Ryan's World

Naked people in sand with chairs

2011-03-27T10:56:00.000+02:00

One looks particularly upset. I suppose you would be too if there were chairs so nearby, but you were unable to sit on them because you had no thighs.

The neighbours leave their beer cans all over my doorstep

2011-03-24T11:56:00.000+01:00

... so I dropped a hint by leaving a message on their front door:

Not really. But I thought it funny.

Antwerp blues

2011-02-12T18:50:00.002+01:00

He caused the riot in cell block number 9

2011-02-11T12:23:00.002+01:00

There's always a Smurf involved. Don't be fooled by blue.

I saw this one is on the wall of the prison in Mechelen this morning. Outside wall, of course. How could I know what the inside wall looks like?

Why I drink cognac

2011-01-23T11:29:00.000+01:00

I need the glass. I really do.

Me doing Friedlander...

2010-12-30T20:52:00.002+01:00

... minus the skill and Leica. But otherwise, completely the same.

Get in mah belly

2010-12-29T19:48:00.000+01:00

Some leftover choccies needing a new home:

Powder at the office

2010-12-17T18:18:00.000+01:00

Good morning, Dandy Crab

2010-12-09T10:45:00.000+01:00

Wij zijn klaar voor de Sint

2010-12-05T17:11:00.000+01:00

With sympathies to car owners

2010-12-02T22:01:00.001+01:00

Put up the tree last night

2010-12-02T09:39:00.000+01:00

Follow the path

2010-11-09T09:36:00.000+01:00

Feeling flat

2010-10-17T16:51:00.001+02:00

Flat pack furniture. Now there’s a thing. I’ve just returned from helping a Lady Friend assemble her Ikea wardrobe.

Her assumption: Ryan is male. He owns a hammer and a screwdriver. He weighs more than 40kg and has weight and strength behind him. He’s the man for the job.

However, as I am sure you are well aware, assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.

I am indeed a male. I do own a hammer and screwdriver. But these serve more as objets de art - collector pieces that have a rare aesthetic quality (in the sense that the less I see of them, the better).

I also weigh more than 40kg, but do not attribute this to strength, but in fact, to lethargy. Do less with more, is the general philosophy, here.

Lady Friend’s assembled wardrobe is of some considerable size. Well, of course it would be. However, it needed to be assembled in a room roughly about the same size as a newt’s arse (assuming that newts have arses). Space, however, was not to be my major challenge.

It was the printed, wordless instructions that proved to be my obstacle. Apparently a two-year old could understand these instructions. Would somebody please find this two-year old? What the hell would a two-year old be doing with a set of wordless instructions anyway – other than eating them?

Lady Friend speaks little Flemish and even less English (French is her mother tongue). I speak even less French than she speaks English. Communication, as you can imagine, is a joy.

Whilst assembling the furniture piece in the newt’s arse, I break into a sweat. Not from physical exertion you understand, but from frustration at being told what to do – in French.

Unfortunately “Would you shut the hell up, woman,” is not a phrase I am akin to in French.

Every breath I take. Every move I make. She is watching me. And commenting pointedly to the wordless instructions. If only she were wordless.

What added fat to the fire was that everything she said was right. Blasted. How is it that women can be so perceptive of wordless instructions?

Real men don’t need instructions, I was always lead to believe. Women, it seems, thrive on them – using them as tools to deprive men of their masculinity.

It all ended well enough, you’ll be pleased to know. Lady Friend has a nice new wardrobe. And we’re still on speaking terms (she speaking slightly more than I, which I think I’ve made abundantly clear to you by now).

How to be discreet: lesson #3

2010-09-13T08:37:00.002+02:00

My friend Collins

2010-09-11T14:27:00.000+02:00

2 measures of Bombay Dry Gin, freshly squeezed juice of half a lemon, slice or two of said lemon and Schweppes tonic water. Oh, and ice.

Literally hours of entertaining conversation is guaranteed. Even if it's only with yourself.

It starts

2010-09-10T08:21:00.000+02:00

Autumn is peeking around the corner, now. But only just.

A nice local

2010-09-09T19:44:00.003+02:00

The Pottekijker, on the Kaasrui, is a cheerful place to eat at. And just 'round the corner.

Roughly translated, I think it means 'one who looks at pots'. Which we've all done at some point in our lives, I imagine. Look at pots, I mean. Some can be quite remarkable in design. Which is why we would choose to look at them in the first place. But I digress.

Give this restaurant a try, if you're hungry. Or feel like looking at a pot. Well, actually, come to think of it, I can't recall seeing any pots around. Perhaps except for the mayo pot. I wonder why they called it that? Not the mayo; the restaurant. Keep up.

I'd suggest trying the 'Brochette "de pottekijker"' (roughly translated as 'kebab of the one who looks at pots'. Strange, isn't it?

Really generous, huge portions. And tasty. Nice cheerful wine, too. Well, it made me cheerful, in any event.

Pretty cool piece of design...

2010-09-03T18:10:00.002+02:00

... for a sign.

Finished it and was thirsty

2010-09-01T20:15:00.008+02:00

This was a pretty good book that I read up until the last page, which I suppose is customary amongst book-readers.

Strange markings

2010-08-28T22:27:00.002+02:00

Found this tag at three different points around Antwerp. Anyone know who, why and wherefore?

Antwerp's first Chinese restaurant...

2010-08-26T21:46:00.000+02:00

... is, if I got it right, Wah Kel. Stepping inside is like going back in time, with lacquer wood panelling, gold tassels and a doorbell over your table, which you can ding (or dong) if you want, for attention.

It's an adventure! Snug in the heart of Antwerp's red light district, you'll be one of a truly varied clientèle hailing from in and around the nearby streets. Sailors, pretty girls, pretty used-to-be-a-boys, families, sons and daughters who eat plates and plates of delicious fare, Chinese in nature. But whatever you are, you'll get the same delightful, friendly service.

It's fatty, it's greasy, and I love it!

The Conn...

2010-08-23T19:20:00.004+02:00

... and others of notable (and imagined) facial hair.

Happy birthday, Harald!

Enter the Dome

2010-08-18T22:29:00.001+02:00

Here's the first-ever Michelin Star restaurant I've been to. I'd give you their web address, but it appears to be down. Grand enjoyment. On a grand scale. And then some.

We stayed eating, drinking and enjoying for four hours straight, excluding toilet breaks. Pretty bloody fantastic.

A cup of the good stuff

2010-08-11T11:15:00.001+02:00

Starbucks opened their doors in Antwerp Central Station a few months ago, to much fanfare. So I know that Starbucks is this hugely successful brand and that blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. But my. A cuppa of their freshest is the price of a small mortgage .

Deli France is my favourite at the station. For but a few coins (no paper money is involved), you can, would you believe, ask for a cup of coffee using those exact words, and they will understand what you mean. They will also produce one without having to use a machine that sounds like it is spitting or throwing-up into your cup. Highly recommended.

The Godfather of Soul on Wolstraat

2010-08-06T18:41:00.002+02:00

Try not to look up all the time.

2010-08-04T20:10:00.002+02:00

The floor can look pretty, too.

I know it's disgusting. But I like it.

2010-08-01T10:31:00.000+02:00

I don't know what amazes me more...

2010-07-30T19:51:00.002+02:00

... the fact that there's a guy playing a violin sat at the bar, or that my glass is empty (and I'm still having fun).

Roger plays the piano. With Rosé.

2010-07-27T18:13:00.002+02:00

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday: part deux

2010-07-26T19:09:00.002+02:00

Followed by a(nother) drink in the most civilized fashion at Amuse. Good fun.

Fantastic, friendly and French

2010-07-23T18:21:00.000+02:00

I tried this restaurant in Antwerp Old Town (Zirkstraat) last week.

Scrumptious (which is a difficult word for me to spell, without the aid of a dictionary. But I looked it up. That's how good).

