I have been bitten.
Two puncture marks four centimetres apart on my left ankle testify to the passage of a bloodsucking visitor last night. They don't waste time in Transylvania.
But immortality does not beckon just yet. No, this is not the result of Count Dracula's kinky foot fetish, but rather the nocturnal feasting marks of a coven of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.
Having unwittingly tenderized my own flesh by virtue of last night's chicken kebab and lager marinade, I woke up this morning to find seventeen angry swellings of various shapes and sizes covering my fingers, hands, arms, toes, feet and legs. One bite in particular, on the inside of my right arm, can only have been left by a rabid pterodactyl, or at the very least a mildly miffed bald eagle.
And boy do these buggers itch. As I struggle to contain my frustration, my superhuman efforts to refrain from tearing strips of my own skin off only serve to make me look like a sexual deviant in the delicious throes of an auto-erotic massage.
Sipping my wine on Piata Mica, the smallest and quaintest of Sibiu's holy trinity of medieval town squares, I am all too aware that the sun's slow descent behind the magnificent Saxon cathedral signals the opening of another all-you-can-eat buffet at Chez Jean-Marc.
Sure enough, within minutes I can sense the falsetto vibrations and light tread of the first hungry diner on the back of my neck.
Bon appétit.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Techno Train
The English Channel has served us well. With the insignificant exception of a handful of disoriented Romans, some Norman bastard in a longboat and a few unhealthy rats in the 17th century, it has pretty much kept out most unwanted guests and annoyances.
In recent times, it has even served as a natural barrier against the aural scourge that is Euro Pop, leaving our continental cousins' shameful taste for formulaic disco electronica outside our front door.
Unfortunately for me, I am no longer on the safe side of the sound barrier. I am on the slow train from Timisoara to Sibiu in Romania and all my own past musical sins have come back to haunt me in the shape of my current train carriage companions.
Sitting diagonally opposite me in an 8-seat compartment, two frisky young Romanian girls are canoodling openly. Their hands are roaming and fumbling so wildly that I start to get my wallet out, convinced that this cannot be for free. Very rapidly, though, my surprise turns to annoyance. It is not their sexuality that is disturbing me, however, but rather their taste in music.
They each have an earphone connected to a 1980s Sony Walkman cassette player (!) and the aural distortion (for music this is not) being played at full volume would incite poor Vincent Van Gogh to slice off his other ear. Every single song that I am forced to endure sounds like a handful of medium-sized ball bearings bouncing around a tumble dryer on its highest spin cycle, with the occasional deep rumbling sound of a wild goose passing wind. That this music is clearly putting them in the mood for some jiggery-pokery is beyond comprehension.
I stand up to go to the toilets in order to relieve my poor ears as well as my bladder, only to return thirty short seconds later, with my face ashen. For the sake of public decency, I will refrain from relating in graphic detail the horrors that have just confronted me, suffice to say that Timisoara's only Indian restaurant must have done a roaring trade last night.
With sight, smell and hearing annihilated, I attempt to protect my two remaining senses by simultaneously stroking my moleskin coat and eating a Kinder Bueno. So much for a peaceful scenic train journey through Romania's heartland.
But my luck changes within ten minutes. The train pulls into a station and the girls get off, still joined at the hips, lips and various other body parts. I swear I can see steam rising from their clothes as they jump off the train and head for the nearest barn.
As the immaculately dressed ticket inspector enters the compartment to check my ticket, he spots my guidebook and smiles at me. "You are alone now until Sibiu," he tells me in perfect English "enjoy the beautiful views."
And he is not wrong. Calm has returned to my world, and the scenery is also changing. The monotonous farming countryside dotted with power stations and disused factories has given way to the rugged mountains and lush forests of the Transylvanian Alps.
I am entering Dracula country.
In recent times, it has even served as a natural barrier against the aural scourge that is Euro Pop, leaving our continental cousins' shameful taste for formulaic disco electronica outside our front door.
Unfortunately for me, I am no longer on the safe side of the sound barrier. I am on the slow train from Timisoara to Sibiu in Romania and all my own past musical sins have come back to haunt me in the shape of my current train carriage companions.
Sitting diagonally opposite me in an 8-seat compartment, two frisky young Romanian girls are canoodling openly. Their hands are roaming and fumbling so wildly that I start to get my wallet out, convinced that this cannot be for free. Very rapidly, though, my surprise turns to annoyance. It is not their sexuality that is disturbing me, however, but rather their taste in music.
They each have an earphone connected to a 1980s Sony Walkman cassette player (!) and the aural distortion (for music this is not) being played at full volume would incite poor Vincent Van Gogh to slice off his other ear. Every single song that I am forced to endure sounds like a handful of medium-sized ball bearings bouncing around a tumble dryer on its highest spin cycle, with the occasional deep rumbling sound of a wild goose passing wind. That this music is clearly putting them in the mood for some jiggery-pokery is beyond comprehension.
