I love romance, I hate relationships.

I love women, I hate wives.

I love solitude, I hate loneliness.

I love the idea of God, I just hate religion.

I love to travel, I hate tourism.

I love living in Romania, I hate the Romanians. I love the Britons, I hate living in Britain.

I love soldiers, whatever flag they’re under, I hate wars, whatever noble purpose they’re fought for.

I love cops, I hate the police.

I love Gipsies, I hate Romanians who act Gipsy. And I hate even more the Romanians who act Gipsy but get irritated when the western media calls Gipsies Romanians.

I love the Yanks, I can’t stand the USA.

I love democracy, I hate politicians. All of them.

I love to report, I hate to rat.

I love Moldova. I hate Moldovans who try to camouflage their accent. I love their accent.

I love fire arms, but I’d never shoot them at something that lives.

I love uniforms, I hate uniformity.

I love to cook more than I like to eat.

I love rock music, I just hate Bon Jovi and his kind.

I love to learn more than I like to teach.

I love to take off as much as I like to land.

I love to take the clothes off a girl as much as I like to land the girl herself.

I love to kiss, I hate to kiss up.

I love to talk, I hate to chatter.

I love people who listen to reason, I hate people who obey sheer authority.

I’d love to make each and everyone the boss for one day, so I’ll know what kind of people they really are.

I love to find humour, especially in a tragedy.

I love the sea, I hate the seaside, the beach and industrial tourism.

I love to play my guitar, I only hate not having an amp.

I like to live, but I like to survive even more, especially against all odd.

I’d hate to live whatever the cost.

That’s ethanol, or ethylic alcohol, for all you non-nerds out there. The stuff that hangovers are made of. Guess what I am about to do today…

Today I plan to get drunk. Like I’ve not done in a while. You can find me at the North Cote Festival, in Battersea, listening to jazz and getting pissed. I don’t care about Belfast today, I don’t care how stupid most of the people in all of the newsrooms in all this stinking world are, I don’t care that it’s about to rain in London (what a surprise). I will erase my memory today, do don’t try and remind me that you even exist. Please.

I don’t want to hear police sirens today, I’m sick of them. And ambulances that rush to give someone an aspirin. And if a postman comes my way, he’s toast. I refuse to speak today to anyone that doesn’t have a perfect British accent and does not speak the official language of this country flawlessly.

I won’t call my bank today, I am sick and tired of trying to understand what the operator could be saying in an approximate English about the money in my account – and doing so at a safe distance, in Bangladesh.

I won’t order any junk food – I’ve had tons since I came to London. Chinese, Indian, Turkish, Italian and English – I am now the proud owner of an international and multicultural layer of fat. I will try to ignore the big smelly colourful shops that advertise their Punjabi, Sri Lanka, Polish, Russian and Lebanese cuisine.

I won’t pay any attention to the signs that prompt me where to look when I cross the street and to only do so when the obvious street light turns green. I will turn my back on the repair sites in the middle of the road surrounded by high visibility signs announcing “Works In Progress”, though no workers are on them. And if I see another London fireman wearing a “Be Safe – Be Sound!” T-shirt today, I’ll probably start a fire.

I won’t start the camera today. There’s plenty cameras running all the times in all the wrong places in London. And I’m just as sick of people coming over to me asking what am I shooting – I don’t go around asking cops who are they arresting, I don’t bug chefs to tell me what ingredients are they using, I don’t ask the postman what’s in the letters that he delivers, I don’t go up to bartenders and ask them whether they spit in my pint or not. So today I’ll take a break.

I don’t want to see any Romanians today. At least not the type that clean carpets or toilets for minimum wage, but tell the folks back home they’re some sort of managers in a posh company. Not those who eat “value pack beans” at 20p a can for a week just to save enough money to spend on the Gipsy manele band in a Romanian restaurant in London. Not those who save every single penny for 3 years and then blow it on a BMW. Not those who’ve seen only Wembley, Kingsbury, Colindale, Burnt Oak and Stratford and think they’ve seen London. And most of all not those who can’t ask at least what the time is in English.