Why I like Belgium: reason #5

2010-07-22T20:15:00.001+02:00

The Kempen.

Here's a really lovely restaurant

2010-07-15T19:19:00.001+02:00

It's called Raven, and you'll find it on the Grote Markt. Dee-licious food, with even more dee-lightful wine. Certainly worth a visit.

Waiting for Tram #15

2010-07-14T18:16:00.000+02:00

Beer cans aren't mine. Honest.

Golden solden

2010-07-12T20:14:00.000+02:00

Tall Ships Races hit Antwerp

2010-07-09T12:24:00.008+02:00

Saw some ships yesterday evening that are part of the Tall Ships Races docking in Antwerp this weekend.

No news yet on when the Short Ships will arrive. Assuming anyone spots them, of course.

New finds on Klapdorp

2010-07-02T18:14:00.001+02:00

Unique little bar on-slash-off Klapdorp:

And another, whose name I forget, but with a whole lot of chandelier:

Why I like Belgium: reason #12

2010-06-30T20:53:00.004+02:00

Belgians, or certainly the ones I've met, are exceptionally proficient at cooking steak.

But the Emperor of Steak Bakers you'll find at this restaurant. Quite simply, the best steak I have eaten in this land.

But.

Round. Ball-shaped. Semi-circular. Elliptical. Globular. I look down, and I notice evidence of a most unsettling nature. My belly, once flat, is no more. It is still my belly, of course. But flat it is not.

It would be flat. If the degree of flatness that I desire required absolutely no effort whatsoever. But it seems that flatness requires some degree of effort. Which almost completely rules me out of the equation.

It's not that I'm lazy, you understand. It's just that I find the concept of exercise rather boring. If, for example, exercise held the same degree of excitement, enjoyment and sociability that, say, eating did, then I quite simply would not be writing this post.

If I had the body of a twenty-year old... well, I would probably be a serial killer.

As I see it, I don't have an exercise problem. Nor a weight problem. What I have is a food problem. Or, to be more precise, a Belgian food problem. The ruddy blighters do the food thing so incredibly well, here.

Pray for me.

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday

2010-06-28T19:51:00.002+02:00

Sometimes it's here...

2010-06-23T20:03:00.002+02:00

Why I like Belgium: reason #62

2010-06-18T18:54:00.001+02:00

Terras-ke doen!

Double-you

2010-06-18T18:53:00.001+02:00

Burn baby, burn

2010-06-16T18:50:00.003+02:00

The Lady with the Spinning Head

2010-06-15T19:45:00.002+02:00

Joy #1

2010-06-09T19:38:00.005+02:00

Antwerp on a sunny day in May

2010-05-25T18:59:00.002+02:00

Picnickin'

2010-05-24T12:08:00.003+02:00

People don't wear enough hats

2010-05-20T20:04:00.002+02:00

Here's a rather lovely sign you'll see at most construction sites around Antwerp. It seems to suggest that you have to wear at least one part of the costume shown in a Magritte painting before they'll let you in.

What if you show up with just an apple?

Why I like Belgium: reason #7

2010-05-18T21:20:00.007+02:00

Sometimes you'll find a piano player in a bar. And you'll know he's a piano player because he's playing a (wait for it) piano.

Without the piano, said player would simply be a person in a bar, wandering what on earth to do with his fingers. Oh, behave.

Thumper

2010-05-12T18:31:00.001+02:00

I fell last week. Rather hard, mind. Left a scar on my head, which is not the most inconspicuous of places to have a scar, but I had very little choice in the matter.

My story - and I'm sticking to it - is that I was helping a fair maiden traverse rather treacherous terrain (called 'pavement' in these here parts). Whether she indeed needed help, or perhaps that she was helping me, is irrelevant as I see it.

The next thing I can remember was seeing how quickly the pavement was moving in the general direction of my head. It hit me in the exact same spot - would you believe - where I got the scar. Had I the chance, I would have sworn. But as my mouth was very quickly filled with pavement, I did not.

And yes, there was alcohol involved. But a whole lot more pavement. Which makes the issue of alcohol irrelevant, too.

My past week has been somewhat tainted with dizziness, forgetfulness and an almost complete inability to tie my shoelaces in the fashion I am accustomed.

Many thanks to the countless friends, colleagues and family - who upon seeing me, offered comforting cheers such as 'Ha ha', 'Idiot' and 'Pavement boy'. Without your support, I could not have made it through.

Lessons in The Mundane

2010-05-04T20:26:00.001+02:00

Here's a post I wrote I couple of years ago. It's called 'Ritual and Sacrifice':

It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.

But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.

If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.

And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.

Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.

Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.

The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.

I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.

My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.

The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?

A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.

Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.

We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?

Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.

We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.

Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.

I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.

The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.

She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.

The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.

It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.

Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.

If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.

Ring-a-ding-ding

2010-04-27T18:29:00.004+02:00

Been partial to a bit of whisky in the evenings, lately.

Reminds me of Bob when he said: "Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or are you out?"

"I'm in. I'll go pack my stuff," replied Charlotte.

"I hope that you've had enough to drink," said Bob. "It's going to take courage."

Good memories #3 - Mieke and plum wearing sunglasses indoors

2010-04-22T18:31:00.001+02:00

Good memories #2 - Mark, Christine & Raph

2010-04-22T18:30:00.002+02:00

Good memories #1 - family

2010-04-22T18:28:00.001+02:00

Eight

2010-04-22T18:26:00.002+02:00

Why I like Belgium: reason #63

2010-04-19T19:29:00.001+02:00

The Queen's ball

2010-04-19T19:24:00.002+02:00

A chicken with a can of beer up it's butt...

2010-04-16T09:06:00.003+02:00

... is what we ate in South Africa.

Fantastic! (Less so for the chicken).

Shove a half-full beer can (opened with a tin opener) up the bum of an olive-oil drizzled, seasoned chicken, and put it in a kettle bbq for around an hour.

Early start this morning

2010-04-15T08:07:00.002+02:00

Central Station on a Sunday afternoon

2010-04-12T08:56:00.003+02:00

On the way to work this morning...

2010-04-09T09:12:00.002+02:00

Doing the Lingo. Badly.

2009-11-12T17:17:00.002+01:00

When I first arrived in Belgium, I held a secret contempt for the foreigners who had lived here for so long and had not yet mastered the local language.

I was silently aghast at the fact that – after even 6 months of living here – some could still not even say hello, goodbye, please or thank you in Flemish. In secret, I thought that such as these were rude. Lazy. And pathetic.

And that’s a little bit of pot calling the kettle black, as I discovered recently.

You see, after living in Belgium for close on 4 years now, I’ve discovered a rather remarkable patheticness (a new English word) in my own self. I still cannot speak Flemish fluently.

Understand a Flemish conversation – that I can do. Order a beer – that I can do. Order another – that I can do, even more effectively than the aforementioned.

But try to speak in Flemish in sentences requiring more than 3 words… I struggle. Actually, more than struggle. I become completely unhinged.

Having a Flemish conversation with me is akin to holding the hand of someone learning to rollerblade for the first time. My words, dialect and diction are all over the place.

Yes, I feel as if I have fallen into that realm of patheticism (also a new English word) that is usually reserved for those who don’t know how to turn a computer on, fry an egg or make a cup of tea.

It’s not that I don’t try, you understand. I do try. But when I try speaking Flemish to a local, I experience what I now like to call ‘The Belgian Squint’.

Let me describe it to you: the head of the Squinter is almost always tilted to the left (yours, not theirs), their mouth is ever so slightly open, their left eyelid (again, your left, not theirs – keep up) is completely closed, whilst their remaining eye looks to you as if you have just farted. That is the Belgian Squint. A concomitant mix of shock, horror, disgust and pity.

The language that almost always follows a Belgian Squint is English. So polite, so friendly are the Belgians, that rather than have their language butchered, bastardised or belittled by a roller-blading linguist, they will switch to English to help you on your way.

