In Dieser Beziehen - In This Respect

Respect, in this day and age is unmistakably lacking across the social and generational spectrum. It’s all well and good when old giffers wave walking sticks in the air at the gangs of hooded cretins smoking and swearing outside a shop, but it is terribly one-sided. The elderly don’t see it from the youngster’s point of view. Being an uppity little fuckstart is all part of growing up in most scumbag neighbourhoods and estates, and residents of such horrid places should get off their judgemental high-horses and just leave them alone. Kids are people too, and if they want to spend their days sniffing glue, nicking stereos and stealing pension money, they should be allowed to get on with it. Grannies need to respect that Britain is a festering shitbox of increasing crime and deprivation, and that them getting confidence-tricked by a gang of teenaged morons is not only inevitable, but vital to the continued breakdown of the social order. This country will implode, and it’s only a matter of time before it does in spectacular fashion. When one fifth of population tunes in to watch the X Factor final, then go out and buy the winner’s achingly point-missing Christmas single, we’re clearly surviving on borrowed time, as well as the trillions in borrowed cash. Walking down the street, there’s always some form of idiot, twit or twat who I’m certain Britain would be far better without. Every red-top tabloid reading scally fuck I see on the train, and actually, this sentence was about twelve lines long, but I’m reigning it in. You get the idea. Okay, so it’s me who is the ultimate in judgemental, high-horse-riding prick, but whatcha gonna do? Pretty much every undesirable could beat the absolute shit out of me, so I have to vent my anguish in this cowardly and lacklustre fashion. But it’s New Years, so time to be happy, positive and upbeat, so let’s drop this dystopian doom-and-gloom rubbish. Instead, we should be looking forward to 2009 - I’m quite optimistic my pessimism will increase at least a little bit, so there’s something we can all look forward to. Good bye 2008, you were at times a cruel, interesting and even fun year, but I’m glad you’re over.

Zumwohl! - Cheers!

As contrived and hand-picked as this entry may appear, a mere thirty-seven hours from 2009, it, like all previous pieces, was selected entirely at random. Not that I can prove that, but I just don’t have the energy for lying today, so take my word for it. Now, that I’m working both Old Year’s Night and New Years day seems too convenient an excuse to not go out and get at least a little bit drunk this time round. But the truth is I just can’t find that many reasons to give even the slightest of tosses about it. Yeah, be sociable, get out there, show people you’re young, free and single and all that bollocks, but for what? The chance of an ugly one night stand or fleeting bit of tongue action on the stroke of midnight? New Years is always a disappointment, so chances are if I go and actively expect a bad night, it’ll turn out to be great, which will of course then be a let down anyway. But far better than the 99 percent of the population who’ll experience the exact reverse. I suppose it’s just another example of vague optimism through constant pessimism (see Unterschatzen, 11/10/08), but vague optimism notched down to scant sanguinity or something equally pretentious and downbeat sounding. It is just an excuse for a party at the end of the day, (and month and year for that matter) and I’ve never been a massive fan of those. For me they’re mostly uncomfortable extensions of day-to-day small-talk and chit-chat with potentially even more embarrassing consequences. It’s rare you’ll actually connect with someone and be able to converse about topics any more interesting than that new girl at work or last night’s telly. Mingling is just an exercise in negotiating a path through well-defended clique circles and pausing briefly to smiling at people who’ve absolutely no desire to reciprocate the motion. Luckily, there are certain measures as defined in the Socially Awkward’s Handbook, should an attempt to be sociable backfire horribly. My favourite is probably the talk-come-cough action, whereby ’Hi’ will morph into ’Hhh-splutter-cough-splutter’ the instant it becomes clear they’re not listening or already walking away. It never works, as anyone in the surrounding area thinks you’re an idiot or just ill and takes a few steps back regardless. But enough of me being grumpy. 2009 has lots in store at camp Andy and ought to be a fun-filled year of travel, writing, and stand-up comedy, and all possible combinations of the three. I’ve got several important aims I may choose to shoehorn into later German to English Writings, but for now, I’ll simply say bring on a terrible New Years Eve! Oh, and cheers!

Verlobung - Engagement

Why anyone would active seek marriage is one of the great mysteries of life. My life anyway. Perhaps I am overly jaded after being involved in a failed six-year-plus relationship, and holding an overriding feeling that love can never work and that all couples are phoneys who stay together solely to avoid a lonely, miserable death. Except of course that all death is miserable, lonely or not. In fact having nobody means less disappointment and grieving spread about your anguished survivors. And all of a sudden this reads more like a suicide note than a quirky, upbeat slice of Andy drivel, so I’ll bring about a sharp tonal shift to beat even the most uncomfortable GMTV tragic incest rape story to win a big fuck-off telly competition link. It is very sweet when people do decide to tie the knot - the excitement, the glee, the adorning parents and the thrilling prospect of a boozed-up weekend in some eastern European capital to prove to the world we’re a nation of idiots to be justifiably despised. I’ve written about this before, but it does depress me when wave after wave of pricks descend upon Tallinn, Riga and Prague to ‘show them how the British do it!’ or ‘teach them how to parrrrtieeeeeee!’. You expect that shit in holes like Ibiza and Ayia Nappa. Anyone who isn’t a complete bell-end, who goes on holiday without requiring a numbered polo shirt complete with hilarious nickname and number iron-transferred on the back, knows to avoid anywhere that fully saturated with cocks. But in cities as historical, arty and just oozing cool as in the Baltics and more southerly eastern Europe, you shouldn’t have to encounter so many groups of ignorant stag-wankers who are only there because Ryan Air run a cheap flight from Stansted. With any luck, the continued devaluation of the pound will help increase our overseas manufacturing sales, while simultaneously curb our most embarrassing export. They’ll instead consider simulating the experience at home by grabbing twenty crates of Stella, picking up a few STI-infested prostitutes and handful of banging Ministry of Sound shit-discs.

