countless bottles of Corona and toasting everything from love and peace to the French, the Brits, the Aussies and the Venezuelans!

Coronas gave way to food and No Names restaurant located deep in the hutongs was the perfect place. No, I’m afraid no schnitzel combos here, but some remarkably good local fare. The Festival of Olly ended on a balmy, spring evening, with hundreds of locals mingling with the tourists as we wandered back along the lake, said our goodbyes and called it a weekend.

Let's Go To Bed

There are 18 million stories in this city; these are just some of them.

Mr. OK came this week to repair our showers and to see what could be done about our lack of hot flowing water. The whole experience played out like some vaudeville routine or a Chinese version of the Marx Brothers with Mr. OK, our diminutive and hyperactive handyman, in the starring role. He ran, literally, from bathroom to bathroom, from Kristen’s to Olly’s to mine with nothing more than a small monkey wrench, adjusting the shower heads and continually repeating his professional mantra (and I believe, the only English word he knew), “OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK”! He seemed pleased with his level of craftsmanship as he made illusory adjustments to the water flow. Poor guy, he seemed so excited that I didn’t have the heart to tell him the water flow had not changed at all. Well, actually I did, but he couldn’t understand a word so I just nodded. I’m now resigned to the fact that for the next 5 months I will have a shower that sputters and spits and takes five minutes to produce a drizzling of hot water. And so Mr. OK waves goodbye, totally bemused at how these wanton westerners can complain about such trivialities, and well he might, as someone who probably has to fetch his own water each morning in a bucket from a well.

Be careful what you ask for…or point at. I learned this particular lesson at a local restaurant this week, as I indicated that I would like “this one, please”. Perhaps the concerned look of the waitress was a telltale sign, but it didn’t really register. Soon after, a hot, steaming plate of boiled fat was laid before me (think the line of oily fat that runs down the side of your lamb chop and imagine a kilo of it piled on a plate). One piece was definitely more than enough and suffice to say, I filled up on the Chinese greens and rice.

Ain’t it funny how we talk to people who do not speak or understand our language. Well, yes and no. Yes if you’re me and no if you’re Oliver. I must admit, I love the confidence Olly exudes each time he chats to the locals here. He could be walking down the high street in Putney or sitting in his local…approaches the young Chinese waitress, “Alright, luv? How’s it going? Any chance of a few pints and some hot grub?” Meanwhile the Jury way is a little more standard, but by no means any more successful. I simply repeat myself, getting progressively louder each time I’m not understood. “We would like some food and beer…FOOD and BEER, FOOOOOOD and BEEEEEEER! Um…Tsing Tao, Burger? Xie Xie.”

After six weeks in any foreign city one likes to think of oneself as a semi-local. But every now and then something brings you squarely back to tourist status. We hailed a cab the other night in the Houhai district after eating in a great little hideaway restaurant. We nonchalantly showed the driver the address of ‘Bed’ (a cool little bar nestled among the hutongs). But something about this address sent him off into an animated Mandarin rant that had us more than a little bemused. “Yeah, that’s right, tiger” said Olly, “that’d be grand, fella. Away you go”. Meanwhile I am repeating the Mandarin for ‘bed’, “Chwang fang, Chwang fang!” getting progressively louder knowing this is the only real way he’d understand our destination. He ranted, we implored, and after a few more minutes of negotiations, he shook his head, put the taxi in gear and we were off! We drove down the street for 100 metres before swinging a u-turn, drove 100 metres back and came to a sudden halt. We looked at each other, we looked at our driver. He pointed to the small sign pointing down an alleyway… “Narr, Narr!”. Yes, he was right, we were the crazy westerners too lazy to cross the street.