I stand up to go to the toilets in order to relieve my poor ears as well as my bladder, only to return thirty short seconds later, with my face ashen. For the sake of public decency, I will refrain from relating in graphic detail the horrors that have just confronted me, suffice to say that Timisoara's only Indian restaurant must have done a roaring trade last night.
With sight, smell and hearing annihilated, I attempt to protect my two remaining senses by simultaneously stroking my moleskin coat and eating a Kinder Bueno. So much for a peaceful scenic train journey through Romania's heartland.
But my luck changes within ten minutes. The train pulls into a station and the girls get off, still joined at the hips, lips and various other body parts. I swear I can see steam rising from their clothes as they jump off the train and head for the nearest barn.
As the immaculately dressed ticket inspector enters the compartment to check my ticket, he spots my guidebook and smiles at me. "You are alone now until Sibiu," he tells me in perfect English "enjoy the beautiful views."
And he is not wrong. Calm has returned to my world, and the scenery is also changing. The monotonous farming countryside dotted with power stations and disused factories has given way to the rugged mountains and lush forests of the Transylvanian Alps.
I am entering Dracula country.
Friday, 10 April 2009
If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em...
Wizz Air Flight W6704 to Timisoara
Scheduled - 08:10
Estimated - 12:00
Wondering briefly whether tearing my toenails out with a pair of pliers would be more fun than spending four hours at the departure lounge of Luton Airport, I remind myself that I am still on holiday and decide to indulge in a spot of people-watching.
As I survey my pauper's kingdom, I soon establish that there are two clear breeds of animal in this low-budget human zoo. Dotted around the lounge are pockets of Eastern European migrants dressed in navy 1980s Adidas tracksuits, leather flat caps and mountain goat overcoats. They are taking this delay in their stride, animatedly discussing the soaring cost of cabbage and exchanging the latest mullet-grooming tips. Here and there, a handlebar moustached is twirled distractedly.
An escalating argument to my right draws my attention. The more hirsute members of a group of Romany gypsies appear to be remonstrating with each other for regrettably checking in their violins and accordions, thus missing out on a huge cash cow with such a large audience at their busking mercy.
Also congregated in small groups, but far more noticeable, are the bands of Ibiza-bound Home Counties chavs dressed in clothes so white and so bright that I am forced to pen these words from the sanctuary of the Sunglass Hut stand. A veritable sea of 3/4 khakis, pink polo shirts and dazzling white trainers reminds me why I will never explore Spain's Mediterranean coastline.
These two groups may be polar opposites on the social spectrum, but today they are united in their unquenchable thirst and the beer taps flow uninterrupted at the bar. It is 8:50am.
With my faith in humanity eroding fast and my patience wearing micro-thin, I must do something quickly or perish in this gene pool of mediocrity. Weighing up my limited options, I choose my only path to salvation and make my way to the only person who can help me redress the balance.
'One pint of Kronenbourg, please!', I order cheerfully at the bar. I am on holiday after all...
Scheduled - 08:10
Estimated - 12:00
Wondering briefly whether tearing my toenails out with a pair of pliers would be more fun than spending four hours at the departure lounge of Luton Airport, I remind myself that I am still on holiday and decide to indulge in a spot of people-watching.
As I survey my pauper's kingdom, I soon establish that there are two clear breeds of animal in this low-budget human zoo. Dotted around the lounge are pockets of Eastern European migrants dressed in navy 1980s Adidas tracksuits, leather flat caps and mountain goat overcoats. They are taking this delay in their stride, animatedly discussing the soaring cost of cabbage and exchanging the latest mullet-grooming tips. Here and there, a handlebar moustached is twirled distractedly.
An escalating argument to my right draws my attention. The more hirsute members of a group of Romany gypsies appear to be remonstrating with each other for regrettably checking in their violins and accordions, thus missing out on a huge cash cow with such a large audience at their busking mercy.
Also congregated in small groups, but far more noticeable, are the bands of Ibiza-bound Home Counties chavs dressed in clothes so white and so bright that I am forced to pen these words from the sanctuary of the Sunglass Hut stand. A veritable sea of 3/4 khakis, pink polo shirts and dazzling white trainers reminds me why I will never explore Spain's Mediterranean coastline.
These two groups may be polar opposites on the social spectrum, but today they are united in their unquenchable thirst and the beer taps flow uninterrupted at the bar. It is 8:50am.
With my faith in humanity eroding fast and my patience wearing micro-thin, I must do something quickly or perish in this gene pool of mediocrity. Weighing up my limited options, I choose my only path to salvation and make my way to the only person who can help me redress the balance.
'One pint of Kronenbourg, please!', I order cheerfully at the bar. I am on holiday after all...
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Perfect Timing
BBC Radio 2 News Report - Wednesday April 8th 2009:
'Security forces have regained control of the presidential palace buildings but tensions remain high in the Moldovan capital Chisinau after mass protests and demonstrations following the victory of the incumbent Communist Party in the recent general elections. The British Foreign Office advises against any immediate travel to the area.'
I am travelling to the area. Fairly immediately.
