Ischgl
Unfortunately I am blogging from a outpost of Das Fatherland.
This means das kontrols of die blogger dashboard are in foreign, meaning I have had some comments, but I'd be blown if I could Publish them.
So - to my commentator who would call herself 'Marjorie' (You know who you are)
Heaven is England, in June.
Churchbells in the distance....
Stwawberries and cweam for tea....
Thrashing Australia in the cricket...
Anyway, my dear - you can plan menus with cook. I have badgers to gas in the meadow.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Hills are alive with the sound of 'Heeeeyy Baaaaby!'
Ischgl
Hit the slopes like a battering ram on a silver black phantom bike.
Sort of.
Tad rusty on the pins, glissadded around like a barbary ape for most of the day. I can still parallel turn, but the light was as flat as a dutchman's paddock, subsequently I barrelled around the place in little control.
As this holiday is a personal indulgence and I have no chumrades along to impress or disappoint I can pretty much set my own pace. to that end, rather than the ignominius boot camp that is skischule, I have engaged the services of a mountain guide, porter and personal ski trainer. Kurt (for I am certain that is to be his name, whether he likes it or not) shall be on hand to give tuition on the finer points of this art.
It has been sometime since I engaged the services of a local in this manner.
The last time was in the Canadian dominions. My young snowboarding instructor then was a zealous young buck but with a hint of wisdom beyond his years. He understood that to serve his masters well, he should know them well too - and that a little personal service will impress greatly, so much so that we would bestow upon him a gratuity. I need not prevail upon you the economics of the like. Suffice to say, they pay these coves buttons and they are absurdly grateful for gifts, tips and hard cash beyond their meagre rations.
During A post lesson beer with a couple of us, the subject came to music and he extolled the virtues of the current developments in British music of that time. He and his other gang snow chaps also bemaoaned the little access they had to it in the wastes of Alberta. Never fear quoth I! I had a large collection of CDs with me (This was before ipods and other such knavery) The duly set about 'ripping' the 'phat tunage'. Before long they were sharing a cultural cigarrette with me, and of rather profound cultural significance too.
Espying my delight, they offered me a portion of 'homegrown' to soothe my aching muscles.
Who was I to refuse?
The hand-over took place and we had a bowl of this rather nice herbal accoutrement.
You know what is coming don't you.
The last time I had smoked anything as strong as this was on a lost weekend in Holland. I was to spend the next two hours with these fellow doubled over in bacchanalian delight, as visuals skated across my vision and hilarity bubbled forth at the most trivial.
I then recalled I had a steak and lobster engagement with my ski group, and in the current state I was in - I could not be seen in public. I then spent the next hour desperately trying and failing to straighten up.
My stomach growled but my head whirred. I was tripping the proverbials off.
An hour later, I was eventually composed enough to depart and on leaving one of them said - 'Your bag!'. I had merely assumed I would be engaged for a few smokes. as they said - it was homegrown, and a gift from the grateful peoples.
Crikey.
I had over a ounce of this astonishing mundungus.
And I wasn't taking it home.
Only one thing to do. Have a word with some of the chaps I know with me.
'Chaos, old boy'
'Yessir'
'Fancy a doob? I seem to have rather a lot.'
His eyes went from wonder to delight.
Amongst about four of us we smoked the weed we endeavoured to get through it all. In the end, all we could do was give it away to a another couple we identified a the end of the week who would benefit. They got three quarters of an ounce.
It is my firm belief that when one does a deed like that - they get passed on to others. I hope to imagine many people that winter had a mountain high in Canada.
So.
One wonders what doors Kurt will open for me here? Pathways to elysium or roads to hell? With luck, he has a soul mired in hades and shall not spare form when it comes to pleasing his new master.
Either that or it will be like going for a light workout under the tutelage of Arnold Schwarzenneger.
Das flesh is veak English dog, but like Conan, I make you strong, Ja?
We have a rendezvous at five thousand feet.
PS: If you reconised that headline, it is one of Austria's few contributions to modern culture. It keeps the local buffoons dancing on tables high on that other contribution Red Bull.
Hit the slopes like a battering ram on a silver black phantom bike.
Sort of.
Tad rusty on the pins, glissadded around like a barbary ape for most of the day. I can still parallel turn, but the light was as flat as a dutchman's paddock, subsequently I barrelled around the place in little control.
As this holiday is a personal indulgence and I have no chumrades along to impress or disappoint I can pretty much set my own pace. to that end, rather than the ignominius boot camp that is skischule, I have engaged the services of a mountain guide, porter and personal ski trainer. Kurt (for I am certain that is to be his name, whether he likes it or not) shall be on hand to give tuition on the finer points of this art.
