Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Put Brain in Gear II
..........or if the same person said to you this morning "I heard in the Metro about some bloke sky-diving from Coq D'Argent......"
Surely you READ something in a paper, not hear it. Unless I've missed out on this new revolutionary version of the Metro which reads the stories out loud to you..........
Surely you READ something in a paper, not hear it. Unless I've missed out on this new revolutionary version of the Metro which reads the stories out loud to you..........
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Put brain in gear......
I wonder if someone can answer a question for me.
If somebody describes someone else as being "Not the brightest tool in the box" do you think they are more or less stupid than the person they are talking about?
Answers on a postcard please......
If somebody describes someone else as being "Not the brightest tool in the box" do you think they are more or less stupid than the person they are talking about?
Answers on a postcard please......
Thursday, May 17, 2007
No Weddings, two deaths and their Funerals
So, finally after 185 days and countless boredom packets of Walker’s Cheese and Onion crisps, I at last find my self no longer one of the great unwashed but a fully paid up member of the City Gentlemen’s club once more. And after more that half a year sitting on my butt it distresses me to say that it appears nothing has changed – other than the number of building site around the city (where the fuck did that building opposite Cannon Street go??!) - it’s still same shit ,different day.
Take the train for instance. I haven’t been in the 4th carriage from the front for 7 months but I get in and it’s instant déjà vu. There he is, the bleached-blond, perma-tanned fat bloke with a fetish for chunky gold jewellery and comedy ties. And still having a full strength coke and a double decker for breakfast. And the ugly couple who grin inanely at each other from five fucking millimetres away and insist on snogging even if you’re sardined up against them? Yep, there too. (and just so you know, not the sort of threesome I’ve ever dreamt of thank you very much you dirty mingers) And of course, the myriad people who forget they’re out in public and insist on using their mobiles as fucking megaphones to broadcast their dirty laundry to all four corners of the of the carriage? Check. God, I almost wish I hadn’t found another job – and it’s certainly fair to say that the chilled out, relaxed, karmic state I’d achieved over the stress-free weeks I was off had all but dissipated in the time it took British Rail to cattle-truck me one lousy stop.
Thoughts of unemployment and a need to distract myself from Dork and Mindy’s frenzied tongue session (she could at least have taken her gum out, oh hold on, perhaps it’s his?) lead me to consider whether living on JSA really was better than this. So with that in mind I start to analyse all I achieved in my marathon absence from the city. Rather embarrassingly, it doesn’t appear to be a lot.
Well, it seems that in succeeded in watching;
All five series of Six Feet Under
The first four series of Nip/Tuck
The first two series of 4400
Both series of Dead Like Me
The whole of extremely dodgy vampire series Ultraviolet
I also;
Learned how to play the Guitar Solo from Don’t Stop Me Now
Found out that you really can have too much time on your hands
Hmmm, not a lot when you really think about it, although it does explain why the batteries in almost every remote control in the house now appear to be dead. If it’s true what they say the road to hell paved with good intentions, it seems I’ll have my own three lane superhighway of freshly laid tarmac right to Old Nick’s door front door. I had great plans for how I was going to use all my free time; to get fit (5K run every day), lose a stone, read all those weighty tomes I’d always promises to broaden my mind with, do all those jobs round the house. So how come I’m a stone heavier, that curtain pole is still hanging from the wall, the loft, garage and spare room are still full of crap stuck in there since we moved in (4 and a half years and counting…) and I still haven’t hung up the pictures purchased on our trip to Venice last year (let alone printed out the photos taken on the same trip, the frames for which from part of the general detritus clogging up said spare room).
I also never wrote the novel I was planning, or became a Daily Telegraph columnist. In fact my seminal work the Diaries “What I did on Me Holidays: A Memoir in Words and Pictures”, the work for which I will one day receive the Whitbread and Pulitzer prizes, remains nothing more than a daydream, with its snappy title scribbled on the back of a beer mat being the only “ink to paper” that has happened so far.
In fact the most I’ll remember from my enforced sabbatical is there in the title to this entry (I suppose I could add a Coroner’s Inquest and a fortieth birthday in there, but then it didn’t scan), the second funeral of which deserves its own recognition. And so asI sit here at my new and shiny desk with new work colleagues to banter with and last night football to discuss I wish just one thing. God I could do with some time off…….
