DOOLEY DOOLEY DOO

It was a fairly uneventful trip although I have yet to experience what might be termed a perfect landing when flying EasyJet and the pilot was in fact sufficiently skilled to at least find the right airport, the wannabe London Luton...the name a triumph of marketing over any geographical factors that's for sure.

So, off to find the courtesy bus to the carhire centre and encounter the first evidence of the unease and incapability with which your average Brit deals with airports, the first staging post on the way to 'abroad'.

"Is this the bus for the Station?"

"Er...no. That would be the one over there waiting next to the sign that says, 'Station'"

There were at least six variants on the above before the bus drew away which did give me the opportunity of tanking up the depleted nicotine levels. Step out of any airport these days or indeed, out of any building and your first intake of breath is no longer fresh air but rather a fug of cigarette smoke. Strange when in the quest for something decent to breathe, you have to open a window and stick your head inside.

Anyway, off to Avis...sorry, no interestingly buttocked Mégane and have to settle for a brand new silver VW Golf instead which took no time at all to remind me that there is nothing like automotive equipment to force one into taking several steps back along the evolutionary ladder. I was just glancing around for something with which to twat it one when I finally discovered that the switch to open the boot was operated by the VW logo itself...the badge being fitted with a dampened spring system that must have put at least 100 of the folding on the list price. So...load 'er up and climb in.

It was a little like 10 steps forward and 5 back. I was, it is true, feeling slightly less neanderthal after figuring out the boot mechanism but, faced with the array of bright lights and cabin controls, I morphed effortlessly into Dee-Dee mode.

"Oooooooooooooooo. What does this button do?"

There was even one marked 'ESP'. I mean, what? Of course I pressed it, concentrated very hard on sparking up the ignition...fuck all. So much for German engineering.

I eventually got out of the car park having resolved, for safety reasons, not to even look at any of the LCDs...I mean, adept as I am at rolling cigarettes on the roll as it were, trying to decipher and understand merely half of what the thing was trying to tell me would have involved severe lane indiscipline at best and several pedestrian fatalities at worst.

Whoever decided that six fucking gears might just be a whizzo idea had obviously never driven through Luton on the A505 to Hitchin and Letchworth. Used, as I am, to changing gear both with the right hand and rarely, and once I had given up trying to change gear with the seat adjuster lever, it took me precisely not very long to develop RSI in the left arm. Obviously a marketing ploy to encourage up-grading to the automatic version and parting with even more of the folding.

Onto the A1 and a chance to play with the cruise control, something I had often wished for on my journeys across Europe back to the UK. Complete waste of time. Two questions naturally occur almost immediately on return to Blighty. The first, 'Where did all the drop-dead gorgeous women go?' is irrelevant here but the second, 'Where did all these fucking cars come from?' is germane to our discussion. I mean, I defy anyone to find a stretch of road anywhere in England where a constant speed is attainable and/or advisable and just what is the use of a cruise control that is de-activated not only by use of the clutch and brake but also the bleeding accelerator?

Oh well...home and the first Stella session catching up with my brother. We had both had the same idea and arrived home at different times, I with 8 Stellas and he with 8 Tesco bitters that I wouldn't brush my teeth with. Very much a case of each to his own that evening I can tell you.