It has been sometime since I engaged the services of a local in this manner.
The last time was in the Canadian dominions. My young snowboarding instructor then was a zealous young buck but with a hint of wisdom beyond his years. He understood that to serve his masters well, he should know them well too - and that a little personal service will impress greatly, so much so that we would bestow upon him a gratuity. I need not prevail upon you the economics of the like. Suffice to say, they pay these coves buttons and they are absurdly grateful for gifts, tips and hard cash beyond their meagre rations.
During A post lesson beer with a couple of us, the subject came to music and he extolled the virtues of the current developments in British music of that time. He and his other gang snow chaps also bemaoaned the little access they had to it in the wastes of Alberta. Never fear quoth I! I had a large collection of CDs with me (This was before ipods and other such knavery) The duly set about 'ripping' the 'phat tunage'. Before long they were sharing a cultural cigarrette with me, and of rather profound cultural significance too.
Espying my delight, they offered me a portion of 'homegrown' to soothe my aching muscles.
Who was I to refuse?
The hand-over took place and we had a bowl of this rather nice herbal accoutrement.
You know what is coming don't you.
The last time I had smoked anything as strong as this was on a lost weekend in Holland. I was to spend the next two hours with these fellow doubled over in bacchanalian delight, as visuals skated across my vision and hilarity bubbled forth at the most trivial.
I then recalled I had a steak and lobster engagement with my ski group, and in the current state I was in - I could not be seen in public. I then spent the next hour desperately trying and failing to straighten up.
My stomach growled but my head whirred. I was tripping the proverbials off.
An hour later, I was eventually composed enough to depart and on leaving one of them said - 'Your bag!'. I had merely assumed I would be engaged for a few smokes. as they said - it was homegrown, and a gift from the grateful peoples.
Crikey.
I had over a ounce of this astonishing mundungus.
And I wasn't taking it home.
Only one thing to do. Have a word with some of the chaps I know with me.
'Chaos, old boy'
'Yessir'
'Fancy a doob? I seem to have rather a lot.'
His eyes went from wonder to delight.
Amongst about four of us we smoked the weed we endeavoured to get through it all. In the end, all we could do was give it away to a another couple we identified a the end of the week who would benefit. They got three quarters of an ounce.
It is my firm belief that when one does a deed like that - they get passed on to others. I hope to imagine many people that winter had a mountain high in Canada.
So.
One wonders what doors Kurt will open for me here? Pathways to elysium or roads to hell? With luck, he has a soul mired in hades and shall not spare form when it comes to pleasing his new master.
Either that or it will be like going for a light workout under the tutelage of Arnold Schwarzenneger.
Das flesh is veak English dog, but like Conan, I make you strong, Ja?
We have a rendezvous at five thousand feet.
PS: If you reconised that headline, it is one of Austria's few contributions to modern culture. It keeps the local buffoons dancing on tables high on that other contribution Red Bull.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Musings on a trip across the strange continent
Ischgl.
Hello dear reader,
there is free interweb access in the hotel in which I have taken rooms, and I am shamelessly exploiting it. So I am sat here at angels-four in the alps with a glass of what passes for claret in these parts.
Today has been a adventure - of sorts. Other than me trying to touch type with a keyboard set to foreign that is.
I visited chums in S London last night to start the hols with a bang. Discretion prohibits me from furnishing you all with the riper details of my escapades - suffice to say I awoke with a start fully clothed - an hour late for my trip, and had to hot foot it across The garden of blighty to get to the tunnel on time. This I failed to do - but those splendid coves at TransManche sorted me out and I only missed a hour off my journey.
Consequently I found myself in the Pas de Calais with a grade two eye twister and 1100 foreign miles to thunder to my desitination. Fortunately, the Alvis was going like a dream and barring a moment's hesitation here or there, I found myself on the Brussels ring road.
I reflected momentarily on the vista laid before me in the drizzle.
This has to be why we own atomic weapons I pondered. One day - our benighted leaders will take it upon themselves to use them on this town. Even the Belgians will finally thank us for turning this place into glazed glass. In the long run.
But I could not dally. I had a schedule to keep. To the frontier!
And so I continued across Belgium, Holland and even - dare I say it Germany. The only crumb of comfort I had was 10 cds of unabridged Patrick O'Brian to keep me company. The hours oozed by as I soaked up the tales of glory and sailcloth and the Alvis ate the miles. The exchange rate for foreign miles is about the same as their strange money to The God Given Pound - so it seemed even faster.
Finally the frontier into Austria lay before me, as I purchased my motorway ticket for the country.
