This post dedicated to MK, who had quite a substantial dental op yesterday and came through it with flying colours
I have quite bad teeth, I will freely admit that and I am currently trying to pluck up the courage (and the money) to get them sorted out. A brief checkup revealed that fixing them is not a huge job, but it will cost a bit.
That said, the main sticking point is not really the money…it’s the fear. I have had a number of bad experiences with Dentists in my life, but one really sticks out.
Oh, did I mention that I seem to have an immunity to the numbing agent that they inject you with? No…glad I cleared that up then.
A few years ago I woke up with toothache. Nothing particularly unusual there really…lots of people get toothache. Me being me, I choose to ignore it and hope it goes away. It doesn’t. Why does ignoring it rarely work…anyway. Two days later and I wake up in ridiculous pain. I head to the bathroom for some painkiller and catch glimpse of the Elephant Man in the mirror. Essentially, I look like a cartoon version of myself…a cartoon version of myself that has stored a football in its cheek for the winter. In short….not good.
I go into the bedroom and wake Sarah up with a pitiful “Help me, it hurts” and we head off to the dentist. They agree to see my right away and tell me that it is an abcess. I have since learned that with this type of dental issue, they must treat the infection with antibiotics before they can remove the affected tooth. Enter Dr Australia. I call him that not because he had won best doctor in Australia, but because he was Australian and frankly I can’t think of another suitable nickname without being abusive.
This guy takes one look and tells me that he has to extract the tooth immediately, abcess and all, as…and I quote… “If that thing bursts, you will be in serious trouble”. He gives me two injections around the area and leaves me for a few minutes for them to take. As he is prodding and I am still yelping, he gives me two more. This goes on around 5 (I think) times. So I have now had around 10 injections and can still feel everything…determined to work through the pain, Dr Australia gets to work (what a trooper). The pain was unbelievable and I am shaking as a result. He stops and informs me that I have to be still. I lean under the chair, grab hold of the metal struts underneath and tense for all I am worth in an effort to stay motionless. Dr Australia is still struggling to get the tooth out and after a few minutes (I am quite literally crying at this point), he stops and moves away. Whereupon he chooses to basically shout at me to stop moving, telling me that I could die if it bursts etc etc. I nod, defeated, and tense so much that I am practically breaking through the struts underneath the chair. Eventually, he manages to get the tooth free. It wasn’t alone, a golf-ball sized abcess (I shit you not) came out with it, and I practically pass out from the pain. Free of the tooth pain and now only dealing with the aftermath, we stagger to my Nans house so that I can sleep it off. I glance in the mirror and it looks like I just lost a fight in the UFC. Bruises over my face where he was leaning and pushing and generally trying to get leverage, everything was swollen and my eyes were bloodshot. It was a good look.
A few hours later we head home and I go to bed again. Unfortunately, just as I get to the top of the stairs, I black out and tumble down them. Sarah calls a doctor who checks me out and then informs Sarah that it would appear that the anasthetic had finally taken hold…which was enough to knock out a large waterbuffalo….and before you say anything, even my ample size only accounts for a small waterbuffalo…
Not all Dentists are bastards…just small Australian ones working in North Nottinghamshire
So, like I said, my Dad was here recently and as usual he was full of stories, some I have heard (but still enjoy hearing), others were new. Like the story about my Dad coming to Germany for work last week.
My Dad does a lot of travelling and always has his eye on making life going through airports a little easier. A while ago, he saw a new bag…unusual, one he had never seen before…interesting markings and colours. It was also perfect in that it had the right number of pouches and pockets, was the right size for staying a week or even just for a night or two. In short, the perfect bag… It would be easy to spot and easy to grab from the luggage belt. I am sure you already know where this is going, but nevertheless I will continue on to the bitter end.
So Dad flys in to Hannover Airport, but gets caught up on the plane and is quite late getting off. He gets to the luggage belt and spies his bag travelling around and around. He heads straight for it and instantly recognises that there is something not quite right. The bag seems a little travel weary and weather beaten for such a new and recent purchase. Still, he is tired and thinks it could be his fatigued eyes playing tricks…that is, until he picks up the bag. Straight away it is clear that this isn’t Dads bag, it is far too light and old…undeterred, he opens a couple of pockets to be 200% certain and then heads to the baggage department to explain the predicament. Armed with a reference number and a sense of confusion about how someone could pick up a bag, so clearly brand new and weighing half a ton more than his own bag…but still, he heads to the hotel. Of course, at this point he is in the clothes he travelled in, hasn’t shaved and has a meeting to attend. It is reasonably fortunate that Dad was travelling with clients, so was in trousers and a shirt anyway, but still…he had planned on showering, changing and shaving before the meeting. He attends meeting #1 feeling like crap, but gets through it..when an ad-hoc meeting #2 takes place. Somehow he gets through this one too and heads to his room….fully aware that noone has called from the airline. Still, he is tired and needs sleep.
Always an early riser, Dad is up from around 6am and there is no news on the bag…Dad decides to wait until a very respectable…and dare I say reserved…time of 8am before calling the airport. Feeling quite chipper, he speaks to the airport, gives them the reference number and waits….when the woman comes back on the phone she tells Dad that the number he has given her doesn’t exist in the system. This goes back and forth until the supervisor comes on the line. She confirms that it isn’t in the system, and Dad begins to explode…on the verge of nuclear meltdown you might say. Just at the point of explosion, the supervisor explains why that reference is not in the system anymore. Apparently they delivered the case the night before and noone from the hotel had called to let him know. Dad now has 30 minutes before a meeting, but can’t face putting the clothes on from yesterday…so he heads down in a hotel bathrobe, grabs the bag…heads to his room, phones the meeting and tells them they will have to wait. My Dad…classy.