On Saturday morning the first visit from our new house cleaner almost clashed with a very late Friday night. After returning home at 5am, the cleaner’s arrival a few hours later went totally unnoticed as I slept right through the doorbell. Fortunately Kristen was semi-conscious and managed to let her in. When I finally woke and walked into the hallway, my initial reaction was that our place had been ransacked by a marauding pack of Beijing cat burglars. There was stuff everywhere, strewn down the hallway, puddles of water, pieces of rag and a pair of shoes that had no business being inside our door. Then I remembered it was house cleaner day and the penny dropped. Sure enough she was busying herself in Olly’s bathroom, an enormous challenge and a brave place to start. I was out of my bedroom relatively early (11am) when you consider both Olly and Kristen each managed to hit the snooze button till around four in the afternoon. With an enormous hangover I nestled on the couch and moaned while our dutiful new house cleaner went vigorously about her job in the most unorthodox, hotchpotch fashion I’ve ever witnessed. From room to room she hopped like a startled rabbit. Polishing this, scrubbing that, back to the bathroom, move the couch (sorry, I’ll get up), back to the kitchen, and so it went. At one stage she passed me four times as I ambled to the bathroom. Perhaps a little unfairly, my early diagnosis was this woman is a fruitcake and has no idea what she is doing. After intermittently eating, walking outside and snoozing, I was awoken by the cleaner charading she was finished and it was time to pay. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was in the real world. The apartment was sparkling. Amazingly spotless! Like a battalion of rampant domestic help had staged an all-day cleaning romp. While you may think seven and a half hours of cleaning is excessive, and our place might be a pig-sty, it’s just not true. She simply didn’t rest until it was to her satisfaction. I felt somewhat embarrassed when she wrote down the amount to be paid. 75 yuan (less that $12). She wrote down the numbers 17, 24 and 31, which I decoded to mean she’d come back every Saturday. I paid her (plus a healthy tip) and waved goodbye until next week.

Walk this way...

I spent most of Saturday at Wukesong Stadium, watching a Basketball Test Event. Nobody likes working weekends, but if you gotta, then this was ok. As the day wound down, and I began daydreaming of a long overdue Sunday morning sleep in, I was asked if I could pop in to the Marathon event on Sunday morning, not to take part you understand, but just for ten or fifteen minutes to watch the start. Um, sure, why not.

And so my Sunday morning began. My planned itinerary seemed straight forward enough: Rise at 6am, leave by 6.20 and arrive at the race start, Tiananmen Square by 7am and watch the 30 minute lead-in to the gun. But TIC (this is China)...

I arrived on cue, but due to strict security I'm dumped by my cab driver a good kilometre from where I need to be. I set off for the race start, but at every turn I am turned around and forced to re-turn. One young policeman would let me up some stairs only for a fellow teeny-bop cop to turn me away. Although they were helpful in pointing out where I needed to go (the big square over there) they were less forthcoming with an actual strategy of “how” to actually get there.

"This way?" I enquired. Lots of nodding and more pointing led me to believe that I was on course; walk outside this barricade 250 metres until you get to the end and then cross the road. I do this. Get to the other end only to be told (or ushered) in the direction from whence I’d come. “That way? I said. “I've just come from there.” Oh, alright then, back we go. Walk 200 metres that way, turn and walk 200 metres back. As the minutes ticked by I was suddenly jolted by a panicky and perturbed looking German photographer. “Mein Got! Vair ist unt schtartink line?” His sweaty, red and forlorn face spelled disaster; his desperation contagious. Soon the walking had turned to running. Both of us now in our own mini marathon, the Main Event only minutes from a start. Hans would have much explaining to do back at Das Spiegel if he didn't file his pictures on time!

But the maze of barricades and barrage of baby-faced policemen thwarted our every move. “Over here Hans!”. Damn, no entry.
“Ya, ya!! Ziss vay, ziss vay!”

We ran and ran like a couple of oversized Haile Gebrsellasies, darting across roads and hurdling barricades. Somewhere off I heard the theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’. We commandeered a passing golf cart that whisked us to the start line just in time to hear the starter's pistol. Hans ran to the line of spectators like a frothing, rabid Doberman, stucked his lens under someone’s armpit and snapped his little heart out. I wandered over to the VIP buffet, sat down for a cold coffee and a dry croissant.
This is the Olympics, and it’s not the winning but ‘taking part’ that counts. There was nothing left to do but say Auf Wiedersehen to Hans and head home. As I wandered slowly off under the watchful eye of Mao, across the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square, a few sprinkles of rain cooled my overheated head. Momentarily turning my face towards the sky, I took a deep breath, pulled out my camera and snapped a couple of pictures of my own. But this was not a passing shower, and without warning a savage squalling rain storm hit. I was running like a lone Tibetan freedom fighter caught by surprise in a nightmarish hell. I made my way to the road, and began waving like a saturated psychopath, star-jumping between the sheets of rain, playing chicken with every vehicle that remotely resembled a cab.

