Occasionally I am contacted by what I would affectionately call 'admirers'. Some write to me seeking pearls of wisdom; others enquire about the status of overdue electricity bill payments. In either case, I reply honestly that I can be of no assistance but hope that the signed photograph enclosed is some consolation. I reproduce below a recent communique from the Americas:
Walter,
This past weekend I played a new sport called Ultimate Frisbee in beautiful Allentown, PA. A very short man with devastatingly blue eyes and a penchant for the drink was there, playing for a lesser team. As was a lovely Chinese woman with a penis, playing for a team from New York City (New York, indeed). I participated with a team from the Washington, DC metropolitan area called The Anacostia All-Stars. Anacostia is the name of the roughest area of our fair Capitol: where the African-American's live. I am not particularly enthusiastic about this team name. Who calls themselves the 'All-stars' anyway? Its somewhat akin to my college Frisbeedisc team calling itself "Darkhorse" when we were ranked second in the country for most of the year. I've encouraged the formation of a working group to address the naming issue, and have suggested renaming ourselves after the sixth best soccer team in the Botswana Premier League ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botswana_Meat_Commission_FC).
Anywho! The squad played like every other team I've played on recently, that is, like they had never practiced together. Though this one had actually never practiced together. We gave Slow White a run for their money. Then they decided to beat us, and did. For better, or for worse I was the fastest man on the field for most of the tournament. Rumour was that one of the Collegiate teams in attendance had a young burner, but we did not have the pleasure. I find this most encouraging personally, but a rather discouraging statement on the status of Mixed Ultimate. I am not fast, though I can forgive reality for making the mistake. Its only one letter off, after all.
My response:
Herr Boomfelt,
Very drole, sir, very drole. A chap at boarding school, who was both lauded and bullied for being called Giles Spotson-Prattspanley, used to say that surprises often came out of the blue, which strikes me as the kind of conceptual thinking that even the most elementary of brains would have mastered before it was out of diapers, metaphorically speaking. Nevertheless, if "Spottie" (rest in peace) had in fact left all or part of his grey matter in diapers it would have made all the more sense. As it was, he was squished under a bus like a grape when he looked left instead of right crossing a busy avenue in Paris. His noggin took a direct hit and the autopsy, despite being conclusive as to the time (and unsurprisingly cause) of death, was curiously vague about the remains of the contents of his skull, which were no where to be found, either at the scene of his untimely demise or anywhere thereafter. The point being that a leopard may change her spots, by which I mean medication but her bark is worse.
Than her overbite.
I wish you success and God speed in your flying plate-related endeavours.
heart-felt booms,
Waiter!
(there is a fly in my soup)
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
A wisible whyme
Today, I ate fwee food. It would have been wude not to. It put me in mind of my childhood as a nun in the Swiss mountains.....
The tongues are alive with the taste of curried pork
With food they have eaten such as jellyfish and vinegar
The comestible items fill my stomach including some kind of vegetable roll
My mouth wants to sip every chicken broth (with added mussels) dish it sees.
My heart wants to beat like the wings of the aforementioned birds it has masticated
that rise from the lake directly into my gullet
My heart wants to sigh when I get indigestion
from undercooked seafood
To laugh like a fattie when it trips and falls overstones on its way
To sing through the night like a lark who is learning to consume twice its own bodyweight.
I went to next course of salad, tofu and green beens and egg noodles when my heart is lonely
I know I will eat what I've eaten before (like a nice pork wrap with honey glaze)
My heart will be blessed with the sound of spicy prawns breaking between my teeth
And I'll eat coffee pudding dessert once mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooore.
Yodel-ay-i-hoo.
The tongues are alive with the taste of curried pork
With food they have eaten such as jellyfish and vinegar
The comestible items fill my stomach including some kind of vegetable roll
My mouth wants to sip every chicken broth (with added mussels) dish it sees.
My heart wants to beat like the wings of the aforementioned birds it has masticated
that rise from the lake directly into my gullet
My heart wants to sigh when I get indigestion
from undercooked seafood
To laugh like a fattie when it trips and falls overstones on its way
To sing through the night like a lark who is learning to consume twice its own bodyweight.
I went to next course of salad, tofu and green beens and egg noodles when my heart is lonely
I know I will eat what I've eaten before (like a nice pork wrap with honey glaze)
My heart will be blessed with the sound of spicy prawns breaking between my teeth
And I'll eat coffee pudding dessert once mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooore.
Yodel-ay-i-hoo.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Monday, 2 April 2007
The Sevens' Deadly Sins
1. Envy
18,543 people gathered in Hong Kong stadium last weekend to watch fourteen fearsome fighting sportsmen in short shorts square off against each other on the rugby field. 2,832 in the infamous South Stand didn't pay any attention to the rugby. This is the story of why.
