T'AINT A LYLE

But it's close. Reading D4D, as I do, mostly for the twunty bits I will readily admit - anybody that can invent the expletive 'crunty spadgewanglers' is okay by me - although the fact that he rides a bicicular form of transport unattached to any form of motor whatsoever does, in my opinion, rather invite the opening of the car door in his general direction, I have become accustomed to being on the receiving end of news, anecdotes and even recollections (a strange word that one, conjuring up, as it must, images of a repeated gathering together of material sharing some common characteristic) of disagreements, contretemps and plain banging of the head against the brick wall of twuntiness moments relating to his experiences as some kind of IT wunderkind whose major source of employment would appear to be sorting out the various and sundry cock-ups made by overpaid amateurs in his field, the pay grade of whom remains, unfortunately, well above his own and, to my current regret, failed to empathise entirely with his situations viz-a-viz Twunty Manager.

I must sidetrack at this point and read all that back. Phew, bit of a struggle but I made it out the other end with a reasonable understanding of just what it was that I was on about so it must be considered a success even though it did appear at times to be an attempt at the Bernard Levin award for the Most Gratuitous Use of Convoluted Sentences in a Blog Post but that's by the by. Now where were we? I haven't lost you, have I? Heavens forbid you were waylaid by one of the errant sub-clauses I so callously embedded in the foregoing. I realise now that my attempts at elucidation, and even elaboration, could easily have been construed as unnecessarily obfuscatory but I am drunk and crave exactitude.

If I may repeat the plea of an earlier post, forgive me or anally implode. The choice is yours.

So, onwards to the meat, the grist, the nub, the kernel of this bloggage.

As regular readers will no doubt be aware, I am contracted as an examiner to one of the many examining boards concerned with the issue of internationally recognised certificates, diplomas and what have you admitting candidates to whatsomever degree in the production of English as a foreign or second language and, in this capacity and given my own linguistic qualifications, have often been invited to the Capital to lecture on the very subject. In attendance on one occasion was a delightful young lady from the organisation in question who was so impressed by my grasp of the Communicative Approach to Language Teaching that she immediately thought of my good self when, on return to Blighty, she was entrusted with the overhaul and modernisation of their website.

There followed several electronic communications in which she laid out the task in hand. To go through x levels concerned with English for assimilation purposes on their site and assess the content with regard to the new European Framework for language examinations...A1, A2 through to C2...an attempt to standardise language qualifications with regard to level throughout the European Community, and with regard to their suitability for international ESOL.

All was well. A daily fee was agreed (the amount of which caused an instant stir in the trouser area) for about 4 days' work and I awaited copies of the contract for instant signage. This was the zenith of our negotiations. From here, there was only one way it could go and it proceeded in a downhill direction with alarming rapidity.

One (and two). Delightful young lady one left the organisation to be replaced by delightful young lady two shortly after my computer crashed and I was made aware of the fact that Incredimail history can only be retrieved if the program itself can be made to boot up. It couldn't. Address book, records...exploded into the ether. Had I made a written record of the rather obscene amount offered to me? Had I bloggery.

So, DYL2 contacted me and at some stage of the conversation mentioned the x+1 levels I was supposed to assess. "Excuse me. x+1? DYL1 only mentioned x." We agreed on an extension to the original draft of the contract and I tried to access level x+1 on the web site. Nowt doin'. It wasn't there.

DYL2 fixed the access problem and was desirous of the knowledge as to how much I would charge for the assessment. I ummed and ahhd and cursed the virus that had reduced my e-mail history to so much ethereal binary mist and enquired as to how much she had in mind. "Well, obviously for 6 days' work, we'll be looking at a figure in excess of ..........." which was less than I remembered had been offered by DYL1. "Well, my usual fee is ........... + expenses but as in this case there will not be any expenses and as it is a 6 day contract, then I suppose I could do it for ......... a day." Bugger. But still remuneratively pretty damned good.

I began the work on the understanding that the contracts were in the post and had progressed fairly rapidly through the site before sending an e-mail indicating my progress thus far.