So, unless you want to bring some joy to this day, don’t call me, please. Today’s exactly a year since I came to London. And I must say I don’t like it as much as I did on June the 19th 2008. I will binge drink and defy smoking bans, listen to jazz or to Russian music on my Ipod if there’s no one around to talk to. And by the time the day is over, I will try to figure out what to do for my next trick.

19.00 PM, Bucharest time (GMT plus 2). Tie, white shirt and a suit and a cameraman already eager to leave. Marriott. Big shiny glowy room filled with stuffy uptight charity people. Instructions: “It’s some big charity event. Worldwide. All of them: save the whales, feed the homeless, fight cancer, take the drugs off the streets, no means no, stop the war, end the abuse, equal rights for women, justice for Nepal, just say no. Some speeches, some awards, some interviews, mingle, socialise, have a drink, go home, file it in the morning.” What a bore! But who’s the youngest and the prettiest in the news room? Me. So I have to.

19.12 PM Blah, blah, blah, save, stop, help, aid, feed, cure… Wake me when it’s over. Microphone is on a tripod so I won’t have to hold it. Tied cameraman with chain so he won’t leave. Sunglasses will hide your closed eyes as you doze off. That’s a trick of the trade.

19.58 PM Applause. What? Who? Whatever… Is it over? Ah, awards time. Retrieve cameraman from lounge and have him shoot. Note to self: shorter chain next time.

20.02 PM Cameraman is happily shooting the final (and only) interview, with one foot outside the door. I am new to Bucharest, I have no life, I plan to stick around to practise my English. Yeah, save the whales, feed the children, cure AIDS… Done yet, sir? The tape’s only got 180 minutes.

20.18 PM Cameraman is well away and happy. Gang from Portugal surrounds me. Bacallao, Porto, Joao Abade, save this, cure that, cheers! Drinks are pouring, who cares about the food? Oh, you’re English? How nice! Cricket, property, migrants, the stock exchange, dreadful weather, rescue this, defend that – oh, those red devils from Liverpool! Peru? Yeah, too bad about those Inca, I love El Condor Pasa, dry in that Atacama Desert, do you still grow coca, got some on you now, save the rainforest, give the land back to the natives, have another Porto, salud!

22.00 PM Yes, maid, you can clean the table. Oh, we’re the last people here? OK, we can get a hint.

22.20 PM Irish Pub. Beer is tasteless, but it helps. Multilingual gang. Two guys are black and call each other “nigger”. Not much conversation besides that. Oh, yes, award for charity. Happy for you! So you’re from Mauritius? Parlez-vous Francais? Sauves les cachalots, nourrissez les clochards – pardon, les sans-abris – libérez Nelson Mandela!Oh, he’s free already? Well, one down, two more left to go, let’s drink to that! Santé!

01.21 AM Yeah, whatever, Romania is shit country! Yes, we love it that way! I’d like to come to your island! One more round on the guy over there! Only 30 and already award winner? Save cancer, feed the whales, stop the homeless, justice for drugs, take the women of our streets, just say yes! Charity stuff. No means what? One more round, boys and girls?

03.08 AM ‘S this you’ hotel? Looks like crap to me, but you look good. So you are from where? What islands are those? Angeline? Angela? Whatever. Turn off the lights, open the mini bar. Watch where you put that hand! Yeah, that’s how it opens… No, don’t stop now. That’a girl…

05.51 AM Keep the change, taxi dude. That’s fine, I live here. I’ll just puke in the bushes and go upstairs. No, you may not come. Yes, I mean it even when I’m drunk!

10.00 AM Hello, newsroom! Don’t ever send me to cover such charity bullshit again in my life! What a total bore! Hell of a way to make me sick! Hardly a story to tell…

I don’t know how many of you have ever bargained with a prostitute for her galant services, but let me assure you that I, for one, have done it a lot of times. And yes, on business assignments, since I’m brave enough to jump at a prime minister’s throat with a tough question, but I could never have the nerve to actually ask a certified sex worker how much she charges for a blow job. You know, for real business, not for the secret cameras…

Still, most prosties would know me by my first name by the time I did the last secret shoot, and I knew the prices well, but still tried to talk them down a bit, tried to squeeze my alleged beer buddies in for the same price and most of the times they would argue, say no, leave me hanging, but give me a good performance in front of the secret cameras. Which was all I ever wanted. And did so every time I had a story involving prostitutes.