Even by my supremely chaotic standards, travelling to Europe's poorest and most corrupt country the week after a general election may have merited a little more consideration. With a sense of timing more prone to disaster than a wheelchair-bound lemming about to launch off a 60m alpine ski jump, I must have somehow known that a random group of 10,000 communism-intolerant Moldovan mofos would decide to complain about not being able to get an extra Sweet & Sour Chicken McNugget Dip just before I decided to grace the country with my presence.
With the cherry trees in blossom and its welcoming Mediterranean climate, Malta is a nice place to visit in April, or so I am told. But somehow, the ancient Saxon citadels of Transylvania, the breakaway republic of Transnistria and hordes of rioting Moldovans just sounded more 'happening'.
Hmmm, the news must be overreacting. I pick up my reading material to reassure myself:
'Whether you are a lifelong resident or a fresh-faced visitor, submitting to police shakedowns for bribes is a fact of life in Moldova.', the Lonely Planet guidebook to Romania & Moldova begins, rather promisingly. Having read the two remaining pages in the 'Dangers & Annoyances' section, I am no longer merely concerned with the potential financial extortion that may await me. No, a combination of the rabid packs of wild dogs, urban bears, gypsy bandits or organ thieves should be more than enough to cut me in my prime. No wonder Dracula is a myth in these parts, he plainly bit off more than he could chew...
But the reality of my mission is simple and beautiful: I have a burning desire to explore every square millimetre that this planet has on offer. And on the eve of my trip, I feel so electric that I could boil the kettles of a thousand teas. I have been hiding in the bushes for far too long. I am about to sneak out of the darkness and crawl on my hands and knees, getting my jeans dirty with the soil of curiosity. I will shuffle up to the window, pause for a moment, then open it gently, quietly and unnoticed. And I will look inside, and discover with wonder and awe a new world with the enthusiasm of an innocent child.
I am about to hit the road again, and I can't wait.
'Security forces have regained control of the presidential palace buildings but tensions remain high in the Moldovan capital Chisinau after mass protests and demonstrations following the victory of the incumbent Communist Party in the recent general elections. The British Foreign Office advises against any immediate travel to the area.'
I am travelling to the area. Fairly immediately.
Even by my supremely chaotic standards, travelling to Europe's poorest and most corrupt country the week after a general election may have merited a little more consideration. With a sense of timing more prone to disaster than a wheelchair-bound lemming about to launch off a 60m alpine ski jump, I must have somehow known that a random group of 10,000 communism-intolerant Moldovan mofos would decide to complain about not being able to get an extra Sweet & Sour Chicken McNugget Dip just before I decided to grace the country with my presence.
With the cherry trees in blossom and its welcoming Mediterranean climate, Malta is a nice place to visit in April, or so I am told. But somehow, the ancient Saxon citadels of Transylvania, the breakaway republic of Transnistria and hordes of rioting Moldovans just sounded more 'happening'.
Hmmm, the news must be overreacting. I pick up my reading material to reassure myself:
'Whether you are a lifelong resident or a fresh-faced visitor, submitting to police shakedowns for bribes is a fact of life in Moldova.', the Lonely Planet guidebook to Romania & Moldova begins, rather promisingly. Having read the two remaining pages in the 'Dangers & Annoyances' section, I am no longer merely concerned with the potential financial extortion that may await me. No, a combination of the rabid packs of wild dogs, urban bears, gypsy bandits or organ thieves should be more than enough to cut me in my prime. No wonder Dracula is a myth in these parts, he plainly bit off more than he could chew...
But the reality of my mission is simple and beautiful: I have a burning desire to explore every square millimetre that this planet has on offer. And on the eve of my trip, I feel so electric that I could boil the kettles of a thousand teas. I have been hiding in the bushes for far too long. I am about to sneak out of the darkness and crawl on my hands and knees, getting my jeans dirty with the soil of curiosity. I will shuffle up to the window, pause for a moment, then open it gently, quietly and unnoticed. And I will look inside, and discover with wonder and awe a new world with the enthusiasm of an innocent child.
I am about to hit the road again, and I can't wait.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Obsession
High up in the azure skies, a prairie falcon unfurls its magnificent wings and glides majestically over the vast plains of South Dakota. In the distance, on the open ground, a sudden flash of movement catches its sharp eye: a pocket gopher has just emerged from its burrow after a mid-afternoon siesta and is now dozily searching for the right location for a spot of al fresco nut nibbling.
A moment is all it takes to turn this graceful bird into a ruthless killing machine. Its wings tucked firmly alongside its now taut body, the prairie falcon commences the velocitous descent that will soon spell the end of one creature's life and the beginning of today's luncheon hour for this skilled hunter.
Only this wildlife scene is not being played out on the sun-drenched plains of South Dakota, but rather in the lounge of our cosy flat in Putney, South-West London. I am the prairie falcon and the poor unsuspecting pocket gopher is an empty glass that my flatmate Phil has just placed on the footstool to my right. It is Thursday night and we are watching a movie, but I have lost all interest in the television screen. I have eyes for the glass and nothing else. I try to resist, but it is stronger than me, so very strong. Giving in to the urge, as I knew I would, I stand up, swoop triumphantly and walk into the kitchen clutching the glass in my talons. Once deposited in the dishwasher, my inner peace is restored and I return to resume watching the movie.