Dad being classy reminds me of an old story. Before the tragic events known as 9/11 to most of the free world, security was always a concern. My Dad was working at the British Embassy in Berlin and was working with the Air Attache. When you take this position, you also agree to monitor security with anything to do with flying whenever possible. It isn’t like he was on a mission to do this, but he had sworn an oath to be vigilant and aware when flying. Dad is in Stansted Airport returning to Germany and it is a usual busy day at the airport. Check-in is uneventful and Dad is heading through to the departure gate..waiting his turn in line to walk through the metal detectors. The guy in front of him is holding a MacDonalds bag and drink. As this guy is about to walk through the detectors, he leans to the side of the detector and places his bag and drink on top of the X-Ray machine….walks through the detector and gets frisked. Once that finishes he leans around the detector again and grabs his stuff and wanders on his merry way. Dad isn’t looking for a confrontation with Stansted security, but decides that he can’t let it go, so he calls the Air Attache and lets him know what happened.
The next day Stansted Airport undergoes a “routine security review” by the department of British transport. Many flights were delayed, many people were inconvenienced and my Dad was back in Berlin inhaling fine German beer with a smile on his face.
Just a short, sentimental post today, as I am out for a birthday party later and will not be in any fit state to write anything tomorrow…unless something happens of course. SP was out last night, rumour has it he may be out tonight too…rest assured I will be taking my notebook, just in case.
So my Dad visited for the last couple of days…and except for not going outside and playing catch, I was like a kid for the whole time. Admittedly, I would be a kid drinking copious amounts of beer with his Dad…and he was never that kind of Dad. We even went to the cinema…to watch James Bond. What am I? 12?
We had a some great chats and I managed to get a little bit of blog-fodder too. Dad has some great stories and I can honestly say that I am very lucky to be able to chat with him like I can. We take the piss out of each other…admittedly he is better at it than I am, seeing as he taught me my sarcastic ways (even though he refuses to claim it). We can drink together, tell dodgy jokes and we share a love of sport (mainly football).
We talked for hours, never ran out of conversation. I was able to admit to certain regrets I have about my behaviour as a teen..which, Dad being Dad, completely dismissed. I think he quite likes the confident Son he saw before him, the group of friends I have and the life I am living. He gave me some great advice about the future, words of encouragement and a frickin hangover. I rarely get to just go out for a bevvy with my Dad, so this couple of days were superb. Thanks Dad
While I remember, a few things from last night:-
I managed to cockblock LM on a highly skilled walk-by cockblocking. It’s amazing what a giant Uncle Fester clone, giving you a hug and stroking your face can do..I may also have called him bigboy….sorry LM
I beat Z in an arm wrestle (admittedly, he had just arm wrestled a monster like 5 minutes before…but still, I am totally claiming it)
I also beat PM immediately afterwards with my considerably more girly left arm.
My lasting memory though was from the lovely PS. She gave a genius raise to what little kudos I have these days. As she walks past, I say hello…she turns, looks at me dead in the eye, calls me a bastard and slaps me. I am laughing now, but it was a proper slap. She turns away, walks two paces…turns around and tells me that the sex was amazing though. Some of the looks I got were well worth the pain…thanks PS
So I was begging for inspiration, when IP delivered a recount of a story where two people were snogging each others faces off and Z put his finger in the girls mouth. She enthusiastically started sucking on his finger, realising a little too late that Z had dipped his finger in Tabasco sauce….
Now, I am not sure if she was speaking about herself or not, but it did remind me of a party I had many many years ago. It was standard house party rules, too small a place, too many people, never enough booze….you know the type. We had put on a spread of various chips and dips and a good time was being had by all. Then there was Mark, he took a liking to a particular tomato dip, and was using tortilla chips like spoons to demolish it. After going through 2 batches of this stuff, I decided to slow him down. I took the now empty bowl and headed to the kitchen to refill once more. Rummaging through the cupboards, I discover a bottle of “Dan-Ts Inferno - White Hot Cayenne Pepper Sauce”..now this isn’t as hot as the name suggests, however, it does make Tabasco taste like mayonnaise in comparison. So I empty the bottle into the bowl and replace said bowl on the table. Mark dutifully grabs some tortilla chips and starts spooning this stuff into his mouth. I think it was the 4th scoop where his tastebuds caught up with what was happening, immediately shutdown and sent all sensory responses directly to his pain receptors. First he went bright red and broke into a sweat, then his eyes became wide and a look of abject terror moved into the real estate of his face. Mere microseconds after this took place, he bounded to the kitchen where he shoved his head under the cold tap and stayed there for around 10 mins. You need a moral? Never eat all of my fave dip at my party…
A few years later and I am staying at my Aunts place for a weekend, she introduces me to her new fella (who would eventually become my Uncle). He seems pretty cool, we go out for a few beers and generally have a good laugh. At some point during the night, the subject of hot/spicy food comes up. As I have said before, we like our food quite hot in our family so of course, when he suggested a curry eating competition I was well up for it. We arrive at the Curry House, and decide that we will order 4 different Currys..each one hotter than the last. I forget their names, but if I tell you that Vindaloo was the 2nd of the 4, you will possibly understand the level of heat we are getting to. Now, the curry house made up our order and packaged it up to take away and we headed home. We started to unpack the currys and noticed that they all came with plastic lids that had been heat sealed onto the container. Good idea thinks I, no spillage. Getting this frickin glued plastic monstrosity off each container though proved somewhat difficult, the plastic would split and you would end up with a load of the curry sauce on whichever finger fell through. Still, no problem…lick sauce from finger and carry on. We begin on the first of the 4 and I distinctly remember checking the container for the telltale number 3 written on it by the curry house…unfortunately this was most definitely number 1 and I realised I could be in trouble. A casual glance towards my soon to be Uncle determines that it is barely registering as a curry…He even talked about giving some to his dog as it was weak….At this point I have already lost bodyweight through sweatloss. Cue curry number 2…again I get some of the sauce on my finger and proceed to lick it off…at which point my tastebuds shut down…long enough for me to finish it. Once again “Uncle Asbestos Mouth” is quite content. I have a slight ringing in my ears and can’t see from the sweat pouring down my face. Most people would have stopped at this point and conceded….most people….not me….I don’t do losing very well. Bring on curry 3. I had assumed, wrongly, that my tastebuds shutting down would last. I didn’t anticipate them springing back to life just in time for the first mouthful of curry 3….excruciating pain…how the hell do people enjoy this shit!?!? Still, I somehow get through it and may have spent the latter part of it sitting inside the freezer…but finish it I did…somehow. Then came curry 4, it should be pointed out that Uncle “Thermonuclear” was merrily chatting away and seemingly unaffected by anything he had eaten thus far…for my part, I was talking like I had just had a stroke. I open curry 4 and again, end up with sauce on my finger. I take a lick…and my head exploded, seriously, pain the likes of which I can probably never fully explain. I dish it up and Uncle Volcanoe tucks in….and I conceded. I think I managed to get about halfway through before passing out… I was just glad that we remembered to put the toilet paper in the freezer when I woke up the next morning…
All these years later, I have just about got the feeling back in my lips..but my tastebuds will probably never recover.