We all draw inspiration from our environs - but still my thoughts were dry, focussed and - frankly - dull. I was hoping for musings concerning Eagle's nests, lederhosen, edelweiss et al. No. All that was going through my head was a resolute and lantern jawed determination to get to the chap-pad have a shower and settle in.
Imagine my joy at beng greeted with valet parking and a free glass of champagne! Elysium be here! Only fly in the ointment was the desperately camp reception cove.
No - I can handle my own luggage, no, I don't need you to turn my bed down, no I can collect my keys from reception. Listen old chap - don't be offended, but please stop cooking up ever more tenuous excuses to come to my room. He appeared crestfallen. Or it was gas. These continental types are a bit inscruitable. And a they have a prediliction to obscene quantities of pickled cabbage - at least to levels that do not befit a gentleman.
Have prepared the tweeds for outdoor activities tomorrow by rubbing them liberally with rendered seal blubber - i shall be warm and waterproof and should I desire an evening's 'Clubbing' I should at least smell moderately Canadian.
I shall report with more tales of wonder tomorrow. I plan to set up a conrol room at the top of the cable car, after I have rented some ice-axes, a JU 87 and resurrected the ghost of Richard Burton to look after the radio.
Schitzel count: 1.
Strudel status: Negative. However, they give them free with schnapps here. I fear for my body beautiful.
Adieu! Adieu! To Yiue and Yieu and Yiue!
PS: Will probably get over the Sound of Music references in good time.
Hello dear reader,
there is free interweb access in the hotel in which I have taken rooms, and I am shamelessly exploiting it. So I am sat here at angels-four in the alps with a glass of what passes for claret in these parts.
Today has been a adventure - of sorts. Other than me trying to touch type with a keyboard set to foreign that is.
I visited chums in S London last night to start the hols with a bang. Discretion prohibits me from furnishing you all with the riper details of my escapades - suffice to say I awoke with a start fully clothed - an hour late for my trip, and had to hot foot it across The garden of blighty to get to the tunnel on time. This I failed to do - but those splendid coves at TransManche sorted me out and I only missed a hour off my journey.
Consequently I found myself in the Pas de Calais with a grade two eye twister and 1100 foreign miles to thunder to my desitination. Fortunately, the Alvis was going like a dream and barring a moment's hesitation here or there, I found myself on the Brussels ring road.
I reflected momentarily on the vista laid before me in the drizzle.
This has to be why we own atomic weapons I pondered. One day - our benighted leaders will take it upon themselves to use them on this town. Even the Belgians will finally thank us for turning this place into glazed glass. In the long run.
But I could not dally. I had a schedule to keep. To the frontier!
And so I continued across Belgium, Holland and even - dare I say it Germany. The only crumb of comfort I had was 10 cds of unabridged Patrick O'Brian to keep me company. The hours oozed by as I soaked up the tales of glory and sailcloth and the Alvis ate the miles. The exchange rate for foreign miles is about the same as their strange money to The God Given Pound - so it seemed even faster.
Finally the frontier into Austria lay before me, as I purchased my motorway ticket for the country.
We all draw inspiration from our environs - but still my thoughts were dry, focussed and - frankly - dull. I was hoping for musings concerning Eagle's nests, lederhosen, edelweiss et al. No. All that was going through my head was a resolute and lantern jawed determination to get to the chap-pad have a shower and settle in.
Imagine my joy at beng greeted with valet parking and a free glass of champagne! Elysium be here! Only fly in the ointment was the desperately camp reception cove.
No - I can handle my own luggage, no, I don't need you to turn my bed down, no I can collect my keys from reception. Listen old chap - don't be offended, but please stop cooking up ever more tenuous excuses to come to my room. He appeared crestfallen. Or it was gas. These continental types are a bit inscruitable. And a they have a prediliction to obscene quantities of pickled cabbage - at least to levels that do not befit a gentleman.
Have prepared the tweeds for outdoor activities tomorrow by rubbing them liberally with rendered seal blubber - i shall be warm and waterproof and should I desire an evening's 'Clubbing' I should at least smell moderately Canadian.
I shall report with more tales of wonder tomorrow. I plan to set up a conrol room at the top of the cable car, after I have rented some ice-axes, a JU 87 and resurrected the ghost of Richard Burton to look after the radio.
Schitzel count: 1.
Strudel status: Negative. However, they give them free with schnapps here. I fear for my body beautiful.
Adieu! Adieu! To Yiue and Yieu and Yiue!
PS: Will probably get over the Sound of Music references in good time.
Fame at Last!
I have been blogrolled by guano forks. I am honoured!
I can now watch my hitcounts soar.