Captain Blade

I got to Sheffield about 11 o'clock on the Saturday and headed down to BDTBL and the Blades' Superstore, the name again an attempt to market-morph reality I'm afaid. I was under orders to purchase two Captain Blade dolls for two Frogs of my acqaint but was informed that they had sold out yet they might have some left at Streetwise on the Moor. Half way there and it occured to me that I had walked further this day than on the previous god knows how many but I soldiered on anyway. Past several open pubs it must be said but I was a man on a mission. Streetwise was happy to impart the news that the dolls were such slow movers that the line had been discontinued and none were to be had for love nor money. Bollocks. I was in such a bad mood that I completely forgot about the proposed ram-raid on Tongey's opticians and headed back to Shoreham Street where I consoled myself with a greasy chip butty before heading off for the hotel. Check in and tootle off out immediately for a trip to Tesco. Henderson's, only three bottles, sheeyit...check, Colman's...check, malt vinegar...check, Cheddar cheese...check, giant fuck-off block of Cadbury's Dairy Milk...only mildly amused to note the Made in France label...check, fajitas for lunch on the morrow...check. On the way back I stopped at a newsagent's on Wostenholme Road for more bottles of Henderson's, climbed back into the car and pulled away. There was a loud metallic clang from somewhere under the car and an almost complete lack of power. Stall. Bugger. By keeping the revs up at extraordinary levels, I managed to limp back to the hotel where I called Avis. The RAC chappie arrived promptly and we went for a wee drive. Naturally, everything was fine and we parted company. Hmmm.

Sheaf, Sheaf, Sheaf

Sunday began well. I woke up early, had a shower, a short walk for a paper and first into the dining room for breakfast...indeed a first, this will probably never happen again as long as I live. I made off with the entire stock of bacon before any other guests arrived...after all, this was going to be a very liquid day and I needed all the fat I could get. Then, "TAXI!" over to the Sheaf View which turned out to be closer than I remembered it being and led to my arriving there 10 minutes before it was due to open at 11. A white minivan pulled up and several and sundry Blades disembarked. One walked over to the pub door and read the opening hours, was bereft to read the 12:30 Sundays and turned back to impart the bad news. Having had the foresight to actually phone from Hungary before I left, it was for me the work of but a moment to pour oil on troubled waters and receive a cold can of Stella for my trouble. A contingent of Welsh Blades they were and it transpired that we had a common acqaintance, none other than the only man I have ever kissed full on the lips...no tongues though...Weggie himself. Small world. Anyway, first into the pub...not, as you will no doubt have supposed, a first in any way this time...and, being faced with as fine an array of strange and wonderful beers as you could wish for, asked the disturbingly young looking barmen for a recommendation. Quetzlcoatl it was then. They did rather venture out of their own particular field of expertise when they attempted to enlighten me about the differences of language and geography between the Aztecs and the Incas but I am sure they were grateful for the information that the Incas did in fact speak Cechua, a language quite unrelated to some of the 'click' languages found on another continent entirely. One always tries to help out, don't you know?

Anyroad, out to the beer garden and wait for the rest of the Euro-Blades. Hamburg actually arrived on the button at 11:30 but it was another half hour before we recognised each other...he going on the basis of my blogger profile picture, which he insisted was misleading in the extreme...obviously, I'm much better looking in the flesh...and I relying entirely on a rather grainy, hand held video of him performing the Greasy Chip Butty on a German train back from a St Pauli match. So, an eventual hail and well met to Mrs Hamburg, Ams, Mrs Ams, Ams Jr, Trigger, Hague, Mrs Hague, Barca, Froggy and, quite possibly several others who have unfortunately been Quetzlcoatled out of the memory banks. A meeting spoiled only by my half hour wait to get served at the bar. Despicably understaffed if I may say so.

BDTBL

Off to t'match and a pleasant surprise to see just how splendid the Lane is looking these days with the new corner stand...shame about the different cambers but an improvement nevertheless. Only a little out of place...I had inexplicably quite neglected to pack my Burberry baseball cap...I enjoyed the match immensely, the highlight for me being Kozzy's Robert Pires swan dive impersonation near the end and the chance to abuse Király Gábor in his native language did not go unwasted. Quite an optimistic attempt from the back of the kop but there you go.


This is not Derek Dooley

The retirement of the Chairman of the Football Club whose duties would seem to have been doddering and wittering on to an almost embarrassing degree was marked by a post match presentation during which said retiree was persuaded by that bastard son of a bastard 70s DJ, Gary Bastard Sinclair to regale those present with a rendition of Sinatra's 'New York, New York'. We will swiftly skim over this episode only pausing to remark that one wishing to perform in front of nigh on 28,000 people could at least have taken the trouble to learn the lyrics if not actually rehearse.