At the grand old age of 34, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have developed an acutely domestic case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have long considered myself to be quirky, eccentric and even downright odd, but OCD is the only way to describe the hidden force that drives me to randomly wipe the crumbs from the breadboard, rearrange the contents of our refrigerator* and double check that I have not mistakenly mixed my navy and black socks.
I may have only recently diagnosed myself as a new-born nutcase, but the signs were always there, even in the chaos and disorder of my university years. From the steam-iron shaped burn marks on the synthetic carpet in the lounge to the mould growing on 54% of all kitchen surfaces, our household of seven second-year male slackers was every bit the archetypal student fleapit. But in my room, high above the savage hordes of e.coli bacteria doing battle over the congealed kebab encrusted on my carpet, there, on a bookshelf covered in enough dust to warrant dune appellation, rested a collection of over 600 CDs in precise alphabetical AND chronological order.
As with documenting most emotional or mental deficiencies, recording this here madness onto my humble blog has enabled me to wrestle and defeat one of my most demonic obsessions. Emboldened by the release these writings are giving my soul, I have nipped downstairs in between paragraphs to trim the frayed ends of the rogue doormat that has recently come to threaten my very sanity. Where once inside my head there screeched the sound of yellow ingrowing toenails scraping down a blackboard, there now only echoes the calming sounds of beluga whales and bottlenose dolphins. Aaaahhh...
Screeching nails
The sound of whales
How long until I keep a diary listing sell-by dates for all the food contained in our refrigerator? When will I set my alarm for 23:59 in order to ensure my flatmate's shrivelled cauliflower does not overextend its intended lifespan by even one second? Very soon, my friends, very soon.
With these painfully irritating manic obsessive tendencies only likely to be exacerbated by the cruel sands of time, and with my repertoire of lame jokes already surpassing my father's worst gags, I can only imagine what a cheerful and well balanced chappie I will have become by the ripe old age of 75, and what excellent company I will be.
Good luck Sarah...
* Top Shelf - dairy, sauces & condiments / Middle Shelf - meats & ready meals / Bottom Shelf - fresh produce & alcohol
A moment is all it takes to turn this graceful bird into a ruthless killing machine. Its wings tucked firmly alongside its now taut body, the prairie falcon commences the velocitous descent that will soon spell the end of one creature's life and the beginning of today's luncheon hour for this skilled hunter.
Only this wildlife scene is not being played out on the sun-drenched plains of South Dakota, but rather in the lounge of our cosy flat in Putney, South-West London. I am the prairie falcon and the poor unsuspecting pocket gopher is an empty glass that my flatmate Phil has just placed on the footstool to my right. It is Thursday night and we are watching a movie, but I have lost all interest in the television screen. I have eyes for the glass and nothing else. I try to resist, but it is stronger than me, so very strong. Giving in to the urge, as I knew I would, I stand up, swoop triumphantly and walk into the kitchen clutching the glass in my talons. Once deposited in the dishwasher, my inner peace is restored and I return to resume watching the movie.
At the grand old age of 34, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have developed an acutely domestic case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have long considered myself to be quirky, eccentric and even downright odd, but OCD is the only way to describe the hidden force that drives me to randomly wipe the crumbs from the breadboard, rearrange the contents of our refrigerator* and double check that I have not mistakenly mixed my navy and black socks.
I may have only recently diagnosed myself as a new-born nutcase, but the signs were always there, even in the chaos and disorder of my university years. From the steam-iron shaped burn marks on the synthetic carpet in the lounge to the mould growing on 54% of all kitchen surfaces, our household of seven second-year male slackers was every bit the archetypal student fleapit. But in my room, high above the savage hordes of e.coli bacteria doing battle over the congealed kebab encrusted on my carpet, there, on a bookshelf covered in enough dust to warrant dune appellation, rested a collection of over 600 CDs in precise alphabetical AND chronological order.
As with documenting most emotional or mental deficiencies, recording this here madness onto my humble blog has enabled me to wrestle and defeat one of my most demonic obsessions. Emboldened by the release these writings are giving my soul, I have nipped downstairs in between paragraphs to trim the frayed ends of the rogue doormat that has recently come to threaten my very sanity. Where once inside my head there screeched the sound of yellow ingrowing toenails scraping down a blackboard, there now only echoes the calming sounds of beluga whales and bottlenose dolphins. Aaaahhh...
Screeching nails
The sound of whalesWith these painfully irritating manic obsessive tendencies only likely to be exacerbated by the cruel sands of time, and with my repertoire of lame jokes already surpassing my father's worst gags, I can only imagine what a cheerful and well balanced chappie I will have become by the ripe old age of 75, and what excellent company I will be.
Good luck Sarah...
* Top Shelf - dairy, sauces & condiments / Middle Shelf - meats & ready meals / Bottom Shelf - fresh produce & alcohol
Friday, 27 February 2009
Stereotypes
Rrrring! Rrring!