So I have said before that I watch a considerable number of TV Shows at the moment. One of my current faves has to be Bones. I like it as it is easy to watch, quite interesting and the dynamic between the characters is incredibly good and more often than not, very funny.
I watched the first two episodes of the 4th series yesterday….based in Oxford, England. Unbelievable, thinks I, not only is my fave show back on the air, but it is set in my home country…this should be good.
And it was, sort of. The dynamic is unchanged, the comedy is there…the interesting forensic stuff is ok, but why did they feel the need to go where they did? Not every English person in Oxford is two steps away from royalty. They don’t all have loads of cash and an accent that Prince Harry would consider hoity toity. I half expected Dick van Dyke to jump off a roof shouting for Mary Poppins.
All of this would have been possible to ignore, if it wasn’t for the one person that they tried to show as a “fairly” average Englishman. Firstly, he was a member of Henley Boat Club (meaning that a posh bloke would have had meaning). Secondly, he was clearly a very posh actor, trying to put on a not-so-posh accent. It was ridiculous. I know, I know, the Americans love what they think of as a typically English accent, but still.
I can only think that the writers have seen episodes of The Riches and decided that they needed to redress the balance created by Eddie Izzards crap American accent. Eddie Izzard is a comedic genius, but he can’t do accents to save his bloody life. In spite of this, The Riches is actually a bloody good program and has given me the perfect way to get out of meetings where difficult questions are being asked (The Sleeper).
Seriously though, what is it about the English accent that “does it” for you American ladies? I mean, I have an English accent, and I am also blessed with the ability to mimic most of the accents available in England today (and a couple of others)…so I could adapt depending on your desired accent. Is it just that it isn’t American? I know that tends to be the case for English women. Also, for the record…we do all live in castles and have butlers… Although, my butler is at the shop having a refit, and I have loaned my castle to the people at Disney so that they can see what a real one is.
Mind you, the accent thing seems to work for most people. For example, IP (German) loves the Liverpool accent, LS (English) gets positively moist from the Northern Irish accent. I myself am partial to certain American accents and in some cases the German accent.
What accent gets you all hot under the collar?
Oh, and could you possibly show me the whay to the gaaarden partay? Thank you my good marn!
The first kiss is quite important, we all know this. It can determine if the chemistry is right, it can determine an element of compatibility of the physical kind.
If you are a hopeless romantic, you will want that first kiss to be memorable, and preferably perfect. It may or may not involve fireworks (literal or imagined), flowers, a wonderful setting and a feeling that it is the right thing to do.
You will probably want it to begin softly, if the chemistry is right for both of you, your heart rates will increase…you may feel a little breathless and the passion and intensity may increase, leading to a stronger kiss. Tongues will almost certainly be used, but they will be in the tender exploration of the other person and reactionary to each and every movement between you. You will hold each other tighter and the shared body heat will move to another level. Eventually, you will stop by returning to the gentle kiss, slower and slower until you break contact, at which point you will be looking directly at each other intensely. Moments later, the world will begin to move again and you will become aware of sound, the sound of people passing you by and complaining about the world and wending their merry way through life. In that moment, you will know…you will know that the cat food section of the local supermarket was not the wisest location choice
You do not, however, try to eat the back of the other persons head through their mouth. If you notice that this person has issues with their nasal cavity…trying to clear the blockage with your tongue is seldom considered sexy….and let’s face it, could lead to a discussion that nobody really wants to have.
See exhibit A:
Now, I have to concede that this is not their first kiss, although my understanding from MK and KH is that they had only known each other a few days according to the show. Maybe this is enjoyable for the both of them, although it looks like she is under attack and just trying to survive. Thinking about it, he is clearly forcing her to be compliant with some sort of Vulcan Nerve Grip thing on the back of her neck. Alternatively, maybe what we can’t tell is that they are really underwater and lost their breathing apparatus…survival instincts kick in and that is the result.
All I know with any certainty, if someone ever films me kissing someone and it looks like that….kill me, you have my permission….you would be doing me (the victim woman) and quite possibly the world, a HUGE favour. Noone needs to see that.
I am now going to arrange for a frontal lobotomy, to try and rid my mind of the video above.
British Broadcasting Corporation, for shame. I get that American politics has an important impact on the world, I get that…honestly I do. I get that this makes it important enough for all of the worlds news to report on it, even the good old BBC. But the first fucking dog!?!?! Seriously, the first dog?