Coke adds...

A promotional (in both senses) afterthought, the Blades were awarded a silver salver and medals by Coca Cola representatives which admittedly did provide some sort of logical conclusion to the celebrations which would otherwise have been unfocussed and maybe more anti-climactic than they already were. Warnock took the mic and once again just wouldn't let it lie, would he? Yet another reference to the doubters and glass half empty brigade and this on a day when all Blades were in a forgive and forget celebratory mood. Just deal with it, Neil. Okay?

Nellyocracy

A short walk to the Nelly and copious quantities of Chav Juice in the company of the clique or should that be the BOM squad? I shall name no names here but preserve internet alias anonymity to protect the guilty. Here's Raul looking inordinately pleased with himself at having found someone even shorter than he and the powers of Stones' bitter are best demonstrated by Keef's beaming grin even in the face of an impending triumph of hope over experience second marriage.




Big Mart was looking as Top Shop as ever which rather goes against reputation...one has great difficulty in imagining anything other than distance, projectile warfare when considering the tiresome bother of trying to remove blood spatter patterns from Stone Island threads. He did have a lovely cardy on though. Shame I didn't get a picture. Now then, Ped. There are several words that spring to mind when thinking of Ped, 'bollox' and 'bladdered' being two of the most common but I am always struck by how such a model of lugubriousness as he can be so much fun to be with. Imagine a six foot version of Droopy Dog with a ready wink, an awesome thirst and...naah, not even close.








There was a rather dimly remembered arm wrestling debate as both for and against Akinbiye massives squared off against each other. My opponent was Big Rods who, I can only assume, has a collection of oversized American custom cars, and I am sorry to say...on the basis of eye-witness evidence only as my memory tells me the opposite...I lost. To Rods, I can only say that thou art a short-arsed little runt and I'll get thee next time, ya bugger. Brownie...fount of some of the ropiest celebratory cigars I have ever tasted. In fact, if I relax my concentration for but a moment, I can still taste 'em. Yodelmeister. How anyone with such an above average liquid content can have a humour so dry is beyond my powers to explain. All I can say here is that he who drinks with the Sponge cannot expect to have more than a partial memory of the journey back to the hotel.

In fact, now that I come to think about it, there were among our number two company chairmen and a sales director. One can only hope that we're all thoroughly ashamed of ourselves.

Oh, and by the way, the Golf switched into Limp Home Mode on the way back from Sheffield which involved a trip to Lincoln in a tow truck and a brand spanking new Peugeot 407. Yummy.

I also set a new record of 2 hours exactly from Budapest to Nagykanizsa which represents an average speed of over 100 kph. Hire cars. Who needs 'em?

We are Premier League, say...

*GRUNT*

It's 3:15 in the morning here and, as somewhat of a departure for me I must admit, I have already been to bed.

The road to Budapest awaits...the first port of call on the journey to BDTBL and the last match of the season on Sunday.

A pre-match EuroBlades convention in the Sheaf View...a post-match BOM shindig in the Lord Nelson with a possible detour into the Sportsman and a ram raid on Sam's opticians.

Bloody long way to go for a party. And this really is an ungodly hour to be getting out of, as opposed to into, bed.

Now, what was the plan again? Oh yes...throw up on Hamburg, goose Barca and run off with Ams' wife. Now there's a bit of reverse psychology for you. One can only pray it works.

Hey ho and off we go.

FOR RAUL

It's hard to say what it's really like, this thread that runs through my life. It was anchored there by my father and has spooled out behind me ever since, one of only a very few constants.

I could maybe liken it to a hunger, a thirst but then it is one that can never be fully assuaged. One feeds off scraps for the most part with only the occasional feast to remind one of the delights of the high table. And am I the consumer or the consumed? The gnawing inside reminds me of who I am and where I came from, the tug on the thread recalls a father's hand.