I received a reply which was a little disconcerting. It stated that, where I had made recommendations as to level and adaptations, I should inform them as to exactly where these exercises could fit within their existing ESOL structure. Okay, I said, but if you expect me to search through that as well, it's going to take more than 6 days.

A new total of 10 days was agreed and I renewed my work. Problem. The existing ESOL structure was not as I had been informed and placing the material within it was impossible. "Mmmm. You're right. I'm going on holiday tomorrow so can I get in touch with you when I get back? And by the way how is the resources assessment coming on?" "Huh?"

It turns out that they are also expecting me to assess a section containing links to web sites with ESOL content. A new total of 16 days is agreed. Just before DYL2 hangs up the telephone she states, "I'm not quite sure what this A1, B2 business is that you've written but I'm sure it will become clear later." Oh, they're only the Standard European Framework codes for the assessment you've asked me to do is all.

Oh, well. As things are going, it looks as if I shall have to take control of this project and write my own brief. Despite the twuntery, I may be able to make myself indispensible and retire to somewhere remote, warm and coastal sooner than I had imagined. God protect me from middle management, though. Twunts the lot of 'em.

FIRESTARTER


 

At least one rather short but beautifully packaged Unitedite might be interested to know that, yes...she's still at it.

TIMBLEDON TUMBLEDOWN

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
I'd sooner have potato blight
An English champion? My eye!
I wish he'd just...

Oh, well. At least the blue rinse brigade can get back to cutting the crusts off sandwiches and setting the net curtains a twitching. Neighbourhood watch is back and this time it's grumpy.

NON MOLESTAR


 

This little children's TV cartoon character has obviously penetrated deeply into the national consciousness and has an awful lot to answer for.

I don traditional gardening attire, underpants and T-shirt, shoulder my trusty spade and hi-ho into the garden ready to test the efficacy of JonnyB's advice to flip them up and carefully observe their trajectory before driving them through the covers for four.

Having been a reasonable middle-order batsman, I am looking forward to finding out if the old hand-eye co-ordination is what it used to be and set to excavating one or two of the fifty or so mounds now dotting my particular portion of the landscape.

I haven't even broken sweat when I notice my 'good' neighbour eyeing me with a rather puzzled expression. We have the following conversation which I shall translate into the dialect for verisimilitude.

"I kiss your hand, Uncle Pista."

"Nah then, son. What the fuck's tha doin'?"

"Cricket practice, Uncle Pista."

"Tha what?"

"Well, actually...I'm endeavouring to dig up a mole. I shall then toss it into the air, twat it with the spade and see just how far into the next field I can hoick it."

"Oh, aye? I mun let them on t'other side o t'fence catch thi at it."

"Why's that, then?"

"Tha'll be oop in front o t'beak. Them uns protected species, dun't tha know?"

Bugger.

INGSOC

Here's one that slipped through the media net.

In November 2004, the United Nations Committee on Disarmament voted on FISBAN. This is, or was, a Verifiable Fissile Material Cut-off Treaty the intention of which was to prevent the addition of any more nuclear bomb material to existing stocks throughout the world.

The vote was 147 to 1 in favour with two abstentions.

Job done, one would have thought.

Well actually, not quite, professor. The 1 carried a power of veto, cast as it was by the good ol' US of A. No surprise there, then.

The two abstentions should cause you no problems either, were you of a mind to attempt an identification of their countries of origin. Go on. Have a wild guess. The two patients sitting cross-legged in the surgery having that spot below their patellas tapped by Uncle Sam's hammer are...

You got it. Israel and Britain.

Shocked? Thought not.

I suppose a case could be made for the two abstentions being the most honest, brave and non-hypocritical decisions. After all, in the event of governments in fact disagreeing with the resolution but eager to curry political favour among their electorates (always allowing that the vote is actually covered in their media which is by no means assured), it is easy to vote for something that you know the US will veto anyway and thus destroy two targets with one missile.

Be that as it may, the point in all this which really transported away the chocolate digestive was Britain's reasoning behind its abstention.

The resolution had, apparently, "divided the international community at a time when progress should be a prime objective".

147 to 1. Some divide.