“No!” said a policeman (what is it with these guys)

“No what?” my face implied.

“No Taxi here!” I saw in his eyes.

“You’re telling me, mate!”

He was telling me to move on and that I was not allowed to hail a cab at this particular area of the Square, no matter how bad the rain was. He pointed the way and after walking 150 metres in the rain I was met by an equally cherubic policeman who politely told me...“No!”

I thought to myself ‘if he points back the way I've just come I'm gonna spank him and get myself arrested’. Fortunately for both of us he urged me further along the Square, so I kept going. I was a walking dish mop. With foggy glasses I trudged on. Rain running down my collar, down my back and legs. My jeans and shoes now soaked. Not a vacant taxi in sight and no legal place to hail one. Every time I half-heartedly put my arm out to flag an already engaged cab, the Square’s ubiquitous policemen appeared like mini-Mao Tse-tungs to tell me “No!”. At least the steady stream of water running down the bridge of my nose and into my mouth kept my thirst at bey.

And so I headed away from Tiananmen Square and Chairman Mao and the cab-nazis. I had a plan; a plan to take the back streets and avoid the growing crowd of sodden, sloshy cab-hailers...and my plan paid off. I spotted a vacant taxi. I not so much hailed it as pounced on it, Steve Irwin-style, stretched across the bonnet and holding on for dear life, knowing if I let go it was surely death! Within barely an hour and fifteen minutes from the first specks of rain I was warm and drying off in the back of “my” taxi. My marathon was over and I headed home.

Love me, love my feet

It’s where foot fetishists go to die. It is a sunken oasis beneath the grey and miasmic vastness that inundates all senses. An exquisite and priceless 90 minute experience for a paltry 25 dollars, introducing you to erogenous zones you never knew you had. Welcome to Oriental Taipan and their Beijing-famous foot massage.

The menu seems slightly misleading when, after donning de rigeur baggy, drawstring pants, the small, warm and remarkably strong hands of the masseuse begin to work your neck and shoulders while your feet soak in a hot ginseng pail. Soon after, and with all the strength of a floppy rag doll you ease into an oversized chair, fully reclined and relaxed.

What follows is a sensual lovemaking experience one has to experience to believe. With all the care of a brooding mother, the masseuse eases every aching minute of the long, endless day from your feet. One foot and then the other; never discriminating between the two, like a nurse caring for twins. Her thumbs and fingers knead deep into one foot and then the other. A lotion is applied and each silky foot is massaged with more attention than one would believe possible. Each toe is treated like a king among his minions. But again, each digit is his own master, and like the same loving mum caring for quintuplets, each receives equal love and thoughtfulness.

It goes on and on. Like a daydream that puts you in the most joyous place on earth before Morpheus sweeps you away and clouds fill your eyes and the dimly lit room fades to black. A little pleasant pain brings you back to the living, but as this beautiful maiden, in her clean white traditional Chinese uniform kneels before you, she compassionately cares for your feet as if each were a brave, wounded soldier.

The minutes keep ticking by, almost to the point of embarrassment. “Please, that’s enough. You’ve done more than is necessary”. But if a ‘foot massage’ starts with your neck and shoulders it seems perfectly acceptable that it would finish with a relieving and concentrated effort towards ones thighs. And if you’re back to almost lucid by this point, it may be necessary to chant over and over ‘Margaret Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher…’ as she works her way over every muscle and sinew to the very top of your legs, dangerously close to breaking the spell.

A playful slapping of sorts, down both legs to your baby feet, brings you back to earth and reminds you that what you’ve paid for is gratification of the lower limbs only, and anything else would seem truly tasteless. The ninety minutes have ticked by like days and are complete. So too is this utterly hedonistic and serene experience. Each aching minute of your endless, painful day, swept away and forgotten.

"I finish, thank you".

"Ber bung, ber bung, xie xie"

Satisfaction never in doubt.

Shocking Beijing

Mosquitoes in 7 degrees Celsius? I know. Actually I don't. How is it I can get eaten alive in a clime more suitable to huskies than blood suckers? I know what you're thinking, and no, they're not bed bugs (though this hotel is sure to have some) 'cause I actually squashed one of the little suckers the other night. Wait...I think I hear another one now...