Schwindlig - Dizzy

‘Tis not only the season for racially provocative sweaters (see 21/12 - Du Hast Den Pulli…), but also to feel horribly dizzy, nauseous, have a splitting headache and discover a big load of mystery bruises acquired somehow the night before. According to the news, a quarter of all alcohol purchased by households in the UK is done around the festive period. I find this an unusually large amount - surely I can‘t be the only one who drinks by myself most nights throughout the year? I can’t be alone, can I? I mean on a grand scale, not the physical lack of drinking partner. Although that said, you drink enough and you gain several new friends - pillows, teddy bears, chocolate oranges. And I’m suddenly aware that list sounds more sexually sinister than the genuine talking-to-inanimate-objects angle I was going for. In truth, (which is clearly never a good way to start an actually truthful statement) for me alcohol has lost a lot of its novelty. It’s precisely the dizziness, nausea, brain-crushing headaches and the multicoloured results of the inevitable contusion I just can’t get excited about. The times I’ve gone out and drank too much I always regret. Due to the immensely shit selection of drinkeries open past midnight in Norwich, any night out with work colleagues (-which must be put in every once in a while purely to shield myself from being branded a ‘loner’ should any spree of rapes or murders occur and the e-fit look anything like me. Well, yeah, now you mention it, he didn’t go out very much, I’d say he was a bit of a loner. I don’t need that. But we’re getting off topic-) will end up somewhere hideous. A couple of weeks back, the night culminated in a festering sleaze-and-cheese pit called Liquid, which managed to successfully extract some deeply cynical feelings I usually keep well under wraps. I announced to everyone how Liquid was the ultimate advert for misanthropy, and how if you ever needed a reason to despise the human race, simply duck in there for twenty minutes. Which of course most of them already had. And seemingly quite enjoyed it. It was all a bit like preaching atheism to gormless punters outside a Sunday carol service. Only slightly less drunken. I don’t so much regret saying that, because jokingly as it may have seemed, I did mean it, it’s just that it’s probably not going to have done my Crimewatch profile any favours when that series of grim crimes occur across the city. Well yeah, now you mention it, he did talk about hating all humans a lot, so yeah, I wouldn’t say he isn’t capable. Gee, thanks.

Du Hast Den Pulli Falsch Herum Am - You’re Wearing Your Sweater Inside Out

Well ‘tis the season for sweaters, and doubtless there’ll be many tens of thousands of hilarious inside-out-Christmas-jumper shenanigans come the big day. “You’ve got Rudolf on back to front! You‘re being a very disrespectful young man!” The obvious retort being: “Nan, this is the third year in a row you’ve knitted me sweaters featuring leading Nazi Party officials. Hitler, Goering, now Rudolf Hess, I’ll be honest, I’m just not that comfortable spending Christmas round yours anymore,” followed by an achingly racist “Well what the fuck is a hook-nosed Shylock fuck like you doing celebrating the birth of Jesus anyway?” And then visiting hours at the Elderly Anti-Semite Correctional Facility are cut short as she’s restrained and positioned in front of Adolph’s Greatest Physical Hits on the big screen for an hour or two to calm down. In truth that would be quite magical to watch. That’s the entire scene playing out, of course, not so much the images of Hitler beating the shit out of some dishevelled Jews. But I digress massively. It is almost Christmas, which means another year of pretending to like people we usually barely tolerate, and barely tolerating the people we generally despise. My gift-buying skills are horribly inconsistent - one year I’ll be amazing and get everyone brilliantly relevant stuff they seem to really enjoy and appreciate. Or at least pretend to. Other years, my cynicism is turned up a good few extra notches and I stop caring. Yet people still seem to accept my bullshit excuses of hectic-work-life-busyness, or insincere promises to drop off presents in the year, or double up gift-wise when birthday time comes around. These are all tactics I’ve learned during my childhood from the very same uncles and aunt’s I’m spouting this shit to now. Perhaps they hide their recognition, all the while secretly knowing I’ve joined their ranks, gaining the ability to be a miserable Christmas bastard whenever I so desire. What makes me feel more of an asshole this time of year is when a Christmas shopping trip results in far more stuff being bought for me than anyone else. There’s that just plain awful, but wholly inevitable, judgement that the items earmarked for friends and family just aren’t as good what’s for me. But then it really is the thought that counts, and if that thought is self-satisfied smug-fuckery, then you really are a Christmas bastard. But you can take some solace in the fact you’re not suffering the embarrassment of wearing your Rudolf Hess sweater inside out. If you had a dreadfully racist grandma, she‘d definitely take you down a peg or two.