SNAPSHOTS

"Hungarian dubbing of foreign films is the best in the world."
"Er...how do you know?"

"I remember one poem I read in translation. It was so beautiful. It touched me so much. It must have been even better than the original."
"................."

"This rain must make you feel at home. Real English weather."
"Exactly where are we again?"

"English people are terrible at languages."
"And just what language are we speaking in right now?"
"Ah, well...not you, obviously but..."
"Hold on a minute. What is your motivation for learning English?"
"It's spoken all over the world...language of business, internet, lingua franca, blah blah."
"So you only have to learn one foreign language, right?"
"Well, yes."
"So exactly which foreign language should an English person choose, then? One which would offer exactly the same level of motivation and yield the same results. I would have to learn at least four foreign languages to give me the same benefit as your one."
"Ah..."

"You must be happy about Labour introducing an ethical foreign policy."
"You've heard about that?"
"Oh, yes. The Hungarian press is the bes..."
"Problem is, dear heart, that ethical is defined as anything the United States decides is in its interests. The identical actions by any other country not backed by them is defined as international terrorism."
"But historically..."
"Historically, the same is true. Go back to Nürnburg and look at what was defined as being a war crime. Basically anything they did that we didn't. Bombing the buggery out of civilian populations was carried out on a far greater scale by the allies than by any of the axis powers. And look at Pearl Harbour. Japan's reasons for its pre-emptive strike were exactly the same as those being used now to justify the war in Iraq. All those US bombers and warships stationed in the Pacific region, talked about in US Govt at the time as being able to reduce the wooden houses of Japan to charcoal and destroy their industrial base...a threat far more real and tangible than anything Iraq posed to the US. Again, we are moral. You are an international terrorist."
"But at least there was and is an international consensus, a coalition..."
"And just who were the first on board this time, eh? Britain, obviously. Hanging on to the coat tails of the US administration. Russia was there, too. Had to be. Chechnya. Quid pro quo. Turkey. Pakistan. Quid pro bloody quo."
"So you would be a Democrat, then?"
"You just don't get it, do you? Clinton and Kosovo ring any bells? Carter and El Salvador?"
"Another beer?"
"You're on."

"English food isn't as good as the Hungarian, is it?"
"Ever tried it?"
"Er..."
"And just who is the most popular TV chef in Hungary right now?"
"Jamie Oliver?"

I rest my case(s).

KAN - THE WILDERNESS YEARS

or

Ever Decreasing Rectangles

Turn my back for two weeks and this is what happens.


 

If I were ever to have a coat of arms, it would be crossed scythes on a field of green rampant. I was once asked by my neighbours (aka the Locusts) whether I would mind very much if they were to hop across and chop down the acacias and pines at the bottom of our garden. The rationale behind this being that they cast a shadow across their garden in the late afternoon, thus reducing their annual onion yield by about 3 kilos. My response was to plant acorns in the hope that the curse of the late afternoon shadow, pictured below, would be visited upon the children of their children's children. You gotta love 'em.


 

The death toll amongst the indiginous population was probably approaching astronomical proportions but several lizards were seen skinking away from the blades and a few of the more slow moving inhabitants also made good their escape.

A refugee.


 

Rain stops play.


 

I occasionally suffer from delusions, testosterone fuelled no doubt, that I am capable of providing for my family by the fruits of my labours alone. Above are two results of this; one reasonable - the kennel, and the other risible - the fence and gate.

At least this job's a good 'un.


 

And to think, the fact that it had a huge tract of land at the back was one of the reasons I bought the original house. Maybe I had visions of a tennis court and an outdoor swimming pool and sauna complex. I was allowing myself to be carried some distance away from fiscal realities, that much is certain. Speaking of which, as we are still a two and a half car family...


 

...any offers?

Oh, well. Next week, we'll be taking up the ancient and noble art of fencing.


 

I can't wait.

STRAIGHT MAN

Froggy is getting a little jealous of my marking examination papers so I decide to give her an English test.

"Okay then, sweetheart. What's the English for 'macska'?"
"Cat."

"Kutya?"
"Dog."