Beijing. City of Shocks. Electric shocks! The atmosphere is so dry that in addition to my chapped, cracked and peeling lips, everything you touch sparks a static electric shock. Sure, the laptop button and the aluminium window sill, but what about the remote control, my toothbrush and the cushion on the sofa. Ouch! This is ridiculous. I am brimming with electrical charge. On a 'positive' note, simple chores like washing clothes become a breeze in this weather. You simply hang your wet washing on the line and by the time you reach the end, you can go back to the start and begin unpegging. Voila!

As we prepare to move to new digs, I realize how much I will miss my time here at the fabulous (did you get that sarcasm) Century Towers. I will especially miss the cleaners; like they've missed me for the past 3 weeks. It is baffling. I hang a sign on my door that says “Please Clean My Room”, but I'm sure the local cleaners look at these strange English words, shrug, and move on. In short, if you want your room cleaned one must go down to reception where precisely NOBODY speaks English (who can blame them) and act out a weird game of charades. Imagine your phrase is “filthy pig sty”; Ok, 3 words, first word, two syllables... oh forget it, I'll just leave all my rubbish outside my door like everyone else. It makes me feel like a local, although I'm still refusing to spit in the lobby and smoke in the elevator.

The fact that I'm blogging about static, mozzies and room service may lead you to believe that I've not had a chance to see much of Beijing. The truth is... I've not had a chance to see much of Beijing. Testament to this is my new collection of 27 DVDs I bought on the street (77c each). I've watched one. Don't get me wrong, I'm loving my time here but if you cut out the time I've spent in the office, in taxis getting to and from the office and time spent working from the filthy pig sty, I've had enough time to watch one whole DVD. It was good.

Ok, did I mention the bad TV? The satellite provides three semi-watchable channels; Star World, HBO and CNN and 89 channels of Asian pop stars, soaps and propaganda. It makes me realize, no matter where you are in the world this medium is extremely overrated. Of some concern is a worsening, troubling condition, known as “Obamaclintonitis”. I have all the tell-tale signs. I'm now certain CNN is an acronym for Chronic News Neurosis and the prognosis is not good.

But it's not all work and no play. Well, actually, it kinda is. The more important tasks include overseeing training, organizing meetings with people whose English is only moderately better than my Mandarin, being present at test events and putting out more fires than the South Australian fire department during a hot spell. B-Teamer, Olly recently presided over a Shooting Test Event which from all accounts drove him to breaking point. Chinglish scripts, poorly organized rehearsals and the non-stop circus type environment seemed more that one person should physically bear. But on a positive note, it was the Shooting event, and if pushed to the point of no return, at least he didn’t have far to look for a gun. He survived the ordeal and has now moved on to Synchronised Swimming. I smell trouble.

This blog was almost named Beijing Taxi, as my time in Beijing has been dominated by the endless hours of cab-sitting. Not riding, driving or motoring...just sitting. Yesterday, we established a new cab-to-work record with an impressive 2 hours 20 minutes for the 20 km trip. So much of what I've seen of this amazing city has been from the rear window of any one of the 60,000 eighties-style Hyundai cabs.

I'm static, and also ecstatic as this week we signed the lease on our new apartment. An amazing place, conveying the true nature and history of this amazing city; ‘Upper East Side’ is where all ugly westerners should make a bee line for when planning on more than a jaunt in Beijing-town. Ok, so I bypassed the hutongs in the old part of town, but a guy needs a little luxury, and I hear the mosquitoes and static electricity are almost non-existent there, so it's a win-win.

First Week

The first week in Beijing has been interesting if not a little unsettling. Anytime you find yourself plonked in a unusual part of the world, you need to allow for some significant alterations to your day to day reality. Simple, basic things like a new bed. The king-sized bed in my room at the Century Towers in the Chaoyang District of Beijing is great, if not a little hard. This would explain my grazed knees and elbows after a fitful first night of tossing and turning. This was not helped by an air-conditioning unit that has two settings; 42 degrees and off. I opted for 'off' and felt almost Scandinavian with a healthy norwester blowing through the open balcony window.

But I awoke to clear blue skies, something I'd been led to believe did not exist in Beijing. In fact, the first 48 hours could be classified as 'beautiful'. Little did I know that my first day and a half in Beijing would be the only 'free' time I would get in the next 9 days. And within 48 hours of my arrival the rains came and the temperature dropped dramatically. I know it was cold as I usually guage how chilly it is by the number of times I say 'fuck' between my morning shower and getting dressed. So while the sun was out and before I started each day with a few dozen expletives, together with fellow "B-Team" members, Olly and Kristen, I set off to explore my strange new world.