Grapefruit - Grapefruit

Following the blistering success of my previous fruit-based entries of Mandarine and Pfirsich, I’m struggling to find anything even slightly interesting to write about this one. Drop the first letter and the meaning is instantly more hee-larious and morally questionable. Is it possible to rape fruit? Is fruit actually alive? Or is it dead the minute it’s wrenched off its tree by an immigrant worker in southern California? I genuinely don’t know. Could performing a sex act with a banana or orange or pineapple ever be considered rape? Or if it is dead would that make it be some form of produce-necrophilia? Well I just don’t know. Either way, this is making for a truly horrendous piece of writing that is frankly a ghastly waste of time for both writer and reader. So to get back on topic, I’ll simply state that grapefruits for me are neither tastefully, nor sexually attractive and as a result never end up in my shopping basket. They’re like grapes with a devastating cancer that’s turned them yellow and grown exponentially. Grapes soft are sweet, grapefruit is sour and hard. Just like my uncle Jim. He’s a boxer, not a rapist. This is clearly going nowhere else, so it’s time to use my linguistic ejector seat. Well, it appears to be jammed, so I’m going down with ship - the ship that mixes more metaphors than a food processor stuffed with political speeches and Star Trek dialogue.

Ferien - Holidays

It’s not often that one of these randomly selected German words is completely relevant to the moment. Although not currently on holiday, just two minutes ago I was doing a final bit of price-comparison research jazz for flights that will almost certainly be booked tomorrow. The plan is to fly into New York on March 11th, returning to Heathrow from San Francisco just over two weeks later. The rest is at this point is entirely unplanned and may well stay that way. While travelling around the Baltic states of Estonia and Lithuania back in September, I had a complete, thoroughly-planned itinerary involving hostel bookings and flights that in the end were never used. What was supposed to be four nights in Tallinn became ten, leaving Helsinki and Riga, as well as the flight between them excluded from the holiday. While there are savings to made by booking travel and accommodation in advance, I’ve learned it’s terribly constraining and can seriously impede your fun. So keeping it loose and free - besides having to be San Francisco by March 26th - will hopefully maximise my enjoyment, and should I fall in love with a certain city, hostel, or a group of people, sticking around is unlikely to have any negative financial consequences. There are so many possibilities, so many places I can’t wait to explore across the whole continent, from Vancouver to Miami and everywhere in between. Even having spent over two months in the US and Canada two years ago, North America is so huge and has so much to offer, I’m itching to get back, even if it is for just a couple of weeks. The embarrassing lack of humour in this piece is testament to how excited I truly am about returning! So here is a last-ditch attempt to shoehorn in some funnies: boob, pissflaps, cockballs, pooface, turd-toucher… actually that isn’t working at all. So I’ll simply say thank you America for electing Mr Obama, and please accept my greatly-depreciated British currency as a token of my gratitude. In three months time. At which point it’ll be about five pounds to the dollar and I’ll have to slog my way across your massive country hitching rides and performing lewd acts for cash. See you soon!

Speichel - Saliva

Nobody likes being spat on. Or shat on. Or sat on - except maybe bad uncles at Christmas time. And actually, some people do like, or at least pretend to like being shat on. Usually for cash for internet videos that other, arguably far more ridiculous people will pleasure themselves over. But I can’t think of anything vaguely attractive - sexual or not - about gobbing saliva all over someone’s face. Then again, I am a sad, lonely single man, the very demographic most likely to get off on such subversive wrongery, so there’s a chance I’ll have a filth-epiphany in the not-too-distant future. Personally I find spitting quite revolting and cringe whenever I see people do it in the street. Given, I do get a bit OCD about hygiene (see Hygienisch - 27/8/08) but even a normal person can surely see it’s disgusting. Spreading their fetid DNA in public places might be something these odious pricks are used to - I’ve worked in a cinema long enough to scoop up ample supporting evidence - but it’s not an excuse. It’s only one step down from openly sneezing or coughing on someone’s face. Part of the problem is idiots’ idolisation of footballers who spit constantly in full HD throughout their exhibitions of smug cuntiness. This leads to the inevitable peer pressure to imitate their actions, somehow linking their obnoxious spegging to oodles of cash and pop star girlfriends. The whole thing is horrible and I just wish people weren’t so disgusting. But saying that, I couldn’t be anywhere near as self-righteous and judgemental if everyone was as stupidly uptight as me. So, whatever. I don’t care. Continue being disgusting, nauseating freaks, it’s fine.

Mitfahrzentrale - Agency For Arranging Lifts

The idea of such a government agency existing is quite wonderful. Imagine needing to get to a dentist’s appointment ten miles away on a day the busses aren‘t running. Reschedule, you might say, and sure, that would be the easiest thing to do, but harder for me to shoehorn in a poorly constructed joke. If you could just call a national helpline that’d get you a ride when you’re in a bind, it’d be fantastically convenient. Isn’t that just a taxi? I hear you mentally scream at this page. Actually, the fact I can hear that is enough to make me stop writing this drivel and advertise my services on the internet. Not quite sure how I’d market it, but I’ll think about it passively as I attempt to get back into piece. Well, yes, a taxi would be the logical solution were you to be stuck in such a predicament. However, taxi drivers need paying, and paying costs money. Money you certainly won’t have if you’re shelling out for any kind of dental work. The Agency For Arranging Lifts would pay for everything, ensuring our free travel is provided by the UK tax payer. While some may argue that’s not particularly fair, just think of the jobs created at the Agency! Providing several new jobs as well as ensuring dental appointments are kept and dentists get paid will surely help massively in the fight to drag Britain out of our current financial crisis. And if that fails, I’ll simply sell my bizarre mind-reading skills to the highest bidder and donate a small proportion of my profits to the UK’s coffers. Everyone’s a winner. Except the taxi drivers - but screw them, they’re probably bastards anyway.

