TRAVEL(B)LOG
Day 1
"Bloody hell! Is that the time?" Okay, so I overslept. It didn't stop me being ready in about 30 minutes flat, though. Piss...two, three, four, dump...two, three, four, teeth...two, three, four etc. etc. etc.
I was also ready way in front of the pub sign - that's the Frog and Dragon to the uninitiated - and was sat ready to roll in the new wheels while Zsuzsi went through the checklist for the zillionth time. "Yes, dear. I have turned off the gas...I do have the passports...no, I haven't forgotten your miraculous slimming pills...get in the fucking car please, light of my life."
So, the promised 8 o'clock start morphed into something approaching 11 before I could point the Octavia in an Austrian direction and it was only by a deliberate forgetfulness regarding Hungarian speed limits that I managed to arrive at the border only two hours behind schedule.
Pausing only to have to have the usual, "This isn't your car, is it, sir?" conversation with the intellectually challenged border guards, we drove, turbo engaged, into biscuit box country. Now, I should make it absolutely clear at this point that I really, deeply, abidingly and with a passion, hate fucking Austria. The country is nothing less than a gazillion trillion piece jigsaw puzzle. Wild is having a single flower out of alignment in one's window box. Whatsisname...Manley-Hopkins maybe...would have loved it. "Landscape plotted and pieced..." Now it may be that 'pretty pretty' does indeed push all your buttons. All it induces in me is an urge to stop the car and take a spectacular dump in the middle of the first town square we pass through.
Anyway, this assault on my aesthetics eased a little as we hit the motorway into Graz. A moment later and I almost hit the central reservation as I tried to place the motorway toll sticker on the windscreen.
Ah. At last. My favourite bit of Austria, the twenty-odd kilometre stretch of tunnel under Graz closely followed by my least favourite, the row of toll booths where they extract an extra tunnel surcharge from us.
Ease onto motorway to Salzburg. Well, actually, in the interests of accuracy that should read 'in the direction of' as the Austrian Alps appear to have placed themselves, rather impertinently in my opinion, across the line of my intended route. This necessitates a cross country drive along a two lane highway at speeds of 90, 70 and mostly 50 kph through ski-resorts like Schladming, more chocolate box scenery and guest houses and an absolute profusion of bloody window boxes.
Eventually we rejoin the motorway to Salzburg and it is here that the journey, after almost five hours, really starts. From Salzburg, into Germany, through München and all the way to Stuttgart is one Autobahn, every Autobahnhof and Tankstelle of which is as familiar to me now as any MOL petrol station here in Nagykanizsa, so often have I made this trip.
As always, it is on this stretch of the route that I am hit by the desire to one day make a longer journey of it. Rather than concentrating on reaching our destination in as short a time as is possible, maybe it would be nice to spend a bit of time here and follow those road signs to Berchtesgaden, Dachau, Nürnberg and Chiemsee. But as ever, the lure of home and the restrictions imposed by finances prove stronger and it's pedal to the metal time again.
Or at least it would have been were it not for the roadworks scattered at depressingly regular intervals along the way involving terribly complicated contraflow systems and causing much frustration in yours truly. And even on those stretches of road where no roadworks exist, the motorway is for some part two by two lanes only and every time one HGV overtakes another, backlogs of traffic build up such that it is impossible to generate a healthy head of steam. I issue thanks to the gods that I decided to travel back over this section on a Sunday when traffic should be negligible.
So, after Stuttgart, Karlsruhe and then cross country for the last section of non-motorway driving before leaving the A1 at Stamford. In the direction of Saarbrücken through hills and forest and some of the best scenery of the whole journey. Inbetween Landau and Pirmasens there is a small village in which lies a wonderful little family guesthouse/bar/restaurant by the name of 'Am Teufelstisch' named after a rather unusually shaped outcrop of rock which overlooks it from its perch on top of a nearby hill. Ideally situated at 1000kms from Nagykanizsa, I have used it on almost every occasion I have made this journey.
This day, we arrived at 11.30 and Frau Meyer had locked up and buggered off home. Bollocks.
I had been feeling pretty tired round about Karlsruhe time but right now I was in a pretty clear space. The Frog and Dragon were asleep in the back and I decided to head on for a nice inexpensive motel I know. The only problem with this was that it is in Arlon, just over the Belgian border nearly 200 kilometres away. Oh well.
So, with a pause to fill up with diesel in Luxembourg, and at less than 50p a litre you'd be a fool not to, I pulled into the AC Hotel Arlux on Rue de Lorraine at some time after 1 o'clock in the morning.
Remembering Jess's advice to hollow the tongue on the grave accents, I headed into reception and, in flawless French, informed the woman therein that I could neither speak French nor Flemish and gave her a choice of English, German or Hungarian. She looked at me a bit askance as I suppose one would if a foreigner in England told one in a perfect Yorkshire accent that they had, "bugger all grasp o' t' English language."
Anyway, she chose English and then proceeded not to understand a word I said. Again, bollocks.
There was nothing else for it really. I slipped into my very-early-in-the-bloody-morning-without-the-lubricative-benefit-of-any-alcohol French and after handing over my credit card number, received a room key in return. Sorted.