After a wander around the lakes in the Shichahai district (above), and the mandatory stop-off in a bar to watch a Socceroos match (against China) we weaved our way through Jingshan Park (great views of this mega-metropolis) to Tiannamen Square. Each day, at sunrise and sunset, a flag ceremony is performed by Chinese soldiers in a ritual that seems to attract the attention of Beijing locals more than the tourists. After milling around among the increasing number of eager-beaver locals, a regiment of soldiers left the main building and stomped their way with immaculate precision to the flag pole, only momentarily disrupted by a sole Tibetan, waving a small flag in protest. He was quickly set upon by six soldiers. In true foreign correspondent style I whipped out my camera, but then thought better of it, considering my life a tad more important than a possible Press Photo of the Year award. Poor chap, probably dead now.

By the next afternoon we found ourselves at BOCOG headquarters, where we were to remain in solitary confinement for the next week, getting our collective heads around our plan to succesfully stage an Olympic Games. 132 days and counting.

I'll spare you the work detail, suffice to say we managed to find wee windows of opportunity to eat and sleep. Our second evening was spent dining in a traditional Spanish Tapas restaurant, called Mare. Our hosts were Kristen's cousin and ex-pat Beijinger, Tom and his lovely fiance, Ivy. Tom, who has been part of Beijing in one way or another for the past decade, has proven invaluable with his knowledge of the city and his incredibly fluent and 'shooshy' Mandarin.

Other notable vignettes of Beijing in this somewhat turbulent first week:

• Couples dancing on a dimly lit footpath near Worker's Stadium, a group of fifty or so over 50's foxtrotting and waltzing their hearts out to a dodgy mini PA in the dark
• The largest pizza I've ever seen (it was a 'medium') at the Kro's Nest, to farewell a mate, Big Al, as he sets of to do 2,364 countries in a few weeks as part of the Olympic Torch Relay
• Breakfast at Shin Kong Place department store (complete with a reasonably good coffee) Searching for an apartment with a six-person strong entourage (very rock n' roll)
• Being disgusted at how Starbuck's and KFC are housed amid the traditional Beijing architecture, and;
• Counting the hours spent peering out of the rear window of a dozen taxi cabs (18.5 hours)

One of the most notable aspects of life here is the incredible amount of traffic. Not surprising when you tally up a population close to 18 million. The cars seem to be in a constant state of suspended animation. Crawling and beeping. Beeping and crawling. A Formula 1 race at 15kph. A journey that would take 20 minutes in most cities is chewing up a good hour and a half in Beijing. The monotony broken by laptop DVDs in the back seat.

Yesterday I woke to unbelievable smog. The cab to work seemed to be driving through one enormous storm cloud, the buildings of Beijing passed by eerily popping out of the gloom like gigantic, silent monsters. The acrid smog, burning the back of my throat, was utterly abysmal; the worst I have ever seen. Today it was worse.

With the endless chinglish, amusing to say the least, and unnervingly high doses of static electricty (you get a shock touching just about anything) Beijing is slowly starting to feel normal.

But it's the little things you miss, like toilet paper that tears along the perforation! Grrrr...

Mandarin

One of the first things you notice arriving in a strange, new city is the little things. Odd looking signs, different cars, different people, their clothes and the language that sounds so...foreign. Attempting to get by on the pocketbook Mandarin I'm travelling with is not really going to cut it. As bad as I am with languages I'm determined to expand my vocabulary beyond hello, goodbye, thank you and please. Maybe I've bitten off more than I can chew.

Mandarin sounds completely alien. For me, the most distinguishing feature of Mandarin is the "shooshy" sound to everything. So before you even attempt to speak, it's a good idea to work up a healthy mouthful of saliva. "Sho you should shtart shounding like a shlightly intoxshicated shailor". To compliment the sound (noise) that's emitted one also needs to conjure some deep, animalistic qualities, not unlike a low, growling feline. Finally, add a rollercoaster range of octaves adding tones that suggest shock, contemplation, excitement and doubt and...that's it!

Put it all together, and if you appear to be speaking like a drunken, bemused, schizophrenic tomcat...you're doing it right!

May-gwan-she!