Ersatzreifen - Spare Tyre

I lack both the literal spare tyre, on account of me not possessing a car or a bizarre wheel collection, as well as the non-literal spare tyre, or the massively attractive, overhanging fold of blubbery fat around the waist. The two aren’t related in my case, although there may well be a greater proportion of overweight drivers compared to their leg-using, walking counterparts. I use my feet to get to work and back most days - a solid twenty-five minute brisk walk, that seems to take most other people closer to forty. So perhaps this does help stave off the blobby belly, but I’m quite convinced I could do almost zero exercise and eat pizza for every meal and still remain stupidly thin. It’s a curse. I’d make for a terrible healthy living advert: Andrew eats whatever he wants and does absolutely nothing all day, yet doesn’t gain any weight! What’s his secret?! Is it AIDS? We’ll find out after a blood test! Well I certainly hope it isn’t AIDS, because that would be a bummer, especially given I’ve never bummed anyone or been bummed. That’s an awfully homophobic thing to say. Straight people get it too. I know, I was simply playing on the stereotype for comic effect. And now you’ve ruined it. But in truth, the scary thing is that apparently twenty percent of HIV carriers don’t even know they’ve got it. Being such an obsessive compulsive clean and hygiene freak, I get panicked whenever I see any sort of open wound not because I’m squeamish, but on the off chance any blood somehow finds its way into my mouth or anywhere, and that it’s infected. And even if that did happen, who goes for an AIDS test based on that? I’d probably end up having to say I’ve been having lots of unprotected sex up the shitter just to be taken seriously. But once they do finally cure AIDS, it could almost, in some horribly warped way, be used as an easy weight-loss solution to shed that spare tyre. Just pay a sufferer to do a fatty up the bum or in one of their bed sore-encrusted folds, leave for six months to a year, then administer the cure after the immune system, and subsequently the pounds are wasted away.

Unternehmen - Undertaking

My entries have been waning recently as my time has been dedicated to a different undertaking - attempting to be funny into a microphone in front of many handfuls of people in a darkened room. Or stand-up comedy. Last night I performed my second ever set and it went surprisingly well! I’m not one for blowing my own trumpet - if I could I’d never get any work done and you’d be staring a blank screen (zing!) - but I was adequately satisfied with my performance. It was of course less scary than my debut a month ago, but still quite a bizarre experience hearing genuine chuckles throughout the room, and on one or two occasions getting a full on belly laugh for something I’ve said. There’s a few things I wish I’d done differently, but it is all a learning curve and I’ll just know for next time! The most encouraging thing about it was that the funniest guy of the night came up to me at the end and dished out a ludicrous amount of praise, and his friends being genuinely shocked it was only my second performance ever. But anyway, I can’t continue this without sounding like a smug twat, so I’ll stop. The point is I am working when not writing these increasingly irrelevant articles, so for the historian attempting to piece together my formative years, I’m not spending all my time playing X-Box 360 games and watching South Park. And that’s not sarcasm. But that is.

Dabei|bleiben - To Stick With It

If you’ve read all of the entries I’ve written for this project so far, you’re mind is probably numbed beyond measurement, perhaps even more than if you’d immersed your head in a paddling pool of Bonjela for five months. Yep, I’ve somehow managed to stick with it that long! Five months of inane drivel constructed into sentences that are routinely far too long, pretentious and often irrelevant. This truly isn’t me fishing for compliments either - I am my biggest critic and doubt I’ll ever be completely satisfied with what I write. So I’ll continue to pick my work apart, and question the relevance of sentences as they are written. Is this one required? Or was it as extraneous as it’s predecessor and it’s successor? I understand there’s a fine line between confusing the reader and simply seeming confused. No, I just made that up, I have no such insight. I’m guessing, however, that I’m sounding more perplexed than aware, more like someone who is trying to sound clever by relentlessly utilising shift-F7 to access the thesaurus at any given adjective, casually inserting the first word it suggests without really considering how the sentence resonates. Like that. Which is true to some extent. Right, I’ll stop. This is getting stupid. I’ll put an end to this linguistically suicidal foray into self-deprecating literature, and, HA! I just referred to my work as ‘literature’, which my be technically correct, as it, or rather will be, printed written material, but it just sounds so blooming pretentious. And how bad is that? I didn’t shift-F7 that word even though I’ve used it earlier in the piece. Oh my, I truly must terminate this before somebody gets hurt, it’s getting out of hand. It reads like the ramblings of drunken, textually frustrated imbecile, hell-bent on sounding clever, but clearly just sounding bent. And not in a gay way. Just as in queer. But not in a gay way. Just odd, different, and possibly slightly infirm. But who knows, if I don’t finish off this ‘article’ soon, I’m going to run out of synonyms for ending, terminate and finish off. Which would be disastrous. The end. No. Wait. The bottom. Actually, no. Forget it. That was the second best synonym, so I’ll just stick with The End. Incidentally, there is no synonym for ‘synonym’. How wonderfully ironic. Now if only I could be certain that is an example of irony. But I can’t. So just strike from the record anything beyond the initial The End. The real end. Done.

