HDR Alleyway

2011-11-22T09:05:00.000-08:00

HDR Lake

2011-11-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

The sky turned out a bit crappy on this one (sad face)

HDR Neuschwanstein

2011-11-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

The Ballad of Mr Mustache

2011-11-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

We entered the club with few concerns on our mind. There was no work to be done in the morning and the reggae music screamed 'relax'.

Taking a seat somewhere near the back our guide quickly disappeared, no doubt to involve himself in some shady dealings (a shade of green we presumed). We were now alone, startled fauns in a place where bearded white men sung Jamaican style and other patrons swayed melodically between the tables.

The night had evolved from drinking cheap wine to drinking even cheaper sangria, so our thirst was somewhat quenched for the time being. Yet we still fervently eyed the bar. I'd left all of my tie-dye clothing at home and a bottle is always nice to stave off the awkward fumbling that being out of place can bring.

We negotiated the bartender with broken English and moved to the next room, not prepared for what awaited us.

Our guide stood in a circle; ten to fifteen people all bouncing in tune to the dub of the day. He rolled a cigarette much longer than I had ever seen and passed it round; each member of the circle taking a drag then handing it to their left.

As curious as this ritual appeared my gaze was drawn by something else in the room; a man stood by himself in the corner. He wore blue jeans and the jacket equivalent of combats, hanging loosely open to reveal a black shirt with some faint etchings on the chest. Subtle style. In his hand he clutched a bottle which moved to his casual groin-thrust dancing, on his nose sat thick rimmed glasses slightly too retro to be cool and on his upper lip rested the most finally crafted mustache on the continent.

Immediately the challenge begun; who could dance with this man? Who had the balls to emulate his well timed thrust? Who could win his trust and affection?

We all tried. Numerous times. I even got close enough for a jovial smile yet the compliment was not returned (and if it was you wouldn't have seen it behind that hairy black behemoth). Instead of allowing us to groove with him he would simply run away to another part of the room. It was like shepherding a startled monkey.

Eventually, slightly distraught, we gave up hope and lost sight of the man. He must have wandered off. By this point my vision had split and the cigarette someone passed me tasted a bit funny, it was time for us to amble away.

We walked down the road. The night air was cool and refreshing on our skin, the only sounds were those of distant sirens and the gentle ding-ding of a tram. There was little talking, each too fucked for conversation and if it was not for this we might not have heard what approached us from behind.

All I can remember is the sound of hurried footsteps which quickly broke into a sprint. Then, with startling ferocity, my friend screamed in my ear; 'OH MY GOD IT'S MR MUSTACHE'. We all instinctively took off in pursuit of our earlier acquaintance.

Adrenaline coursed through my brain as our legs whipped forwards with drunken elegance whilst Mr Moustache glanced back in fear. We saw the tram, that's where he was headed, it was approaching the station some 100 metres away and it looked like Mr Moustache would make it. We screamed delirious laughter, sounds of the jungle which must still haunt him to this day. His mustache flapped across his face as he ran, his breathing was quiet, his eyes wide in terror.

Much to our disappointment he escaped, throwing himself onto the tram and seemingly out of nowhere producing a large black book with which to cover his face as my friend desperately tried to take his picture. The tram left without us. Too exhausted to chase any further, we whispered a quiet prayer for Mr Mustache and whatever strange corner of the universe he went home to.

Peter Nicholson

Slither Hither

HDR Alleyway

HDR Lake

HDR Neuschwanstein

The Ballad of Mr Mustache