This cannot be a story that needs telling. I mean, what’s next…the first hamster, first ant colony, first headlouse? Will we be dedicating journalistic resource to investigating the first bathroom paint colour choice? Don’t get me wrong, I am sure that there are as many people in America that feel the need for every little detail…there certainly would be in the UK for a new Prime Minister…but world news?
I don’t think so. Fair enough if we were talking about his first major decision, policy or action….I could see that making world news. I have to say though, the conspiracy theorists were out in force to say that he couldn’t possibly win and the vast majority of Americans decided that change was required. I don’t pretend to know about his real policies or even if he will be a good president, but he definitely seems to be a different kind of leader to any previous one, and America took a chance.
At least he isn’t a Fundamentalist Christian, although it is only a matter of time until we discover he is a Scientologist or something….
So I went out last night for Hs birthday. We went to an olde worlde German restaurant where a number of us were instantly of the opinion that we must eat Bambi.
Now don’t get me wrong, I am not an emotionless vessel of hate (not right now anyway)….I can get upset at films, books, people on the street even. I do find it difficult to get upset when an artist stops drawing something though, even if he does get overzealous with the eraser.
Unfortunately, they didn’t have any Bambi available as we should have ordered it in advance. It left me with visions of phoning up, asking for the Bambi Platter with the reservation and having the guy hang up the phone..and yell “We need more Bambi!”. Whereupon the Chef sighs, gets a gun from the wall and, with an apologetic shrug to his children, walks outside…..fade to his children looking forlorn, tears streaming down their faces as they dry cry the words “why daddy why?”, over and over.
That left us with, basically, serious steak or Pumbaa…. Being the Disney hating real men that we are, we decided that Pumbaa was the choice for us. A delicious bowl of…well it looked like a pot plant I gave to my grandmother a few years ago as a random gift…turned up. Being as it obviously contained no Disney characters that I could discern of, and appeared far too healthy…I passed. Plus, I had chowed down a seriously good muffin (fnarr) provided by KH and MK. I am not sure if it was for me or for H, but I only stopped to consider that halfway through…. ah well.
Many starters were delivered, much old style German beer was brought to the table. Then came the vegatables, spaetzle and … well … warm, soft sugar puffs, sans sugar. I chose to pretty much ignore these things in view of the impending Pumbaa explosion.
Turns out that the rule that TV adds 10 pounds is a lie, either that or Pumbaa has been on a serious diet recently (or eaten too many healthy bugs/grubs, or whatever it was he ate in the Lion King). A positively anorexic Pumbaa was brought to 5…count ‘em (I know you won’t) 5 full grown men. Some of these men were considerably more grown than others….ok 1 of these men…ok me…dagnabit.
Still, what there was of it was fantabulous. Cue complaint from one of the other guys regarding the size zero Pumbaa and we get free pudding….Result! I don’t know what it was, but it was nice. Halfway through, it was established that the fruit on the plate were cherries, beyond that I am not so sure.
We then head back to my living room so that H may enjoy a birthday cigar (thank you German smoking laws) and I get home around 01:30 this morning.
The moral of this story? There isn’t one….other than be careful which Disney character you try to eat, there may not be that much of it.
In honour of yesterday being Halloween, I thought I would recount for you a tale of abject terror, horrifying intrigue and no small amount of toilet activity. I would like to say that there were no animals harmed during the events of this fateful night, but quite frankly…anything is possible.
It was a entertaining night at the bar, the locals were enjoying themselves and partaking of many delicious beverages. Much merriment was being made and the barkeep was in good spirits. As with all Halloween stories, the tranquility and merriment were to be replaced with horror. Our heroes were not to know what was to transpire. Noone could know, if they had…people may have been spared, the bar could have been closed and signs painted on the doors to ward off the evil that was about to leave a trail of destruction through this almost spiritual bar.
When the beverages had started to take hold and peoples guards were well and truly down, she arrived.
Much has been made of witches in childrens tales and moving pictures, but nothing could truly prepare us for what we saw. Some likened her to golums ugly sister, but our heroes instinctively knew her for what she was…the Sick-ed Witch of the North. Rumour has it that she was once a beautiful woman, known throughout the land for her beauty and ability to charm young knaves into acting out her every whim. This storyteller, dear reader, knows better.
She began her trail of destruction and debauchery by beginning what I believe the the modern, liberal person would refer to as a Swingers Party. Wife swapping a’plenty, with nary a wife to be found. Entranced by this, certain young knaves were taken in by her witchly ways. Our heroines, KH and MK were able to resist and sought sanctuary with myself, good reader, for I was there this fateful night. I offered little protection beyond kind words and the elixir of forgetfulness, but know this my friends, this can be enough.
Whirling through the bar like a sex fuelled hurricane, the witch would stop, grab herself a new knave and suck the life from them through their lips. Her spells were short lived fortunately, leaving a path swept with the bodies of confused knaves wondering just how that happened. Her fateful cry of “I want to f*ck you!” will haunt me to my deathbed, and beyond, of that I am sure.
After some time it seemed to quieten, perhaps she had gone, left the revellers to continue her destructive ways somewhere else. The patrons relaxed once more and all seemed well with the world.
Until the scream.
When the scream came it stopped everyone, rooted them to the spot with fear and panic. Surely no human could make such a bloodcurdling sound. Z emerged from the “little knaves room”, but he did not seem himself, something was clearly wrong. When approached it was clear, that aswell as being made to vomit repeatedly, he was blind!
The witch had trapped her final prey and had begun her incantations to allow her to live for another year, there was nakedness, there was fumbling, groping and dare I reveal to you …. sexual organ movement. Z may never be the same, although we quickly rallied Mr Jager and Ms Meister to heal him as rapidly as possible…time will tell if his recovery is successful.
To this day, mention of the witch causes fear and panic induced bowel movements. Others simply weep for what they were forced to endure.
What of myself dear reader?
I simply visit my private “little knaves room” upstairs….and no, I did not ask for her number.
Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while will have noticed that I occasionally struggle for inspiration (fine..more than occasionally). Fair enough I suppose, it happens to the best bloggers, so it is bound to happen to someone as low down the blogging chain as me…
Inspiration is a funny thing though, sometimes you see something that just hits you. Other times you remember stuff from your past. Occasionally, inspiration is thrust at you…like Frodos mum, who tries to sell flowers to any guy even remotely close to a woman in the Anglo most nights, shoving roses in your face with a grunt…and a suggestion of an impending curse should you fail to buy. So when Zs girlfriend IP complained that my Wombats post was somewhat lacking of IP activity, she suggested I write something to rectify this. Suggested in this case in a sort of accusatory, pouty, threatening kind of way. So with fear of a Z based beatdown….
Let me take you back to the Wombats gig. Now, I have known Z for a while and when he informed me that his new girlfriend was coming along…I am sure you can forgive me for a certain amount of 3rd wheel trepidation. Absolutely not the case. Not only did they both avoid placing me in the 3rd wheel position, IP was actively involved in the stereotypical German accent’ athon. My biggest shock though was me throwing out a random Fast Show quote and IP knew what the hell it was…and was able to respond…with one of her own. IP was actively involved in the “showing off to 14 year olds on a train” spectacular and even went so far as to acknowledge their class and uber-coolness…by chugging half of their wine and trying to match Z by doing somersaults using the grab handles on the train. Fast forward to the weekend and I am being taken along for drinks and to meet new people….me likey.
Spin on a little more and I am in agony with my (probably) karma induced bad back. I will admit to some whining, moaning, whinging and more than a little complaining. I won’t admit to crying…not saying it didn’t happen…I am just not prepared to admit it. Anyway back on track…IP starts asking doctor’esque questions about the pain, where it is etc etc. Then she offers to help me fix it. Which she then does. Blessed relief
Seriously, who does that? Who gives up their own time and energy to help a relative stranger? IP, that’s who. A rare breed of person that is generous and genuine. I would, of course, like to think that I would have done the same….but would I have really? Would you?
Now I realise that this could easily devolve into an IP love-in, but far from it. If I can just get a little sentimental here for a second (and it is my blog, so damnit I will), I am in a very fortunate position of having made some incredibly good friends in Frankfurt and yet I am still surprised when I make another one. I think it is the Anglo effect. The few false people I have met there have not lasted long, did not ever really get in with the group and were certainly not missed.
The others are still there and the group grows a little from time to time. I am fortunate to be a part of it.
Plus…who doesn’t like having a free massage, complete with baby oil…from a woman that gets your jokes
I’m off to let Z kick the shit out of me…and then try and find an Uncle Fester coat for the impending Halloween weekend frivolity.
Ok, try not to panic everyone, but I may be causing a catastrophic space/time event that could do untold damage to this ball of chemicals we lovingly call Earth.
Let me explain. I watch TV shows…a lot of TV shows. Now other people say that they watch a lot of shows and really…they don’t. To give you an indication, I am watching (in no particular order):
American Dad, Family Guy, My Name is Earl, Bones, Ghost Whisperer, Heroes, Supernatural, Prison Break, CSI, CSI Miami, CSI New York, Flashpoint, Smallville, Chuck, Californication, Dexter.
And these are just the shows that are airing at the moment, on top of this I watch every Liverpool match, some films, listen to music, write this blog, am active on Facebook and a number of forums, design websites, call my kids, chat with friends and have a bloody active social life. I hold a full time job, go wandering aimlessly around Frankfurt and I do actually sleep from time to time. Oh, and I occasionally double as a failure at helping people hang lights and move home.
I am genuinely concerned. I went to bed at 10pm last night. Yet..I had managed to leave work late, walk home instead of using public transport, make dinner, chat to friends, and watch a number of shows. It is entirely possible that I have found a way to bend space and time, I can only apologise for when the world inevitable blows up from my abuse of this new found power. At some point I am bound to require a white haired professor who is guaranteed to require one point twenty one gigawatts of power for something extraordinary. That reminds me, I must remember to get a picture of myself and key family members to keep in my wallet.
I should probably aim to use this new found ability, to make time my bitch, for good though. Hopefully not in a comic relief Hiro from Heroes kind of way though, and I would probably end up creating a series of nefarious schemes that would help me get a) Money and b) Laid (not necessarily in that order). Although, I could go back in time and stop my past self from over-eating…that could work. I just have to be careful not to step on any butterflies apparently.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to use the “not enough time in the day” excuse at the moment. I am probably stealing yours
Ok, so getting back in “the game” is a little more difficult than you realise. Especially when you haven’t been in said game for quite some time and you are not quite the same person as you were when you were having moderate success.
So I have taken to trying to get inside the minds of women...not just inside them*. How have I done this? Easy, by making lots of female friends and quizzing them. Also, by stealthily reading blogs..written by women who are in the dating scene. Unfortunately, neither of them live anywhere near me, nor have they written expansively on why Uncle Fester is a much overlooked superstud…so I will continue to use their thoughts read with interest their take on the whole dating malarky….and learn some things along the way.
So far I have learned that Online dating seems to be considered as an ok option, providing you pay attention to some ground rules. You have to make your first contact interesting, avoid using txt spk, don’t IM unless invited to, make your profile relatively interesting. If given a phone number, call it…if they wanted to read something from you they would stick to IM or email.
See, us blokes can learn things occasionally. Only occasionally mind…
The biggest lesson, that was delivered most recently, try and pay attention….especially if you have an unwavering desire to talk about your feelings incessantly, and the person you’re with does not. Oh, and if ignored….TAKE THE HINT. Do not, under any circumstances, write an email explaining how patient you were and try and lay the blame for you own failure to listen to them.
How am I doing so far?
