For the period from 1929 through 1943, Montparnasse's Felipe Beaulieu was Paris' undisputed bare-knuckle boxing champion. Standing a diminutive five foot one, what the heavily-moustachioed Beaulieu lacked in stature, he made up for with blistering speed and an often ill-directed temper, exacerbated by a sizzling case of syphilis.
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As dawn's first light stroked a sepia outline to London's silhouette, for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself the slightest of smiles. As far as leads went it was a long shot but in a case like this where everything else had come up cold, a long shot was all I had.
I jumped into my car — a 1996 Ford Facial with a unhealthy thirst for oil — and headed downtown for HQ. I like to drive, it gives me time to think.
For the purist, the beautiful game is not something to be tinkered with, but for the rest of us, there's a world of football half-breeds out there and some of them are worth a closer look. With Euro 2016 on the horizon, now's a great time to cast an eye over some of the more unique variations, ranging from the violent and bloody to the sublimely beautiful.
It was during the frankly disastrous 1936 World Fair in Ljubljana that Cartwright P. Moocjheenie Senior (lover, philanthropist) unveiled the world's first city in miniature.
It was never his intention.
So elaborate was Moocjheenie's planning for a scheduled 1935 hit on the dastardly Baron Von Haystack, that the papier-mâché model he constructed to demonstrate his escape route to his MI6 superiors, grew from featuring Von Haystack's hilltop chateau, to take in the city of Gobblewurst including the local school, church, train station, bar, bakery and brothel.
It's a little known fact that the word Parkour comes from the French and translated literally means, "lover's escape".
The term was first coined back in 1927 after an episode in Paris' 7th Arrondissement - not far from the Hôtel des Invalides and a mere clove's throw from the southern banks of the Seine - where Cartwright P. Moocjheenie (lover, philanthropist) was caught four stories up, with his pants down.
I remember my first taste of Red Bull. It was the mid-nineties, I was hanging out in a bean-bag bar on Khao San Road in Bangkok watching a dodgy copy of Beverly Hills Cop III, with a bunch of happy Brits and a hippy Dane by the name of Munz. Munz had a massive head.
Munz offered me what looked like a medicine bottle with a little Thai script and a couple of bulls in profile, on the label.
The day is hellish. It's as muggy as Hades with a hulking swell and a vertical driving rain that's kept everyone off deck. I'm told - perhaps presumptuously - that we'll probably be barging the bilge through the thwacker before any respite from the starboard for neigh on six. Whatever the fuck that means. By my reckoning we're still making decent time though, pushing on through open water aided by a 45 knot sou-wester toward Sulat Sunda - the passage of sea that separates the Indonesian islands of Java and Sumatra.
To Part 1...
What could be gained from denying the world these pioneers of the pantry? And without them, who would ever think of combining pears with pine nuts and popping it on a pork chop?
This time around the victim was Jordan Fancy — the seething, pock-speckled English chef from Kitchen Death Wish. Kitchen Death Wish (or KDW to its devotees) pitted wannabe chefs against other in three rounds - an appetiser, a main and a dessert. Hardly the most original concept but producers in the genre were becoming complacent.
It was early when I got the call. Way too early. Half asleep I slapped the trilling menace from its cradle and it landed with a crack on the maple of my bedroom floor. I picked it up.
“Moocjheenie”, I croaked.
“It’s happened again”, an electronic voice, altered, robot-like, “you know the drill”, then a click to dial tone.
I blinked the crust from my eyes and focussed on my watch; 3.16 a.m. and 23 seconds. A force of habit. In my line of work the difference between success and failure is so often in the minutiae.
It was the third call I’d received this week. All at the same unearthly hour. The fifth since the start of the month. The world’s celebrity chefs were disappearing, one by one. Kidnapped without ransom. I’d have an email waiting for me in my in-box, of that I was sure. Another stanza in a sick sonnet from one twisted puppy.