Chapsticks - where two's company and three's a readership.....
I can now watch my hitcounts soar.
Chapsticks - where two's company and three's a readership.....
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Broadsword calling Danny Boy
Off to Austria effective tomorrow.
As you know - Am off to Schloss-Adler (Ischgl). Rather than taking the Alvis across the frontier and grappling with the lunacy that is the French traffic system, I shall parachute in.
Here's me doing it last year:
Note the stern gaze, dashing uniform and attendant double agent to help me give Jerry the slip.
Now the biggest problem with skiing in Europe is the queues. Again taking a leaf from danny-boy above - have devised system to cope with said cable cars. This is illustrated here as well - but it doesn't leave a lot of room for error.
If fatigue, sore limbs, breakages, or sinister blonde chaps in slightly camp uniforms do not detain me overly, I may yet blog strudel-status from out there.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
As ene fule kno
Fortunately, I passed my theory exam last night with the sort of mark which would belie a 'swot'. (No honest, i work everything out from base principle - I did no swottin chiz chiz) i was deklaired to be the class swot and so i can justify me bein just as fotherington tomas and sa hullo clouds hullo sky.
The other apes of the clas sa you are a swot mr d and truly a wet, and we diskard you and I sa i forgive you for those uncouth words and see yu at five thousand feet in my wiz glider zoom zoom
Too Posh to Pooh
A chumrade of mine has asked me on what I can describe as the oddest adventure.
Now, she hails from north of the Tartan Curtain, but she has other more notable faults. Shameless castle-creeping, obsessive materialism, the stalker like pursuit of hedge-fund johnnies and other such misdemeanours of the Nouveau Riche bejewel her character like Rubies at a WI benefit and indeed this suggestion smacked of 'Ladies What Lunch'.
However the nature of her suggestion really caught my eye, and reminded me of so many of those headlines in those celeb magazines that this poor misguided lass worships.
'Let's go for a joint colonic irrigation session' she suggested.
I thought about this for a moment.
'The opposite of dinner I suppose, but pricey nonetheless' I said (Not dismissing it out of hand mark you - I get to see someone push a tube up her bum, a tale on which I could dine out on for while).
She then suggested we could go Dutch. I immediately thought - 'ah - ever the romantic', but then the wordplay was too tempting...Dutch colonic irrigation! - Images of Amsterdam, windmills, and fingers in dykes - this too, too priceless.....
Not for her the prosaic dinner in another identikit Islington restaurant. Oh No. She would like us to go out, and have tubes stuffed into our rears and warm soapy water pumped through until a state of Persil-fresh gussetry is achieved.
Now I have done some research into his, and other than the obviously hair-raising elements - it is supposed to be addictive.
Those of us gifted with addictive personalities should be warned to steer clear of such things - as the expense soon out weighs the benefits - and a grisly spiral of an andrex free existence combined with jugs, tubes and commodes awaits.
Imagine the scene - Chap at home with Memsahib:
'Sorry dear, I have blown the money we saved for that Chalet in Verbier on Colonic Irrigation. We shall have to go to Bognor.'
A scene reminiscent of the treatment will probably ensue, except I can imagine it would involve the poker instead.
Still - don't knock it till you try it, I say.
Now, she hails from north of the Tartan Curtain, but she has other more notable faults. Shameless castle-creeping, obsessive materialism, the stalker like pursuit of hedge-fund johnnies and other such misdemeanours of the Nouveau Riche bejewel her character like Rubies at a WI benefit and indeed this suggestion smacked of 'Ladies What Lunch'.
However the nature of her suggestion really caught my eye, and reminded me of so many of those headlines in those celeb magazines that this poor misguided lass worships.
'Let's go for a joint colonic irrigation session' she suggested.
I thought about this for a moment.
'The opposite of dinner I suppose, but pricey nonetheless' I said (Not dismissing it out of hand mark you - I get to see someone push a tube up her bum, a tale on which I could dine out on for while).
She then suggested we could go Dutch. I immediately thought - 'ah - ever the romantic', but then the wordplay was too tempting...Dutch colonic irrigation! - Images of Amsterdam, windmills, and fingers in dykes - this too, too priceless.....
Not for her the prosaic dinner in another identikit Islington restaurant. Oh No. She would like us to go out, and have tubes stuffed into our rears and warm soapy water pumped through until a state of Persil-fresh gussetry is achieved.
Now I have done some research into his, and other than the obviously hair-raising elements - it is supposed to be addictive.
Those of us gifted with addictive personalities should be warned to steer clear of such things - as the expense soon out weighs the benefits - and a grisly spiral of an andrex free existence combined with jugs, tubes and commodes awaits.