I like it. Admittedly, I can no longer count on stealth in my pursuit of knowledge regarding the female mind (damnable mind and it’s lack of blog imagination)…at least that part of the female mind that deals with dating. It’s a start though right? Plus, I get the feeling that they might find it akin to guys trying to read Vogue or Cosmo in the 80s
See though, here’s the thing. I am perfectly comfortable talking to someone on IM. I am even perfectly comfortable walking smack into the “Friend Zone”. So I am waiting for the information to start flowing from these lovely ladies on the “signs”. I am great at body language at work, in meetings and presentations etc. I can tell you if a member of my team is paying attention to whatever I am saying. I can even see if people need more comfort, agression, compassion…whatever. However, put me next to women in a social situation and I see them as foreigners…making no movements I can understand…it’s a bit like being an English bloke living in, say, Germany…and not speaking the language. You know that what they are “saying” means something, you just don’t know what that something is.
So I make a lot of friends…and the encounters I do get into are not the ones I want….either they have a weird stalker thing going on, or they are friendships that I don’t want to risk for the sake of being “in the moment”.
What is a character from an old black and white gothic TV show to do? Other than electrocute myself for kicks or have a shower set to scalding.
Maybe this post will drag out some helpful hints in the comments….subtle eh?
So…are you fluent in body language?
EDIT: Since posting this I have been thinking and let’s face it, it doesn’t happen often enough. I am no longer a child… I should be mature enough to deal with things in such a way that I won’t allow a friendship to be ruined by an attempt to alter the relationship towards the romantic. Short edit, but an important revelation nevertheless.
So…after a few days of excruciating pain and finally moving the pain to an amber alert I am able to type a little. Fortunately, for a man bereft of interesting things to blog about, there was an interesting diversion today where I work.
A well dressed businessman, complete with briefcase tried to gain access to the building today and to say he seemed a little peturbed doesn’t do it justice. I believe he was calling our beloved CEO some names that would make even the hardiest sailor blush. He also claimed that he had one million…what I am not sure..other names to call out maybe. Surely if he had one million, he would be rather happy. I know I would.
Suffice to say that our ever astute security team decided that this was one meeting that the CEO would rather not take and proceeded to block said businessmans entrance. They finally escort the gentleman from the premises, only for him to give them the slip and head back in via the revolving doors. That was a mistake…our revolving doors are the ones that no matter how hard you push, they never really go any faster. So within a split second, the faster of the guards decided to grab the door to stop its revolution, just at the point that the man was literally trapped.
It is at this point that our security team looked, it is fair to say, like the house cat that finally catches the mouse and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Furtive glances were exchanged in a sort of “Now what?” manner between the guards while another simply sighed and called the police. Eventually, the police showed up and took him away. I say that they missed a trick though, they could have released the latch that stops the doors moving fast and had a kind of abusive russian roulette. Spinning him round at high speed must surely fall under “subduing”.
This guy clearly misunderstood the nature of our business…we are in banking, but we are not a bank…nor do we handle investments as such, so any loss he may have occurred simply cannot be attributed to us. This is something I tried to explain to some guy calling on … what can only be described as … a tin can and string, from India, to ask me as Head of IT (I love it when they do that…regardless of how untrue it is) to answer a 5 minute survey on IT within Retail Banking.
Him: Do you have 5 minutes for a survey on IT within Retail Banking? Me: No, but even if I did, we are not a Retail Bank Him: It onlytakes 5 minutes Me: It doesn’t matter, we are not a Retail Bank…as I have already said Him: It will probably take less than 5 minutes and is just asking questions about your business Me: Not if you think my business is Retail Banking it isn’t. Him: But surely you have 5 minutes? Me: OK, what is the survey about Him: Retail Banking Me: And what have I said that my business is NOT about Him: It’s just 5 minutes though Me: *click*
I appreciate he probably had a script and I had deviated desperately from it, but still….PAY ATTENTION FUCKTARD…seriously!
In other news, how the hell is it possible to go to bed on a Thursday evening feeling absolutely fine and wake up ON MY DAY OFF in pain so bad I can’t move? Is it some sort of karmic retribution for deciding to take a short notice Friday off? If that is the case, surely it would punish me more to have me be completely recovered and healthy on Monday morning?!? Not, still sitting in frickin’ agony on Wednesday evening. Admittedly, my recover may have been speedier had I not decided to drink some of that fine German painkiller on Saturday night…forget the pain….and then dance around to cheesy old music all night…but still.
Well screw you karma, Zs girlfriend IP is a physiotherapist and she is helping fix me. I have managed to progress to actually getting to sleep and staying asleep for a few hours before the pain hits again. In your face karma….in your overly judgemental face!
Due to a bizarre twist of…probably my back. I can’t spend an awful lot of time typing at the moment. So until I can come up with something that doesn’t involve inhumane shoulder transplants and a desire to kill anyone or anything that even looks hard at my back…I leave you with Dylan Moran (He of Black Books fame)…hey! he is cheering me up.
More discombobulated ramblings as soon as I can spend more than 5 minutes typing.
Now I know that the current financial crisis is causing problems in the industry. I know that banks and their employees are in a semi-permanent alternating state of catatonia and panic. I didn’t, however, realise that it had gotten so bad where I am working. I went to the smoking area today and there is a meeting room next door, it is one of the posh meeting rooms where they have signs outside announcing the meeting going on in that room.
Today, this particular meeting room had the following sign:
SOILING TEST MEETING
Now, as the title says, at least they are being honest. I appreciate that the Germans have a reputation for being methodical and organised about everything, but if people are shitting themselves all day at the moment…surely they don’t need a test? Of course, it is worse if you consider that they might not be shitting themselves currently, but have planned a session in the near future and want to ensure that all of the staff have their emergency nappies and moist towellettes within easy reach. Perhaps they are demonstrating the quickest ways to remove various clothing items. It seems like they are a caring company…most would focus on soiling avoidance, but these guys are with you every step of the way. “Shit away, we don’t blame you..but do it properly and it doesn’t have to be too bad”
I fully expect to see more meetings like this advertised over the coming weeks. Maybe a course in hurling ones self from the top of the building, with the focus on minimising trauma to any witnesses and of course taking into account that the landing site is easily accessible by the authorities so that half of Frankfurt doesn’t need to shut down for the Spatula brigade to scrape you up.
