Leben - Live

I’m alive! I’m still live-ing! Yeah, I’m aware it’s spelt ‘living’, but saw the wordplay opportunity and went for it, like a dingo stealing a baby or a mental woman (or man)…stealing a baby. But in fairness, more likely a woman. Guys don’t give enough of a shit about children to steal them. I certainly wouldn’t, even after watching Raising Arizona. If I had to, I’d nick a bar of Dairy Milk or a pack of Post-it notes. Both are surprisingly useful in a brainstorming situation. An infant’s screams and poos are not. Unless you’re working on ideas for baby monitors, nappies or reasons not to steal babies.

So, it’s the question on nobody’s lips: where’ve you been?! Well, after the colossal number of entries here in 2010 (two), a thirteen-month break to rest and recuperate was inevitable. While there’s a list longer than a midget’s walking stick of great and interesting things I‘ve done since, it’ll be more fun to point out the shit and ridiculous instead. For you anyway. For me it’s just digging up old, semi-repressed memories that’ll probably give me nightmares tonight. We don’t get Crimewatch in New Zealand, so it’s the next best thing. Speaking of things, the first stupid thing of 2010 was setting myself on fire in far north NZ in a place called Paihia. Distracted by the smugness of quipping that fat people flock to the town because there’s pie here, I didn’t spot the candle I was backing into. Calmly leaning into a friend’s ear and quietly uttering “I think I’m on fire,” is funny, but the memories of specially ironing that shirt just hours before left a lasting depression. The pills help.

Now, purely for the sake of mentioning it (and to nicely pad out this piece), one of Paihia’s leading tourist attractions is HOLE IN THE ROCK. You might be tempted to make a mock-assumption that it is literally just a rock with a hole in it. But you’d be completely right. Go on, Google image search it now. Buying stamps in the tourist office I joked “That there Hole in the Rock….it’s quite amazing that’s considered a big attraction,” - actually not even a joke, just a bit of a mean-spirited observation. The lady, completely obliviously to my scepticism, said something like “Ooooh yes, it’s wonderful. You know if you go under it on a boat and water drips on you, it’s good luck!” Now if it held some historical significance involving savage executions, the betrayal of Maori chiefs or being the location of New Zealand’s first Redbull Flugtag, its tourism credentials would be warranted. But no, it’s a hole in a rock that happens to be permeable enough for rainwater to seep through, bringing good fortune to gullible tourists. Nothing else.

Well as that meaningless rant fizzles out, so does my time for this entry. Apologies for the lack of additional ‘shit and ridiculous’ happenings I implied in the second paragraph, but I’ll attempt to shoehorn more into later pieces this year. If I write any.

Tötungsdelikt - Homicide

I’m not really a fan of murder. Not that I’ve ever had a go, but it seems most people who turn their hand to it aren’t that nice. Or have much of a sense of humour. Unpleasant and deadly serious makes for a boring person, and if by offing someone there was a chance I’d turn into one of those, it’s just not worth the risk. Oh, also the idea of ending someone’s life doesn’t appeal either - call me a lefty-liberal-peacenik-hippy, but even killing in the name of a respectable Christmas number-one wouldn‘t sit right. In actual fact, at the thought of bumping off anything from the hugely irritating flies in my kitchen to big game in the East African savannah (if you misread, that’s game, not gay - that would be…wait for it... this’ll be so worth it…. homocide! Urgh. It really wasn’t), my conscience kicks in and won’t allow even the smallest amount of fly-swatting or rhino poaching.

Now, as a meat eater, I understand I’m indirectly responsible for the slaughter of millions of animals each year, but somehow, like 99% of all other human carnivores, I’m mostly able to keep that thought well out of mind. We’re so well conditioned that images of cramped-up, light-deprived calves and rivers of mooey abattoir blood rarely, if ever, show themselves when we’re scoffing a Double Whopper or a posh veal steak in a nob’s restaurant. In this meataphile’s opinion, the reason most of us munch on bits of animal is flimsily similar to why religion is still so popular and widespread. The vast majority of kids are raised on meat and so accept its consumption as the norm once they can think for themselves. Likewise, the offspring of god-fearing parents are force-fed Christianity, Islam, Judaism or whatever, and so end up believing in an all-powerful being by default. Vegetarians are the atheists of the dietary world, considered freaky by the masses because they’ve had the balls to question one of the thousands of things humans accept purely on the basis of tradition. Not that I can talk. Recognising this and still eating meat probably makes me even worse than those who couldn’t give a shit. And this piece has just slammed into a comically-devoid brick wall faster than…well it‘s devoid of comedy, so there‘s no hilarious simile to make. No spray-painted penises or filthy slogans, no homeless man slumped against it in a sleeping bag quaffing white cider. Only a stack of Adam Sandler DVDs, the crumpled remains of this article and an A2 promo poster for cancer. That’ll do pig. I’ll just try to keep it off the barbecue.