Taglich - Daily

Since I’ve been ill, my daily routine has become increasingly humdrum. I got sent home from work last Wednesday, and have been off with an annoyingly snotty and achy cold ever since. I’ve spent probably nine tenths of my time in my room, huddled up in bed, watching downloaded TV shows and a ridiculous amount of the BBC News Channel. On occasion, I’ll leave my room to visit the kitchen and the toilet, for input and output respectively, nod and have short conversations with my housemates (in the former only) before shuffling back into my cosy den of sickness. The last four days have probably been the laziest of the last year. I’ve never been so utterly inactive. I walk to work every day, and on my days off, I’m usually out and about somewhere. Even when on holiday, walking is pretty much my primary activity as I explore new places on foot. So right now, I’m feeling rather idle and unfit, despite holding the decent excuse card of illness. However, today I return to work, which is probably a good thing even through I still feel pretty shoddy. Otherwise I’d end up in that treacherous downward spiral of lethargy, where the longer you spend out of the work, the less attractive going back becomes, to the point where you become a penniless lowlife on Job Seeker’s Allowance with no prospects, no hope, friends or desire to amount to anything. Which right now, doesn’t seem that bad.

Schatz - Treasure

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. If this old axiom is true, there’s some very odd people out there. Going through my trash - no, rubbish - there’s nothing remotely valuable or even vaguely collectable. It’s mostly crisp packets, biscuit wrappers and currently, due to my massively annoying cold, lots and lots of soggy, used tissues. If there really is someone out there who’d be ecstatic at the prospect of finding my snotty rags, I suppose I should be flattered. The only ‘treasure’ I possibly discard on a regular basis is stuff that might possibly be recyclable, and thus a source of income for some extremely poor and impoverished sod. Now a ludicrously rich idiot might throw away something more like it, such as a wristwatch or grand piano, in which case the trash/treasure thing could hold, but generally it’s a motto for the averagely weird, the sort of people who go on Cash in the Attic and eagerly scan the newspaper for free items. Let’s face it though, almost everything featured on Cash in the Attic is complete tat, and is only valuable because some cretin with far too much money takes a shine to it. Or just sees it as an investment, a chance to profit from another similarly cretinous oaf in a few years time. So in conclusion, we should adapt the adage in question to something akin to “One man’s trash is thoroughly unlikely to be another man’s treasure.” Anyway, that’s this topic thoroughly exhausted, so I’m off to make more soggy tissues for strange people to poke through. Oh, and it’s mucus. Sickos.

Ein|leiten - To Start

It’s quite easy to start on someone in a pub or nightclub without even realising it. An accidental shoulder bump, toe-stepping or even an ill-timed glance in some guy’s direction while laughing at a private joke can get you into serious anti-social difficulties. The problem is that alcohol, especially when combined with a ton of other less legal mind-altering substances generally make people who are already complete pricks, infinitely more prickish. So much so that even a friendly smile at the bar can result in an aggressively twatty “You fucking starting mate? You fucking starting?!” To which there really is no appropriate response. There’s quite a high probability that you’re going to leave with some kind of fist or bottle related injury, no matter what you reply. The gut reaction of “No, mate, not at all!” is just asking for a “You calling me a fucking liar?!” comeback, while an even vaguely witty retort just cries out please smash my face in! Turning away an ignoring them is an option, given the attention span of such horribly Neanderthalic man isn’t renown, however, if there’s no big-breasted females, or non-white foreigners around to distract them, it’s a dangerous move. Essentially until alcohol is banned for all citizens who are complete bell-ends, you have to be prepared for a bottling or fisting (in the face) every time you go out drinking. If you leave the house expecting to return with a black eye or bloodied nose, you can never really lose, unless that’s what you actually want. But if that’s the case, just walk into a Wetherspoons on a packed Saturday night and call everyone a massively prickish prick. You won’t go home disappointed. In fact, you might not even go home at all, and instead leave in an ambulance for an all expenses trip to A&E. Whatever floats your boat.

Brett - Board

Not the first boring topic I’ve had to address in this ill-conceived writing project thus far -but this time I may as well take this opportunity to address the issue of boredom itself. In an age of seemingly infinite choice when it comes to entertainment, the chronically lazy suffer the most. Back in the 1990’s when we had a mere four channels, unless you were ludicrously rich or just enough of an idiot to fork out oodles of cash for a gigantic analogue Sky dish and subscription, content was completely varied. If you couldn’t be arsed to search for the remote, or, if you had such a shitty old TV you had to turn over manually, chances are something vaguely watchable would come on soon enough, or at least a completely different cock-boring programme to mix things up a bit. However, now, as everyone has about 30 channels by default, hundreds if you pay a monthly fee, almost every channel is specialised and plays nothing but the same crap all day long. So, if like me this very second, you find yourself typing on a computer, the TV on the BBC News Channel and the remote just out of stretching distance, you’re essentially trapped listening to the same stories again and again and again. Hence less variety, increased boredom and more stress. Lots of channels are great if you can be bothered to change them. Worst of all is when your remote’s batteries are running low and you find yourself having to jab the buttons with finger-bruising force in order to have any effect on the TV. Of course you’ve already tried the classic battery-twisting motion to give them an extra burst of life, but it’s just not working any more. You’ve got one or two AAA spares lying around, but you’re not sure where. Heading to the shop especially is out of the question, as is actually remembering to pick them up next time you get your groceries. You’re in dying remote limbo, and there’s no way out without some amount of effort - the very thing it was design to eliminate. But anyway, I think I just crossed the boredom threshold with this piece - in fact I’m certain it’s junk, but it’s the only entry I can be bothered to write as I’m feeling particularly lazy too. So, it’s an evening of injured fingers and an almost inevitable four-hour tango with rolling news. I love my life.