You could have hari-kari 101, cyanide application training…vehicle exhaust re-routing seminars. Of course, in this industry you will of course have people that aren’t quite ready to “cash out” so to speak. For these people there will be “Scapegoat Cultivation and how to apportion blame without guilt” and of course the very popular “Embezzlement, it’s not just a funny word…it’s a lifestyle choice”.
The irony of Embezzlement of course…..where do you put your ill gotten gains….you wouldn’t seriously want to put it in a bank would you?
So it looks like there is a possibility I will be in England for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my folks. It goes without saying that I will do my damndest to get to see the kids at the same time, and I am sure I will manage to achieve it. That said, it will be Christmas with the parents, and I am the son that lives furthest away….
Now, being the oldest of 3 boys means that certain expectations are placed on you to be responsible, level headed and able to look after yourself (and your brothers). Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t spoiled and went without….far far from it. I have mentioned before that I had a great childhood and wouldn’t change it for the world. However, I didn’t always get the option for certain things..the options were normally delivered to the younger brethren before me. Where the hell am I going with this?? Oh yeah, eldest son..far away…got it.
As it is now a rarity to see me, I am pretty much a shoe in to get the option of a special thing to be prepared. This is guaranteed to be my Mums very special and never matched…Devils Food Cake. It should be said that, despite my ample girth (and my belly ) I am not really a chocolate lover. However, when you have tried some of my Mums Devils Food Cake, you could easily become a chocaholic…instantly…followed rapidly by a chocolate induced coma…with possible drowning by double cream.
It is one of “those” recipes… in that it is a closely guarded secret, has changed over time and consists of a plastic wallet with random pieces of paper..it sort of resembles a kidnappers ransom note starter pack and would probably have reduced the guys that cracked the Enigma device to tears trying to recreate it. I was given the recipe, once…and subsequently lost it in the great hard disk crash of ‘01. Subsequent attempts to gain access have been futile, so I am left with the rare occasion when I can ask for this creation of the gods to be made for me. Serious pleasure is all I am saying.
All of my 35 years on this planet will count for nothing when I regress into a mewling babe whislt simultaneously begging my Mum to make me this cake… I may ask for two to be made…specifically so I can have one with “Daves…keep off” iced on.
Now, I just need to work on getting Mum to make me a chilli and a lasagne, and I may weep a little. It’s pretty pathetic really, but I am just about to embark on a new diet…and it is one of those 4 days on 3 days off things…I worked out my optimum start day to ensure that the 3 off falls outside of 2 events. The first is the visit of my Dad next month, and the second being Christmas at my folks place. The logistics of doing this should really be added to my CV…creative accounting, time management…political lies…it has it all, but all things considered…I will be drinking with my Dad quite merrily next month without feeling even the least bit guilty and then eating my bodyweight in Devils Food Cake at Christmas guilt free too.
Don’t get me wrong, I know all of you (well most of you….some of you at least) believe that your Mums cooking is better than anybody elses Mums cooking and you will never be swayed by any argument that anyone would care to make. This is fine, but there is a difference…you are all wrong! It’s a subtle difference I know, but an important one nevertheless.
I am quite looking forward to it now
What is you favourite (albeit inferior to mine) Mums cooking that you would regress to your childhood for?
…so said Roy Castle of Record Breakers fame. Personally, I don’t think I am going to be setting any world records anytime soon…although I have set a few personal bests for beer consumption.
Who in the blue hell comes up with these bizarre records though. I mean there is a recent record of putting the most t-shirts on in 4 hours…155 if anyone is interested (I wasn’t, but it was on the page). Most women could beat that in one sitting simply by being undecided as to what outfit looks best (well, it doesn’t seem to stipulate they all must be on at the same time).
I mean, when a world record is of something worthy or something that demands training, endurance and skill then fair enough. But most hot dogs consumed in 5 minutes? Seriously?
Balancing eggs on their end? Their mother must be so proud. Some of them are pretty specific…there is a record for the most Ferrero Rocher chocolates eaten in 1 minute…were peanut M&Ms too tough? Also, shouldn’t there be some rule about exclusionary tactics for all the peanut allergy sufferers…although, that *would* be a world record and a half..how many peanuts can a nut allergy sufferer eat before they need to use the Epi pen to revive them? Extreme peanut eating, it’s the future.
Let’s face it, in a world where Extreme Ironing exists, having an anaphalactic’athon has gotta be around the corner somewhere.
They say hospital doctors don’t get a lot of sleep most of the time…what about a fund raising surgery’athon? The possibilities are endless.
For my part, for the last couple of weekends I have attempted a Jug of Beer’athon which has led me to resolve to “try” not to drink…at least this week….or at least only one night this week…or no more than 10 pints… or something. At least I am trying
No stalkers this week although, thanks in no small part to a certain GW delivering particularly noxious fart, I did end up ruining my streak of not being sick during a drinking session. That streak had lasted around 5 years, so I was somewhat embarrassed to say the least. Special thanks to Z for thinking quickly enough to capture the moment for posterity…damnit.
Anyway, back on track - What world record would you attempt, or have you already attempted one?
I was talking to the guys at work yesterday, as it would appear that some of them are missing the national food of Great Britain…namely Hot Curry (and yes, the capitalisation is necessary). Apparently, a place has been located that understands the term “English Hot please”.