At the office, we agree that meetings can be conducted in Flemish. But I prefer to respond in English – if only for the sake of time. If I were to respond in Flemish, trying to say “Yes, I would like some more stationery, thank you”, it would take as long as Gaddafi’s recent speech to the UN .

And so I am here. Stuck in my patheticness. But at least I can order beer. With the efficiency and prowess of a true local.

In which I bank.

2009-07-29T18:50:00.004+02:00

Have you ever noticed that the word ‘wank’ rhymes with ‘bank’? If you’re into wordology, you’ll find that the derivative Latin ‘wancus’ does indeed refer to participle ‘wancum irritatum’, which is the ancient root form of the word meaning ‘house of storage’(*). Hence it is not unlikely that one would find much wank in a bank.

It is not – you understand – that I expect that any bank is necessarily full of wankers. No. That would be ignorant of me to suggest. What I am saying is that banks are generally full of wanking – not wankers. Well, I suppose if you are wanking, that does indeed make you a wanker, but that line of thought simply doesn’t help my argument at all. Let’s just say – for point of discussion here – that banks are full of wanking.

Why? I’ll tell you.

I lost my bank card about a month ago. An incredibly wankful thing to do, I admit.

I telephoned Card Stop to help me do what their name so generously offers it will.

In no time at all, the ladytron at the end of the line promised my card was indeed stopped and that she would automatically send a new one to my branch.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“I have a branch?” I asked.

Click.

Wank. I have a branch? That’s news to me. I’ve been ~~wanking~~ banking online since before I can remember. I expected that my physical branch was somewhere in alpha beta nine of internet cyberspace.

As it turns out, my branch is located in a completely different dialect district of Antwerp (Melsele). May as well be on another continent if you’re living in a country the size of Belgium.

So I contacted the said branch, and asked if they could deliver my new card to a dialect district that I could understand (anywhere outside of Melsele).

“Of course, not a problem.”

Now that’s customer service for you. Except that it’s not. Its wank. Complete and utter wank.

Because that was one month ago. And millions (*) of phone calls, emails, trips to Melsele (have you ever been there?), cancelled cards, re-issued cards and at least seventeen free mints (which don’t taste like mints at all. Why do they call them ‘mints’, then? Sarcasm?) which lie in a pot on the bank clerk’s desk, later, I still don’t have my card.

Wank. Wank. Wank.

Until today, when the wanking ended.

Or so I thought. I went to collect my new bank card, only to find that the bank had cancelled my credit card. But fear not, for they had immediately re-issued me with a bright and shiny new credit card. With a photo of a lovely baby elephant on it. Cute. But still. Wank.

I tried to express my frustration to the bank clerk.

But, it would seem that ‘wank’ is not an oft-used term in the dialect of that particular branch.

Perhaps I should again ask them to switch branches to a bank that uses the same dialect as I?

(*)Rubbish.

Scarf face

2009-04-23T15:12:00.002+02:00

Some onlookers may consider me to be a fashion victim. A title which I feel to be somewhat inaccurate. To be a fashion victim, I assume that you’d have to at least be at the scene of a fashion crime. I’ve been nowhere near anything fashionable, so therefore feel that the title cannot be accurately applied to me.

I’m more of a non-fashion victim.

It’s not that I don’t like, appreciate or admire fashion. Westwood, Galliano and Ford look fantastic on other people. But if I tried any of their clobber on, I look like a badly-decorated Christmas tree. In June.

Which brings me to my story. I was recently given a rather nice scarf. A pink one. Giddy with delight, I was. Thing is, the scarf in question is very similar to the scarves worn by folk in the Middle East.

Wearing it has caused some ripples. On both sides of the fashion fence.

At a recent meeting, one client passed comment; it appeared he was somewhat offended by it. Oh dear.

At another gathering, someone commented that it could be associated with something a terrorist would wear. Oh. So terrorists wear uniforms now do they?

Imagine a conversation at the Terrorist Corporate Branding Committee meeting:

“I’d like to propose a bigger backpack, please. Our bombs look too big in this one.”

“I second that motion. And while we’re at it, let’s do away with combats. They’re so pre-2000’s Madonna. Lycra is just so in this season.”

I checked with one of my Middle Eastern friends, to see what he thought.

“No worries. You’re safe, mate. Scarves like that one are generally blue. Yours is pink. Worst that can happen to you in my region is that you’ll be stoned by an angry mob.”

There was a similar kerfuffle in the States recently, too. I believe it was a Starbucks TV ad which featured a not so unattractive lady sipping a grande mocchio latte with vanilla (or similar). She too was wearing this ‘terrorist’ scarf. Complaints abounded, and the ad was pulled.

Silly? Or serious?

Anyhow. I’ve stopped wearing my scarf for now.

I just hope that Bin Laden isn’t one day eventually captured, and found to be wearing pink underwear. That would cause me a considerable problem.

(Some) things I learnt in 2008

2008-12-31T18:11:00.003+01:00

How to make tiramisu.
No matter what the recipe suggests, you should add at least double the amount of Amaretto to the ingredients of tiramisu. Otherwise you are just eating over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked finger biscuits.
‘Friends’ are precious. But the old-school definition of friends. Not the Facebook definition. I know this because I managed to become friends with myself on Facebook today. Now I’m getting spam from me. Beat that.
To travel is indeed fantastic. But to have a home to call your own is truly a blessing.
It’s easy to forgive. But even more difficult to forget. No matter how good the intentions are, time is usually the winning ingredient. The more time you have, the easier it becomes to forget. I think. I just hope that I have enough time left to forget.
‘Plum’, ‘doughnut’ and ‘turnip’ are politically-correct and quite acceptable forms of insult. You can call someone a plum and not feel that you have necessarily offended them.
George Bush is a Plum.
Robert Mugabe is the Emperor of Plums.
That going to a doctor does not solve all your problems. They can ease the symptoms. But it’s best not to get sick in the first instance. Doctors know this, I think.
Some friends are like olives. Drinking a martini is generally better with them involved.
I like Phil Collins.
It’s lovely to work for a company that you like. Let alone a boss that you like, too. But when the chips are down, all is fair in love and war. This is not a criticism or a reference to any person living or dead. It’s just a thought. A boss once told me, “Be patient with your leaders. One day, you may have to become one.”
The tattoo I got when I was 21 (a Celtic armband) is the 2008 equivalent of a ‘Tweetie the Bird’ tattoo from the early 90s (which Doughnuts got when they were 21).
You never really appreciate something until it is gone. This includes things like toilet paper, your health or people you love. So to be grateful is a good thing.
That tough love is something we could possibly all benefit from. Tough love, not as in fetish love (steady, now), but tough love as in leaving your loved ones to their own devices… unaided and without sympathetic support. But always with a watchful eye and a close presence. It’s difficult to do this, I think. Popular support is for showing sympathy. But I don’t think this is big, clever or smart.
That wearing a medium-sized shirt used to look sexy. Now it looks a little silly. And tight. That’s over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked biscuits for you.
Not sure on number 17.

Things I still don’t know, but am hoping to learn in 2009:

My purpose.
Everything else.

Micro-warm greetings this season

2008-12-24T12:52:00.003+01:00

Economy Class? Now there's a contradiction.

2008-11-03T23:15:00.002+01:00

Don't you think that the recline button on an airplane seat could be the most anti-social invention, ever?

The passenger in front of you may as well be mainlining on heroine, smoking a joint and urinating on the air stewardess. That behaviour would at least be somewhat socially acceptable in comparison to the rude, graceless and downright nasty act of putting a chair into the recline position.

There are 3 rules to enjoying a good flight:

In the event of an emergency, the exits are there, here and here.
The seat belt works like this.
You’re in Economy Class. Not First. Not Business. Economy. Which means that you may be expected to skimp a little here and there. There are no walk-in showers, bubbling hot tubs or horizontal beds. Please bear this in mind before you thrust yourself backwards into the lap of the poor, unsuspecting passenger behind you.