It is 11pm on Saturday night and I am sitting in one of Frankfurt's most popular Apfelwirtschafts, or cider pubs. The room is packed to the rafters as students, tourists and locals cosily share communal benches, all equally contributing to the genial atmosphere and consuming the potent local apple brew poured freely from traditional oversized ceramic jugs.
Let's get fruity, Fräulein...
By this stage of the proceedings, my Czech customers and I have consumed the fruit of enough apples' labour to have ditched sales forecasts and credit crunches in favour of football and bad jokes. The business meeting is going well.
Rrrring! Rrrrring!
I am the first to spot the source of the shrill noise, although my mind struggles to compute the strange data relayed by my eyes. A man has just walked into the pub. He is wearing a white cloth cap, baker's apron and a pair of wonderfully snug lederhosen. Perched on his upper lip, a spectacular handlebar moustache with the wingspan of an adult albatross nearly takes out an old lady's eye as he ventures further inside the venue. I suspect this gentleman may be German.
Over his right arm, he is proudly carrying a large wicker basket that is clearly heavy. A pretty white lace tablecloth hides the contents from view, but his vigorous thumbing of the bicycle bell strapped to the handle tells me that this mystery will be short-lived.
Rrring! Rrrrring!
'Warm pretzels, sesame loaves, poppyseed rolls! Fresh bread, get your fresh bread here! Pretzels, fresh pretzels!', he shouts to the room menacingly.
This is truly mindblowing.
The Czechs have never seen anything like this either, and the three of us sit in stunned silence for half a minute before I realise that my jaw appears to have relocated to the floor. The scene is so painfully German that I half expect a band of singing bratwursts to jump onto our table and burst into an almighty rendition of 'Deutschland Überalles'. I pause to think of the reaction this most stereotypical Helmut, Wolfgang or Dietmar would get at the Dog & Pheasant in downtown Scunthorpe, and quicky stop. The images are too painful.
My initial laughter and disbelief swiftly transform into respectful admiration as one eager and hungry customer after another stands up around the room like a family of meerkats in the Kalahari Desert.
Ein Pretzel, bitte schön!
He bounds jauntily from table to table, selling his doughy wares with great enjoyment. One third of his goods is sold in less time than it takes to invade Poland and he makes for the door, departing with a hearty 'Guten Abend!' bellowed at the room. This is both insane and hilarious.
This is Europe.
From the morning espresso rituals taking place in bars across Milan to the so-very-French baguette-wielding mothers walking their children to school in Paris, such wonderful scenes of everyday European life are the very essence of this astonishing continent. Through my much-maligned job, I am lucky to be in a position to witness and appreciate on a regular basis how intricately woven these rich and varied cultures are.
I walk out of the pub with a smile on my face and enough vitamin C in me to ward off scurvy until Judgement Day itself.
This Saturday, my business travels take me to Amsterdam and Utrecht in the Netherlands, where I fully expect clog-wearing prostitutes in bright orange dungarees to offer me a joint and an edam sandwich on every street corner. One can but hope...
It is 11pm on Saturday night and I am sitting in one of Frankfurt's most popular Apfelwirtschafts, or cider pubs. The room is packed to the rafters as students, tourists and locals cosily share communal benches, all equally contributing to the genial atmosphere and consuming the potent local apple brew poured freely from traditional oversized ceramic jugs.
Let's get fruity, Fräulein...By this stage of the proceedings, my Czech customers and I have consumed the fruit of enough apples' labour to have ditched sales forecasts and credit crunches in favour of football and bad jokes. The business meeting is going well.
Rrrring! Rrrrring!
I am the first to spot the source of the shrill noise, although my mind struggles to compute the strange data relayed by my eyes. A man has just walked into the pub. He is wearing a white cloth cap, baker's apron and a pair of wonderfully snug lederhosen. Perched on his upper lip, a spectacular handlebar moustache with the wingspan of an adult albatross nearly takes out an old lady's eye as he ventures further inside the venue. I suspect this gentleman may be German.
Over his right arm, he is proudly carrying a large wicker basket that is clearly heavy. A pretty white lace tablecloth hides the contents from view, but his vigorous thumbing of the bicycle bell strapped to the handle tells me that this mystery will be short-lived.
Rrring! Rrrrring!
'Warm pretzels, sesame loaves, poppyseed rolls! Fresh bread, get your fresh bread here! Pretzels, fresh pretzels!', he shouts to the room menacingly.
This is truly mindblowing.
The Czechs have never seen anything like this either, and the three of us sit in stunned silence for half a minute before I realise that my jaw appears to have relocated to the floor. The scene is so painfully German that I half expect a band of singing bratwursts to jump onto our table and burst into an almighty rendition of 'Deutschland Überalles'. I pause to think of the reaction this most stereotypical Helmut, Wolfgang or Dietmar would get at the Dog & Pheasant in downtown Scunthorpe, and quicky stop. The images are too painful.
My initial laughter and disbelief swiftly transform into respectful admiration as one eager and hungry customer after another stands up around the room like a family of meerkats in the Kalahari Desert.