Hello, handsome! What's your game?

But then I realised every editor in chief MUST, for at least one year in their lives, earn a living from prostitution. No, seriously, as a freelancer I often found myself in a similar set of circumstances as the ladies who squeeze a penny out of men in the most pleasant way possible (and in a lot more honest way than the average housewife does).

Take Belfast, for instance. They’re now chasing Romanians all over – the neo-Nazis I mean. And all my clients would like a piece of it, obviously, even those who aren’t necessarily my regular clients. And you have no idea how many wonderous spectacular things they dream of, what great deeds of fearless journalism they expect of me, how pleased they are to hear that I usually can do most of what they want.

But, alas, there be a catch… There is a price tag attached. Expressed in currency. Representing the monetary equivalent that I’ve decided to give to my trouble and strife, to my hours of research, to my endless phone calls trying to talk people into being interviewed or to allow me access to different places, to get a valuable piece of information on what’s happened and – more important – on what is about to happen. This is what I presume my time in not-so-friendly terrain is probably worth it, the long hours of waiting in the rain, the even longer hours of pre-editing the video footage, while most of the people in the news rooms have already gone home to rest, to spend some quality time with friends and familiy (that’s something we can never afford).

And when they hear of the price tag on all this, they take it personally. Some try to talk it down, others are utterly outraged of the idea of paying what I ask. So instead they try to “wing it” or to “spin it” with agencies, but almost always fail. They are happy to sacrifice editorial value for the sake of a couple of hundred pounds – probably the big boss will give them a nice pat on their backs for it. But that’s not the worst.

I may be expensive, but I'm worth every penny, big guy!

The worst is when the next big thing happens and they again come to me. And we go through the same thing again and again. They want, I want, they haggle, I don’t, they get upset and leave. And for some reason this situation looks very familiar to me. So much that I even start wondering: are they using secret cameras on me too?

So yes, I’d make it mandatory for editors in chief to spend a year earning a living from prostitution. Let them see how it’s like to bargain for your time and talents – if they have any. And I’ll be the first to go and, despite my natural instinct to be shy about these things, ask them for a blow job and a lesby show. And haggle.

PS: It’s 462 miles from where I live to Belfast. Dudes, I can’t possibly go and get and interview and send it over to you by the end of today unless I fly. The cheapest return ticket from Heathrow to Belfast is 188 pounds, a little less than my daily rate.

Hey, good evening, I’m filling in for Jerry Seinfeld tonight! Well, I’ve got to tell you the truth, I’m not just for tonight: this is Britain, his job’s been outsourced. (wink) You can tell by my jokes it was to the lowest bidder. What else would you expect from a Romanian? A man’s got to make a living. Would you rather have me cloning your cards instead? (grin) No, seriously. (bigger grin)

By the way, any more Romanians tonight in the audience? (pause) You know, ’cause I’m worried, I left my car open in the parking lot with 200 grand in the glove compartment… Just checking, I see nobody’s leaving the room, so there must be no more Romanians. Now you can really speak out what you really think of them. That will be 20 pounds for the research. (grin)

Don’t get me wrong, I love my people. It’s a good hard working people. Smart. Only the best part about Romanians is they can’t be taught political correctness. (amazed face) It’s impossible. I know this may amaze you, but we’re the most racist people on the planet: we hate the black, the Indians, the Chinese, the Russians, the Germans, we hate the overweight, we hate the gay, we hate the straight – the whole fuckin’ human race. And Romanians most of all! So we may be racist, but at least we’re indiscriminate. And we’re always right, so don’t contradict me! I put curse on you!