Imagine the scene - Chap at home with Memsahib:
'Sorry dear, I have blown the money we saved for that Chalet in Verbier on Colonic Irrigation. We shall have to go to Bognor.'
A scene reminiscent of the treatment will probably ensue, except I can imagine it would involve the poker instead.
Still - don't knock it till you try it, I say.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Dark Satanic Mills
What-ho reader! I am currently in t' North, spreading the word of chappism in Britain's colonies north of the Trent.
York is steeped in queer ways and customs. My favourite on is that you are obliged to meet in one of the spectauclarly haunted pubs, so that the resident ghosts can give guided tours of the local actors.
There is also the local stationery musuem which I can't wait to visit - the Jorvik Viking Direct centre.
I am travelling home on the train - which I board next to the steam museum. Feel free to insert your own joke here.
Big exam tonight. I have hat, goggles and white silk scarf bought just in case.
My friend picture here will be at my side, trusty copilot that he is.
York is steeped in queer ways and customs. My favourite on is that you are obliged to meet in one of the spectauclarly haunted pubs, so that the resident ghosts can give guided tours of the local actors.
There is also the local stationery musuem which I can't wait to visit - the Jorvik Viking Direct centre.
I am travelling home on the train - which I board next to the steam museum. Feel free to insert your own joke here.
Big exam tonight. I have hat, goggles and white silk scarf bought just in case.
My friend picture here will be at my side, trusty copilot that he is.
Startling eh?
Chum of mine sent me this. Rather tickled me, but then I thought....who would do this, and why?
The answer came in a flash! Our transatlantic cousins!
Rather comely though, isn't she?
Monday, February 19, 2007
Normal service will be resumed
You may have noticed dear reader that I have been a little quiet of late. This is because I have examinations.
Now, as you know Nanny would rather the way for us to get about is to be under her control, and going places to which she deems suitable. This means queuing up for hours to be shouted at by frightful individuals in ill fitting polyester uniforms, then crammed into a dreadful tin-can with two hundred of the underwashed and overscented while ladies as orange as their uniforms refuse to sell me gin, but insist on my purchasing lottery gizmos.
To ensure we don't take matters into our own hands, she insists that if I am to take an aeroplane to the heavens on my own then i must have my wit and intellect tested.
Being vulgarians of the highest order in her employ - the cut of my tweeds, the firmness of my handshake and the clubs to which I belong count for nought.
These benighted officials insist that I must jump through hoops to learn all sorts of byzantine regulations so that I can be priveliged to move about the skies as nature intended.
Many of these are counter intuitive to a free born chap as they largely concern laws, safety and sobriety. Reading between the lines they merely demonstrate the joyless lives these individuals lead - devoid of the deeper pleasures that nature has gifted us with enjoying.
Personally I believe that provided one can master a 2G turn without losing the baccy from the briar or spilling the scotch and soda then that really ought to suffice.
They will be asking me for credentials for my ability to command the propulsion of the old trusty Alvis next.
Now, as you know Nanny would rather the way for us to get about is to be under her control, and going places to which she deems suitable. This means queuing up for hours to be shouted at by frightful individuals in ill fitting polyester uniforms, then crammed into a dreadful tin-can with two hundred of the underwashed and overscented while ladies as orange as their uniforms refuse to sell me gin, but insist on my purchasing lottery gizmos.
To ensure we don't take matters into our own hands, she insists that if I am to take an aeroplane to the heavens on my own then i must have my wit and intellect tested.
Being vulgarians of the highest order in her employ - the cut of my tweeds, the firmness of my handshake and the clubs to which I belong count for nought.
These benighted officials insist that I must jump through hoops to learn all sorts of byzantine regulations so that I can be priveliged to move about the skies as nature intended.
Many of these are counter intuitive to a free born chap as they largely concern laws, safety and sobriety. Reading between the lines they merely demonstrate the joyless lives these individuals lead - devoid of the deeper pleasures that nature has gifted us with enjoying.
Personally I believe that provided one can master a 2G turn without losing the baccy from the briar or spilling the scotch and soda then that really ought to suffice.
They will be asking me for credentials for my ability to command the propulsion of the old trusty Alvis next.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Word Spreads!
I see Mr Eugenides also reads Patrick O'Brian.
Someone else will know the significance of the weather gauge, running alongside and boarding in the smoke and losing not a minute.
I salute you sir, with thirteen guns. You are welcome on my quarterdeck for a glass of sillery at any time.
Someone else will know the significance of the weather gauge, running alongside and boarding in the smoke and losing not a minute.