"Kolbász?"
"Hungarian sausage."

"Okay then. What's this in English?"
"Elfelejtettem."

At this point I cheat and whisper the answer into her ear.

"Most emlékszem! Table."

"Okay. What's this?"
"Pen."
"And what colour is it?"
"Red."
"So it is and wha..."
"And white."

"That's right. Now, you see that photo over there? The one of you. You're sitting on something, aren't you? What's that called in English?"
"Woman."
"Hey, that's good. I was expecting you to say mummy." Completely failing to recognise the obvious set-up.

"Okay, then. If mummy's a woman, what's daddy?"

"Frog."

I did ask.

RETRO. GRADE.

Okay. I admit it. I was bored. And drunk? Maybe. More than a little. But whatever the motivatory factor, I was inspired to review the more than 1000 files of mp3s I possess and, in a spirit of historical analysis, was inclined to peruse same with respect to era. Precisely? Give us a break. Precise is that at which I am by no means good after even one of the 5.2%. (See blog title for further elucidation)

I will skip the 50s as examples therefrom would be overloaded with Monk and Miles and would, therefore, be of minority interest only and quantum jump to the swinging, fab sixties.

First stop, Jefferson Airplane and the less than 3 minutes of perfect pop that is 'Somebody to Love', closely followed by an example of crescendo building that would shame Freddie's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' and Zeppelin's 'Stairway to Heaven' in that the same effect could be achieved by the same Airplane in less than 3 minutes again and still be as relevant when my daughter hears it for the first time as it was when I did...I give you, 'White Rabbit', a lesson in generational miscomprehension if ever there was one.

As long as whimsy remains a feature of any decent dictionary, then I reckon the Kinks' 'Waterloo Sunset' should remain on any playlist worthy of the name as should, of course, 'Lola'.

Hendrix would be well represented of course, although less for his guitar playing than for his vastly under-rated vocal accomplishments such as the 3' 21" version of 'Hey Joe' the phrasing of which and the uncomfortable edge of 'Purple Haze' still stand out as a beacon to the R&B derivatives that so despoil our airwaves today as does 'The Burning of the Midnight Lamp'.

Then 'that' snare shot that introduced 'Like a Rolling Stone'...one of the few records that can truly be said to have changed the world. Iconoclastic? Yes, but who gives a fuck?

The 70s were a tad problematic and I feel I should gloss over the early (embarrassing) years and concentrate on Tom Verlaine's Television and David Byrne's Talking Heads as representative of my listening during this rather dodgy period in musical history. James Brown deserves more than an honorary mention and even though 'Stoned to the Bone' might possibly be said to be a little tired, it still hits the spot as a perfect example of laid back funk.

The 80s? Fuck off. Did anything happen in the 80s? Well, for me, yes. Probably the most traumatic decade in my life so far but rather negligible from a musical point of view. Medium Medium springs to mind with 'Further than Funk Dream', a track which amply demonstrates the correct use of a saxophone in 'popular' music as similarly doth spring anything by Marianne Faithful in the same period. Particularly 'The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan' and 'Why d'ya do it?'.

The 90s? Well, pray allow me to recommend an episode of 'I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again' from what my machine assures me is 1997 12 00, the veracity of which I am still in doubt. Bloody good episode, though. Featured Stippen Pry, that well known Readers' Digest mailing list error and is well worth a listen.

Oh well, I am old and lack stamina. The 2000s will have to wait until such time as I am able to push the limits of my listening hours beyond 0100 in the bloody morning.

Pass the amphetamines, Alice.

GO AHEAD, PUNK

Well. It's not the first time and it sure as wombats won't be the last. Thanks, Lamps.

Quite what it is about this that I like so much, I have no idea at all. Maybe it's the banjo.

SELF-SERVICE INDUSTRIES

RogerB was right after all. It was only a bloody Novotel. Ridiculously easy to find, though. Leave Nagykanizsa on the M7 and 225 kilometres later, hang a left into the hotel car park. Sorted.