So we’re racist. Romanians are over 90 percent orthodox. Now, really, ho many black Orthodox Christians have you ever seen? Any black monks on Mount Athos? What does that tell you???
Imagine a black dude trying to make his way into the Orthodox clergy. Do you know how they scare children in Romania to go to bed? “Sleep, my son, or the black man will come and get you and eat you!”. Go tell the villagers in Dracula’s village raised to fear the black man that from now on their link with God will be father N’gumb Q’uusquwt M’bwugnu from Zimbabwe, bless his soul…

But they don’t do it with malice. It’s in their nature to be politically incorrect. The same way white men can’t jump, or black guys have a really big dick – you know, one each – or Chinese people are all Kung-Fu masters or all Native Americans are shamans. Or all British shop keepers are named Raj. See? It’s simple for us to just admit. If we offend a black guy, we can just go: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to be offensive, it’s just that (pause…) I’m Romanian… It’s like a hereditary condition. I got it from my ma’. (grin). See, not “Yo ma’, it’s “My ma’”… I know it pisses you off, but I’m Romanian, “you can’t touch this! taaaaaaaa-na-na-na!”

Anyone here from the Army? God bless you, we love the Army. Hell, when you’ve got a bunch of guys armed and trained to kill, what would you tell them, right? “Boo, we hate the army, we think you’re just fighting wars overseas for multinational corporations and not in the defense of your people?” I’d like to see the man stupid enough to do that. No, sir, I looooooooooove the army!

The US Army’s got one slogan I particularly like: Be all you can be. That sounds so generous, really. You’d obviously expect an army to encourage diversity: Be all you can be. They thrive on being different from one another, don’t they?? Be different! That’s an order! You must comply! Do as everyone else, be different! Everyone else is! You’re special, just like all of us!

If I were in the army and the sarge would order me “Drop and give me fifty!”, I’d be in a jam. I’d probably pay the man his 50, and only then I eventually would drop. From heart failure. That’s us, Romanians, we’re not used to paying. Not with our own money, at least. Really, how lame can you be as a Romanian paying with your own credit card? There’s so many English people who can’t spend in a lifetime at least only what’s on the HSBC account…

So in the Army you can be all you can be. I’ve been in Iraq and in Afghanistan a couple of times as a reporter. So in the Army you go in as a man and you can become things you never thought you had in you: spare ribs, calf, liver, brain. The works.

But Romanians do love the army. That’s a fact, in the polls, the military in Romania is second only to the Orthodox church in trust and popularity. And you’re calling the poor Arabs armed religious fundamentalists! You know, in a country like ours, where God and the uniform rule supreme, I wonder why do we even pretend to have a democracy. We’re a poor enough country! Why have 10 political parties and elections all the time? Why have a government and a parliament with 700 seats that cost millions? Let’s spend that money on candles and rifles! That’s what the people really love!

But you know us, Romanians, we hate ourselves so much we can’t even bear to stay in our own country. So we actually staged all this democracy sharade just to enter the EU and get to clean carpets in the UK for minimum wage.

OK, enough about Romanians. Ever been to any night clubs recently? Yes, in London, I mean. Did you notice that some of the clubs don’t allow single men to enter. It’s either single women of couples. Did you? Happened to you too?

So I’m thinking: first of all, it’s unfair to all the gay men. Lesbians can waltz in, have their way. Single women can come in, drink themselves silly. Single men can’t. OK, we understand the logic, we don’t want single men getting drunk, hitting on some other bloke’s date and starting a fight. But what about the poor gay couples? Can’t they come in?

OK, I’m a security guard and two gay men come to the entrance. What do I do? “Hey, boys, are you single men?” – “Oh, no, sir, we’re gay and we’re together!”. I should probably have to believe that, right? No straight male is so desperate as to pretend he’s gay so he can meet single women, right? I should believe them…

But I’m a security guard, do I just take their word for it? I let these two in, soon everyone will claim they’s gay. “Oh, let me in, hottie pants! I’m as queer as they come!” How could I make sure? Really, should I get a shrink to stay with me at the entrance and evaluate every man? Sit them on the couch and give them the works and after an hour get the result: “Hmmm. According to ze chart I hev dravn, you are only confused, not gay. Out you go now!”

Do I get them to make out just to prove it? Will making out just be enough? What if the management ask for irrefutable proof that they’re gay? A quickie by the entrance will suffice, manager, sir?