I salute you sir, with thirteen guns. You are welcome on my quarterdeck for a glass of sillery at any time.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The frozen wastes of Croydonia
Took the old Alvis skating this morning. Numpties everywhere, who shouldn't be permitted on the public highway without the red-flag chap running them in line ahead.
Being a chap of lantern-jawed resolve, and the skill at anything only found in Chap Of The Colonies, driving said horseless carriage to the old hamster wheel was a doddle.
More than can be said for the rest of the buffoons glissading their way across the highways of the Southern Smoke. The best thing to do is reside indoors, slip on your favourite dressing gown and slippers, load up the hookah, and await the soothing unctions of finest Lebanese take away your desire to venture forth. It may come to pass dear reader, that you will need food/ale/chocolate digestives/rizlas. and the garishly lit aisles of Mr. Tesco will require a visit. You will soon start to wistfully gaze upon your car keys and thinking about a fools errand. Fear not - a Chap is always prepared! Hear is my 'Cut-out and Keep' guide to winter driving:
1. Wear warm clothing. Stout tweeds, and insulated fez and double-glazed monocles should suffice. The wearing of gloves, mufflers or 'utility clothing' merely marks you out as hoi-polloi, and liable to rendering your porters restless.
A good lady friend swears by woolly tights. Naturally a chap should avoid such things unless of a theatrical persuasion, or if you suffer from cold knees. In which case, prepare a ready excuse for your lady wife when she occasions upon them in the laundry basket - 'They are my secretary's' normally works.
The snow is also the only time that brown brogues are permitted inside the M25.
2. Engage the correct number of porters. These will be required for the radios, supplies, botanising equipment and medicinal properties. They can also be on hand to bribe local officials, and to take the whip to any buffoon who gets in your way. 153 should suffice. bear in mind, they will need careful handling, and are liable to mutiny if you do not maintain an air of absolute authority. A sign of weakness, hesitation whilst under danger, or even a shiver against the cold will be seen as weakness, and they will exploit that to the full. I find selecting one at random in the morning and thrashing him is good for their behaviour and your amusement.
3. Hot food is essential. Should one find yourself awaiting the poltroon in the jack-knifed lorry to finally work out that he should call the RAC, one will need hot nourishing sustenance that is both filling and portable. I recommend a tureen of kedgeree is kept on a spirit burner on the back seat, and a warming Irish stew is kept at a suitable temperature in the engine bay. Your Moroccan boy will only be too delighted to remain within the engine compartment for stirring duties - as it will be a dash-sight warmer than the streets of South Norwood. Porters can be sent to forage for fresh rolls from Mr Greggs. Binders Butter Beans are a good addition.
4. Medicinal supplies. Should one find oneself in a crevasse, trapped on an ice-wall or short in sight of the summit, then strong medicine is required - and Champagne is strong medicine indeed. It should be only administered under the strictest medical supervision, or on the direct orders of the expedition leader. Use wisely, but apply liberally. See below for dosages. Morphine is recommended too. I prefer it in the Laudanum form, as this is especially useful for numbing the bone shattering pain of a supermarket checkout queue.
5. Rescue and scientific equipment. A minimum list includes: Crampons, 100 yards manila rope, four ice axes, pneumatic ice shovel, avalanche mortar, Lee-Enfield rifle (Yeti basher as we call 'em), lancet, 100 leeches, large canvas mess-tent, paraffin stove for 6 pans, carpet slippers, short wave wireless telegraphy set, marine sextant and reduction tables, two shovels, life belt, glacier cream, 100 gold sovereigns, two packets milk chocolate, a pint of brandy and 240 bottles of champagne. Anything else is a little trivial, and would overload your facilities.
6. Finally you should ask - is my trip really necessary - why should I go? If the answer is 'I must go to work', then it most certainly is not. if it is 'I need a new corkscrew to open a fresh bottle of Aloxe-Corton', then venture you must - for Bacchus must not be denied!
So - suitably equipped, one should find the drive to Mr. Tesco's pleasant and and enjoyable adventure for all the family.
Being a chap of lantern-jawed resolve, and the skill at anything only found in Chap Of The Colonies, driving said horseless carriage to the old hamster wheel was a doddle.
More than can be said for the rest of the buffoons glissading their way across the highways of the Southern Smoke. The best thing to do is reside indoors, slip on your favourite dressing gown and slippers, load up the hookah, and await the soothing unctions of finest Lebanese take away your desire to venture forth. It may come to pass dear reader, that you will need food/ale/chocolate digestives/rizlas. and the garishly lit aisles of Mr. Tesco will require a visit. You will soon start to wistfully gaze upon your car keys and thinking about a fools errand. Fear not - a Chap is always prepared! Hear is my 'Cut-out and Keep' guide to winter driving:
1. Wear warm clothing. Stout tweeds, and insulated fez and double-glazed monocles should suffice. The wearing of gloves, mufflers or 'utility clothing' merely marks you out as hoi-polloi, and liable to rendering your porters restless.