Ein Pretzel, bitte schön!This is Europe.
From the morning espresso rituals taking place in bars across Milan to the so-very-French baguette-wielding mothers walking their children to school in Paris, such wonderful scenes of everyday European life are the very essence of this astonishing continent. Through my much-maligned job, I am lucky to be in a position to witness and appreciate on a regular basis how intricately woven these rich and varied cultures are.
I walk out of the pub with a smile on my face and enough vitamin C in me to ward off scurvy until Judgement Day itself.
This Saturday, my business travels take me to Amsterdam and Utrecht in the Netherlands, where I fully expect clog-wearing prostitutes in bright orange dungarees to offer me a joint and an edam sandwich on every street corner. One can but hope...
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Other People's Money
- Hey honey, what say we go down to that nice little gift shop on Church Street? Let's buy that nice glass vase we saw the other day.
- Ooh, you mean the lovely blue vase we both liked? But it cost £75, and we only have £80 to last us until pay day, and that's 5 days away. Oh, you're right, who cares? Let's get it!
Fact 1 - In this credit-crunching, wallet-worrying and penny-pinching climate, the above extract of scintillating conjugal conversation is unlikely to be heard in households across the land.
Fact 2 - I sell glass vases.
These are not vase-selling times, particularly not £75 vases. Today, the board of directors announced that 4 warehouse workers would be made redundant by the end of the month and that several departments would be 'restructured'. Happy New Year!
I am currently in Paris, on the eve of the opening of the season's most important housewares exhibition. Already, tales of insolvency and cash-flow concern abound. Within an hour of being on our exhibition stand today, I had been offered enough sales CVs to construct a papier maché Eiffel Tower, 1:1 scale. As I addressed my sales team this morning in the least inspirational speech since last year's sales meeting, the twisted irony that a fully-salaried person was trying to motivate a commission-only sales team was not lost on me.
This exhibition is a time to assess the economic implications of the global downturn, and how it will impact on our company. This is a time for planning and prudence and sound sales strategies and good marketing. But most importantly, this exhibition means one week of spanking the company credit card to within a micro-sliver of its laminated plastic life. This is the time to discover what the bottles inhabiting the lower reaches of the wine list actually taste like. Dessert? But of course, and send the cheese board and port at the same time, my good man!
There is nothing quite so grotesquely obscene as spending the money of others with neither care nor concern. Yet that is exactly what we are doing, and we are proving rather adept at it. Our eyes adjust automatically to focus on the most expensive dish on the menu and a rota is kept amongst all company credit card holders so that no-one will go home with more than one bill to his name. In the kitchen, another scuffle breaks out as the waiters fight amongst one another to serve us, for there is no better tipper than an expense account tipper.
As a pang of guilt threatens to resuscitate my conscience from its temporary coma, I remember that I am sacrificing another seven weekends this year to the glorious art of vase-selling, and that today is Day 11 out of 19 without a break.
As I open my wallet and lovingly thumb the unsuspecting card in and out of its slot, I let a gentle whisper escape my lips: 'You're in trouble, my flexible friend, you're in big trouble...'
- Ooh, you mean the lovely blue vase we both liked? But it cost £75, and we only have £80 to last us until pay day, and that's 5 days away. Oh, you're right, who cares? Let's get it!
Fact 1 - In this credit-crunching, wallet-worrying and penny-pinching climate, the above extract of scintillating conjugal conversation is unlikely to be heard in households across the land.
Fact 2 - I sell glass vases.
These are not vase-selling times, particularly not £75 vases. Today, the board of directors announced that 4 warehouse workers would be made redundant by the end of the month and that several departments would be 'restructured'. Happy New Year!
I am currently in Paris, on the eve of the opening of the season's most important housewares exhibition. Already, tales of insolvency and cash-flow concern abound. Within an hour of being on our exhibition stand today, I had been offered enough sales CVs to construct a papier maché Eiffel Tower, 1:1 scale. As I addressed my sales team this morning in the least inspirational speech since last year's sales meeting, the twisted irony that a fully-salaried person was trying to motivate a commission-only sales team was not lost on me.
This exhibition is a time to assess the economic implications of the global downturn, and how it will impact on our company. This is a time for planning and prudence and sound sales strategies and good marketing. But most importantly, this exhibition means one week of spanking the company credit card to within a micro-sliver of its laminated plastic life. This is the time to discover what the bottles inhabiting the lower reaches of the wine list actually taste like. Dessert? But of course, and send the cheese board and port at the same time, my good man!
There is nothing quite so grotesquely obscene as spending the money of others with neither care nor concern. Yet that is exactly what we are doing, and we are proving rather adept at it. Our eyes adjust automatically to focus on the most expensive dish on the menu and a rota is kept amongst all company credit card holders so that no-one will go home with more than one bill to his name. In the kitchen, another scuffle breaks out as the waiters fight amongst one another to serve us, for there is no better tipper than an expense account tipper.
As a pang of guilt threatens to resuscitate my conscience from its temporary coma, I remember that I am sacrificing another seven weekends this year to the glorious art of vase-selling, and that today is Day 11 out of 19 without a break.