Take the train for instance. I haven’t been in the 4th carriage from the front for 7 months but I get in and it’s instant déjà vu. There he is, the bleached-blond, perma-tanned fat bloke with a fetish for chunky gold jewellery and comedy ties. And still having a full strength coke and a double decker for breakfast. And the ugly couple who grin inanely at each other from five fucking millimetres away and insist on snogging even if you’re sardined up against them? Yep, there too. (and just so you know, not the sort of threesome I’ve ever dreamt of thank you very much you dirty mingers) And of course, the myriad people who forget they’re out in public and insist on using their mobiles as fucking megaphones to broadcast their dirty laundry to all four corners of the of the carriage? Check. God, I almost wish I hadn’t found another job – and it’s certainly fair to say that the chilled out, relaxed, karmic state I’d achieved over the stress-free weeks I was off had all but dissipated in the time it took British Rail to cattle-truck me one lousy stop.
Thoughts of unemployment and a need to distract myself from Dork and Mindy’s frenzied tongue session (she could at least have taken her gum out, oh hold on, perhaps it’s his?) lead me to consider whether living on JSA really was better than this. So with that in mind I start to analyse all I achieved in my marathon absence from the city. Rather embarrassingly, it doesn’t appear to be a lot.
Well, it seems that in succeeded in watching;
All five series of Six Feet Under
The first four series of Nip/Tuck
The first two series of 4400
Both series of Dead Like Me
The whole of extremely dodgy vampire series Ultraviolet
I also;
Learned how to play the Guitar Solo from Don’t Stop Me Now
Found out that you really can have too much time on your hands
Hmmm, not a lot when you really think about it, although it does explain why the batteries in almost every remote control in the house now appear to be dead. If it’s true what they say the road to hell paved with good intentions, it seems I’ll have my own three lane superhighway of freshly laid tarmac right to Old Nick’s door front door. I had great plans for how I was going to use all my free time; to get fit (5K run every day), lose a stone, read all those weighty tomes I’d always promises to broaden my mind with, do all those jobs round the house. So how come I’m a stone heavier, that curtain pole is still hanging from the wall, the loft, garage and spare room are still full of crap stuck in there since we moved in (4 and a half years and counting…) and I still haven’t hung up the pictures purchased on our trip to Venice last year (let alone printed out the photos taken on the same trip, the frames for which from part of the general detritus clogging up said spare room).
I also never wrote the novel I was planning, or became a Daily Telegraph columnist. In fact my seminal work the Diaries “What I did on Me Holidays: A Memoir in Words and Pictures”, the work for which I will one day receive the Whitbread and Pulitzer prizes, remains nothing more than a daydream, with its snappy title scribbled on the back of a beer mat being the only “ink to paper” that has happened so far.
In fact the most I’ll remember from my enforced sabbatical is there in the title to this entry (I suppose I could add a Coroner’s Inquest and a fortieth birthday in there, but then it didn’t scan), the second funeral of which deserves its own recognition. And so asI sit here at my new and shiny desk with new work colleagues to banter with and last night football to discuss I wish just one thing. God I could do with some time off…….
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Lost in Translation
Trips to foreign parts are always exciting and fun, but with our leisure time so restricted these days it takes meticulous planning to get the absolute most out of our time away. With military precision we study guide books to learn about the best sites to visit, visit websites to find the best methods for getting around, watch TV programmes to hear about the local customs and traditions we should be aware of. Everything is usually covered down to the very last detail before even setting our thong* bedecked feet on foreign shores. Everything that is, except one very important thing……….
So we’re on our trip to Barcelona and all is going swimmingly well. The flight wasn’t too bad and we’ve arrived on time, and now all we need to do is catch a taxi into town and let the revelry begin. We flag one down, and do the usual thing - throw bags at driver, show him piece of paper with our destination carefully inscribed on it, jump in and we’re off As ever, I end up sitting in the front and have had to move the driver’s lunch, dry cleaning and newspapers to achieve this feat. I jokingly hold up one of the newspapers to my friends in the back and, indicating the headline, announce “God, Robbie’s back in rehab again!” Hilarity ensues all-round. The taxi driver however, seems to think I’ve really translated the headline as he then proceeds to give me a guided tour – entirely in Spanish – of the sites and sounds of the city – leaving me with no other option but to grin inanely and nod like I know what he’s going on about - and my friends in stitches....