The shiny, smiling air stewards neglect to mention number 3.

I recently returned from a flight of eleven hours. Nine of which I had the unfortunate pleasure of hosting some stranger’s head in my lap.

Said person wanted to enjoy the recline position in Economy Class. Excuse me for being a bit direct for a moment, but what a stupid, selfish prat. If you want to recline in Economy Class, the best thing to do is buy a First Class ticket.

So, I am blessed with the sight of someone’s balding forehead within millimetres of my nostrils for the good part of a journey.

In a vain attempt to alert the said passenger into realising that he has perhaps performed a lewd act without realising it, I think of spilling some of my airline food over his head. But I fail miserably in this endeavour, realising that his act of reclination has pushed my food tray down to shin height.

“Excuse me sir,” I politely interrupt his attempted slumber. “But do you think you could put your chair back up ever so slightly. I’m sure you’re a very lovely person, but if you had wanted to sleep with me, you should have at least offered a movie first.”

But the reclin-ed man feigns temporary deafness.

Eventually I manage to crawl out of my chair and go stand near the galley.

“Excuse me, sir” says the shiny, smiling air steward (the one who forgot number 3), “but you cannot stand there – you’re blocking an emergency exit. It needs to remain clear in the event of a fire.”

As if I wouldn’t move out the way if there were a fire.

I opt to go to the lavatory. At least there’s a seat inside with no recline position option in front or in the rear. And a ready supply of water. Nice. But eventually the novelty wears thin.

I wonder up to the First Class curtain after flushing and peak through.

They have a camp fire burning, an ice cream van in the corner and Don McClean singing lullabies. Now that's class.

The Good Doctors

2008-09-09T17:32:00.003+02:00

I do admire and respect doctors. Please believe me. They are in many cases the guardians of human life. It’s just that my experience with the profession, as you may already know, has not always been the most enjoyable.

Of course, the doctors in question have almost always helped me out, except in the instances where they haven’t at all.

After a bout of health issues, I went to see a number of doctors. Amazing what they specialise in. Of course, the body is a miraculous thing and its workings far above the full understanding of man, I believe.

But my. Our doctor folk do like to take advantage of the fact.

I go to my doctor, who is what they call a ‘general practitioner’. Now, the clue is in the title, I would have thought. I would have thought that my doctor was a general expert. With a general view of everything. Every part of the body. Nice. Exactly what I needed.

But no. She (my doctor) offered her best diagnosis, “I will refer you to a specialist.”

I have to at this point mention that she was referring me to a bum specialist. I explained – quite accurately, I believe – that I was having some digestive issues, and she clearly thought that it was an issue that only a bum specialist could assess, and hopefully, solve.

But bums aside, are you following my train of thought? You can hardly call yourself a generalist, when you don’t have a general idea about everything. Perhaps the board outside the doctor’s practice should read “General Practitioner (Except for Bums, Eyes, Nose and Ears. But everything else is fine. Please, come on in.)”.

Are we then to assume that doctors who are generalists are also amateurs? It’s like the generalists were the lazy larkabouts in medical school. Had they exerted a bit more effort, they would have been in for the lesson about bums.

Nope. My doctor missed the bum lesson.

So, she refers me to the bum specialist. Again, please understand that my admiration is high. Anyone who wakes up in the morning fully understanding that they will be gazing at bum holes the entire day (oh, where we could go with that line), has my respect.

“Johnny, Sue! What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A bum doctor, mummy!”

I blame the parents.

Anyhow, at the bum specialist, I am asked the next obvious question. So obvious in fact, that I did not anticipate it.

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please.”

“Pardon?”

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please. I need to take a look.’

Sputter. Cough. Wheeze.

“But doctor, is not my accurate – almost verbose – description of how I feel not good enough? After all, I don’t even know what it looks like down there. Why should you be the first?”

“Seriously. I need to see.”

I proceed to drop my trousers – and briefs (which thankfully were my favourite ones) – and stand facing the doctor.

“Turn around and bend, please.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, doctor? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and of course I won’t mind.”

“We are in the medical profession. We are used to this kind of business.”

We?! Where on earth did the ‘we’ come from?! Was the bum specialist to invite more friends and passers-by into the room when I was bowed over, bum akimbo?

Nevertheless I did as the specialist requested, nervous that a fright fart would escape. Don’t judge me. Many of you have let out fright farts before, and I pretended not to notice.

But after a few light prods and pokes (I do indeed fully understand the beauty of the word ‘light’), a few ‘hmmmms” and only one “aha”, the doctor continued. “All right, you can dress again.

“I will need to refer you to a tummy doctor.”

Grand. At least I got to moon the bum specialist. The visit would have been rather useful had it not been a complete and utter waste of our time. My bum got some air time and the bum specialist got some Euros.

And off I go to the tummy doctor. At least he won’t need to see my bum. He won’t, will he?

My grand pedestrian adventures.

2008-08-14T22:17:00.003+02:00

Remember those tales when we were young? You know the ones where all the animals of the enchanted forest ran to the mighty Lion or the wise Owl to look for advice, courage and support in times of trouble?

The little animals always went to Lion or Owl, didn’t they? You never saw them seek the all-knowing Bunny Rabbit. Or the charismatic leadership of the Tortoise. Or the encouraging word of the Lesser-Spotted Hyena (if they could find him). No. It was always the Lion or the Owl. Mighty creatures. Creatures worthy of seeking advice from. Not small things. No. Lion. Growl. Owl. Hoot.

Stories that never featured a Lion or Owl were rubbish, weren’t they? A bit whimsical and boring. But a Leading Lion or the Oracle Owl. That, we could all believe in.

Anyway, my point is this: why don’t people do this in real life? Why go to the bunny rabbit for advice when there may be a Lion just around the corner?

Let me explain.

I enjoy walking. It’s the best way to explore this enchanted forest, I find.

The thing is that people (from outside the forest) stop. And ask me questions. Not a problem in itself, you see. Questions are a good thing. I find that the problem is often almost always in the answers I give in return.

You see, some form of crazed delusional mania overtakes me when a stranger stops and asks me for directions. I am excited to be asked, of course. Being asked for directions when you yourself are from outside the forest implies that you look and act like a local. Which is nice.

And so, I begin to answer the stranger, and give him directions of the most elaborate nature. Honestly and truly trying to help him or her in their navigational predicament. They accept my answer most graciously, and totter off, in the direction I sent them.

This crazed mania suddenly leaves me as soon as they have left shouting distance. And I realise what hogwash I had just told them. Street names were inverted. Rights were mixed up with lefts. And train stations became cathedrals and cathedrals become Night Shops.

It’s not that I’m trying to purposely misguide people, please understand. It’s just that I seem to completely lose the plot when someone asks me for directions or assistance en route. I like talking to strangers, but let’s talk about the weather instead. Directions and maintenance are for the Lion or the Owl.

It doesn’t end with directions, either. Yes, some visitors to the forest ask me for assistance with their motor cars. Just the other day, I was out for a totter when I spotted a lady and her motor parked on the pedestrian path.

Blood drained from my face when I realised that she spotted me.

“Ah, a man!” she must have thought. “He must be able to help me!”

I tried my best invisible look, but to no avail.

She made the first plea, “Excuse me, mister. Do you know anything about cars?”

You know I don’t. I know I don’t. So why the blooming heck did I ask her to pop her trunk so that I could take a look at the engine? What was I looking for? A lesser-spotted hyena?!

You see what I mean? I cannot seem to help it. This crazed delusion overtakes me, and in my willingness to help, I only make matters worse.

I jiggled and prodded a few things in the boot, wiping my now dirty finger in a manly fashion on my fashion jeans.

“Any idea’s?” she asked. And do you know what my answer was?