Return to car, wake the Frog and Dragon, herd them into room...they were v. groggy you understand...empty the minibar in seconds flat of all beer related comestibles, leave family comatose in bed, return to reception where I persuaded said receptionist to re-open the bar. Result. Several echte draught Stella later, I wobbled off to the room followed by a collapse of stout party. To sleep, perchance to dream...
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Monday, August 30, 2004
BOO!
Yup. Amstelladagain is open for business once more. There has been no expensive time-consuming refurbishment a la Shoe and my sidebar is as stable as ever, unlike the Shrub's. My bizarre animations and silly games count will remain minute in comparison to the recently re-opened Packet (whose mastery of the apostrophe is as dodgy as ever was, judging by his guest spot on the Shoe...speaking of which, you Southern strumpet, I am still awaiting my invite!)...in short, visitors may expect pretty much the same fare as was on offer prior to my sabbatical. Parental supervision is advised.
Yup. Amstelladagain is open for business once more. There has been no expensive time-consuming refurbishment a la Shoe and my sidebar is as stable as ever, unlike the Shrub's. My bizarre animations and silly games count will remain minute in comparison to the recently re-opened Packet (whose mastery of the apostrophe is as dodgy as ever was, judging by his guest spot on the Shoe...speaking of which, you Southern strumpet, I am still awaiting my invite!)...in short, visitors may expect pretty much the same fare as was on offer prior to my sabbatical. Parental supervision is advised.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
BLOG OFF
It's not so much the blogging I'm going to miss although I am sure I will have a mild withdrawal, it's not being able to read everybody else's that will cause me the most grief.
It's going to be like taking a break from watching Coronation Street and coming back to it only to wonder where Elsie Tanner has gone.
Oh well. Everyone stand by for a serious archives hit come September.
All the best, everyone and a special hug to y'all.
Amstelladagain is closed until further notice.
It's not so much the blogging I'm going to miss although I am sure I will have a mild withdrawal, it's not being able to read everybody else's that will cause me the most grief.
It's going to be like taking a break from watching Coronation Street and coming back to it only to wonder where Elsie Tanner has gone.
Oh well. Everyone stand by for a serious archives hit come September.
All the best, everyone and a special hug to y'all.
Amstelladagain is closed until further notice.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
LAST ORDERS, PLEASE
Anyone desirous of receiving gifts from Hungary should speak now, time is running short. I shall be leaving on Thursday.
Blogging will be suspended until such time as I can convince my accountant that a lap-top is an acceptable expense. Well, actually my chartered accountant has been behind the idea for a while but the real accountant, the one who holds me accountable, the capa di tuti capi, has yet to be convinced.
Why is it that women are all too ready to embrace new technology regarding reproduction, weight loss, cosmetics and surgical enhancement and yet so Luddite when it comes to information technology? I must have missed the Oprah on 'partners I have lost to a computer'.
Well, now I've successfully, but not really intentionally, alienated the better looking part of my readership, I'll continue.
I have in fact, been doing the accounts today...by which I mean sorting out all the invoices and attempting to figure out which will stand a soupcon of a smidgen of an iota's chance of being accepted by the Revenuers as a legitimate expense for a language school. Those for the crates of Amstel, Stella and 2000 Pinot Noir have been binned but I have a few interesting Hotel bills that show some promise. I wonder whether or not the fact that, in most cases, the bar tab exceeds the cost of accommodation would sneak under their radar. Or would filing it under 'entertainment' allow it to pass unchallenged? One can but try. The ones for electronic goods are a constant source of worry. Especially as I rather went overboard with a PC upgrade and bought a TV, DVD player and Video recorder, all for educational purposes you understand. I am also in need of a really good quality digital camera...there's nothing like snapshots to get the students talking and the pictures on this blog really suck in terms of delineation and focus...I wonder. Argos Polaroid...your time may well be nigh. Maybe the Shrub can point me in the direction of a 'good buy' as I have been really impressed with his photos so far. If he tells me he scans them in from an analogue, I shall seek and destroy while I am back in the 'Septic Isle'. Should you hear of a dirty bomb going off somewhere in the Crookes region of Sheffield, the motive was purely photographic.
One also rather fancies visiting BDTBL on the 14th for the Reading game. Seeing as how I have become persuaded that meeting people from t'internet is not necessarily fraught with unimaginable horrors and complications, I have already taken steps to arrange face to faces with two of my fellow Blades. Whether they will even begin to approach what I have begun to refer to as the South African Nike experience...'Jess do it!' remains to be seen. I am optimistic though, 'tis my eager nature. So, Uncy and Weggie...gird up thy loins, the day of the Kan is nigh.
You fill up my senses...
Oh, and this just made my night!
Anyone desirous of receiving gifts from Hungary should speak now, time is running short. I shall be leaving on Thursday.
Blogging will be suspended until such time as I can convince my accountant that a lap-top is an acceptable expense. Well, actually my chartered accountant has been behind the idea for a while but the real accountant, the one who holds me accountable, the capa di tuti capi, has yet to be convinced.