But this is really not about the gay. Look at the world, people! Us, men, the fighters, the builders, the masterminds, the darers and the adventurers – we can’t enter a club without being accompanied by a woman. I guess you know what’s next… Soon they won’t let us out of the house unless chaperoned by one! And we’re still picking on the Arabs!

Thank you, I’m also available for funerals and union meetings!

Good evening, everybody! Yes, I’m back, living proof that HM Immigration Service is just a waste of tax money. I’ll be using some explicit language tonight, so tell your children to pay attention, in case you need any of the words explained.

Guess what! I’ve some more news from Romania! First of all, they’ve re-branded my country for tourists with a new slogan: “The Land of Choice”, made to replace the old one, “Simply Surprising!”. I know, this is boring, but do you know what else they are about to do in that country? Dis-incriminate incest! Ain’t gonna be a crime no more! The MPs I’m told are actually very fond of the idea. Come to think of it, I never knew we had so many mother fuckers in Parliament! That’s the proof that was missing, right? Just have a good look at them: many look as though their dad’s also their brother! Why am I not surprised?

Well, as soon as the incest bill is passed, there will be a whole new meaning to the phrase: “Sister, your ass looks bitching!” It will be like a socially acceptable compliment. You know, this new idea of legalising sex between relatives also gives a new perspective in “family entertainment”… “Kids, we’re going over to granny’s, you just behave, play nice, use a condom and a lot of foreplay!”

Can you imagine the kind of pillow talk those MP blokes must be used to? “Babe, you were so hot, I’d like you to meet my parents! But, hey, you know them already, they’re yours too!”. Or picture this family scene: “Hey, mom, what’s with you all dressed up tonight?” – “O, hun, I got a hot date with cousin George, from the country… Don’t wait up! He bring you smoked pork knuckles, your favourite…” That’s just fucked up, I’ll tell you.

Its no surprise what they do in Parliament now, after watching Hollywood movies where people greet each other “Waddup, ma mothafucka??”. Perhaps because Romanians love the Yanks so much. That’s also fact, of all the European nations, Romanians love the Americans the most. Whatever the Yanks say, we do. They want to bomb Serbia? Come over, use our airports, it’ll save you some gas! Yanks say, we do. “Hey, we’re gonna bomb Afghanistan, wanna join us?” – “Hell, why not?” – “How about Iraq?” – “Yeah, sure, fuck those ragheads!” “Wanna bomb Romania??” – “Don’t bother, we’ll do that for you, we still got shitloads of ammo just lying around left from the Cold War!” They say “Jump!”, we say “On whom?”

You know what they should do? Make incest compulsory! For those in the government, I mean. ‘Cause if they don’t go and fuck their own mothers, we’ll be so happy to do it for them! If the Romanian people put up with this, I’m off to a normal country, like North Korea!

But they still would not legalise pot. You know, marijuana, Mary Jane, skunk, weed, grass, cannabis – it may go by many names. You can’t smoke that, it’s against the law! Hit on you mom instead, it’s legal!

Well, we’re friends with the Yanks and if they say drugs are bad, we say the same. Do you know when the Yanks realized drugs were a problem? During the Vietnam war. Drug addictions were at their highest – pardon my choice of words – within the ranks dispatched to the Nam. So the military immediately took drastic action to reduce and eliminate the drugs. I’d have eliminated the war altogether, but hell, who am I? See, it was a real problem when the soldiers that were killing civilians by the millions were too high on drugs to do their job. Who was gonna do the killing for them? You don’t aim well, some might escape. So it’s perhaps thanks to marijuana that we still have some Vietnamese at all today. Soldiers on drugs don’t take orders very well: “Private! Drop and give me 50!” – “Yeah, sarge, dude, cool hat, man! Here, have a drag!” – “Enemy infantry at 12 o’ clock! Base of fire!” – “Sure, dude, whatever…” – “Fire your rifles! Kill them!” – “Chill, dude, you’s ruining the good vibes!” Of course the Yanks want the weed banned…

One more thing they won’t legalize in Romania is gay marriages. Not like I care very much about them, but just consider the logic: “Hey, John, you can marry your sister, but not your brother! I am sorry, that’s against the law!”