2. Greed
When you arrive at the stadium the overall feeling is one of anti-climax. Firstly, it's way too easy to get in past the burley, intimidating frame of a 5'2" schoolgirl.
Secondly, the stadium itself is tiny and lacks that level of noise that a bowl design creates, all because the shorter ends of the stand have such low seating. Everything is smaller - even the warm up area for the players was no wider than a very fat person. And yet, they seemed to be drilled to perfection using this limited space. The pitch seemed normal size but even that could have been an illusion or a clever David Copperfield-esque trick with mirrors. Now I think about it, the players did seem unusually small but that could be because I was sitting quite far back.
Finally, there were way too few hot dogs in the Credit Suisse private box. Will the CS Events Manager please sort that one out (or at least delegate it to some lowly derivatives structuring analyst).
3. Gluttony
Saturday was the day to be in the South Stand, the Mecca of drinking, debauchery and Mexican waves. A soaking concrete landfill of empty plastic cups and disused spectators, waiting to be recycled and revived, respectively. Paulie and I entered this arena at 5pm, having started queuing at 4.30pm. According to the noticeboard, the queuing time was expected to be 3-4hours - perhaps just another mirage of the mysterious South Stand. Waiting for us in the first row were Benjy, suave as ever, and Ken, the epitome of the party boy. I have never seen him sober.
4. Sloth
Paulie's Hour of Power (no intentional religious connotations) began not long after we were seated with our third jug of icily warm beer. The challenge: to drink 1 pint per game (20 minutes). By the third game, Paulie hadn't dropped a fluid ounce, but I was doomed to play for Canada, ready to let go of my bowels at any second. At some point hereafter, the men in short shorts left the field for the final time and we were swept into the mass exodus like leaves in a storm. Drunk leaves. Very drunk leaves. The Hour of Power was responsible for the ensuing Hours of Pain.
5. Lust
Back at the Robinson Fun House, I became intimately acquainted and deeply attached to Paulie's bathroom floor. For more than an hour it gave me support, sympathy and a lavatory to pour out my innards into. The combination of the Power and the Pot was too much to stomach. Recuperation came in the form of a pizza, gallons of aytch-too-oh and Love, Actually.
6. Wrath
I will never drink again.
Until Bali. A bad drinking experience always turns me off something connected with that night. In this case, it was Tortilla Nachos. In Bangkok, it was the taste of lime. In Bristol in 2000, it was peach cordial. Never, never, is it the alcohol itself.
se7en. Pride
So I finally get to tell the proud joke from Freddy Got Fingered. Here's the gist of it:
Father: [Father hands his son, Gord, keys to a new car] Gord, this car is more than a gift. It's... It's kind of an investment in you. It means I believe in my son. You be a good man.
Son: Father, I... I will be a good man.
Father: You make your daddy proud. You hear me?
Son: I'm gonna make you proud, Daddy. I'm gonna make you so proud.
Father: Make your daddy proud.
Son: You're gonna be so proud.
Father: Proud?
Son: Proud. [Son starts engine and yells at nearby pedestrian] Get the fuck outta the way!
18,543 people gathered in Hong Kong stadium last weekend to watch fourteen fearsome fighting sportsmen in short shorts square off against each other on the rugby field. 2,832 in the infamous South Stand didn't pay any attention to the rugby. This is the story of why.
2. Greed
When you arrive at the stadium the overall feeling is one of anti-climax. Firstly, it's way too easy to get in past the burley, intimidating frame of a 5'2" schoolgirl.
Secondly, the stadium itself is tiny and lacks that level of noise that a bowl design creates, all because the shorter ends of the stand have such low seating. Everything is smaller - even the warm up area for the players was no wider than a very fat person. And yet, they seemed to be drilled to perfection using this limited space. The pitch seemed normal size but even that could have been an illusion or a clever David Copperfield-esque trick with mirrors. Now I think about it, the players did seem unusually small but that could be because I was sitting quite far back.
Finally, there were way too few hot dogs in the Credit Suisse private box. Will the CS Events Manager please sort that one out (or at least delegate it to some lowly derivatives structuring analyst).
3. Gluttony
Saturday was the day to be in the South Stand, the Mecca of drinking, debauchery and Mexican waves. A soaking concrete landfill of empty plastic cups and disused spectators, waiting to be recycled and revived, respectively. Paulie and I entered this arena at 5pm, having started queuing at 4.30pm. According to the noticeboard, the queuing time was expected to be 3-4hours - perhaps just another mirage of the mysterious South Stand. Waiting for us in the first row were Benjy, suave as ever, and Ken, the epitome of the party boy. I have never seen him sober.