Germans don’t do spicey food..they place a 3 chilli warning sign on what are essentially tomatoe flavoured crisps. They consider standard, run of the mill bell peppers as excessive. When you ask for chilli on your kebab…they look at you strangely when you ask if they have real chilli anywhere. Not a spicy hot food nation is all I am saying. Very occasionally, I will concede, you get a surprise…I went to a kebab shop some months ago and went through the usual routine:
Me: With chilli please
Kebabman: *lightly introduces concept of chilli to kebab*
Me: No I said chilli please… I am English, the hotter the better
Kebabman: I have put chilli on
Me: No, you have given the kebab a theory lesson on what chillis are
Kebabman: *sighs* Ok, more chilli
Me: Thankyou
Me: Bites into kebab
Me: Head explodes
Me: Recovers and (hopefully) successfully hides the nuclear reaction going on in my mouth
Suffice to say, he is my favourite Kebabman.
So consequently, the curries here (whilst full of flavour), do not require a gallon of beer to cool off…which of course increases the enjoyment factor…as long as you get in touch with your inner lager lout. So, a “proper” curry house has been discovered and we will be going for a heat competition in a couple of weeks. For my part, I will be ensuring that there are plenty of toilet rolls in my freezer for when I get home. I will also place paramedics on standby and maybe eat some candles…Homer Simpson stylee. When I return from my dream walk with the talking fox…I may blog about hallucenigenic curries and their effect on inner city Frankfurt.
I digress…. the conversation about thermonuclear curries reminded me of a Chilli that my Mum cooked many years ago. We like reasonably hot stuff in our family, but my Dad had a friend coming over..and Mum said she would cook a Chilli for everyone. This prompted said “friend” to ask if it was going to be a proper Chilli or some weak thing. My Mum insisted that we like our food HOT, but that wasn’t enough and it turned into a macho “I can eat food so hot, they can power small countries with the ‘output’” conversation. My Mum assured him that it would be suitably hot and she felt sure he would enjoy it.
So the night arrived, and I stumble into the kitchen to get a drink and notice that Mum appears to be making 2 individual pots of Chilli. One of the normal family size variety…and one of the somewhat smaller and, dare I say it, sinister…evil..child of Nosferatu variety. Various spoons and possibly the bottom of the pan were most definitely melting. My Mum may have been cackling as she dropped small and unassuming ingredients into this smaller pan…each of them met with a cloud of purple smoke, a smell of the sulphurous pits of hell and a distinctive gurgling sound. I think what gave away her intentions though, was the leather apron…welders mask and lead gloves she donned whenever she went anywhere near this smaller pot.
So dinner is served and we all tuck into our Chilli..my Dads friend failed to notice that all of the plants with 10 feet of him had withered and died the second that Mum walked past with his Chilli in a specially reinforced bowl, and began to munch away. No sooner had he got the first spoonful to his mouth, he broke out in an instant sweat. His head was so red, I literally thought he might pass out…every few seconds he would glance across at us..quietly munching away, chatting normally and generally enjoying the experience. After the 2nd mouthful..I believe he lost the use of his tongue, and his speech became slightly slurred. He made some pitiful excuse shortly after, something about having a big dinner and he was really sorry, but couldn’t eat anymore. At least, that’s what I think he said…to this day I couldn’t understand him properly.
The moral to this story is of course…do not cast aspersions at my Mums cooking…she may try and kill you.
Wish me luck…
Oh…thought I would leave you with this Chilli cookoff story :
THE INEXPERIENCED JUDGE
Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Tester Named FRANK, who was visiting
Texas from the East Coast: “Recently, I was honored to be selected as a
judge at a chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last
moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge’s table asking
directions to the beer wagon, when the call came.
I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili
wouldn’t be all that spicy, and besides, they told me I could have free
beer during the tasting. So I accepted.”
JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.
JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
FRANK: Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried
paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope
that’s the worst one. These Texans are crazy.
JUDGE ONE: Smokey, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.
JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken
seriously.
FRANK: Keep this out of the reach of children I’m not sure what I am
supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to
give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they
saw the look on my face.
__________________________________________________________
CHILI # 3 FRED’S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI
JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.
JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.
FRANK: Call the EPA, I’ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I
have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now get me more
beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is
in the front part of my chest. I’m getting shit-faced from all the beer.
____________________________________________________________
CHILI # 4 BUBBA’S BLACK MAGIC
JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or
other mild foods, not much of a chili.
FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to
taste it, is it possible to burnout taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was
standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. Bitch is starting to
look HOT, just like this nuclear waste I’m eating. Is chili an
aphrodisiac?
JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must admit
the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can
no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed
paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili
had given me brain damage, Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring
beer directly on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I’m burning my lips off?
It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming.
Screw those rednecks!
________________________________________________________
CHILI # 6 VERA’S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY
JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice
and peppers.
JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic.
Superb.
FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous,
sulfuric flames. I shit myself when I farted and I’m worried it will eat
through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that
slut Sally. She must be kinkier than I thought. Can’t feel my lips
anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!
___________________________________________________
CHILI # 7 SUSAN’S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of
chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried
about Judge Number 3, He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is
cursing uncontrollably.
FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn’t
feel a damn thing. I’ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like
it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid
unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like shit to match my
damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they’ll know what killed me. I’ve
decided to stop breathing; it’s too painful. Screw it. I’m not getting
any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I’ll just suck it in through the 4-inch
hole in my stomach.
____________________________________________________
CHILI # 8 LESTER’S LAST OF THE RED-HOT LOVER’S CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili, safe for all,
not too bold but spicy enough to declare it’s existence.
JUDGE TWO: This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild nor
hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge Number 3 passed
out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure
if he’s going to make it. Poor Yank, wonder how he’d have reacted to a
really hot chili?
This post dedicated to MK, who had quite a substantial dental op yesterday and came through it with flying colours 