“Perhaps you should go for a bit of coffee and cakey and come back in a wee while. It’s perhaps over-heated and needs some time to recoup. That should do the trick.”

Now I am giving auto mechanical advice, which includes the words ‘coffee’, ‘cakey’ and ‘wee while’.

Lions. Owls. And rabbits. There’s a lesson, here.

God and I

2008-07-11T08:00:00.005+02:00

I had a conversation with God a few nights ago.

Mind you, it wasn’t really a conversation. It was a monologue.

I was telling God that He had possibly missed the plot when He created mosquitoes. Of course, my monologue wasn’t of a completely negative tone. Nature, in general, I mentioned to Him, was a particularly spectacular idea. And He deserved all praise and congratulations for a fine, wonderful result; particularly in the short amount of time that He did it in.

But what’s up with mosquitoes? Why and wherefore?

Could He not have ordered all mosquitoes down into the pit of hell together with Lucifer, when He had the chance? We all know that mosquitoes are attracted to heat. He could have done them all a favour.

Sparing no detail, and as I could no longer sleep, I explained to God the hours of unnecessary discomfort I had suffered – that very night – from a single mosquito bite.

I even showed Him. Look. See. Right here, on my finger – the bit where the skin stops and the nail starts. I had to explain that I was not of course pointing at Him, but simply showing him where on my person the offence had occurred.

What on earth possessed the mosquito to do that, I enquired of God, rather exasperated?

What a cruel, heartless bastard of a creature.

Not only can you not effectively scratch in that place, but, surely, there is no blood there, either. After I apologised for saying “cruel, heartless bastard” to God in conversation, I suggested, that in light of it’s cruel behaviour, that He completely banish mosquitoes from the planet.

Well, perhaps, I admitted to God, I was being a bit hasty. Not all the mosquitoes in the world, but perhaps just the one bloody mosquito that was somewhere in my apartment, buzzing about looking for pointless places to bite me on.

I apologised to God for saying “bloody” in conversation, and then decided to assist Him in ridding the pest from the planet.

I was gong to annihilate the creature. That is, squash every last amount of life out of it’s small, squashable body. With a great deal of resolute satisfaction. Greenpeace, PETA and tree-huggers can kiss my bum (I don’t think God minded that I used that word).

I became a stalking predator. Listening out for the buzz. There it was – zummffming about – past my head. It landed, and I spotted it’s landing place. Crouching, I went for it… but it saw me and flew off again!

Never letting up, I followed. It landed on the wall above the flower pot. But this time I tried to fool the mosquito into thinking I was heading for somewhere else other than it’s own position. It worked! I thwacked it hard and good.

Death was imminent. As was a broken flower pot; a needless waste that could have been spared, I subtly mentioned to God.

Although God did not directly answer that night, I have since been presented with somewhat of a solution. You see, I have since discovered the wonder of a window. And the fantastical thing it does when it is shut.

I do believe in miracles. Thank you, God.

The case for pirates

2008-07-04T12:11:00.002+02:00

How our culture is re-inventing capitalism.

Chouffe makes you fax

2008-06-20T14:14:00.003+02:00

Chouffe is the name of a rather gorgeous beer brewed in the Belgian Ardennes, and the local bar now serves it on tap. What a delightful convenience.

Deliriously delicious it is, too. Although it is incredibly powerful. It has all the magic effect of causing dramatic change to my perception of the world, myself, and indeed the barstool I was sitting on.

Chouffe altered my reality. Nothing was what it seemed and everything was what it was not. In my Chouffe’d state, I speedily forgot what I did for a living. And become Comedian. Therapist. Philosopher. French. And oh dear. Dancer. With an alarming sense of rhythm considering no music was playing.

I enjoyed my time with Chouffe, but it was only fleeting, as I spectacularly ejected most of what I had consumed shortly after consuming it. Vomit is such an ugly word. I prefer “fax”.

The feeling to fax caught me by surprise. For the fax made known it’s intentions whilst I was walking home. Looking for a corner, but finding none, I believed that the best place to fax was on my doorstep. Which I only got half right. A doorstep it was. But mine it was not.

And my predicament was only just beginning. As my fax began transmission, I realised that the recipient was not the intended doorstep, but my own shoes. Have you ever tried to fax, bent over, and move your feet out of the way at the same time? It’s incredibly difficult. Running on the spot. Hammer time.

In my faxing kerfuffle, I lost balance and fell head forward on the door. KNOCK!

It had the sobering effect of, well, knocking your head bloody hard on a door. A door that now looked remarkably unfamiliar.

I began to realise where I had faxed. My neighbour, but three doors down from me. I suspect that he would not be happy to have received my fax. But, would he know that I was the sender? I mean, most faxes look the same, right?

Conscience and paranoia got the better of me. Running, soggy shoed, to the correct door this time, I stumbled into my kitchen, filled a bucked with water, grabbed a cloth and shuddered back to the doorstep. In less than a jiffy, the fax was erased from memory.

Or so I thought.

This morning, I met my neighbour on his knees. Cleaning his doorstep.

Oh dear. It turns out that I deleted the wrong fax. From an unknown sender. On a different doorstep. My original fax remained.

As I walked past, putting on my best innocent face, we both looked at each other in mutual disgust at the inconsiderate faxer.

Chouffe made me fax. But so bad was my altered state that I didn’t even recognise my own fax.

You’d think that I’d have learnt my lesson. But this weekend is Beer Passion Weekend in Antwerp. I am excited. To see those two words together: beer and passion. At last, somebody understands me.

I’ll certainly be trying not to fax on anyone’s doorstep, let alone mine. But I think things will really be out of hand if I begin to email.

The Computer is Personal Again.

2008-05-22T20:36:00.005+02:00

Bollocks. Complete and utter. Let me explain.

A friend of mine recently purchased a shiny new HP home computer. ‘Twas a sight to behold. Lovely. Big. Shiny. My friend is many years my senior and I was brought ‘round to help because, quite frankly, I am younger and by default should know all about ‘puters. Which is bollocks, too.

Trust me. Youth indicates no more a capability for ‘puters than it does for atomic and molecular physics. Youth (I include myself in the demographic) is good for nothing.

Let me carry on. We get the thing out the box, plug it in and switch it on. Shazam, the power surges through and we see a beautiful hill of grass on-screen. Oh look. There's a tree.

We hear a gentile churning sound that seems to indicate that something magical is working inside. Steadily, small icons (see my lovely grasp of ‘puter lingo, here) pop up all over the grass hill, and things appear to be working.

Tens of little icons appear; little portals into worlds of digital mania. Wonderful. Fantastic.

Only. Everything. Everyting. Is in Spanish. Mierda.

Think you can easily find the button that says “change your language settings here” when the button that says “change your language settings here” is in the bloody language that you don’t understand?! Da Vinci bloody Code.

See where I’m going? Computer is personal again? My arse.

“I thought you knew all about ‘puters. You’re young.” My friend looks for reassurance.

“I know nowt about ‘puters. And what I know about Spanish is even worse.” I give him none.

Anyhow. We try some more. We look through the documentation that the kind HP folk have bestowed upon us. 6 manuals and 8 DVDs. I. Kid. You. Not. And all in English, but none in a language we understand. They talk about rebooting, operating systems and safe modes. May as well be in Spanish.

Trying to cope with our lingo nightmare, we do what all men generations before us have done. We toss the instructions into the bin and continue staring at the screen.

Thankfully, the word “Start” is still in English. But as we proceed to find no further guidance or success, the word itself becomes a taunt. An irritating form of sarcasm that the programmers at HP surely know about. Start?! Start what?! Enigma bloody machine.

We proceed to change every bloody setting on the ‘puter, hoping that one of them we stumble across could actually be the language one.

Currency is now the Zimbabwean dollar, the time zone is Central East Asia and all decimal places are set to minus six. Lovely versatility they offer you, here. But still. No language.