And so to the footie…..The match, whilst a little bit like watching a car crash – and realising it’s your rare Ferrari that’s going down – was great to be at, and Barca is a superb city to mooch around. Unfortunately, with the late-night party atmosphere and copious red wine added to a rather heavy cold, Wife soon developed a headache and tablets were required. No worries. There is, quite literally, a chemist on every corner so we just go in ask for some Nuerofen and high-tail it outta there. But of course, we don’t know the Spanish for “Hello lovely lady, I have a throbbing one (fnarr-fnarr etc) and would like to purchase some headache tablets if you please”, and the pharmacist doesn’t speak English. And so we mime pointing to our heads and shout “IBUPROFEN” at the bemused woman until she seems to understand. But in fact it just gets more confusing; “Seeks undred or fower undred?” the lady announces. What? God that does sound a lot. “No, no” I reply, “Just ONE packet please” Jesus 400 would cost a ton of cash. The chemist looks at me as if I’m insane, which of course with all this pantomime pointing to my head and shouting loudly at her in a foreign language is hardly surprising. “Nao.” She replies calmly. “Seeks,” accompanied by a weighing motion with her hands, “or fower?” and more hand wiggling. I give up. “Fower, s’il vous plait” just to show I’m not completely ignorant. Her face remains remarkably neutral and before you know it we are on our way with a box of 30 400MG IBUPROFENO for a massive 2 Euro and a job well done. It only dawns on me later that these tablets are twice as strong as the ones at home. Jesus!! It’s a good thing with didn’t go with “seeks undred” or we could’ve put a horse on its back.
We’re very pleased with ourselves and at dinner that night with our friends we decide, when the waiter comes up to order our drinks in spanglish. Just to show willing of course. “Dos vinos blancos y dos beirios, sevache favour”. This goes down well and the correct drinks arrive – who said I wasn’t paying attention at school? – along with 4 menus. In Spanish…………. Obviously it’s assumed again that I am a native, and not wishing to reveal my true identity as ignorant travelling Brit I keep schtum, and we muddle through the menu deciding what to have. Fortunately the waiter realises we aren’t of true Catalonian stock (God knows how….) and brings us some English ones, narrowly saving us from Cerebros del Burro con la Morcilla (Donkey Brains with blood sausage), Arroz con el Conejo y los Caracoles (Wet rice with rabbit and snails – a local speciality no less) and the delicious sounding Lengüeta de la Oveja en Aspide (Sheep’s tongue in Aspic).
The next morning I wake up to discover my lips are suffering from the harsh Spanish climate – boiling in the sun, freezing cold gales in the shade - and it looks like another trip to the chemist
will be in order. I remark to the wife how it’s odd that people who can only aspire to a job as a lowly hotel porter can speak perfect English whilst those with a degree in pharmaceutical chemistry cannot, a point borne out by the fact that we are now standing in front of a different chemist who also, alas, doesn’t speak English. Now, at home it would just ask for a chap-stik, select the flavour and be off. But not here. It’s all rather puzzling, but somehow I end up, following the usual hand gestures and loud talking in English, clutching a small bag containing what, according to the label, appears to be vaginal lubricant. How this occurred or why they had a big bowl full of them on the counter of the chemists is anyone’s guess, perhaps vaginal chaffing is a big problem in Barcelona? This does however lead to some great gags about how the cold Catalonian breeze is chaffing my labia and how much better it feels once the cream had been massaged in – much to my Wife’s disgust.And so our trip draws to an end. My labia are all plump and moist, and it does appear that by the skin of our teeth we’ve avoided the worst excesses of the Catalonian menu. It seems to me however, that the most important thing we forget when we go abroad isn’t our passport or camera or sunnies, but our ability to communicate. A short while learning some basic Spanish could have avoided most of our problems – in fact just one sentence would have been needed – the easily remembered “Nao hablo Espanyol” Lost in Translation indeed…..
* That’s flip-flops to anyone not of Antipodean descent.