What, no porter? I load myself up with suitcase, briefcase and business-like shoulder bag with company logo and somehow manage to contort my frame such as to allow myself to close the boot of the car without losing control of any aforementioned encumbrance before I realise that I have put the keys in my left hand trouser pocket.

I load up again and head for the main entrance where I discover two seemingly contradictory items. One, that the hotel is a four star establishment and two, that the doorman has been replaced by an electronic motion detector situated above two sliding plate glass doors. I have a brief consideration that I am as a pig at the gates of the sausage factory and step within range.

My normal walking tempo would appear to be several metres per second brisker than that of the normal guest, a realisation brought upon me as the doors dislodge my shoulder bag, causing me to drop my briefcase which opens on impact and disgorges most of its contents all over the welcome mat. A cool entance it most decidedly is not.

I make my way over to reception where I commit the error of communicating with Surly Bastard in Hungarian. This results in his inability to find my name amongst those with reservations as he has obviously made the assumption that I am Hungarian and, as such, should have a Hungarian name. The phonetic equivalent of my appellation unfound, I switch to English and am eventually given a keycard.

I enter the lift and am about to press the button for the 8th floor when I notice the no smoking stickers placed adjacent to some of the buttons, including the 8th. About face. I explain my requirements to Surly Bastard and he wordlessly performs the necessary adjustments before handing me another keycard. How anybody who has obviously taken a vow of silence can find gainful employment in the reception of a four-star hotel will have to remain a mystery.

I enter the room and place the keycard in the slot just inside the door. The lights come on as does the TV, the screen of which displays a personalised message welcoming me to the hotel. Obviously Surly Bastard was under instruction not to temper the delight at receiving this greeting with one of his own.

The room itself is fine and I am pleased to note the lack of any sticky chocolaty confection on the pillow. I also observe with satisfaction that the leading edge of the toilet paper has not been folded back into a neat little triangle and I allow my hopes to rise once again.

I shower, dress for dinner and, pausing only to request a 7 o'clock wake up call from Surly Bastard II, I hie me to the restaurant. I am seated with almost indecent haste and am handed a menu. I begin to converse with the waiter in Hungarian and he snatches the menu from my hands and disappears only to return after a few minutes with one written in the language of his native land. I order the drinks in Hungarian and switch to English for the food. His software jams and I imagine one of those Windows error messages flashing up into his vision. Obviously a binary waiter...either/or but not both simultaneously.

I receive my cream of mussel soup and am only slightly disappointed to discover that the mussels are not fresh. It is also saltier than I would like and it is this I blame for my consumption of four beers during the course of the meal. The twice marinated fillet of Hungarian ox with spiced potatoes is excellent however and I am sufficiently cheered to engage the waiter in conversation as to which Hungarian TV channel will be showing the Champions' League final later that evening. He informs me that Viasat 3 fulfills my requirements to the letter and follows this with the information that this is unavailable throughout the hotel. I press him and he agrees to phone the hotel's bars and enquire as to whether they would be showing it via any other nation's television.

I stroll into the bar by which time Milan are already one up and, fearing the worst, order another beer. I soon realise that the bar is populated entirely by Germans and Italians, all of whom are rooting for AC. As the first half progresses and my vocal involvement in the match increases in direct proportion to my by now accelerating alcohol consumption, I am much ridiculed, traduced and mocked for my nationality and temporary allegiance to Liverpool Football Club. I take it all in good spirit and accept their offers of consolation beers with good grace. I remark at half-time that it isn't over yet and accept several wagers of alcoholic comestibles based on the number of goals Liverpool actually manage to score and on the final result. A rather interesting period during the course of the second half results in quite a considerable queue of beers on the part of the bar I occupy and it is only after the second period of extra time that I manage to reduce it to one. The end of the penalty shoot-out sees the queue expand to even larger proportions and it is at this point that my memory of the evening becomes, shall we say, hazy.

I wake up at 8 o'clock, curse Surly Bastard II and somehow manage to shower and get down into the lobby for 8.30 where the minibus awaits to transport us to the venue. Us? Oh, my god. There are about 15 of us, all staying at the same hotel. I hide behind my sunglasses and pray that none of them strolled into the bar last night.