Why is it that women are all too ready to embrace new technology regarding reproduction, weight loss, cosmetics and surgical enhancement and yet so Luddite when it comes to information technology? I must have missed the Oprah on 'partners I have lost to a computer'.
Well, now I've successfully, but not really intentionally, alienated the better looking part of my readership, I'll continue.
I have in fact, been doing the accounts today...by which I mean sorting out all the invoices and attempting to figure out which will stand a soupcon of a smidgen of an iota's chance of being accepted by the Revenuers as a legitimate expense for a language school. Those for the crates of Amstel, Stella and 2000 Pinot Noir have been binned but I have a few interesting Hotel bills that show some promise. I wonder whether or not the fact that, in most cases, the bar tab exceeds the cost of accommodation would sneak under their radar. Or would filing it under 'entertainment' allow it to pass unchallenged? One can but try. The ones for electronic goods are a constant source of worry. Especially as I rather went overboard with a PC upgrade and bought a TV, DVD player and Video recorder, all for educational purposes you understand. I am also in need of a really good quality digital camera...there's nothing like snapshots to get the students talking and the pictures on this blog really suck in terms of delineation and focus...I wonder. Argos Polaroid...your time may well be nigh. Maybe the Shrub can point me in the direction of a 'good buy' as I have been really impressed with his photos so far. If he tells me he scans them in from an analogue, I shall seek and destroy while I am back in the 'Septic Isle'. Should you hear of a dirty bomb going off somewhere in the Crookes region of Sheffield, the motive was purely photographic.
One also rather fancies visiting BDTBL on the 14th for the Reading game. Seeing as how I have become persuaded that meeting people from t'internet is not necessarily fraught with unimaginable horrors and complications, I have already taken steps to arrange face to faces with two of my fellow Blades. Whether they will even begin to approach what I have begun to refer to as the South African Nike experience...'Jess do it!' remains to be seen. I am optimistic though, 'tis my eager nature. So, Uncy and Weggie...gird up thy loins, the day of the Kan is nigh.
You fill up my senses...
Oh, and this just made my night!
Sunday, July 25, 2004
WHY? WHAT? TELL ME AGAIN.
To every end, a beginning. And to every beginning, an end. Why is it that we can always recognise an end? Why are they so much more sharp, more clearly delineated? Maybe it’s because they come upon us so quickly, so without warning, so bloody relentlessly. Something is no more, the strings which held it together are now asunder and we are adrift…floating, bereft of fixed point…no frame of reference.
Does it have to be this way? Must I always submit…bend like a reed? Prostrate myself before the winds of fate? Just accept, helplessly, the inevitability of it all? Or can I recognise that tide in the affairs of man and by grasping it at full flood, direct it to my will?
Such a tide is upon me now, dear friends. Alcohol induced it may be but ’tis no less real for that. And I let the ropes fall aside, not knowing whether or not they are attached to anchors any more substantial than my hopes. There goes my daughter, overboard. There goes my love. There goes another and another. Each to its own box and yet, I see they are connected, some by strong bindings and others by tendrils almost invisible, yet these webs, I have woven. I am at the centre, my feelers on each thread…measuring, judging, evaluating. Holding the lives and fears and trust and beliefs of others nervously in the palm of my hands.
And still the question, who am I? The father…for years to come omnipotent? The lover? And to whom should I address that question for fuck’s sake? Does anyone have a monopoly on my love? The teacher? God forbid. What the fuck do I know anyway, that I should pass on with any degree of confidence or certainty? The man? That would do nicely, thank you but I have a suspicion I would not qualify on numerous counts. No, not the man tits, you pretzel. It’s just I have an idea, an ideal…a man, who man himself would be…take it away Percy.
… must rule the Empire of himself,
in it, must be supreme,
establishing his throne on vanquished will,
quelling the anarchy of hopes and fears,
being himself, alone.
Bollocks. Dingly dangly, fuzzy bollocks.
To every end, a beginning. And to every beginning, an end. Why is it that we can always recognise an end? Why are they so much more sharp, more clearly delineated? Maybe it’s because they come upon us so quickly, so without warning, so bloody relentlessly. Something is no more, the strings which held it together are now asunder and we are adrift…floating, bereft of fixed point…no frame of reference.
Does it have to be this way? Must I always submit…bend like a reed? Prostrate myself before the winds of fate? Just accept, helplessly, the inevitability of it all? Or can I recognise that tide in the affairs of man and by grasping it at full flood, direct it to my will?
Such a tide is upon me now, dear friends. Alcohol induced it may be but ’tis no less real for that. And I let the ropes fall aside, not knowing whether or not they are attached to anchors any more substantial than my hopes. There goes my daughter, overboard. There goes my love. There goes another and another. Each to its own box and yet, I see they are connected, some by strong bindings and others by tendrils almost invisible, yet these webs, I have woven. I am at the centre, my feelers on each thread…measuring, judging, evaluating. Holding the lives and fears and trust and beliefs of others nervously in the palm of my hands.