As I open my wallet and lovingly thumb the unsuspecting card in and out of its slot, I let a gentle whisper escape my lips: 'You're in trouble, my flexible friend, you're in big trouble...'
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
It Takes All Sorts
Every Sunday evening, as I have just sipped the last of my hot chocolate and am about to take my slippers off and retire to bed with my comforting hot water bottle, a rather clever blog-reporting tool called Site Meter discretely delivers its weekly findings into my inbox. This utterlessly pointless yet fascinating statistical factsheet provides me with non-specific information on how 759 websurfers to date have had the shining path to eternal literary salvation pointed out to them.
Most of the esteemed and treasured visitors who have surprisingly chosen to not (yet) subscribe to my blog find their way to this nirvana of online enlightenment via my Facebook or CouchSurfing profiles. Some test the waters with a curious toe via a link on a mutual friend's own website, whilst others still locate me directly using a search engine.
The vast majority of my cyberguests, however, stumble upon my pretentious musings by pure coincidence. They are lured by the pseudo-intellectual references to Greek mythology or modern literature that Google's keen nostrils have sniffed out from within my wild ramblings. Most of these accidental readers disappear within seconds in order to quench their thirst elsewhere; some stay, dazed and confused by the sheer brilliance of these Pulitzer-worthy scribblings. All, however, leave a trace of their passage, including the original search parameters that led them erroneously to me.
It was one such search request in last week's statistical report that very nearly caused me to fall off my chair and swallow my tongue at the same time, so sharp was my intake of breath. Misled by Google combining one word from my post on training donkeys with a Cannibal Corpse song mentioned in another, one poor soul sitting in front of his computer at 10:04pm on a Friday night was quite unwittingly but very wittily redirected to my site, when his search wording hints at another line of entertainment altogether.
There really is everything on the internet.
Most of the esteemed and treasured visitors who have surprisingly chosen to not (yet) subscribe to my blog find their way to this nirvana of online enlightenment via my Facebook or CouchSurfing profiles. Some test the waters with a curious toe via a link on a mutual friend's own website, whilst others still locate me directly using a search engine.
The vast majority of my cyberguests, however, stumble upon my pretentious musings by pure coincidence. They are lured by the pseudo-intellectual references to Greek mythology or modern literature that Google's keen nostrils have sniffed out from within my wild ramblings. Most of these accidental readers disappear within seconds in order to quench their thirst elsewhere; some stay, dazed and confused by the sheer brilliance of these Pulitzer-worthy scribblings. All, however, leave a trace of their passage, including the original search parameters that led them erroneously to me.
It was one such search request in last week's statistical report that very nearly caused me to fall off my chair and swallow my tongue at the same time, so sharp was my intake of breath. Misled by Google combining one word from my post on training donkeys with a Cannibal Corpse song mentioned in another, one poor soul sitting in front of his computer at 10:04pm on a Friday night was quite unwittingly but very wittily redirected to my site, when his search wording hints at another line of entertainment altogether.
Search Engine: verizon.net
Search Words: equine sodomy videos
Visit Entry Page: http://jeanmarcknoll.blogspot.com
Search Words: equine sodomy videos
Visit Entry Page: http://jeanmarcknoll.blogspot.com
There really is everything on the internet.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Blot On The Landscape
Uh-oh.
I have just boarded the evening flight to Milan and am very patiently waiting for the elegant Italian lady blocking the aisle to retrieve her BlackBerry, Prada leather notebook, MontBlanc fountain pen and Gucci make-up bag out of her Louis Vuitton travel case before placing it in the overhead locker.
Upon registering this walking who's who of exhibitionist branding, my casual observational glance plants a worried frown on my brow and sweeps past her, scanning the other occupants of the entire cabin in a matter of seconds. As my poor uneducated senses are instantly and repeatedly battered by an earthy kaleidoscope of olive, brown and beige fabric, opulently fragrant perfumes and bedazzling jewellry, I take one look at myself and realise the severity of my plight.
I stand out.
Converse shoes - CHECK
Dirty blue jeans with frayed ends - CHECK
Grey zip-up fleece cardigan from Primark (£7) - CHECK
Instead of the image of a suave young entrepreneur confidently dashing across Europe for another business meeting that I was hoping to convey, I have instead managed to pull off a remarkably accurate impression of one of the first detainees from Guantanamo Bay returning home after sixteen months in an underground cell without any food, drink or, crucially, clothing allowance.
Yes, I may fancy my tongue to be sharper than a really sharp cocktail stick, and my linguistic ability is lauded by many, but when it comes to sartorial elegance, I clearly have all the class and style of a colour-blind clown with an obsession for sequins. As I sit down, deep in my shame, I allow a sepia-tinted glaze to mist over my eyes as I recall the haute couture simplicity of my heavy metal years. This season's de rigueur colour? Why, it's black again, hurrah! But those days are gone, long gone.
In the meantime, I take a 50 Euro note out of my wallet and slip it inside my passport at the photo page. This will surely be my only hope of avoiding deportation upon landing.