“What do you need a ‘puter for anyway?” I grumble at my friend.

“For surfing the interwebs” he replies, knowledgably.

And still. We stare at the screen.

Our trance is broken by a pop-up message that includes the words “error illegal”.

“Well, I think it’s broken.” I offer my best diagnosis.

“You’re good for nothing!” he moans.

“I know.”

“Want a beer?”

“Okay.”

Computer is personal again? My arse!

Greenwashed (and loving it?)

2008-04-18T10:19:00.006+02:00

Revealed: a cow has a bigger carbon footprint than a Hummer. I'm all for being a responsible caretaker of the environment, but am growing a bit jaded from all the greenwashing nonsense marketers are throwing our way. You too?

Having said that, here's a lovely ad for the Discovery Channel. Single-click to view. Double-click is an unnecessary waste of energy.

Bunnies, bunnies everywhere...

2008-03-19T12:59:00.004+01:00

The White Rabbit is a creature of folklore and much mystery.

It (he) appears in many tales; Alice in Wonderland, Harvey, even Who Framed Roger Rabbit? And of course, at this time of year, there are many more bunnies about than usual.

The pooka is part real, part fantasty, part always good, part certainly unknown.

Anyhow, for the past 2 years in Antwerp, I've been followed by a White Rabbit. And this very week stumbled across another.

It's the same artist... I think. But it always appears to get closer to me each time... The first time I found him. Now, he seems to be finding me.

The closest thing I have to a name is Nightwalker.

Who is it? What is it? And why?

UPDATE: Here he is. Nuage.

Whichever the answer, it's quite delightful, mystical treat.

See:

I fought a lesbian and won.

2008-03-14T12:34:00.001+01:00

She stared at me gobsmaked. As if she could not believe I had just done what I just had. To be honest, I could not believe it either. And neither could the ten or so onlookers, who were doing what onlookers are known to do, but from the safety of their bar stools.

Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.

That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.

I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.

Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.

In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.

I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.

But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.

I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.

She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.

So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”

Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.

She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.

No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.

However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.

It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.

“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.

At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.

Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.

I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.

When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!

A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.

Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.

It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.

But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.

What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?

And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.

But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.

It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.

Go take a flying leap

2008-03-04T21:30:00.000+01:00

Whatever happened to honesty?

2008-03-02T01:24:00.000+01:00

I’ve lost patience with the people who practice patience and try to ‘protect’ feelings. Whatever happened to honesty?

Everyone just accepts everything from anyone, these days.

I have a friend who has a sexually transmittable disease. It is fatal, if untreated. Or if you don’t know that you actually have it. Yet he sleeps without protection with many, many people. But he says nothing. Knowing full well what he has. He is killing the innocent. Or even the semi-innocent, depending on your view.

I have another friend who is having an affair with a married man. She thinks it is cute and lovely and fabulous to have a man who “loves” her in return and spends good money on her, purchasing lavish gifts. But sweetie, there’s a clue in the title. How can you trust and dedicate your love to a man whom you met whilst he was cheating on his original love? Do you think, honey, that faithfulness is a particularly strong character trait in your new love? On the other hand, do you know what it would feel like to be the wife of a man who cheats on you? Can you imagine how utterly destructive and worthless that would make you feel?

I know another who has an attention deficit disorder. Whose family dumped him when he was very young. Whose aunt had to raise him instead. People understand that he “had a hard life”, and are thus very accepting and forgiving of him. But this of course now gives him an excuse to be disruptive wherever and however he finds himself. This of course gives him an excuse to be socially inept. This gives him an excuse to behave in an inappropriate way in circumstances that absolutely depend on appropriate behaviour (whatever that is). Many words are spoken by this man. But there is little substance. He craves for attention. He gets it. But again, there is little substance to this man. The performance he gives on a daily basis is fake and based on the past. The long, forgotten and perhaps not so bad, if even, unnatural past?

I know of another friend, who craves for a relationship. She is 31 years old. Yet she has spent most of her lived and living life with her parents. Or failing that, locked in her own house. Trying to meet the man of her dreams. But locked away – by her own choice – in her living room. Watching TV on a Saturday night. But, at every opportunity that she gets with me, she will complain, cry and be frustrated that she is still alone. Still not met the man of her dreams. Or the father of her children.

“Do what you’ve always done and you’ll get what you’ve always got,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem to get that, just yet. However, when she does – if she does - , she may be 63, and too old to do anything more about it without assisted help.

I know even another friend. Who has been violent with the very people whom he tells me that he loves. He has been violent not once. But thrice. Violent. Physically. The people he loves (or loved) then carried visible bruises, blood and broken bones.

And yet not one says anything. Nothing.

For fear of upsetting. For fear of hurting their feelings. For fear of ‘getting involved’.

Before I go any further, you should know, if you don’t already, that I am not Mother Theresa. And I could be one or all of the people I have just described.

“They are grown folk. Let them sort it out on their own.” confident and trusted advisors tell me.

But I am tired of being sweet. Of being nice. Of being considerate. Some things just need to be said.

Am I the one to say them?

Far too many people are taking the horse-whisperer approach. Whispering sweet nothings to the injured, sick horse who really needs good, solid help. Without which it will surely die.

That horse really does not need a soft whisperer, but the sight of a cocked, loaded gun point to its head.

The time is short, and this fairy tale that you live in is all but about to end unless you realise that the crap that you believe or are performing on another r is hurting someone. It could be you, it could be someone else.

Bottom line is that somewhere, somehow, someone is going to die, whether physically, mentally or even just a part of their incomplete character. Unless you change what it is you are doing.

If you listen, you can at least take the responsibility for causing the extended, happier life of someone. Instead of impending doom and / or unhappiness. Which, if prolonged, I believe ends in doom anyway.

Can we… should we… be a just a little bit more honest with each other? The cost could be high. But the cost of not doing so is, I am almost certain, even higher.

I could use your honesty. Could you use mine?

See the world through someone else's eyes

2008-02-29T16:57:00.001+01:00

http://www.pangeaday.org/

Le grand content

2008-02-26T15:02:00.001+01:00

Hauntingly beautiful with just a slight hint of madness

2008-02-24T17:01:00.002+01:00

Prescilla

Moon and moon

Whats a girl to do?

Because citizens are people, too

2008-02-19T14:22:00.004+01:00

Far be it for me to criticise the all-knowing Seth Godin, but this is just getting ridiculous. His latest post is about what to call people that marketers interact with. I'm serious. That's how silly it's become.

The marketing illuminati settled on the word 'citizen'. Unbelievable.

gapingvoid

Marketing is now a theoretical, academic discussion that has lost touch with reality. It's not about actually going out to speak to people, listening, selling, and treating others as your equal.

These folks have lost touch. If the grandest of marketers has resorted to calling the people he interacts with as "citizens", then I'm hanging up my marketer's hat.

Smurfs, my hat and the cravat

2008-02-17T20:55:00.001+01:00

I once met Jean Claude van Damme. He was in South Africa to promote a new movie, and I was on the PR crew to publicise it. He was an impressively short man. Smurf-like. But with biceps. And not blue.

In any event, during one of the interviews he gave, he said something which stuck with me ever since. He was asked about how and why he keeps so defined, muscular and fit. He spoke, “Some people invest in cars, in houses or art. I just choose to invest in my body.”

Clever man. I invest in my body, but in a completely different way. But of course one man’s investment is another man’s squander.

A few nights ago, I was at a club where some young thing began dancing and gyrating in front of me with his T-shirt off. Nipples like bullets, abs like tire tracks, pecs like small climbable hills and biceps like peaches (Australian ones, not French).

It was an impressive sight to behold. I tried to communicate this to the said young thing, but only managed to slur something and then pass out. The floor was impressively soft, but in a very hard kind of way.

And it was while I was comfortably lying on the dance floor that I began to reflect on the issue of one’s body and how you can take care of it.