And still the question, who am I? The father…for years to come omnipotent? The lover? And to whom should I address that question for fuck’s sake? Does anyone have a monopoly on my love? The teacher? God forbid. What the fuck do I know anyway, that I should pass on with any degree of confidence or certainty? The man? That would do nicely, thank you but I have a suspicion I would not qualify on numerous counts. No, not the man tits, you pretzel. It’s just I have an idea, an ideal…a man, who man himself would be…take it away Percy.
… must rule the Empire of himself,
in it, must be supreme,
establishing his throne on vanquished will,
quelling the anarchy of hopes and fears,
being himself, alone.
Bollocks. Dingly dangly, fuzzy bollocks.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
FROGGY METAMORPHOSIS
Some day, her prince will come...and break my heart.
It's the Frog's fourth on the 29th but we'll be heading off to England soon, so we thought we'd give her a party here before we leave.
She wanted to be Sleeping Beauty for the day, hence the dress. I don't think she's quite got the hang of the sleeping bit though, she's been running us off our feet all day.
Anyway, the guests will be arriving soon. Zsuzsi is taking care of all things comestible and I have been, rather foolishly in my opinion, put in charge of the water bombs.
Unless I can conquer my competitive instincts, there'll be a lot of very wet toddlers and it'll all end in tears.
And I'll be sleeping with the Alsatian tonight.
Some day, her prince will come...and break my heart.
It's the Frog's fourth on the 29th but we'll be heading off to England soon, so we thought we'd give her a party here before we leave.
She wanted to be Sleeping Beauty for the day, hence the dress. I don't think she's quite got the hang of the sleeping bit though, she's been running us off our feet all day.
Anyway, the guests will be arriving soon. Zsuzsi is taking care of all things comestible and I have been, rather foolishly in my opinion, put in charge of the water bombs.
Unless I can conquer my competitive instincts, there'll be a lot of very wet toddlers and it'll all end in tears.
And I'll be sleeping with the Alsatian tonight.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
I WAS THERE
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he this day that drank Woodford with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
That day sure fucked up his condition:
And all you sods in England now abed,
Should think yourselves accurs'd, you were not here,
And hold your manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
Who supp'd with us this legendary day.
There is so much I could tell you. About how my life changed and yet remained the same. About how what I have forgotten means more to me than most of my combined accumulated memories. About confirmed expectations and confounded fears. About the mirror held and the same gazed into. About joy and tears. And most of all, about love.
And what is it that I am going to tell you? Nothing, rien, semmit, nada. Maybe I could tell you that our feat of alcohol consumption was of truly epic proportions. I could tell you but you were not there. The male of the species was not disgraced, that much I can vouchsafe. I could tell you that the hangover involved no pain but you would have no idea as to its intensity. I could tell you that at least one person would not hold his manhood cheap and that he still has the moustaches to prove it.
So what can I tell you? I can tell you that I lost my keys and that I leapt over my fence with a liquidity of which Olga Korbut would have been proud. I can tell you that we "screwed our courage to the sticking place" and returned to the scene to be blown away by one of the finest jazz sets I have ever witnessed and be astounded by the virtuosity of a ragtime band who rapped their way through 'Sweet Georgia Brown'. And I can also let slip that Roger would have loved the trombonist.
Suffice it to say that a very important person passed through my life this weekend. And everything has changed and yet everything is how it was. I am a very lucky man.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he this day that drank Woodford with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
That day sure fucked up his condition:
And all you sods in England now abed,
Should think yourselves accurs'd, you were not here,
And hold your manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
Who supp'd with us this legendary day.
There is so much I could tell you. About how my life changed and yet remained the same. About how what I have forgotten means more to me than most of my combined accumulated memories. About confirmed expectations and confounded fears. About the mirror held and the same gazed into. About joy and tears. And most of all, about love.
And what is it that I am going to tell you? Nothing, rien, semmit, nada. Maybe I could tell you that our feat of alcohol consumption was of truly epic proportions. I could tell you but you were not there. The male of the species was not disgraced, that much I can vouchsafe. I could tell you that the hangover involved no pain but you would have no idea as to its intensity. I could tell you that at least one person would not hold his manhood cheap and that he still has the moustaches to prove it.
So what can I tell you? I can tell you that I lost my keys and that I leapt over my fence with a liquidity of which Olga Korbut would have been proud. I can tell you that we "screwed our courage to the sticking place" and returned to the scene to be blown away by one of the finest jazz sets I have ever witnessed and be astounded by the virtuosity of a ragtime band who rapped their way through 'Sweet Georgia Brown'. And I can also let slip that Roger would have loved the trombonist.
Suffice it to say that a very important person passed through my life this weekend. And everything has changed and yet everything is how it was. I am a very lucky man.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Friday, July 16, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
HURRICANE WARNING
What began as a small disturbance at 10 000 feet somewhere over the mid-atlantic has now increased in force, intensity and, most pertinently, proximity.
Hurricane Jess is due to arrive over Budapest some time around midday tomorrow. Airport bars and shoe emporia will be closed and boarded up in anticipation. Inhabitants of the capital have been reassured that the danger will be only fleeting as she will divert in a south-westerly direction should the jet-stream (read VW Passat) arrive as forecast.
The prognosis for the weekend is wet. Very.