Tatowieren - To Tattoo

I’ve got a great idea. I’ll go see a guy who’ll stick in a needle and stab me a pretty picture under an exposed patch of skin somewhere on my body. And it’ll be permanent too. Oh, and chances are I’m only going through with it because my friends have them too and I want to fit in. Just as well the same Chinese symbol or barbwire arm ring are on offer. Yippee! I’m like so expressing my individuality. Are you fuck. Not to be too judgemental, but people who get inked are generally complete idiots whose primary objective is fitting in with their equally idiotic friends or making a rebellious statement, sticking two fingers up at their oh-so-shitty parents. I accept that some people get significant icons, pictures or symbols - genuinely individual artwork, and to those people I’m quite indifferent. Sure, go for it. At least you’re thinking about it and not just eternally staining yourself for a thumbs-up from your mates or an up-yours to your mum. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not objecting on moral or spiritual grounds, it just offends me when daft pricks take inky pricks without thinking of how it might turn out in the future. A drooping, bingo-wing-warped chain, circumventing a saggy bicep isn’t that attractive. Neither is the logo of that latest hip and happening pop band tattooed on your navel. Chances are they’ll have disappeared before the skin’s healed and next time you get naked with someone you’ll be ridiculed out of the bedroom. I’m not against living in the here and now, but you have to cast at least a fleeting glance toward the years to come, especially with body-altering procedures. Otherwise you could well end up rueing the day you got ‘I’m a massive twat’ in Chinese inscribed down your massively twatty back.

Vergeuden - To Squander

It’s far too easy to squander what you have before you realise how lucky you really were to have it in the first place. While this is true of most of life’s supposed key constituents - love, money and respect to name a few - such topics are far too serious to form the central theme for this, theoretically a humorous and light-hearted piece. So instead, I’ll tackle something far closer to people’s hearts: their hearts. In a country where now, as in the USA, over a third of the population is overweight, individuals squander their health like there’s no tomorrow. And for many there won’t be. We all know the main causes, namely over-eating, too much cheap, fatty food, not enough exercise and so on - they’ve been hammered into us a million times by patronising government officials and annoying TV chefs - but the right people aren’t taking note and as a result we‘re fatter than ever. If our leaders really want to lessen the NHS burden all the blobbies cause, they should start offering obese people physical and monetary rewards for losing weight. Lose a stone, you get a comically apt DVD - Big Momma‘s House or The Nutty Professor would do. Lose another, you get some sort of small electronic device that, as an incentive to keep shedding the pounds, chubby fingers have difficulty operating. Lose five stones and you win a small crystal statuette of Scottish snooker legend Steven Hendry. A ten stone loss and you actually get to meet Steven Hendry. Of course, this ought to work both ways and a penalty should be enforced on those who gain weight. Gain a stone and you get a finger broken. Put on another and you’re thrown into a ring of playground bullies all taunting you with offensive anti-fat chants. Gain five stones and you’ll be forced to take a small crystal statuette of English snooker legend Steve Davis. A ten stone gain and you’ll actually have to meet and hang out with Steve Davis. If that doesn’t begin to sort out our nation’s health problems, I’ll eat my hat. Which incidentally has next to no sugars or trans-fats, or in fact anything except cotton, and the blood, sweat and tears of those hard-working children somewhere in South-East Asia.

Missverstehen - To Misunderstand

When conversing in a foreign language, it’s very easy to both misunderstand and be misunderstood. Brits abroad probably have the hardest time of it, given as a nation we are ludicrously unilingual. I feel quite embarrassed when I can’t even conduct the simplest of conversations in a local language, and thoroughly mortified if I can’t remember the words for at least hello, goodbye, please and thank you. Yet so many of my fellow countrymen and women positively revel in their linguistic ignorance. Flicking through the channels after getting in from work late one night, I ended up watching a horrible programme following a group of boozy Englishmen abroad and their odious, thoroughly gimpish antics in an unfortunate eastern European capital. One ‘ex Marine’ whips his cock out in the street and starts pissing into his own mouth, then kisses one of his mates, slash-juice dripping down his cheeks. What a laugh. Another top geezer spends all his time learning how to say ‘I love your tits’ to every indigenous female in the bar. Another swaggering bunch of dipshits chant football songs and smash beer bottles on their thick fucking heads. They might as well have called the programme Reasons to Hate the English, Even if You’re English Too. I just don’t understand the mentality of these absolute wankers who could, instead of spending all that money on flights and accommodation simply pool their cash and buy a truck full of Stella and simulate the experience in their own home. They go purely to get completely trashed and remember nothing about it, so why bother travelling at all? But perhaps I am the one misunderstanding them. I could be totally out of touch with what it means to be British. I could well be the complete dickhead in all this. One of them could be writing a similarly angry piece about how pathetic someone who travels to, I don’t know, see other countries and take in their art, sights and cuisine, to embrace their customs and learn about their people‘s history. Yeah they‘re right, I’m gonna hang my head in shame and think about how much an embarrassment I am to our great nation. I’m sorry.