A good lady friend swears by woolly tights. Naturally a chap should avoid such things unless of a theatrical persuasion, or if you suffer from cold knees. In which case, prepare a ready excuse for your lady wife when she occasions upon them in the laundry basket - 'They are my secretary's' normally works.
The snow is also the only time that brown brogues are permitted inside the M25.
2. Engage the correct number of porters. These will be required for the radios, supplies, botanising equipment and medicinal properties. They can also be on hand to bribe local officials, and to take the whip to any buffoon who gets in your way. 153 should suffice. bear in mind, they will need careful handling, and are liable to mutiny if you do not maintain an air of absolute authority. A sign of weakness, hesitation whilst under danger, or even a shiver against the cold will be seen as weakness, and they will exploit that to the full. I find selecting one at random in the morning and thrashing him is good for their behaviour and your amusement.
3. Hot food is essential. Should one find yourself awaiting the poltroon in the jack-knifed lorry to finally work out that he should call the RAC, one will need hot nourishing sustenance that is both filling and portable. I recommend a tureen of kedgeree is kept on a spirit burner on the back seat, and a warming Irish stew is kept at a suitable temperature in the engine bay. Your Moroccan boy will only be too delighted to remain within the engine compartment for stirring duties - as it will be a dash-sight warmer than the streets of South Norwood. Porters can be sent to forage for fresh rolls from Mr Greggs. Binders Butter Beans are a good addition.
4. Medicinal supplies. Should one find oneself in a crevasse, trapped on an ice-wall or short in sight of the summit, then strong medicine is required - and Champagne is strong medicine indeed. It should be only administered under the strictest medical supervision, or on the direct orders of the expedition leader. Use wisely, but apply liberally. See below for dosages. Morphine is recommended too. I prefer it in the Laudanum form, as this is especially useful for numbing the bone shattering pain of a supermarket checkout queue.
5. Rescue and scientific equipment. A minimum list includes: Crampons, 100 yards manila rope, four ice axes, pneumatic ice shovel, avalanche mortar, Lee-Enfield rifle (Yeti basher as we call 'em), lancet, 100 leeches, large canvas mess-tent, paraffin stove for 6 pans, carpet slippers, short wave wireless telegraphy set, marine sextant and reduction tables, two shovels, life belt, glacier cream, 100 gold sovereigns, two packets milk chocolate, a pint of brandy and 240 bottles of champagne. Anything else is a little trivial, and would overload your facilities.
6. Finally you should ask - is my trip really necessary - why should I go? If the answer is 'I must go to work', then it most certainly is not. if it is 'I need a new corkscrew to open a fresh bottle of Aloxe-Corton', then venture you must - for Bacchus must not be denied!
So - suitably equipped, one should find the drive to Mr. Tesco's pleasant and and enjoyable adventure for all the family.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Had a conversation with another leftie the other day.
She was bemoaning her current workload. She's a Surgeon in the Workers Popular Front (NHS) and has to get up at the crack of 8 O'clock to spend 30 minutes in her new car driving (Horrors!) to the Congress of the People's wonders (Hospital) where she operates on her patients.
I feel sorry for her. I mean - fancy the horrors of having scrape yourself out of bed at 8 am five whole days a week? And she is going to have to do it until she is 50 to get an 80% pension which isn't even in the city - it is only funded by our tax!
Poor girl.
Next time I am up at 05.30 to travel 300 miles on a monday to help close down a factory, and chuck 400 poor sods out on the dole so we can afford to keep going at all because these leftie thieves have put our taxes up again to pay for the privilege of her work ethic, I will remember to feel sorry for her.
Sorry folks, Icy calm deserted me there. Normal service will be resumed after a Gin and Tonic and an hour on the hookah.
She was bemoaning her current workload. She's a Surgeon in the Workers Popular Front (NHS) and has to get up at the crack of 8 O'clock to spend 30 minutes in her new car driving (Horrors!) to the Congress of the People's wonders (Hospital) where she operates on her patients.
I feel sorry for her. I mean - fancy the horrors of having scrape yourself out of bed at 8 am five whole days a week? And she is going to have to do it until she is 50 to get an 80% pension which isn't even in the city - it is only funded by our tax!
Poor girl.
Next time I am up at 05.30 to travel 300 miles on a monday to help close down a factory, and chuck 400 poor sods out on the dole so we can afford to keep going at all because these leftie thieves have put our taxes up again to pay for the privilege of her work ethic, I will remember to feel sorry for her.