I visited my friend, our host at the jazz festival, yesterday and he does indeed have ample stocks of 60% by volume Hungarian pálinka. His wine store is comprised of the eminently drinkable...the bottled stuff and the even more drinkable straight from the barrel last year's vintage...even if it does only come in two varieties, white and red.
These supplies may prove unecessary, although I rather doubt it, should we decide to fully explore the possibilities of my own cellar prior to hailing a cab for Cserfő.
So, expect pics shortly and anon. I rather suspect blogging time will be sacrificed for drinking time and, should you not hear from me awhile, fear not. 'Twill simply be embarrassment at having been out-bendered by a girly.
A hip flask in the glove compartment might just be in order. I have some really vicious pálinka. Happen I can nobble her before we even get home. If not, I have a suspicion that I may well be doomed.
What began as a small disturbance at 10 000 feet somewhere over the mid-atlantic has now increased in force, intensity and, most pertinently, proximity.
Hurricane Jess is due to arrive over Budapest some time around midday tomorrow. Airport bars and shoe emporia will be closed and boarded up in anticipation. Inhabitants of the capital have been reassured that the danger will be only fleeting as she will divert in a south-westerly direction should the jet-stream (read VW Passat) arrive as forecast.
The prognosis for the weekend is wet. Very.
I visited my friend, our host at the jazz festival, yesterday and he does indeed have ample stocks of 60% by volume Hungarian pálinka. His wine store is comprised of the eminently drinkable...the bottled stuff and the even more drinkable straight from the barrel last year's vintage...even if it does only come in two varieties, white and red.
These supplies may prove unecessary, although I rather doubt it, should we decide to fully explore the possibilities of my own cellar prior to hailing a cab for Cserfő.
So, expect pics shortly and anon. I rather suspect blogging time will be sacrificed for drinking time and, should you not hear from me awhile, fear not. 'Twill simply be embarrassment at having been out-bendered by a girly.
A hip flask in the glove compartment might just be in order. I have some really vicious pálinka. Happen I can nobble her before we even get home. If not, I have a suspicion that I may well be doomed.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
NEXUS
I was in a bit of a quandry this evening. Whether to continue mowing the lawn or to mark a few more oral examinations.
The mosquitos rather put paid to the former...little bastards have obviously developed an immunity to the 'Off' spray I employ on these occasions...and a sense of propriety over the English language rather stymied the latter.
So...all things being equal and free will being paramount, I watched all three episodes of the TV adaptation of 'Dune' and got spectacularly drunk on Booker's bourbon.
Hey ho. Bollocks. Hic. Bastards.
I would also direct you to one of the most restrained and honest pieces of writing I have ever read...if you can read this and remain unmoved, you are without doubt bereft of even the slightest touch of humanity.
I don't know you, Jon, but by all that's reasonable, I feel for you right now. There is no God.
I was in a bit of a quandry this evening. Whether to continue mowing the lawn or to mark a few more oral examinations.
The mosquitos rather put paid to the former...little bastards have obviously developed an immunity to the 'Off' spray I employ on these occasions...and a sense of propriety over the English language rather stymied the latter.
So...all things being equal and free will being paramount, I watched all three episodes of the TV adaptation of 'Dune' and got spectacularly drunk on Booker's bourbon.
Hey ho. Bollocks. Hic. Bastards.
I would also direct you to one of the most restrained and honest pieces of writing I have ever read...if you can read this and remain unmoved, you are without doubt bereft of even the slightest touch of humanity.
I don't know you, Jon, but by all that's reasonable, I feel for you right now. There is no God.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Thursday, July 08, 2004
sKOdad
Bastards. Scum-sucking, furd-wangling, gonad-scratching, bilge-drinking, crotch-sniffing, whore-mongering bastards.
The phone rings this morning. I'm only on my first cup of coffee but I pick it up nevertheless.
"Uh huh?"
"Good morning, sir. This is Peter from the showroom. Your car's arrived and we really need you to pay the 55% cash you promised us, sir. Could you..."
I get to the showroom just as he's replacing the handset, hand over the readies and ask him for the keys.
"Oh no, sir. You can't possibly take it away today."
"But I've just handed you two and a half million forints cash!"
"I appreciate that, sir. But we have to register the car first. It doesn't have a number plate yet. And then it has to be tested and..."
"Yer wot...tested?"
"Oh yes. MOT and emissions tested."
"But it's a new fucking car!"
"I know, sir. Bureaucracy, sir."
"So, why in the name of all that's sensible did you ring me this morning and tell me my car had arrived? Would it not have been more humane to wait till I could drive it away?"
"Possibly, sir. Thing is that until the bank has confirmation that you have, in fact, stumped up your slice of the dosh, nothing can proceed."
"Okay then. So when can I pick it up?"
"Er...let me see...registration 2 days...test it on Thursday..."
"Thursday?!"
"Oh yes, sir. They only test on Thursdays."
"Today's Thursday."
"So it is, sir but until it's registered, they won't test it. Friday afternoon okay, then?"
"Is it buggery. I've got to go to Budapest on Friday to pick up the Shoe."
"Saturday morning it is then, sir."