I have just boarded the evening flight to Milan and am very patiently waiting for the elegant Italian lady blocking the aisle to retrieve her BlackBerry, Prada leather notebook, MontBlanc fountain pen and Gucci make-up bag out of her Louis Vuitton travel case before placing it in the overhead locker.
Upon registering this walking who's who of exhibitionist branding, my casual observational glance plants a worried frown on my brow and sweeps past her, scanning the other occupants of the entire cabin in a matter of seconds. As my poor uneducated senses are instantly and repeatedly battered by an earthy kaleidoscope of olive, brown and beige fabric, opulently fragrant perfumes and bedazzling jewellry, I take one look at myself and realise the severity of my plight.
I stand out.
Converse shoes - CHECK
Dirty blue jeans with frayed ends - CHECK
Grey zip-up fleece cardigan from Primark (£7) - CHECK
Instead of the image of a suave young entrepreneur confidently dashing across Europe for another business meeting that I was hoping to convey, I have instead managed to pull off a remarkably accurate impression of one of the first detainees from Guantanamo Bay returning home after sixteen months in an underground cell without any food, drink or, crucially, clothing allowance.
Yes, I may fancy my tongue to be sharper than a really sharp cocktail stick, and my linguistic ability is lauded by many, but when it comes to sartorial elegance, I clearly have all the class and style of a colour-blind clown with an obsession for sequins. As I sit down, deep in my shame, I allow a sepia-tinted glaze to mist over my eyes as I recall the haute couture simplicity of my heavy metal years. This season's de rigueur colour? Why, it's black again, hurrah! But those days are gone, long gone.
In the meantime, I take a 50 Euro note out of my wallet and slip it inside my passport at the photo page. This will surely be my only hope of avoiding deportation upon landing.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Welcome Back!
1 x short-sleeved t-shirt
1 x long-sleeved t-shirt
1 x wool sweater
1 x fleece jacket
1 x moleskin jacket (R.I.P. 187 brave and very soft moles)
1 x scarf
Unfortunately not my clothes-to-pack list for a weekend break in Stockholm, instead it is what I am having to wear at 9:20am on my first day back at work as I park my no-longer-plump-but-still-something-to-squeeze backside on my office chair and stare blankly at my computer screen for the first time in two weeks.
It is cold. Damn cold. -5c cold outside and not much warmer inside an office that has not seen people for some time. I turn on the electric heater in the vain hope that frostbite or, at the very least, chilblains can be averted, but my heart plummets as the machine murmurs rather than roars into life and I feel less warmth than I would from the dying breath of an ageing fieldmouse. There is further bad news as rumours spread that the food van will not come today. In the distance, gentle sobbing can be heard from behind the photocopier.
The first working day of the new year is invariably a cheerful one in the wonderful world of the office. Two weeks of peace, rest and relaxation, jolly Christmas spirit and goodwill to all mankind have all but evaporated as the harsh reality of the 9-to-5 backhand slaps me across the face with a wet haddock.
My first attempt to log in fails miserably as my gloved finger hits four keys at the same time. 'dfrt' is not the first letter of my password, it would seem. I glance at the clock and barely choke back my howl of despair. It is only 9:24am and I have to endure 486 further minutes until I am freed from this tyranny.
I decide to bite the bullet and get stuck in. I am a responsible person and am being paid and trusted to do my job, after all. The only question that remains is which shall I check first: Facebook or CouchSurfing?
1 x long-sleeved t-shirt
1 x wool sweater
1 x fleece jacket
1 x moleskin jacket (R.I.P. 187 brave and very soft moles)
1 x scarf
Unfortunately not my clothes-to-pack list for a weekend break in Stockholm, instead it is what I am having to wear at 9:20am on my first day back at work as I park my no-longer-plump-but-still-something-to-squeeze backside on my office chair and stare blankly at my computer screen for the first time in two weeks.
It is cold. Damn cold. -5c cold outside and not much warmer inside an office that has not seen people for some time. I turn on the electric heater in the vain hope that frostbite or, at the very least, chilblains can be averted, but my heart plummets as the machine murmurs rather than roars into life and I feel less warmth than I would from the dying breath of an ageing fieldmouse. There is further bad news as rumours spread that the food van will not come today. In the distance, gentle sobbing can be heard from behind the photocopier.
The first working day of the new year is invariably a cheerful one in the wonderful world of the office. Two weeks of peace, rest and relaxation, jolly Christmas spirit and goodwill to all mankind have all but evaporated as the harsh reality of the 9-to-5 backhand slaps me across the face with a wet haddock.
My first attempt to log in fails miserably as my gloved finger hits four keys at the same time. 'dfrt' is not the first letter of my password, it would seem. I glance at the clock and barely choke back my howl of despair. It is only 9:24am and I have to endure 486 further minutes until I am freed from this tyranny.
I decide to bite the bullet and get stuck in. I am a responsible person and am being paid and trusted to do my job, after all. The only question that remains is which shall I check first: Facebook or CouchSurfing?
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