Sorry folks, Icy calm deserted me there. Normal service will be resumed after a Gin and Tonic and an hour on the hookah.
I'd wager you a ha'penny bun to a pound of dried bananas....
Dear reader, as you know, we find ourselves in ever benighted times. Now as much as it brings joy to me that yet another socialist administration is on the ropes - I have to temper the desire to dance a jig, as their end is not yet nigh.
So - I must content myself with the ongoing tweaking of the nose of Nanny, statists, lefties, the so called liberal media progressive consensus, the subsidariat and their toadies of all forms.
I urge you dear reader to do the same.
'But how?' I hear you clamour…
Well chaps and chapesses across the land must rise to the challenge and confront the perils of being told how to wash our hands, what vegetables to eat and their spouting of their variegated 'me too' pseudo populist claptrap.
Now these types are tricky to confound, as they cloak themselves in veneers of smug superiority on the grounds that they odious ideas are good ones.
How do I do it? Humour, at their expense.
A recent example.
As you know I am plagued with the current need to work for living. This is largely because I would rather spend my time tinkering with engines, flying a motorless aeroplane, sailing into Cowes for a jug of Pimms and I am afraid that these things cost pennies.
This unfortunately brings one into contact with all manner of unsavoury types some of which despite joining the productive part of the economy still act as though they are part of some people's revolutionary front. One in particular thinks it makes her popular. (She reads the Independent and the Grauniad - need I illustrate more?)
A coffee machine (I know, grisly thought) conversation travelled as thus - she was busily waxing lyrical that the new casinos shouldn't be 'allowed'.
'Oh', says I, 'why not?'
'Because people will get addicted to gambling, and they need to be stopped'.
Oh-ho methinks Nannyism at work….time for a feint to the northwest I reckon…..
'But what about the controls that whassherface is talking about? They seem frightfully well structured'
'Not far enough! These things will only encourage people to become further in debt!'
…..Ah I muse, like artificially low interest rates, easy bankruptcies and the welfarism of the modern age doesn't….
'Well I reckon people aren't affected by such things, you know' quothe I, building up to a punch line…..
'Of course they are, everyone knows that!' …..Coffee table points of view again….
'Goodness - would you?'
'No - I know better…'
'Really? Well, I bet you a fiver you are…'
There was a delicious pause when she realised I was tweaking her nose
'That's not funny!'
Actually I think it is. Damn chit has no sense of humour, but then Lefties rarely do. One up for me I reckons.
So - I must content myself with the ongoing tweaking of the nose of Nanny, statists, lefties, the so called liberal media progressive consensus, the subsidariat and their toadies of all forms.
I urge you dear reader to do the same.
'But how?' I hear you clamour…
Well chaps and chapesses across the land must rise to the challenge and confront the perils of being told how to wash our hands, what vegetables to eat and their spouting of their variegated 'me too' pseudo populist claptrap.
Now these types are tricky to confound, as they cloak themselves in veneers of smug superiority on the grounds that they odious ideas are good ones.
How do I do it? Humour, at their expense.
A recent example.
As you know I am plagued with the current need to work for living. This is largely because I would rather spend my time tinkering with engines, flying a motorless aeroplane, sailing into Cowes for a jug of Pimms and I am afraid that these things cost pennies.
This unfortunately brings one into contact with all manner of unsavoury types some of which despite joining the productive part of the economy still act as though they are part of some people's revolutionary front. One in particular thinks it makes her popular. (She reads the Independent and the Grauniad - need I illustrate more?)
A coffee machine (I know, grisly thought) conversation travelled as thus - she was busily waxing lyrical that the new casinos shouldn't be 'allowed'.
'Oh', says I, 'why not?'
'Because people will get addicted to gambling, and they need to be stopped'.
Oh-ho methinks Nannyism at work….time for a feint to the northwest I reckon…..
'But what about the controls that whassherface is talking about? They seem frightfully well structured'
'Not far enough! These things will only encourage people to become further in debt!'
…..Ah I muse, like artificially low interest rates, easy bankruptcies and the welfarism of the modern age doesn't….
'Well I reckon people aren't affected by such things, you know' quothe I, building up to a punch line…..
'Of course they are, everyone knows that!' …..Coffee table points of view again….
'Goodness - would you?'
'No - I know better…'
'Really? Well, I bet you a fiver you are…'
There was a delicious pause when she realised I was tweaking her nose
'That's not funny!'
Actually I think it is. Damn chit has no sense of humour, but then Lefties rarely do. One up for me I reckons.
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