"I'll still be fucking drunk on Saturday morning. Bollocks!"
Bastards. Snot-gobbling, slime-trailing, arse-dangling bastards.
Bastards. Scum-sucking, furd-wangling, gonad-scratching, bilge-drinking, crotch-sniffing, whore-mongering bastards.
The phone rings this morning. I'm only on my first cup of coffee but I pick it up nevertheless.
"Uh huh?"
"Good morning, sir. This is Peter from the showroom. Your car's arrived and we really need you to pay the 55% cash you promised us, sir. Could you..."
I get to the showroom just as he's replacing the handset, hand over the readies and ask him for the keys.
"Oh no, sir. You can't possibly take it away today."
"But I've just handed you two and a half million forints cash!"
"I appreciate that, sir. But we have to register the car first. It doesn't have a number plate yet. And then it has to be tested and..."
"Yer wot...tested?"
"Oh yes. MOT and emissions tested."
"But it's a new fucking car!"
"I know, sir. Bureaucracy, sir."
"So, why in the name of all that's sensible did you ring me this morning and tell me my car had arrived? Would it not have been more humane to wait till I could drive it away?"
"Possibly, sir. Thing is that until the bank has confirmation that you have, in fact, stumped up your slice of the dosh, nothing can proceed."
"Okay then. So when can I pick it up?"
"Er...let me see...registration 2 days...test it on Thursday..."
"Thursday?!"
"Oh yes, sir. They only test on Thursdays."
"Today's Thursday."
"So it is, sir but until it's registered, they won't test it. Friday afternoon okay, then?"
"Is it buggery. I've got to go to Budapest on Friday to pick up the Shoe."
"Saturday morning it is then, sir."
"I'll still be fucking drunk on Saturday morning. Bollocks!"
Bastards. Snot-gobbling, slime-trailing, arse-dangling bastards.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
SAINTS PRESURFERS
I shamelessly nicked this quiz from the Presurfer. Apparently...
You are an SECF--Sober Emotional Constructive Follower. This makes you a hippie. You are passionate about your causes and steadfast in your commitments. Once you've made up your mind, no one can convince you otherwise. Your politics are left-leaning, and your lifestyle choices decidedly temperate and chaste.
You do tremendous work when focused, but usually you operate somewhat distracted. You blow hot and cold, and while you normally endeavor on the side of goodness and truth, you have a massive mean streak which is not to be taken lightly. You don't get mad, you get even.
Mmmmmmmmmm.
I shamelessly nicked this quiz from the Presurfer. Apparently...
You are an SECF--Sober Emotional Constructive Follower. This makes you a hippie. You are passionate about your causes and steadfast in your commitments. Once you've made up your mind, no one can convince you otherwise. Your politics are left-leaning, and your lifestyle choices decidedly temperate and chaste.
You do tremendous work when focused, but usually you operate somewhat distracted. You blow hot and cold, and while you normally endeavor on the side of goodness and truth, you have a massive mean streak which is not to be taken lightly. You don't get mad, you get even.
Mmmmmmmmmm.
THE MEN IN MENOPAUSE
It's got to be hormonal...maybe it's enzymes, endorphins?
Whatever it is, I've burst into tears three times recently. The first time was while watching Robbie Williams Live at Knebworth on Hungarian HBO...next was watching Sharapova win Wimbledon and the latest was when giving 15 out of 15 to an absolutely flawless piece of creative writing about the Scottish clan wars.
I'm worried...very worried.
It's got to be hormonal...maybe it's enzymes, endorphins?
Whatever it is, I've burst into tears three times recently. The first time was while watching Robbie Williams Live at Knebworth on Hungarian HBO...next was watching Sharapova win Wimbledon and the latest was when giving 15 out of 15 to an absolutely flawless piece of creative writing about the Scottish clan wars.
I'm worried...very worried.
Friday, July 02, 2004
SEMMI
Unatkoztam. Az egész nap. Nem volt semmi más dolgom, csak a munkám. Megint elment a családom, hogy tehessem zavarás nélkül. Bárcsak, hogy valaki zavart volna…a postás sem volt. A telefon se csengett…semmi. És esik az eső, nagyon.
És milyen a munkám? Borzasztó. Már javítottam több, mint két száz vizsgát ugyan az a szinten és bár, hogy úgy gondoltam, hogy nagyon pesszimisták a magyarok, úgy tűnik, hogy amikor jelentkeznek kell a vizsgához, túl optimisták vannak. Jól tudok ám, hogy mindenkinek kell a „First Class Pass”-ra elérni de általában nem élnek a stabil földen.
Aztán észre vettem, hogy elfogyat a macska eledel és az ásványvíz. Irány a boltba. Annyira esett, hogy 50 méter alatt a gatyám is vizes lett. Az összes vásárlás közben szortyogott a víz a cipőmben…cukrot akartam venni de nem mertem felvenni a nedves kezemmel. Vártam kellet ameddig nem volt száraz.
Hát, jól van. Legalább nyertek a görögök, hajra Dellas. Micsoda ember. Egyszer pengő, mindig pengő. Az nehéz lesz azoknak akinek nincs tudománya az angol fociról.