As it plays out horizontally into my past, the vertical movements trace highs and lows, more troughs than peaks it must be said and only rarely constant.

A love affair, then? Of a kind, maybe. But there is a certain lack of sudden intensity, of infatuation, it is certainly more comfy, old slippers than fuck me shoes. They share a lack of perspective even though, in this respect, they are polar opposites. One looks at a lover and is blind to their faults or, measuring them in the balance, finds they are out-weighed. This thread though is more a fault line, limned with disappointment, treachery and betrayal. Drawn with mostly honest endeavour and on a shoe-string budget.

Do the highs and lows follow my mood or do they define it? More the latter I would suspect. Even though my life is to a large extent independent of it, the thread forms a backdrop, an undercurrent, the base from which all other peaks and troughs must be measured.

A sad indictment maybe but right now, I find I do not care in the slightest. My senses are filled and today I shall dine on greasy chip butties.



The Blades are back.

CRYSTAL CLEAR

Flight EJ2582 will, no doubt, be inordinately pleased to whisk me away from home and hearth and I am sure the hired car with the dodgy bottom (apologies to Soapy but this is one Leopard who has indeed changed his spots)...that is, the cross between a VW Beetle and a Ford Anglia, the splendidly callipygian Renault Megane will quite spectacularly fail to breakdown as it transports me back oop to t'grim and I am equally confident that seat 116 on row WW of the Shoreham Street end of beautiful downtown Bramall Lane will be graced with a gift wrapped complimentary chocolate (and, quite possibly, an intimate wipe for my personal convenience and enjoyment), but...it is with a heavy heart that I have to impart the grave and, it must be said, quite stupefyingly depressing news that my favourite hotel in Sheffield, the quite splendidly named Lindrick, has obviously been taken over by some absolutely hideous cohort of Bush, Rumsfeldt and Kinda Leezer and is henceforth to be known as 'Globe Line'.

And may the Lord have mercy on us all.

GREEK

It has been brought home to me today, rather forcibly impinging itself upon my consciousness in fact, that Friday afternoon is not the most opportune time to be teaching teachers.

I am afraid I lost it.

Twice.

We were 'doing' prices, to which end I had given them a café style menu with which to practice.

The menu had pictures of all the items on offer and the first task was to match the pictures to the words. One wouldn't have thought that Hamburger & Chips would have caused too much concern but I had reckoned without the headmaster.

"Simon, what does 'chips' mean?"

Oh. My. God.

"Well, how do you say 'hamburger' in Hungarian?"

"Er...hamburger."

"And can you see a picture of a hamburger on your menu?"

"Yes."

"And that pile of potatoey things next to it?"

"Hasáburgonya."

"Okay then. So what's the problem?"

"What does 'chips' mean?"

I had also, to save time and add a touch of verisimilitude, used the ampersand (&) on the menu. I had not gone so far as to use the aberrant apostrophe but even this small touch of shall we say, expediency on my part proved too much for the headmaster's henchman who wanted to know whether or not the '&' was universally interchangeable with 'and'.

Anyway, onwards and upwards.

I gave them 10 minutes to ask each other how much any combination of menu items was and was pleasantly surprised to hear there were very few problems. Minor errors of pronunciation maybe, but this was not the focus so I let them go. I brought the activity to a halt and, rather foolishly I must admit, asked if there were any questions. Cue the Head of Textile Technology.

"Simon, what does 'pound' mean?"

At this point I must confess that it was rather difficult for me to restrain from demonstrating its alternative meaning by repeatedly bringing into close conjunction a hard-back book and the top of her skull but...what?

What is it about a foreign language that drives normally rational and intelligent people to lose all sense of reason and logic? To fail to apply their intelligence to arrive at a reasonable interpretation of a text?

Why is it that when the focus of the next lesson was the Present Simple and they knew the following words, "Bob...doctor...English...now lives...Australia...small town...Alice Springs...not ordinary doctor...flying doctor", that they couldn't be satisfied with what might be termed a global understanding and had to spend at least 10 minutes in fervent Hungarian discussion of just what the phrase 'in the small town of Alice Springs' might mean? Lack of comprehension? Hardly.