The workshop begins and we have to interview each other before introducing our interviewee to the others.

"The guy at the back in the shades and looking rather the worse for wear is Simon..."

My turn arrives.

"Er...the lady over there in the rather attractive blue dress is...er, what did you say your name was again?"

Bollocks.

BLUE DANUBE

"...This used to be the bridge. You rode out here at full moon.
Halfway across the hansom cab put on the brakes.
It was built by Adam Clark in the Age of Reform
Above the arches seagulls used to oscillate.
Then so many suicidal leant against the railings
Now the suicidal lie below water with the balustrade.
A cold wind cuts through the tunnel
And its fingers stroke the hair of the dead..."

The ballad of Mel and Colin? Maybe. Just that I can never cross the river without these lines springing to mind and feeling the tug of the dangerous attraction that is the undertow. Every river crossed, an affirmation.

Oh well. Back on Saturday. Cheerio.

I AM NOT A NUMBER

Should anybody be desirous of boosting my already over inflated ego on Wednesday or Thursday of this week, you are cordially invited to phone the Novotel Congress Budapest and have me paged.


 

Please do not be offended if I do not immediately rush to your summons. This will be for one of three reasons.

1. The hotel has three bars. I could be leaning in what I fervently hope to be a cool and nonchalant fashion against any one of them.

2. The sheer, trouser squirming joy of having one's name broadcast above the hubbub of film stars, politicians, high class call-girls and sundry liggers, even if they do mistake me for that Arthur Dent guy, would be of such a magnitude that it would be a shame to bring it to a premature conclusion.

3. I am stuck in a one-way system somewhere and have, quite utterly, failed to arrive at all.

The smart money is on 3.