Sokszor azt mondtam a régi tanulóimnak, hogy olvasnak kell a blogomat, hogy lehet nekik javulni az olvasási ügyességeket és kíváncsi voltam, hogy lehet nekem egy egész blog-at magyarul írni. Hát, úgy tűnik, hogy igen.
Végzem most egy viccel. Nagyon büszkén vagyok magamra, hogy tudtam megtalálni egy magyar szóviccet, amit senki nem ismert eddig. Egyszer azt mondta nekem valaki, hogy „Hányingerem van.” Mit szóltam én? „Mit tudom én? Számold meg!”
Köszönöm és jó észokát mindenkinek.
Unatkoztam. Az egész nap. Nem volt semmi más dolgom, csak a munkám. Megint elment a családom, hogy tehessem zavarás nélkül. Bárcsak, hogy valaki zavart volna…a postás sem volt. A telefon se csengett…semmi. És esik az eső, nagyon.
És milyen a munkám? Borzasztó. Már javítottam több, mint két száz vizsgát ugyan az a szinten és bár, hogy úgy gondoltam, hogy nagyon pesszimisták a magyarok, úgy tűnik, hogy amikor jelentkeznek kell a vizsgához, túl optimisták vannak. Jól tudok ám, hogy mindenkinek kell a „First Class Pass”-ra elérni de általában nem élnek a stabil földen.
Aztán észre vettem, hogy elfogyat a macska eledel és az ásványvíz. Irány a boltba. Annyira esett, hogy 50 méter alatt a gatyám is vizes lett. Az összes vásárlás közben szortyogott a víz a cipőmben…cukrot akartam venni de nem mertem felvenni a nedves kezemmel. Vártam kellet ameddig nem volt száraz.
Hát, jól van. Legalább nyertek a görögök, hajra Dellas. Micsoda ember. Egyszer pengő, mindig pengő. Az nehéz lesz azoknak akinek nincs tudománya az angol fociról.
Sokszor azt mondtam a régi tanulóimnak, hogy olvasnak kell a blogomat, hogy lehet nekik javulni az olvasási ügyességeket és kíváncsi voltam, hogy lehet nekem egy egész blog-at magyarul írni. Hát, úgy tűnik, hogy igen.
Végzem most egy viccel. Nagyon büszkén vagyok magamra, hogy tudtam megtalálni egy magyar szóviccet, amit senki nem ismert eddig. Egyszer azt mondta nekem valaki, hogy „Hányingerem van.” Mit szóltam én? „Mit tudom én? Számold meg!”
Köszönöm és jó észokát mindenkinek.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
MUD AND POLICE
Well, it's been nice to read that one or two authors-of-blogs-I-read have had a wonderful time in the Glastonbury mud and are, for all I know, still soaking in a well deserved hot bath and looking forward to next year's festivities.
I remember the first time I went. Back in '77 I think it was, when it was still, very much, a free festival. The problem was, I think, that we were arriving at what was probably the back end of it all and that residents of the area had started kicking up a bit of a fuss at being invaded on a yearly basis by hordes of the great unwashed.
Four of us had planned to hitch down for the solstice but the 'whatever' factor kicked in and we ended up getting a lift from one of our mothers. Very much a case of bugger the credibility, owt for an easy life. Chemically induced apathy, maybe?
Anyway, the closer we got the more acute became our sense of embarrassment...Oh, mama. Just drop me at the third teepee on the left and send James round with the Rolls on Monday, would you?
We also had the added problem of not knowing just where it was going to be. The site shifted from year to year and we had heard that this year was going to be particularly problematic due to local hostility.
We needn't have worried on either count as it happened. We were trolling along rather sedately down one of those country lanes that probably don't exist anymore when we spotted blue helmets bobbing up and down over the hedgerows (which certainly don't exist anymore). When we espied what I believe is called a paddy wagon and it became apparent that the bobbing helmets were policemen on horseback, we told the guy's mother to stop, unloaded all our gear and joined the procession in what we fervently hoped was a nonchalant (and unmotherised) manner from the rear.
Unfortunately, this involved passing through the massed ranks of the local dibble. Now, I didn't believe for one moment that they would strip search us on the verge but for four paranoiacs to be in amongst so much blue serge, it was an uncomfortable experience to say the least. Polite middle class wimps that we were, many an excuse me passed our lips as we manouevred ourselves and our back packs through their midst and it was at this point that my first illusions were rudely shattered. Up to then it had been wholly outside my experience (and also my naiive expectations) that police officers were seemingly at liberty to heartily abuse members of the citizenry.
It was with some sense of relief that we emerged through the vanguard of the rear guard as it were. And then...
I don't know what I had been expecting...some lovey dovey hippy peace and love thing, I suppose but the reality of it was as much of a shock to the system as had been the fucks per minute count in the speech of the constabulary. I mean, this was hard core. This was circa 1977 and 'new age traveller' was not part of the common vocabulary of the time. Dreadlocked and travel worn, animated and aggressive, driving vehicles with no tax disc and in suspiciously unroadworthy condition, these people were totally outside my frame of reference. Several were nursing fresh wounds as a result of clashes with sundry dibbles and the tension was tangible.