Ruhen - To Rest

What it might sound like for a dyslexic Tourette’s sufferer with a speech impediment to state their condition. Clearly you’d have to drop the dyslexia or speech dysfunction were they expressing themselves verbally or in writing respectively, but the joke essentially works. Actually it doesn’t. This is my problem at the moment. I never know when to give it a rest with my inane observational jokes, especially now I’ve performed my first, and hopefully not last, stand-up comedy set. To actual people. Oh, it went quite well thanks. I tend to announce every little quip that comes to mind before I’ve even worked out if anyone else would find it funny. My humour almost seems like the a comedy reworking of Derren Brown’s The System, where he convinces someone they’re going to win big at the horse races by essentially having thousands of individuals, covering all possible outcomes, all thinking they’re the only one featuring in the programme. My jokes are those thousands of other people who are ultimately disappointed, but a handful do make it through, and my set is just that. Maybe that’s nothing like the Derren Brown thing at all, and this is in fact just another poorly constructed attempt at a joke or observation. I don’t know. Does it make at least a little sense? If anyone ever reads this, answers on a postcard. Well, I need to give the relentless bad joke-cooking a rest, at least for a few hours a day. That way I can be entirely boring and not stress about anything, besides feeling entirely boring. After such a rest period, I can return to making terrible puns and plays on words and laughing at sufferers of Tourettes, dyslexia and poor st-st-st-stuttering, speech-impeded sods.

Sich Ein|Shranken - To Register

We’re prompted to register almost every product we buy, regardless of how small and insignificant. The big companies want to make you feel like you’re a member of their special elite club, and that by not sending them your personal details, you’ll be missing out some truly life-changing or fortune-saving opportunities. The reality is however, and you’re basically a complete chump if you haven’t figured this out already, they’re only taking your info so they can sell you more of their shit, or sell them on to other parties who’ll attempt to sell you even more shit. Whenever you’re signing up for something or making a purchase online, almost without fail you’ll be asked if not only you wouldn’t mind their own marketing department sending you ‘very important offers’, but also their ’carefully selected partners’ too, which I translate to mean the highest fucking bidder. So many programs you have on your computer incessantly ask you whether you want to enrol in their special members club for free, ’It’ll just take a few minutes,’ that frankly are better spent not helping someone peddle shit at you. The more desperate companies will start to offer expensive prizes as bait to lure you in, but reading the small print you quickly discover that the surround-sound, massively pimped-up plasma TV audio-visual orgasm is actually the prize for several other different competitions and really your chances of winning are slimmer than an anorexic schoolgirl during Ede. Anyway, I’m ranting away and it’s getting late. The main point is that registering with a company is probably meaningless, but given I’ve never done it, I can’t say for sure. That’s not even funny. And it should be. But it isn’t. It’s time to abort. I’m using my ejector seat to get out of this literally air-disaster before this crashes to the ground leaving no linguistic survivors. Too late.

Um Etw Kampfen - To Fight For

It’s a real shame when a cause worth fighting for is championed by a bunch of complete tossers. So many of the important issues right now, such as climate change, the energy crisis, and the conflicts in the Middle East - things that I’d almost say I was passionate about - are simply being protested very publicly by absolute idiots. Some people take things to far, and, in my eyes, do more to hinder their cause than help it. When I see some screaming, antagonistic prick going mental at the riot police because they disagree with the war in Iraq, I actually begin to think of all the devil’s advocate justifications for killing a ton of Iraqis purely to disassociate myself from these complete bell ends. It’s the same with most things; books you like, films you enjoy, celebrities you’re fans of, and comedians you laugh at. No matter how cool you think you are for liking something genuinely good, and mostly overlooked by the general public, there’ll be at least one total cockend who’ll appear to love more than you and will talk about it loudly and twatilly in front of other people. Unfortunately because this person is a complete fuckwit, his audience will disregard any praise for whatever book, film, celebrity or comedian, and will probably actively put it or him/her on a shitlist of stuff to vehemently avoid. It would be so much easier if wankers just stuck to wanker issues, media and people, and only decent members of society cared about the important stuff. But as that’s never going to happen, so many important issues will become apathetically avoided by those who don’t want to be tarred by the same embarrassingly idiotic brush as those irritating fuckstarts who apparently feel the same way.

Vorliebe - Preference

The American people have finally made their choice. Whatever I write is without doubt paraphrasing whatever anyone has said or will say on the US election for the last and next 24 hours, but it’s such a monumental and important event, it was going always going to be shoehorned into today’s improvised piece. I spent last night around a friend’s house with several other US politics junkies watching the coverage intently. It’s funny how something so inherently dull as tallying the various marks made on slips of paper can create such a nail-biting six hours of television. Although I suppose the sheer magnitude of the result and its ramifications probably contributed at least a little. Still, so many people have been utterly apathetic to the whole thing. Given, I wouldn’t expect everyone to show as much interest as me, but those who’d use the line “It’s America, I don’t give a shit, why do you care so much?!” are being ridiculously naïve. Like it or not, the USA is the world’s biggest economy and has not the largest, but certainly the most powerful military, making any fiscal or foreign policy decision very relevant to all citizens across the globe. So, America’s preference of Barak Obama over John McCain is massively important, given their clear difference in policy regarding the financial crisis and the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. I’ll actually stop right here before this gets far too weighty for something that’s supposed to be vaguely humorous, so I’ll lighten things up by mentioning my TV highlight of the evening: David Dimbleby Vs Gore Vidal. The BBC’s coverage is always excellent, and it can be counted on for at least one instance of hilarity during a live results show. Essentially Vidal sounded like a complete nutter who’d forgotten to take his pills that morning, having zero patience for Dimblebly’s questions or follow-ups, and ultimately shitting on him and his career by stating he had no idea who he was. A close second to their exchange was a drunken Nick Robinson, the political editor for BBC news, who was outside Downing Street at 3am all goosed up after a party at the US embassy, slurring his words and swaying ever so slightly.
As for the results, I’ll be beaming for weeks to come. I’m sure the world is a happier place today and while a great future is by no means guaranteed, it’s at least far, far more likely now the Elephant is dead. Although it must be said, all credit to McCain, whose concession speech was surprising eloquent, respectful and humbling. But then I guess he had a long time to work on it.