Zeitung - Newspaper

Welcome to the first edition of Improvised German to English Writings in 2010! Don’t worry, it’s not going to be a piece full of horrid newspaper-related punnery - all that’s been forced into the next sentence more awkwardly than a morbidly obese chick into the back of a 1960’s Mini. Amazingly, it’s already generated some cross words from this blog’s sole observer: a Sue Dooku from Boston heralds this entry as “Broad sheeeit,” and goes on to state “where I from, tha’ how you pronounce tha’ brown stuff you push out of yo’ fanny.” Although being American she probably meant ‘bum’, but still, what a bitch. Anyway, you should be thankful that today’s first randomly selected German word ’Guttenberg’ was a proper noun and so wasn’t allowed, otherwise you’d be sifting your way through a textual mountain (via a similarly mixed metaphor) of Police Academy references until I’d have Motormouth-Jonesed your head in with a barrage of even worse stupid puns. Hightower.

Now long-term readers (if any exist besides Miss Dooku - I say ‘Miss’ as I’m certain no one could put up with her sheeeit long enough to put a ring on it) may recall Tageszeitung, (24/8/08) or Daily Newspaper, where I mentioned my pitiful reading record. Well, regretfully, not much has changed since then. In the past sixteen months I’ve probably finished about seven books and maybe half-read a further five. My friend Suze managed a thoroughly impressive 52 last year AND wrote really good, detailed reviews for each (Fenland Tales And Beyond) putting me thoroughly to shame. A New Year’s resolution to read more won‘t help, as ‘Stop binging on cookies’, ‘Curb the cynicism’ and ‘Fart less’ from last year actually had an adverse effect. In 2009 I stuffed more cookies in my mouth (and ate them), became even more nauseatingly cynical and managed to pass stronger and more frequent farts than ever before. So rather than risk a complete shutdown of book-based input by forming a doomed resolution, instead whenever idleness strikes I’ll simply keep repeating the mantra: 2 Hours Of The Jeremy Kyle Show Bad, 4 Hours Of George Orwell Novels Good. If that doesn’t sort me out, no other half-arsed way of ending today’s entry possibly will.

Feuerwehr - Fire Brigade

As there’s not a huge amount of hilarity related to burning stuff or the people paid to put burning stuff out, this time (a bit lamely, yes) I sought inspiration from Google. Beyond the default top results of almost any internet search (Wikipedia fascinating my face off with the precise military definition of the word ‘brigade’, and MySpace pointing me to the page of some soulless pap-metal act) I thankfully found a couple more comically viable options. When a website labelled simply ‘Girls Brigade’ appeared sixth on the list, the prospect of using something like ’fiery hot chicks’ and it not being overly tenuous got me quite excited. Expecting an Are You Over 18? banner to pop-up before entering a site dedicated to filthy army-clad (or unclad) ladies of the night, it was thoroughly gutting to discover that the Girls Brigade was in fact a Christian youth organisation. It was the downscaled web-based linguistic equivalent of Blue Balls Syndrome. A bit like unwrapping what you were certain was the Girls of The Playboy Mansion DVD on Christmas Day and finding sodding Bambi. Or a Famous Five triple feature. Anyway, unless you enjoy the music of Gary Glitter, there’s nothing remotely appealing about today’s youth, or in fact any demographic brought together by religion. The idea of a militarily-structured religious organisation makes me cringe, even if it is for kids. With their ranks and perceived god-serving, they’re basically Hamas. Minus the guns. Plus some rock climbing. And maybe a little canoeing. Still, based in the Middle East and substituting their motto of “Seek, Serve and Follow Christ” for “Seek, Serve and Follow Mohammed”, they’d have been bombed the fuck out of by NATO years ago. Actually, ragging on Christianity this time of year is like kicking someone when they’re down. Or more like stamping on their face until it looks like a Pound Stretcher Halloween mask. What with their most significant annual celebration being hijacked by several billion people who couldn’t give a shit about Jesus, wise men or donkeys. Unless they’re sharing a stage in Tijuana with a naked, oiled-up slut called Chantico. So no, the subject will instead be changed abruptly to inform you of an incredible site I stumbled across called Sprinkle Brigade. I say ‘incredible’ because I’ve matured to a point I where find the idea of decorating dog faeces in the street very funny indeed. Check it out. Now. The rest of this can wait.

That’s probably it for 2009. Another odd, stupendously fast year full of experiences great and not so great, but all allegedly character-building and all that shit. See ya’ll in 2010 - or possibly sooner if I get time for another entry…if so, prepare for a painful textually-awkward double-goodbye. Ta ta!