I am very impressed and respect these men and women of muscle. It looks attractive, and the amount of time and discipline that it takes to get and stay that way is surely quite noteworthy.

Could I do it – get it - too?

I don’t know. I think I may just lack the discipline gene. Anything that requires repetition, a bit of effort and discipline is somewhat lost on me. Mind you, that’s not completely true. The only thing that I do with discipline is not doing anything that requires discipline at all.

Which brings me to the subject of hair. I am victim to what they call ‘male pattern baldness’. This of course implies that there is some shape or design to the actual baldness. Which is complete and utter bollocks, if you don’t mind my saying.

Male pattern baldness has no pattern at all. If anything, it is a haberdashery of disorganised follicles that cannot grasp simple concepts, like growing in a straight and consistent line.

And so, I’m giving my hair one last chance. It’s swansong. To shine, to grow. Because it’s worth it. I’m wearing a hat in this interim period to cover my shame. Which has opened a whole new world of strange behaviour from friends and onlookers.

What is it about a hat that makes other people want to take it off when they see you? If you’re wearing a scarf, do I try to take it off to compliment your neck? If you’re wearing trousers, do I quickly pull them down because I want to glance at your knees? Do you see how silly this notion is? If I’m wearing a hat, please leave it on my head. Unless you want me to return the compliment and glance at your knees.

Interesting, too from one friend, who preferred that I remove my hat when eating. Why? I’m not using my hair to eat, so it can remain covered, yes? Similarly, I don’t use my bum when I eat (this part, I’m sure you already realise, comes later), so it too can remain covered. I’ve very fond of the gent who said it to me, but relations were strained when I suggested that he remove his cravat when we ate. Not for any other reason. Other than it was cravat. And that is ridiculous.

More to come... I promise.

2008-01-25T12:34:00.000+01:00

Local music for local people

2007-12-16T21:32:00.000+01:00

This past Saturday I was invited to go see Belgian artist Daan and his band. Though I never quite understood anything he sang or said, it was nonetheless an excellent performance.

He sang in German, English, French, Flemish and Clingon. Though I'm guessing the last one.

Hard to describe; a mixture of Johnny Cash, Alison Goldfrapp and me singing in the shower.

This tune was the highlight of the night:

Graham Chapman's Memorial

2007-12-09T21:38:00.001+01:00

Bits and pieces

2007-12-06T19:34:00.000+01:00

Writing this one on the fly, so short sentences and quick thoughts are the order of the day.

Firstly, you should know that I'm feeling somewhat rebellious of late. I'm wearing the L headphone from my iPod in my R ear. And you know what, I don't care.

Christmas markets are being built in and around Antwerp now. So very exciting and cool...

Expect more soon.

Heard some music from this dude / band, which is quite profound. A wee twenty-something with some even more profound lyrics. He sings something like "You are not your job, you are not the clothes you wear. You are the words you speak." Hmmm...

Anyhow, some other music from him / them:

War Of The Worlds

Also, have signed up to Facebook.... an experiment in spamming friends. Vague irritation from the people you love. I'll keep you posted.

The Sirolux Conspiracy

2007-11-13T20:57:00.000+01:00

What started out rather pleasantly has now ended in what I can only describe as the recognition of an awful, awful conspiracy.

You see, I had never walked into that room before. And the man before me was a stranger. Resplendent in perfect white, with an even whiter smile.

He had a lovely head of golden, flowing hair. Not curly, but golden as one would expect.

The room itself was spotless. It was as though a beautiful, rotund cherub had been eating bags of white marshmallows and passed a bought of musical wind. A lovely, clean, pure smell.

But in spite of all of this pleasantness, I was a nervous man. And the shining man before me knew it all too well. But before I could open my mouth to plea, he motioned me to it. A big chunk of machinery at the other end of the room.

It needed no introduction. I had seen it before. The Sirolux 3000. The Weapon of Dental Reconstruction. The Dunking Chair of Dentists.

I was at the dentist. And the Sirolux 3000 would be the home of my lifeless, limpless, carcass for the next 36 minutes.

The only nice bit of the Sirolux 3000 is the liquid motion at which it lowers you into an horizontal position before the dentist begins prodding and poking about.

It was at this point I thought of calling him “Tooth Fairy”. I mean, he did look rather angelic in appearance. But I thought the better of it when he proceeded to put both of his hands in my mouth. They were much bigger than I had originally thought.

And it was whilst I was being lowered into my dental coma by the Sirolux 3000, that I began recognising signs of international conspiracy.

It’s not that I don’t like dentists, (or electronic chairs, for that matter). It’s just that I kind of feel, well, hard done by these men in white.

I mean, you spend some significant part of your life, every morning, every night, rinsing, flossing, brushing, and spitting. All in the name of clean teeth. Only to have to make the painful, fearful, sweaty, nervous trip to the dentist on regular occasions and sit on his Sirolux.

What on earth for? Had they forgotten to tell us something? Could they not just write some instructions down? Are they keeping it secret how to really keep your teeth clean?

Do you see? The preventative measures aren't helping.

So this is my theory. I think it is all part of a cruel, dental plot. The Dentum Illuminati. Like the mafia, but for dentists, who ensure that toothpastes and toothbrushes don’t actually help your teeth… they make them worse.

I mean, think about it: if someone would invent a really good toothbrush, the dentist would be out of a job. See what I’m saying?

So, as the Sirolux 3000 and dentist began shaking and spinning and drilling about, he mentions to me that I should go and “see his friend”, the Gum Specialist.

Say what? I have to go to a gum specialist?

“But aren’t you a dentist?” I mumble with an impressive amount of diction, considering his hands are still in my mouth.

“Oh yes, but my specialism is teeth, not gums, you see.” he gently replies.

Well blow me down and dump a can of fluoride in my mouth. Which is exactly what he did.

Call me provincial, but isn’t this gum / dentist thing also just a little bit… well… silly? I mean, whilst you’re studying to become a dentist, you’re in the general mouth region, aren’t you? Would it kill you to read up a bit on the things that hold the teeth in? Why not make the effort to look but ten degrees lower and consider the gums, too? It’s like learning how to drink and enjoy wine, but having no actual idea how to get the bottle open. Quick. Call the Cork Specialist.

And again I smell a conspiracy.

But Tooth Fairy was adamant. To the Gum Doctor I must go.

So anyway. I now have to pay Tooth Fairy and Gummy Bear protection money.

And every morning, every night, I look at my toothbrush and toothpaste. Yes, it does say on the tube that it is 99% effective in preventing any tooth problems. Which of course also implies that it is 1% pretty bloody ineffective.

Ritual and Sacrifice

2007-10-07T11:37:00.000+02:00

It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.

But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.

If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.

And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.

Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.

Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.

The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.

I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.

My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.

The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?

A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.

Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.

We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?

Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.

We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.

Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.

I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.

The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.

She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.

The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.

It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.

Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.

If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.

A big monkey did it and ran away....

2007-09-24T20:23:00.001+02:00

... for he was a cheeky monkey, indeed.

Maybe next year again

2007-08-21T20:25:00.000+02:00

53 kilometres. Only.

That’s how much I managed to walk during the Dodentocht; Belgium’s infamous 100 kilometre walk of fame. Or pain.

I had thought I could do it all, but a friend of mine said that it would take 50% will power AND 50% training. Will power I had, but training was somewhat lagging, if even perhaps, completely absent.

Seriously, though. The walk may well have been one of the most wonderful, if not altogether painful, experiences of my life.

It all starts off with such a to-do, and people are cheering and singing. Locals come out from their houses and pubs to support you on the street side. And it’s through some beautiful farm-land parts of the country, too. See (more pics on Flickr) :

But as you get deeper into the walk, very few people talk or sing anymore. And all you generally hear is the sound of feet walking on the ground.

You get a lot of thinking time, too. It’s quite cleansing. I guess. And in the end, the race is only with yourself.

Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.