4. Sloth
Paulie's Hour of Power (no intentional religious connotations) began not long after we were seated with our third jug of icily warm beer. The challenge: to drink 1 pint per game (20 minutes). By the third game, Paulie hadn't dropped a fluid ounce, but I was doomed to play for Canada, ready to let go of my bowels at any second. At some point hereafter, the men in short shorts left the field for the final time and we were swept into the mass exodus like leaves in a storm. Drunk leaves. Very drunk leaves. The Hour of Power was responsible for the ensuing Hours of Pain.
5. Lust
Back at the Robinson Fun House, I became intimately acquainted and deeply attached to Paulie's bathroom floor. For more than an hour it gave me support, sympathy and a lavatory to pour out my innards into. The combination of the Power and the Pot was too much to stomach. Recuperation came in the form of a pizza, gallons of aytch-too-oh and Love, Actually.
6. Wrath
I will never drink again.
Until Bali. A bad drinking experience always turns me off something connected with that night. In this case, it was Tortilla Nachos. In Bangkok, it was the taste of lime. In Bristol in 2000, it was peach cordial. Never, never, is it the alcohol itself.
se7en. Pride
So I finally get to tell the proud joke from Freddy Got Fingered. Here's the gist of it:
Father: [Father hands his son, Gord, keys to a new car] Gord, this car is more than a gift. It's... It's kind of an investment in you. It means I believe in my son. You be a good man.
Son: Father, I... I will be a good man.
Father: You make your daddy proud. You hear me?
Son: I'm gonna make you proud, Daddy. I'm gonna make you so proud.
Father: Make your daddy proud.
Son: You're gonna be so proud.
Father: Proud?
Son: Proud. [Son starts engine and yells at nearby pedestrian] Get the fuck outta the way!
You're listening to KKGAXSQWARK FM...
Big shout out to all my listeners in Georgia, USA. If any of you guys are in Atlanta, you should take note of the following.
Sunrise at 07:24 in direction 84° East by north
Sunset at 19:59 in direction 277° West by north
Duration of day: 12 hours, 34 minutes (2 minutes, 5 seconds longer than yesterday)
Sun in south at 13:41 at altitude 61° above horizon
Civil twilight begins at 06:59, ends at 20:24
Nautical twilight begins at 06:30, ends at 20:54
Astronomical twilight begins at 06:00, ends at 21:24
Sunrise at 07:24 in direction 84° East by north
Sunset at 19:59 in direction 277° West by north
Duration of day: 12 hours, 34 minutes (2 minutes, 5 seconds longer than yesterday)
Sun in south at 13:41 at altitude 61° above horizon
Civil twilight begins at 06:59, ends at 20:24
Nautical twilight begins at 06:30, ends at 20:54
Astronomical twilight begins at 06:00, ends at 21:24
The adventures of a bleaching novice
I am now aware that I am to washing what George Bush is to foreign policy. Useless and destructive. I cannot so much as pick up a carton of bleach without draining some colourful article of clothing of its soul and reducing it to its pallid infancy. It's like like that scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where the villain drinks from the wrong chalice and is "aged to death" (this may not be the official term) in seconds. Only with cotton-polyster hybrids.
So far my current kill ratio is as follows:
FATALITIES:
1 pillow case
SEVERE WOUNDING:
1 pillow case
1 t-shirt (this occurred during a visit to Wellcome when a carton of bleach literally flew of the shelf and collided with said item of clothing)
WALKING WOUNDED:
1 bed sheet
1 duvet cover
Ironically, my efforts to turn a mud-stained pair of shorts white again have been totally unsuccessful. Life is so unfair.
So far my current kill ratio is as follows:
FATALITIES:
1 pillow case
SEVERE WOUNDING:
1 pillow case
1 t-shirt (this occurred during a visit to Wellcome when a carton of bleach literally flew of the shelf and collided with said item of clothing)
WALKING WOUNDED:
1 bed sheet
1 duvet cover
Ironically, my efforts to turn a mud-stained pair of shorts white again have been totally unsuccessful. Life is so unfair.
To start at the end
Now seems like a sensible place to start and then I will try to work backwards through the haze of the weekend. I have a feeling of intense dread in my stomach at everything I must finish at work before Tuesday. My only consolation is that, for the next 9 days, I have no reason to go home. Alicia desperately wants to read Lily's book about getting cholera and falling in love with people in the old days. It sounds disgusting. When I saw it on Lily's bathroom floor I assumed it was there in case the toilet paper ran out. Such is the folly of being a literary Phillistine. (Although how many people can say they have read all the Asterix comics?)
The prosection rests its case, m'lud.
The prosection rests its case, m'lud.
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