So maybe it’s time to think opportunity in adversity…

If you want so smoke some shit, ask a cop for a light for your joint, take a hike to Amsterdam, fry your brains, who cares? Got the hots for your sister? Get her to come to Romania. Absynth? Czech Republic is the place for you. Wanna join the Al Queda? We all know where London is… Go, my son, be a martyr, your beloved widow sister is going to smoke one for ya…

Speaking of the Balkans, do you know they tried to enforce a smoking ban in Serbia too? But they failed miserably. Wanna know why? Well, apparently – and that’s for real – the Serbian word for “to smoke” is also used to describe “to give oral sex” – pušiti. “Ti pušiš sigaretu” – “You smoke a cigarette” – “Ti pušiš kurac” – “You give me a blow job”. Who’d want to walk into a hotel where signs are warning: “Blowjobs are illegal in these premises?” I know there’s more than one meaning to this word, but are you willing to take that chance? Neither are the Serbs… See, these guys sure know how to live…

I guess every country has it’s own moral boundaries. In Romania – sick as it is – you can romance your own sister, but they’ll also let you smoke inside. In the UK, they won’t let you smoke inside but, if you romance your sister, they won’t release your name to the media. See? Problem solved! We’ll deal with it like grow-ups: pretend it never happened!

You tell me what’s more fucked up! What would you rather have? A smoking ban or a licence to fuck anything on two legs? Given the choice, I’m afraid you’re gonna kiss all your migrants goodbye pretty soon. You know where they’ll be! In a land of their choice…

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what can I say? I am guilty! Please, there is no need to be lenient, I deserve what’s coming my way. And the fun was totally worth it. But, ladies of the jury, take it from a sex predator: I may be guilty, but still I was even more innocent than her. She was my Lolita. Lo-lee-tah… My sin, Your Honour.

I’ve done a couple of things in my lifetime, but none as well and as often as looking for love in all the wrong places. Only that high-school summer camp in Ciric, in 2001, was not one of them. I was there on a business assignment. They were teenage wannabe journalists and I was there to teach them the ABC’s of the trade. The newsroom, the editor-in-chief, the general producer, my fellow reporters and a world of viewers were all counting on me to pass knowledge, not body fluids.

But as it happened, I was left behind without a ride home. And dark fell the night upon us, though it was summer. I was only 23, Your Honour, and the city was far to walk to, stray dogs have always been my nightmare. I’m not afraid of death any more than the next coward, but saying goodbye to this illusive world just to appease the hunger of Butch the Pitbull and his pack of hungry beasts was still below my worst expectations. So around I hung, drinking and singing with some other media personnel and teenage students ’til midnight.

That's me at 23, a real lady magnet. Or stray dogs, whatever came first.

I hadn’t heeded much attention to her. She was a high-school kid and a friend of mine (from PRO TV) was already flirting his way into her graces. Why even care about that when the main concern was getting a ride back home, for the next day bore the burden of an early start? That’s something reporters of all extractions loathe wholeheartedly, by the way.

But before I knew it, everyone had fled, vanished, teleported or dug a hole in the ground, for there I found myself, alone in the scorching hot summer night, in my shaggy blue jeans, with my sunburned complexion and skinny physique, alone with this tall dark-haired 16 year old nymph in an almost transparent T-shirt and pink lady-bird ribbons in her hair – this fragile creature that hid within her inconspicuously looking sunshiny girly self a world of intense words and fiery passions – and who deigned to ask what my name was.

She was a poet, too, your honour, and not before long she’d be sharing her works with me. I charmed her without even knowing: as soon as she’d recite one of hers, I’d strike back with something borrowed from a poet friend of mine – Iulian Tănase. For hours on end, until the night was young no more. But young and foolish was I, thinking despite the odds that the night was to end soon, with an exchange of professional handshakes, visit cards and numbers none would ever call, on the doorstep of her room. She was 16, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and I was 23, I was meant to be a tutor, a teacher, a mentor – not a lover, that least of all.