We were invited into one of their vans by a thirty something woman and we accepted her hospitality and tea rather guiltily. I'm sure she thought we had hiked it down there rather than get dropped at the door. But maybe not, we must have been so obviously wide eyed and innocent that our pretense of insousiance would have been transparent to all. She was kind though and made us welcome.
An acceptable site was eventually arrived at and we pitched camp. The generator however, did not arrive so the only music on offer over the weekend would be acoustic.
There were a whole lot of kids with the travellers and I remember being impressed by their maturity, their ease with strangers and their communication skills to say nothing of their familiarity with the erection of teepees.
We had a great time and the constant police presence on the periphery never interfered with our enjoyment. I remember being impressed with the travellers' bravery...no, that's the wrong word...dedication maybe. I would go back to my comfortable semi and they would, well...move on, I guess.
But even at the time, I remember thinking that despite their rejection of our society, they all signed on somewhere and could not have existed as a discrete, separate entity, totally 'outside', completely self-sufficient, unreliant on either the DHSS or the NHS and this rather took the shine off it for me. Admirable sentiments maybe, but in practice, hypocritical.
And I think about those kids now. It might not have been easy for their parents to drop out but just how difficult would it be for them to drop in?
Pass the rizlas, Alice.
Well, it's been nice to read that one or two authors-of-blogs-I-read have had a wonderful time in the Glastonbury mud and are, for all I know, still soaking in a well deserved hot bath and looking forward to next year's festivities.
I remember the first time I went. Back in '77 I think it was, when it was still, very much, a free festival. The problem was, I think, that we were arriving at what was probably the back end of it all and that residents of the area had started kicking up a bit of a fuss at being invaded on a yearly basis by hordes of the great unwashed.
Four of us had planned to hitch down for the solstice but the 'whatever' factor kicked in and we ended up getting a lift from one of our mothers. Very much a case of bugger the credibility, owt for an easy life. Chemically induced apathy, maybe?
Anyway, the closer we got the more acute became our sense of embarrassment...Oh, mama. Just drop me at the third teepee on the left and send James round with the Rolls on Monday, would you?
We also had the added problem of not knowing just where it was going to be. The site shifted from year to year and we had heard that this year was going to be particularly problematic due to local hostility.
We needn't have worried on either count as it happened. We were trolling along rather sedately down one of those country lanes that probably don't exist anymore when we spotted blue helmets bobbing up and down over the hedgerows (which certainly don't exist anymore). When we espied what I believe is called a paddy wagon and it became apparent that the bobbing helmets were policemen on horseback, we told the guy's mother to stop, unloaded all our gear and joined the procession in what we fervently hoped was a nonchalant (and unmotherised) manner from the rear.
Unfortunately, this involved passing through the massed ranks of the local dibble. Now, I didn't believe for one moment that they would strip search us on the verge but for four paranoiacs to be in amongst so much blue serge, it was an uncomfortable experience to say the least. Polite middle class wimps that we were, many an excuse me passed our lips as we manouevred ourselves and our back packs through their midst and it was at this point that my first illusions were rudely shattered. Up to then it had been wholly outside my experience (and also my naiive expectations) that police officers were seemingly at liberty to heartily abuse members of the citizenry.
It was with some sense of relief that we emerged through the vanguard of the rear guard as it were. And then...
I don't know what I had been expecting...some lovey dovey hippy peace and love thing, I suppose but the reality of it was as much of a shock to the system as had been the fucks per minute count in the speech of the constabulary. I mean, this was hard core. This was circa 1977 and 'new age traveller' was not part of the common vocabulary of the time. Dreadlocked and travel worn, animated and aggressive, driving vehicles with no tax disc and in suspiciously unroadworthy condition, these people were totally outside my frame of reference. Several were nursing fresh wounds as a result of clashes with sundry dibbles and the tension was tangible.
We were invited into one of their vans by a thirty something woman and we accepted her hospitality and tea rather guiltily. I'm sure she thought we had hiked it down there rather than get dropped at the door. But maybe not, we must have been so obviously wide eyed and innocent that our pretense of insousiance would have been transparent to all. She was kind though and made us welcome.
An acceptable site was eventually arrived at and we pitched camp. The generator however, did not arrive so the only music on offer over the weekend would be acoustic.
There were a whole lot of kids with the travellers and I remember being impressed by their maturity, their ease with strangers and their communication skills to say nothing of their familiarity with the erection of teepees.
We had a great time and the constant police presence on the periphery never interfered with our enjoyment. I remember being impressed with the travellers' bravery...no, that's the wrong word...dedication maybe. I would go back to my comfortable semi and they would, well...move on, I guess.
But even at the time, I remember thinking that despite their rejection of our society, they all signed on somewhere and could not have existed as a discrete, separate entity, totally 'outside', completely self-sufficient, unreliant on either the DHSS or the NHS and this rather took the shine off it for me. Admirable sentiments maybe, but in practice, hypocritical.
And I think about those kids now. It might not have been easy for their parents to drop out but just how difficult would it be for them to drop in?
Pass the rizlas, Alice.
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