SOMEWHERE, A TREE FELL

Oooh, I love quiet nights.
Off season blues eh?
Quit flashing at me, Lamps...I know the rules by now.
Ok then, I'll click on it.
Family channel, eh?
Big daddy warnock.
Have to beware of acting as a malignant influence on li'l Dan.
Guess this should get me into the talking to yourself stats.
Get a life, man.
Go out.
Get drunk.
Meet people. Where's Jess?
I'm beginning to get worried.
Worried is not a state I feel comfortable with.
I shall bill you for the therapy.
Not that I really need it, mind.
Just that where else can you talk about your favourite subject (yourself) for a whole hour?
I shall return.
I am off on an expedition to the furthest fridge.
Need beer.
Is this a record yet?
I repeat, get a life, you wastrel.
Stanley Unwin.
He was good at monologues...
...as was Frankie Howerd...
...if you liked that sort of thing...
which I didn't,
but that's by the by.
I would like to thank you
for providing me with this opportunity of communing with myself.
I feel much better now.
I was entering into a sorry for oneself zone,
but this has cheered me up no end.
Wanna beer?
Help yourself
There's plenty...
...or was plenty.
Stocks are dwindling in deirect proportion to the time I spend on here.
Oops, first typo.
Shame on me.
42 lines...
...must be a record now, eh?
Saddo.
Oh well.
Oh me.
Oh my.
How time flies.
Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!
What was that?
That was your life, mate.
Oh, can I have another one?
Sorry.
Ah, I had such good times.
Old times?
Nothing like the old times.
Wannan old time?
Which one?
Any, i don't care. 1992?
Sorry, fresh out. Gottan old 1986 I could let you have.
Naah.
Hardly used...Thatcher years dontcha know?
Good god, man. Have you no shame?
Naah, sold the last ounce three hours ago. Nice Jewish chap.
Got any guilt?
Sorry guy. Catholics have cleared me out.
Embarrassment?
Some C of E bint was in here an hour ago wearing the wrong hat. She took the lot.
Porn?
Now yer talking. Brown bag stuff, eh?
If I'd wanted the Woodford, I would have asked for it, you pretzel.
Warnockers?
Phwoaaar! I'll say.
Bazookas, eh?
Well...known to mis-fire but strike a few they have accidentally been known to.
Yoda?
No, just simple meditation.
Aha, you're a thinker, eh?
Gerrartnit. Wazzock.
I'm terribly sorry, sir.
Quite alright, my man. Tickle my scrotum and I will forgive you all.
Scrotum, the old wrinkled retainer.
Ah, you're a Sir Henry fan, then.
I have been known to be. You're not from the revenue, are you?
Good heavens, no. I'm from the good chat room guide actually. But don't tell anybody, they'll all want a write up.
You look excited.
I am, dear heart but only because my bladder has reached gigantuan proportions and should I not empty it soon, the experience of Noah will seem as but a brief shower.
Golden?
Don't push it.
Ifill has signed, from Miwwaww.
Blimey.
For real money.
No Balti pies involved, then?
My source did not say.
My sauce speaks through my bottom usually.
That is too much information
I apologise
That's okay.
Sycophant.
Is that like an elephant?
Hardly.
Nalis?
Who?
Hairy midfielder. Said to be experienced.
Like Jimi Hendrix?
Who?
Don't get smart with me guy.
Oooh! Get her.
Anybody wanna beer? Off to the fridge again...no? Part-timers.
Who you callin' a part timer? I'm a bigger Blade than you.
I don't doubt it, mon petit monstrosité, but don't tell me you still think size matters.
Wasn't there a bridge of that name?
Bridge of matters?
Oh, dearie me.
Don't get all superior with me, flower. I'll have you know I dated the Dog of Venice.
Did more than that from what I heard.
Carefull, sweetie...libel laws have teeth.
And she didn't?
Well, if at first you don't succeed...
...perhaps you need a liitle more suction, eh?
Knuckle close to you are sweetie.
Taking refuge in the force you are I see.
I think you are in need of medication.
Should I assume the position?
It's just a little prick.
Oh dear. That you should stoop so low.
You aint seen nothing yet.
Oh God. Bachmann Turner Overdrive.
Maybe. My memory is not infallible.
So, what you say may not, in fact, be what you mean?
Spot on, Chris. Like my theory about the brontosaurus.
That it was put here to test our faith?
Got it in one, mon ami. In one it you have got.
And has your faith been tested?
Sorely, my dear. Sorely.
Howsomever?
Well, the local weather indicator for one's toolbar offer for instance. And the chimney watch at the Vatican did stretch belief somewhat.
Truly?
Probably not but who's testing, eh?
You appear to have a problem with belief systems.
You appear to have a brass neck. Where do you get off calling into question my beliefs?
Purely an observation, my dear. You seem to have a credulity quotient approaching zero.
And so I should, dear heart. The last thing I was asked to allow to approach zero was delta x and the inability of my maths teacher to answer the question 'why?' sure messed up my understanding of calculus for the next few years.
You can't differentiate, then?
Sure I can. Dean Windass was no Steve Kabba, that much I do know. Although the difference between Blair and Major it is becoming increasingly more difficult to tell.
Lay off the Star Wars videos will you?
Why? My syntax bothering you is it?
Not necessarily but has it occurred to you that your bottle is empty?
Good grief. Du hast recht. Igazad van. Testicular globules. I shall be right back.
No, Kozluk is right back.
You tryin'a develop this into an Abbott and Costello routine?
Whaddaya mean?
A who's on first kinda thing?
Who's on first?
Getartahere.
Forthwith and anon. And may flights of angels...etc...etc.
Good night...bu bum tish.
Sleep tight, sweet fossils. And should Jess perchance heave into your purview, tell her to get in touch forthwith. Please.

TAKE A QUIZ...VIEW THE WORLD

You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational. Cultural Creative 81% Postmodernist 75% Existentialist 63% Idealist 56% Modernist 44% Fundamentalist 38% Romanticist 38% Materialist 31% What is Your World View? (corrected...hopefully) created with QuizFarm.com

Thanks to the Presurfer.

FLASH FROG

Froggy's first attempt at digital photography.


 

Maybe I can get her to programme the video recorder.

"FLASH...WAKE UP, FLASH"

(Reference: 10 points)

Those of you whose computer room is designed upon standard casino lines where no natural light is allowed to dapple the green baize will probably be interested to know that the download manager FlashGet is presently carrying an offer of a free local weather indicator for your toolbar.