"Where does Bob live?"

"In Australia."

"Where in Australia?"

"In Alice Springs."

"What is Alice Springs?"

"It's a small town."

"So, what's the problem?"

"What does 'in the small town of Alice Springs' mean?"

They crunch me on Fridays.

IMPAT/EXPAT

A Balance of Payments

"Why?"

A question I am still asked with alarming frequency and one to which I am still tempted to respond with a sharp left hook and an instep to the groin. It is as if I have broken some natural law, removing myself from my native environment and replanting in alien soil. The fact is that all I was really doing was pedalling my bicycle a little further than that nice Mr Tebbit had in mind when giving his awfully considerate 'Words of Advice for Unemployed People' some many moons and no few blindingly boisterous benders ago. That would not, in itself have been enough. What really tipped it for me was the fact that I realised with absolute certainty that I was among those whom he would personally have escorted to the airport. Shipped out. Passage paid. Chattering class.

Well, not actually of that coterie of playwrights, dons, television producers et al so derided by the tories of the time but certainly among an audience prepared to give as much time to them as to that other gang of playwrights, dons, television producers et al, not a chatterer among them obviously, who never earned the wrath of the grammar school classless by the simple expedient of agreeing with them. I doubt Roger Scruton, Alan Walters, Roger Ordish or Sir Alec Guinness would have made it onto the passenger list but I digress.

Anyway, the country had somehow survived the eighties but had emerged divided and quite suddenly, it didn't feel like home anymore. It wasn't that I was on the wrong side of the chasm, more that trying to straddle it while retaining my balance was becoming almost impossible.

Personally and professionally, my life had stalled and I was in need of a fresh start. England had little appeal at the time, the country was going to hell and there was bugger all I could do about it. Being there only involved me in its decline due to the simple fact that it was impossible to ignore. Can't beat 'em, leave 'em.

Now, it's a spectator sport only. I can watch the ovine being led by the bovine and all I feel is amusement and relief. Not that any of you would fall into either of those two categories, I'm sure...but viewed from afar and en masse? Leave. Abandon ship. I'm an intelligent, get me out of here.

I am now twice removed. From the blight of my native land and from my country of domicile...I will never truly belong here or be affected by it in the same way as the natives. I am indeed an island and I find I enjoy it. I have pruned my responsibilities down to the bare minimum of family and friends and have removed myself as far as possible from any...what?...systems, I suppose. Whatever anyone, anywhere is doing, I can quite honestly and categorically state that it is not being done in my name. Whatever happens to me is almost entirely down to me and me alone.

I have a daughter now. Five and a half years old. Intelligent, generous of spirit and equally at home with the en point and the forearm smash. Do you honestly think I'd entrust her to the English education system? Naah, I ain't coming home.

Maybe not quite what you had in mind, Doc...I might be able to come up with something a little more...er...flighty if you give me a day or two but for now my advice is of the Nike variety.

Just do it, girl.

FRABJOUS DAY


reproduced with permission www.sufc.co.uk

FROM THE SON TO THE FATHER

or

Back and Here Again

He was walking now. Head bent back and tilted to one side. Whether or not he had volunteered or had been lifted out and set down is not clear.

They had been shopping. A short walk down the hill to the grocer's. Inside, as in any building that was not home, he had watched that other world, the one which existed just a few feet above his head and which occasionally dipped down for a brief moment of inclusion.

They were approaching the old farm and he could hear the chatter of the chickens above the noise of the cars changing up a gear as they crested the steepest section of the hill.

They stopped. She stooped slightly over the handles of the pram, her breathing shallow and urgent. She placed one hand on her swollen belly and with the other, reached down for his.

**********

He was walking again. Head down. Watching the early morning sun catch the shine on each alternate new shoe and concentrating on the cadence of their fall.