In the interim, I’ve also had some fantastic other experiences that involved neither walking nor pain. Hooray!

My philosophy at the moment is to try and say yes to everything. Avoid avoidance. Within reason, of course, but then again, reason has never been one of my fortes.

The results have been fantastic.

I’ve been to a Jamaican Independence Day Celebration, which was phenomenal. Traditional food, traditional people, traditional fellowship and fun.

In fact, the amount of times any Jamaican I had met mentioned the word “fellowship” and “fun’” in conversation was more than I could remember. It seems they know something. What people.

I’ve also had opportunity to travel into the countryside of Belgium. To a place called Kasterlee and surrounds. Really beautiful. I met the locals here, too. And a particularly interesting man whose great-great-great grandfathers had lived in the same village as he.

He showed me around the town, showing his birthplace, where his family were born, where he built his business.

He was incredibly proud of his heritage; which was impressive, but all within the same, small village. And yet, that didn’t seem to matter.

When he tells you about his life, it turns out he built a very successful business. Out of nothing. When everyone perhaps thought he would have failed. A business that lasted for 30 plus years.

It seems then, that greatness – whatever or however we think of it –can happen in small , tiny villages that no-one can remember the name of – as well as in the biggest, fanciest cities.

In the meantime, Antwerp has also hosted some tango sessions (I feigned injury, but took photo’s) and some guild festivals. It’s been lovely.

Finally, I had the pleasure of attending two church services in a week. My. What theatre.

Ancient churches, ancient traditions and beautiful choirs and orchestras. Playing the most beautiful, operatic music that stuns even the most ardent of atheists. Both churches were packed to capacity. I was amazed.

Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.

The Death Walk

2007-07-31T19:45:00.000+02:00

I’ve done it. Passed the point of no return. Mentioned it publicly. And made several bets.

For in a momentary lapse of common sense, I’ve signed up to participate and agonise in the infamous Dodentocht, a 100 kilometre Walk of Death through some towny bits of Belgium.

Now, 100 kilometres would not be a problem if it were a leisurely walk over a period of time. Say a few days or so. Even months.

But no such loophole.

The challenge is to complete the task in under 24 hours. Hyena’s and vultures are set upon the carcasses of those who do not make it back in the allotted time.

Strange what passes for fun in these here parts.

No, but seriously. The whole shebang seems to be arranged with such a social spirit and has a revered history to it. "Walking for a better world" the slogan says.

And nearly 10,000 walkers and countless nurses, masseuses and blister poppers all gather to celebrate the two appendages we call our legs and the apparent masochistic abuse of them.

In my preliminary excitement I’ve made a few bets with several friends who have offered unending support. “Idiot”, “Are you mad?” and “You’ll never make it” comfort and encourage me on.

But, the goal is clear. To make it though. Silliness aside, it’s also for a good cause. And it’s nice to do something so steeped (if even, not at all) in Belgian tradition, goodwill and loving.

The thought of being able to do something based on sheer willpower alone; without the very slightest interference of training, preparation or knowledge, drives me to succeed.

That and the promise of two cases of Duvel if-slash-when I make it.

As if to add insult to expected injury, the walk doesn’t particularly aim for anywhere. It’s a circular route, and you end up where you started.

Again, strange what passes for fun in these here parts.

Anyhow, along with some work colleagues, and much bravado, we’ll be setting off at 21h00 on Friday 10th August, and hoping to still complete before Saturday night 11th August.

I’d do a bit of live blogging from the event, but am channelling all my energy – even that which my fingers would use for typing - into me pins. Expect some photo’s, though.

P.S. Related in a totally unrelated way, check out these slick ads:

Von Sudenfed - Can't Get It

2007-07-06T12:04:00.000+02:00

I'm liking this bit of dirty disco...

P.S. If you look at my last few posts, it seems like I've got a thing for men in wigs and lipstick. But trust me, it's just not so. It's more of a case of being in the wrong place at the right time.

Inside the Kit Kat Club

2007-06-26T20:38:00.000+02:00

This past Saturday, I spent one of the most enchanting nights in Antwerp yet; in a small theatre, just off Lange Nieuwstraat.

Noordteater is currently the host to an Antwerpian play; De Zevende Hemel. A delightfully directed, local production of Jan Christeans’ story of a local pub of the same name.

I could have very well been in the Kit Kat Club of 1930’s Berlin. All but Liza was missing.

It was delightful as I had the pleasure of being a fly on the wall photographer, taking pics of the three principal character actors before, during and after Showtime. Nothing quite prepared me for the banter, intense concentration and preparation of the three… I am very grateful. Here are just a few of my photo's, with a few of my favourites below:

Even the after party – in full drag – was a sight to behold. Call me, and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m not quite Oscar Wilde, and therefore cannot describe it to you with the glamorous, witty and amusing attention to detail in prose that it deserves. So call, and I’ll tell you.

Back to the play. Although I understood almost nothing of the dialogue (it was thick Antwaarps dialect), it is a lovely story about the clients of a local pub; their lives and relationships.

It almost – almost – typifies Antwerp for me.

What’s more is that I’ve actually been to the pub of the same name; here in the Schippersquartier.

What a pub. Always open, with more interesting people than well, well... probably the Kit Kat Club. Perhaps that Club was, for some of them, their stamkroeg, in real life. Some of them may very well have performed there, too.

On a few occasions I’ve visited, but when I’ve thought I had more money than I actually did… and offered to buy everyone drinks, which was gratefully accepted. Only to find that I couldn’t pay for it. I’ve not done this once. But twice.

This is what the future looks like

2007-06-15T16:20:00.000+02:00

From Buzz Machine.

Mountain country

2007-06-03T18:55:00.000+02:00

I’ve recently come back from a bit of a break in the Ardennes; a most beautiful part of Belgium. A friend of mine referred to them as “Belgium’s mountain range”. But this, I find, is poetic license. The Ardennes could more accurately be described as exaggerated speed bumps.

But what the 'mountains' perhaps lack for in height, they make up for in beauty.

Picturesque villages of Durbuy, La Roche, Coo and Ninglispoo (which sounds more like something a rather nasty Ninglis would leave behind) but trust me, it’s beautiful.

Have a look (more photo’s on my Flickr pages):

I have also discovered several new and exciting Belgian beers. Ciney, Chimay, Rochefort, and Chouffe. In fact, so overwhelmed was I with Ciney, that I think it will be my new favourite. But, before my friends at Duvel get concerned, fear not. there's room in my life for two favourites. Good news for everybody.

It was a wonderful time – a bit touristy at times – but hey, it’s a beautiful part of the world, so it’s natural, I guess.

P.S. A visit to Plopsaland was also endured; where I went on the death-defying wheel of death bobsled ride. Screams are not mine. Really.

A card for every occassion

2007-05-24T19:51:00.000+02:00

I stumbled across this website that truly does provide a card for every occassion. Check it out:

An apology card:
A word of encouragement:
Thanks for being my friend card:

Just a thank you card:

Isabella Blow is dead

2007-05-09T17:47:00.000+02:00

It was such a shock to read of her death yesterday; a sad loss for the world.

Described as a ‘vibrant and often outrageous presence’ on the fashion scene, she was credited for discovering Alexander McQueen and Philip Treacy. Anna Wintour, a former boss of hers, said, "I don't think she ever did my expenses, but she made life much more interesting."

She was only 48. Reports said she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

It’s strange. I have only a vague interest in fashion, and didn’t even know what a milliner was before hearing and seeing Isabella Blow.

But even so, she inspired me. Unique. Different. Artistic. At great expense.

A mate of mine said that, if you look around you today, whether you hold company with artists, geeks, doctors, mums, jocks, gays, lesbians – whatever – it’s easy to see how we’ve easily become carbon copies of one another. Even in our quest for individualism.

So, Isabella was an original. What a woman.

To say that I’d love to be like her would be … ironic. But I hope you know what I mean.