The rest of us? Well, we'll just make do with the fenestration technologies that have served us so well up to now in providing what CNN would undoubtedly call a window on the weather.

I despair sometimes. I really do.

MORE-ALITY PLAY

Admirable as the fact may be that some people boycott the products of multi-national behemoth corporations, I am unconvinced that my strategy is not more subtle and somewhat superior. I actually contract for the buggers. At the prices I charge, I reckon they should all be bankrupt within a couple of years.

I particularly enjoy it when, like today, none of the hamsters can tear themselves away from their executive cubicle wheels thus affording me the opportunity of (at a quite exhorbitant rate of sterling) whiling away the time by inventing some little brain teasers for your delectation and delight. To whit...

CRYPTICISMS

1. G. E. G. S. (9,4)

2. Pickle Michael Howard for all your winter plant needs. (12)

3. An empire building confection? (4,8)

4. Boiling bricks and mortar? (4,7)

5. Cut off commie boss. French revolutionary basket case? (7,4)

6. Drug sounded out by Irishman. (8)

7. Zoe's pets, tailless, go to work. Twunts. (3,7)

Further clues available for a nominal charge from the usual address.

Hey ho.

I LOVE THIS COUNTRY

Relax guys, life's too short,


we go to the vineyard 


we fry pig 


and we fry more pig 


we survey the landscape 


we forget the frying and pose 


and we pose 


and we go home. 

FATHER TONGUE

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this one. You'll have to bear with me. Well, when I say, "have to", I hope you don't think I'm implying any obligation on your part or parts, should I have readers in the plural, a decreasing likelihood I fear due to the rather sporadic nature of my posting recently but the Caol Ila is in me and I must follow whither it leads.

First stop, a linguistic analysis. Father...farther away than ever. Vater...an apt description, particularly first thing in the morning while I'm waiting for the kettle to boil. Pere...as in on a, no doubt. The feeling engendered by a golden duck and the prospect of another to follow. Rather aposite I fancy, seeing as the cricket season is almost upon us. Apa...nice and neutral that one and I'm starting to actually prefer it as an appellation, by Froggy for the use of. God, that was clumsy. Pray forgive me. Or anally implode. The choice is yours.

I have been a father now for nearly five years and I am still waiting for the feeling to kick in. For my self-image to distort through a paternal lens, for my brain to engage parent mode and force me to give up smoking and drinking to excess and to do something about the surfeit of adipose deposit I carry.

I love my daughter. She can touch me like no other and yet...I am STILL waiting. Maybe I'm holding back, not allowing myself to feel all that I should or perhaps I'm actually incapable of it and why should this be?

I am the minority parent and speaker of the minority language. I have always spoken to her in my mother tongue and yet she does not speak much English beyond the formulaic. She cannot manipulate the language. In the house, Hungarian...Idris does not speak English. Nursery school, the same. Everywhere, the identical situation holds. Nearly five years in and I'm just starting to realise that my daughter inhabits a different world from mine own. Not only generationally but culturally, too. She is Hungarian. I'm not.

She seems to understand almost everything I say to her but that is much more than can be said for my understanding of her. Okay, she will start to learn English at school someday but can I wait that long? Besides, I learnt French and German yet would probably be very hard pushed to carry out a conversation in either language that didn't involve either alcoholic comestibles or a bed for the night. Bottom line is, I cannot communicate 100% with my own daughter. Am I taking the easy option, then? Is it self preservation? Is it just this that's holding me back?

Or is it that I'm rootless? Adrift? Without known ancestry? An adoptee, still struggling to come to terms with his place, or lack of it, in the world? Maybe the fact that I didn't really fit either genetically or hereditarily (clumsy again but fuck it) into the family I was very nearly born into (five weeks) is preventing me from fitting into the family I have sired.

Oh, well. I shall take comfort from the fact that, at times like these, I take refuge in the well worn phrase of my own, adoptive, father, "Bugger, bugger, damn, shit, blast."

Hey ho.

YOU DECIDE

Is there such a thing as 'Call-Girl Barbie'?


 


 


 

I rest my case.