Her grip was tight and the pull, forward. He wondered what the badge on his jacket pocket meant and tried his best, at first, to keep up. He knew instinctively that the tempo was not born out of any excited anticipation but out of a need to be on the other side of something, to be beyond and the event, behind.

The gravity of home was stronger the further away it became and yet the rubber of his new shoes could not slow their progress towards the gates. There, a woman was waiting, both stern of face and of dress. Hard edged. No solace to be found in her cold embrace.

The woman took his other hand and, for a moment, he had a hand in both worlds. He looked up at the old, familiar one and saw heartbreak over-ridden by a grim determination. She let go his hand and turned away.

**********

He was sat on the bed. Her hand was in his. It had been a long time now since she had last walked and her physical frailty seemed to him somehow to be unfair. A poor reward. He saw the same heartbreak and determination as she asked him not to drag it out. He kissed her. Let go her hand and turned away.

**********

He was walking again. Head bent down and tilted to one side.

"Daddy, you know that cartoon, 'the Magic Pencil'? The one where everything you draw comes to life?"

He said that he did.

"If you had one of those, what would you draw?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. Lots of ice-creams, I guess. How about you? What would you draw?"

"Your family."

He reached down and took her hand.

MADE IT

For those of you who may be interested, we arrived okay. Easyjet rocks.

CHANNEL HOPPING

Off to England. Back Thursday.

FOR A FRIEND

Word of the day: Furkle (v) intrans. Part. about/around: That which hands should be getting up to under the covers during the watches of the night.

Drink of the day: Lagavulin

You remind me, gently prompt me even. You nudge me towards the inescapable truth that this blog has been in cryogenic suspension for far too long.

You are respectfully hesitant and choose your register with care. You retreat when my written response is terse to the point at which, were I to be charitable to myself, it could be interpreted as rudeness, an impolitesse to which I should, in all honesty, admit.

So. Wherefore was I thus stung? I draw the toxin ere it has time to burrow deep and realise that it came not from your arrows but from mine own. I am, therefore, doubly wounded; once by the mirror and again by the ice cold stab of consequent self judgement.

Don't you just love it when you can work a semi-colon into the narrative?

Now, where were we? Oh, yes. The hiatus. The pause. The blank page which has been my life since the first snowfall. And that, my dear, is a serious underestimation if ever there was. I could plead the mitigating circumstances of the dearth of gainful employment that has led to my spending the majority of my time at home which, were I to take David Byrne's definition of 'a place where nothing ever happens' could accurately be described as Heaven, and the attendant minutae of everyday life being insufficient to provide enough material for bloggage but I am not so sure.

When I started this blog, it was as an opportunity for me to communicate with an English speaking audience, to use my language freely and with abandon, released from the constraints of the classroom and the knowledge of my Hungarian interlocutors. In short, it was as unfocussed as the attention of a lecher in a whorehouse. To rant, to entertain, to focus my thoughts and explore my feelings, my life, my adoption, my daughter, my creed. The fact that it hasn't led to the revelation of Jeeves' recipe for the mid-morning restorative is neither here nor there. But that very lack of focus seems to have dissipated my energies somewhat.

And then, with time, all these options became exhausted and I was forced into the acceptance of that which I had known all along. That my character and all my creative abilities are, in essence, reactive. Kan does not do creation. Or, that which he is capable of has, by now, been done and done to death. Psychologists among you may note at this point, the shift into the third person but I care not a jot. Yah boo and sucks to you.

Even as a musician, I react to others' creative input. I can refine, improve and extrapolate in an infinite number of ways but to ask me to create that spark, that flash of inspiration, would be a fruitless endeavour.

My mind works quickly. Be my straight man, or woman, and I will give you the gags. Just don't ask me to write the script. I am drawn more to forums, chat rooms and comments these days than to this blog. The immediacy and opportunity for a witty riposte attract and yet fail to completely satisfy due to their transient nature. Here today, gone today. Posterity? I've sat it.