But inside she called me, as the heat at midnight was turning into the chilling light just before sunrise, and so I reluctantly entered a room with four bunks, on which another three teenage girls were sleeping furiously, just like the colourless green ideas from Uni. I stepped into the upper bunk alongside with her, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. I should have run, I should have thrown myself at the mercy of the stray dogs, I should have drunk myself senseless and be given a free ride to town in an ambulance, rather than to do what I did… But I did it… Your Honour, ladies of the jury, I wasn’t even her first.

And the dawn broke with bangs on the door that rudely awoke me and the four teenage girls in the room. To my absolute shock, none seemed to be surprised by my presence, though the supervisor on the other side of the door might have been. I was praying to God that none breaks out in shrieks of “God, there is a MAN in our room! Call the police!”. I was already imagining the headlines: “Antena 1 Reporter Caught in 4 Teenage Girls’ Bunk Bedroom” or “Sex Predator Reports for Antena 1″. But instead one of the girls just pointed the floor to me. Christ almighty, before I knew it I was hidden under one of the beds, doing my best not to sneeze from the dust underneath, as the supervisor was chatting with the girls.

But that was not the end of it, Your Honour. It’s now when my sin actually begins. My Lolita was from Bucharest, I lived in Iaşi. I never did care very much for long-distance relationships – or any at all, for that matter. But she wrote to me letters by the dozens – I barely opened one, once, and saw there were flower petals and poetry, things too girly for me to bear. I had no time for such trivia, I was building a career in television. So then I just kept piling them up without even reading them for about a year.

The picture my Lolita took the day I failed a job interview with Ziua, in Bucharest

In order to get her off my back, I even introduced her to my poet friend, Iulian Tănase, whose words had charmed her, but she told me that my substitute Cyrano friend’s words only sounded romantic when spoken by me. I even tried to explain to her that I was too old and that she was too young and told her to read Vladimir Nabokov’s book, Lolita, hoping she’d understand. What she did was just to take the name for herself: Lo-lee-tah…

We met in Bucharest, too: once when I sat for a job interview – and failed – and then when I eventually came to Bucharest for good. We met in broad daylight, in Piaţa Unirii. It was June and scorching hot too, just like the first time, but there was no darkness, no forest, no mystery, no pink lady bird ribbons in her hair and no lake and, worst of all, no sense of sin. In my 6×8 foot bohemian room in Piaţa Romană we indulged that day in the same lust and desire as we had before, in the girly dorm by the lake, but she was already 18, Your Honour. It just felt normal.

Thank you for not releasing her name to the media. After all, she was a minor at the time. She’s still one of my dearest friends – my Lolita.
Lo-lee-tah… My sin, your honour…

I must first of all apologize to my usual readers for the fact that I’m writing this post in English and not Romanian. I thought I’d spoil the fun by translating it.

So there you have it! It’s a worldwide crisis, we all were painfully aware of it. But hell, we thought we’d be in a safe haven here, in the United Kingdom, especially those of us working in the more-than-average paid media industry.

Apparently, I was proven dead wrong by an advert I ran into as I was scouting for some freelance media jobs – like all freelancers do. So it kind of took me by surprise to find a “job” on a “multi-camera set” for a short film bound to be aired by none other than the BBC, advertised for a fee that is literally a little over some peanuts. Do read it yourselves!

What follows is my application letter that I actually sent them:

“i am from a third world country and i was just dying to work for some food in the uk. please, let it be warm, we do not even have microwave ovens in my country. if i bring a friend, can he share? i am not picky, i can even work for leftovers. chicken bones are at a great price where i come from. i have two college degrees and 10 years of experience in television behind me, but why not? back home we were only paid in whiplashes and profanities, so this is a step forward in my career. can i also recycle the single use plates and cutlery? they would make a wonderful wedding present for Igor, he is getting married next week. this way, he may have something to put on the table for his guests… oh, please, say you’ll pick me…”

As you may see, my country is so poor that we can’t even afford to write with capital letters. So there you have it, boys and girls! Please email the author of that advert with your thoughts and try to explain to him/them why they’ll probably never get a well paid job. At least that is what I am wishing them…