Übernachten - Stay Overnight

Yesterday I had to stay overnight at a mate’s place after drinking myself into an embarrassing babbling stupor, somehow reasoning it was a good idea to down a bottle of wine after the beer ran out. It really wasn’t. I recall very little of the wankered pre-passed-out stage, but remember repeating “Beer before wine, you’ll feel fine…what the fuck?” - much to the amusement of several onlookers. It was so confusing, I felt betrayed by the rhyme. How could something that rhymed be so wrong? To my monged brain, the adage suggested two or even three bottles sauvignon on top of the beer couldn’t touch me. This was just one! “But the rhyme… it said I’d be fine…” More laughter. Fade out. I woke up at 8am this morning on a couch, wrapped in a dubiously-stained duvet, with a well-positioned sick bucket on the floor next to my puke hole. Thankfully its services were not required. I needed to walk 2.7 miles (I Google-Mapped it) back home in order to leave for work a few hours later. With a throbbing headache, neither were especially fun prospects. But missing a shift would leave even less money to piss away on other Christmas and new year booze-ups. Unthinkable. Fortunately, about forty seconds from where I flog video games to spoilt, hateful children and chronically virginal males, there’s a KFC. The idea of binging on chicken quickly became an obsession, making the journey home a far less eventful version Harold and Kumar Get The Munchies. Although it was a bit exciting when the guy gave me an extra large chips for no reason. Anyway, it did the job, so I could do mine, despite feeling more spaced out than Jas Mann from Babylon Zoo.

It’s now 11pm and things are getting hazy again. Nausea has returned and draws its power from the scrolling text and blinking cursor. That means it’s time to wrap this piece up more clumsily than a blind, one-armed midget would a mountain bike, but not before mentioning it’s apparently “Beer after wine and you’ll feel fine.” So swapping them round next time absolutely guarantees a state of eternal fineness. One last thing: you’d do good to prepare for more boozer‘s-remorse drivel over the next couple of weeks. You’ve been warned.

Ansprüche - Requirements

The requirements for a New Zealand Working Holiday Visa differ vastly depending on the geographical location you happened to leave your mum’s lady parts. Or in some cases, the geographical location of a parent when they said goodbye to their intrauterine crib. Essentially if a couple of hundred years back your country was rich, had smart leaders, or, more likely ones that were massively belligerent tossers, you get a good deal. Otherwise you might as well not bother. Unless you’re loaded. For example, to live and work in New Zealand for up to twelve months, a Thai passport holder must have a minimum of $7000 in their account, as well as a return ticket or extra funds to purchase one; ‘have medical and comprehensive hospitalization insurance’ for the length of their stay, AND, amazingly have a university degree. Plus there’s only a hundred places available each year. A UK citizen, on the other hand, can get away with having a meagre $350 (about £150) for each month of the intended stay - even if that’s just available credit on a Mastercard. If you are short (on cash, not in stature), the ’intended stay’ for the sake of Immigration could be easily curtailed. Besides the same return ticket stipulation that’s about it. There’s no competition as the number of places is unlimited, and there’s the bonus option of extending it to 23 months if you like. So Britain’s thick and poor have a far better chance of getting approved than Thailand’s relative rich and educated.

It’s almost embarrassing to be so privileged because of something I had absolutely no control over. It’s the international travelling equivalent of being born into the royal family and enjoying a world of unearned benefits. We, the citizens of rich, western countries seemingly have the divine right to go wherever we want, whenever we please. Meanwhile surfs of the undeveloped world can sod right off. That’s unless they flash their cash upfront, because of course that proves their intentions are entirely wholesome.

I propose a new, more succinct set of requirements that don’t give a shit about where you or your parents are from, set funds or specific levels of education. In fact it’s simply two things that should be displayed in huge lettering above passport control: No Wankers and Don’t Take The Piss. Sorted.

Geschützt - Protected

It’s December. It’s 26 degrees centigrade. It’s summer in the southern hemisphere! While they’re freezing their nuts (and whatever the lady equivalent is) off back in England, I’m enjoying Auckland’s bright, ozone-hole-enhanced, skin-crispening sunshine. If you’re not adequately protected here you will, much like an unattended car on a Manchester council estate, burn inside ten minutes. While 26 degrees may not sound that hot, the sun here is so intense it feels way above 30. Sorry, thirty. No, actually 30. Mental note: a pointless internal argument is possibly the least novel of word count-extending methods. As is the transcription of ‘mental notes’. A more interesting mental note would be meeeeeelllllarph. Or a J on the major scale. But neither would be in any way related to today’s strained subject of sun protection, and so shouldn‘t make the edit. Mental note: remember to cut this paragraph before publication. Done.

I’ve always had some ability to place where people are from based on their looks. While this may sound prejudice and a bit racist, I assure you there’s no slurs or swastikas involved, so labelling me ignorant is the worst you could do. I don’t find determining between Japanese, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese and Filipino that hard. Likewise between Indians, Pakistanis and those of the generic Middle East to their west. Europeans are more difficult, but fortunately it’s made tons easier this time of year when all Scottish and Irish nationals are conveniently highlighted with an intense lobster-red sheen. Either they don’t wear sunscreen, or their skin is simply too translucent for it to work. I’m not exactly Mr Tan (and thankfully so - he was a strutting fuckwit in my year at school) but comparatively I’m almost skin-tonally Zimbabwean. And not the bludgeoned white farmer kind either. (Although they probably have quite good tans.) Now I’m not having a go - merely pointing out that the Scots and Irish in this country are living dangerously. Skin cancer kills more people annually in New Zealand than traffic accidents, depression, small children with guns, spaceships and Santa Claus. Combined. So for them, covering up is a must this summer, much the same as me ending this god-awful drivel at the next full stop. Or this one.