As a writer, I am a fraud. Yes, I can sling words together with a certain rythmn and cadence and I realise that I am at my most effective when I choose to forget my influences. I could tell a story, maybe. Invent one? Well, not for you lot anyway. My daughter remains the sole recipient of Kan the Man Storylines Inc. and, as yet, she isn't telling. Although the tale of the wedding of Miss Fartpants and Mr Burpalot may well last as long as my lineage and be among the most requested at bedtime, I doubt I shall be mortaring the publishers at my gate.

And my life in comparison to yours, my friend? A breeze, I believe, is the expression, although whether or not it could be described as being in any way current is debatable to say the least.

But, then again, I am approaching senility and will soon begin to dribble.

Bugger.

SHOVELLY JUBBLY

A winter wonderland? Maybe. If you're dressed for it.


On the other hand, shorts and a T-shirt might just prove sufficient should you ever be required by law to shovel the stuff off your pavement frontage.

Or even, out of necessity, dig out your car prior to a shopping expedition.

I'm not at all sure that this is doing it any kind of good whatsoever.

THE FEAST OF STEPHEN

Today is St Stephen's day and, being fortunate enough to have a next door neighbour who answers to the call, "István!", we popped round this evening to wish him all the best on his nameday.

I had bought him a bottle of the finest 2000 Tokaj Fürmint and for this, and our sincerest congratulations, we were rewarded with roast stuffed chicken, fried chicken thighs in breadcrumbs, Wiener Schnitzel, roast spare ribs and rabbit stew with garlic and chillis followed by a rich and varied assortment of cakes and confectionery, all washed down with copious quantities of brandy and home made Tramini wine.

All that was missing was the roast canary on a spit. Trust the Blades to fuck up my Christmas.

Anyway, as we were leaving, he pressed upon me a plastic coke bottle containing 2 litres of aforementioned Tramini and also a goody bag of cakes.

Every day is somebody's nameday here in Hungary.

I think I might just have stumbled upon a whole new lifestyle.

SLEIGHED

Just done the rounds of neighbourly present delivery and have sampled the hospitality at each and every one. 11:30 in the morning here and I'm presently pleasantly plastered.

Now I've got to go and cut the tree down, trim it to size and somehow get it indoors and upright.

I have a feeling it isn't going to be easy.

Uncy asks, "Why don't you just take the house outside?"

INTERMISSION

I guess it's my neanderthal genetic inheritance telling me that real men chop down trees, wear high hee...oops.

Anyway, job done. Only minor injuries, flesh wounds, a pine sap rash up to my biceps and an entire string of now defunct fairy lights draped haphazardly over the dog's kennel which interrupted their freefall after they had been precipitately defenestrated in frustration.

I only hope that the firestarter, upon returning from watching Narnia at the cinema this afternoon, demonstrates the requisite inordinate levels of appreciation otherwise she'll be sleeping under aforementioned lights tonight.

Thank God for beer and home distilled pálinka.

Your very good health, one and all.

ARACHNAPHILIA

"Even the paddle-shift gear change works well, allowing for the full PlayStation driving experience. The F430 also has an F1-style manettino switch on the steering wheel that allows you to adjust the suspension, traction control and gear shift depending on your mood. This means that if it's icy the car will take care of everything; then there is a normal driving setting where you can pretend that you are a good driver, safe in the knowledge that the car is holding your hand; a sport mode where, like a boxing referee, the traction control will only kick in if someone is going to get hurt; and a race mode where everything is switched off and it's just a matter of time before you kill yourself." Michael Booth - The Independent

Yeah, but what a way to go, eh?

VENUS IN WHOSE GENES?

As the sabbatical enters its fourth month and Kan the Man Enterprises Inc. is still operating at roughly 20% of maximum output, I have been forced into a reconsideration.

Even when the chimneys were belching out under full steam, Idris was also gainfully employed and yet, beyond cooking the (very) occasional meal and making sure that the socks (mostly) went into the laundry basket, I did very little in the way of domestic maintenance and I now wonder why this was so.

Did I expect her to somehow make up the massive difference in our salaries by putting in all those extra hours?

Was it because I was the child of a housewife who stayed at home while my father ventured forth in search of provisions?

Or was it because I have dangly genitalia and am therefore, genetically indisposed to perform household chores?

Maybe all of the above are responsible, at least at a sub-conscious level, but there is an inescapable and undeniable suspicion that the major factor in my dereliction might just have been sheer bloody laziness. After all, if someone else was prepared to do all the work, who was I to interfere with the natural order?

The present situation however, is such that even I cannot justify my continuing to do bugger all now that I am at home on 4 out of 5 working days although the demands of the internet and televisual media outlets are more exacting (and time consuming) than you might think.

I have found it strange and yet logical that one of the first symptoms of unemployment is serious and serial sloth. One stays abed until the forenoon and neglects both blog and facial hair alike. One's consumption of comfort food cranks up the cholesterol levels and tobacco intake assumes alarming proportions. One walks briskly past the beers temptingly arrayed on supermarket shelves and yet has a weekly blowout courtesy of the stockpiled Islays.

So, will a new squeaky clean, freshly shaved and pinafored Kan arise phoenix-like from this slough of stagnation?

Not for a couple of days at least. Froggy has the sniffles and will be off nursery school starting tomor...oops, today. She's promised to teach me some magic tricks later.

An au pair out of a hat might be a good start.

DOUBLE TROUBLE

You have Santa Claus. We have Mikulás. For you, he's yet to come. For us, he's been and gone.

The custom here is that, as in most of mainland Europe, Santa arrives on December the 5th and is usually accompanied by Krampusz, a devil like figure whose role seems to be to reinforce the underlying message that Santa's gifts are conditional upon good behaviour.

There is also gift giving on the evening of the 24th when, in sure and certain proof of the resurrection, it is the 'baby' Jesus who dispenses the largesse. Not wishing to inculcate such twaddle into the impressionable software of my spawn, I tell her that the English Santa has been delayed and will probably arrive in the dark watches of Christmas Eve. I fear I am fighting a battle I cannot win.

I am prepared to participate in the collusion required to perpetuate the myths of Santa, the Tooth Fairy et al because I believe that deep down, where it really matters, most kids are aware of the games we adults play and are generous enough of spirit to humour us in our folly. Or if not, then we assume that the trauma of discovery is fair preparation for an adult life of similar disillusionments and revelations.

But the legend of the baby Jesus? Notwithstanding the fact that he was supposedly resurrected at the age of...what was it...32, how is it that all good Catholics have sufficient faith in the discriminatory powers of their offspring that they can expect them to accept that one mythical figure is just that and that the resurrection of another is a reality?

It's all very strange.

NAKED BRUNCH

The first in a series of 'Words of Advice for Young People'.

Anything you can unscrew the cap off isn't worth drinking.

MILCH

An annual $24.95 for a referrer service?

I believe the phrase I'm searching for is, "Fuck off."

Right now.

WAGONS HO!

I tasted a spot of enforced sobriety last night and I'm not at all sure I like it. Get this. I volunteered...yup, you heard right...to be the designated driver for an evening out at a nearby hotel and restaurant complex where we were lustily entertained by a thirteen piece retro rock 'n' roll/R & B band.

Four forty-five minute sets and only one trombone solo. Shocking. Anyway, a lot of mineral water under the bridge later and my mate's wife finally lets rip with a two minute tirade during which I was invited to "go in a cunt" for committing the heinous crime of failing to ask her to dance. I had to forgive her of course. She had obviously failed to understand the direct relationship that exists between consumption of alcohol and my stepping the light.

Picked up Froggy from the babysitters' this morning and discovered that she had been regaling them with repeated choruses of that Ian Dury classic, 'Fuck Off, Noddy'. I have no idea where she gets it from.

Now you must excuse me. Megyek a picsába.