Ratselhaft - Mysterious

When girls say they want a mysterious man in their lives, is that just code for lying, cheating scumbag? Deep down I’m sure that’s what all ladies want. Get a nice guy and he’ll bore you senseless within the half decade and you’ll have to be a completely whorish twat to be rid of him, but get Mr Mysterious, and he’ll have shagged his way through your Facebook contacts well before you’re ready to throw in the towel, thereby giving you a feasible excuse to dump his enigmatic ass, guilt-free. Sure, it might hurt in the short term, but at least you don’t have to live with a lifetime of regret. I don’t think nice guys always finish last, just generally not in any of the podium positions, or where you’d earn points in a Formula One championship situation. The guys that finish last are complete bastards who happen to be penniless losers too. If you find yourself in that group, you might as well just castrate yourself, because the only female contact you’re getting is from the drug addled crab-nest that sleeps in the bed-sit opposite, or even worse, in the doorway of the bed-sit opposite. There’s only one type of lonely-hearts-labelled man more disturbing than Mysterious, and that’s Dangerous. There really are women out there who are looking for a dangerous man. Just what precisely does that mean? Is she looking to get beaten up, stabbed or raped on the first date? Perhaps get thoroughly boozed-up then partake in some hard drug use, ending the evening with a late-night speedy drive along that precarious rocky road by the cliff‘s edge? The only ladies who would specifically request a nice guy are most likely victims of abuse at the hands of previously dangerous partners or women who’ve had Mr Mysterious just enough times to be so emotionally scarred they simply can’t take any more rejection. Basically damaged goods. And of course nice guys, being that they are nice by nature, will take either in with open arms, being completely oblivious to the fact that they could do so much better were they to have any self-re-cocking-spect. So not last, just not anywhere close to first.

Bremsbelag - Brake Lining

I know almost nothing about cars. People sit in them, press some pedals, make various lights blink and occasionally run other people over. Ask me any basic question about their inner workings or elementary maintenance and I’ll stare blankly back at you. If only I were a girl, that sort of response would be totally acceptable, but as a guy, to lack such knowledge makes me feel a woefully inadequate member of the sex. I could therefore be completely wrong in my assumption that brake lining is something car-related, which only further proves my automotive ineptitude. At a guess, I’d assume it was the seal for the fluid that, through the power of hydraulics, applies pressure to the brake disks when some compensation-seeking sponger steps into the road. This, amazingly, is remembered from one physics lesson from when I was about thirteen. I even remember my crude diagrams and green pencil crayon used to shade clumsily over the already poorly drawn lines. I could be completely wrong about this. In fact I’m sure I am. I was twelve and the pencil crayon was more deep turquoise in colour. So all comic misdirection aside, I’m not too bothered by not knowing the relevance of exhaust size to fuel consumption, or how different oils affect whatever, because it makes my bewilderment completely genuine when petrol heads bang on about that shit in my company, making them more likely to change the cock-boring subject.

Heimlich - Secret

I honest don’t have a secret stash of pornography. Perhaps that sounds like a guilty confession, that I’m denying it just a little too much, but it’s true. I find it disgusting and it clearly exploits and objectifies women in a horribly vile manner. Of course, that would be my stance were I a complete prick. It’s such a classically old counter argument, but if anyone is exploiting anyone, it’s the women themselves who get paid a ludicrous sum of money for being less or equally naked than they were at birth. Okay, so they’re also being fucked, but that’s only natural too. Okay, so they’re being told to pee on eachother and one is being directed to take a slimy turd in the other‘s mouth, and that’s a little less natural. However, the Two Girls, One Cup actors are clearly consenting adults, and were evidently paid a real shitload. Poorly construed jokes aside, the reality is I simply don’t find pornography that sexy. So many of the actresses breast ‘augmentations’ are negatively cyclical; starting off as good, getting better, looking great, looking a bit daft, looking pretty stupid, to looking vile. Also I don’t understand why guys find watching two lesbians the pinnacle of sexual fantasy when these are often the same cockends who find gayness in men so utterly revolting. I don’t object to it on any moral or other stupid grounds, and will happily watch it for comedy value, but in terms of a masturbatory aid, if I may be so crude, it’s just not worth the effort. Now, pictures of hamsters on the other hand…

Unternehmen - To Go On

I can’t wait to go on another trip. Travel is horrendously addictive, and while I enjoy my life in living the jewel of East Anglia, I just crave being away. The trouble is, the pound losing value by the penny load every day, making any trip abroad increasingly expensive as the weeks grind on. But while sterling is haemorrhaging value, travel within the UK should theoretically cost the same as it always has, or perhaps even less because more beds are left vacant as Crunch, the Credit Boogeyman scares everyone into fiscal tight fistedness. But where would I go? Good question. Thank you. Well, now that you ask, I find Northern Ireland strangely alluring. Visiting a place where just ten years ago people were getting shot and bombed all over the shop, church and pub sounds like an interesting trip. Plus they drink an awful lot over there if George Best is considered a reasonably average NI dweller. It’s one of those places, like so many I’ve been to lately, where people ask you why the hell you’d want to go there, which is quite a good reason in itself. Often the places most people have never thought of visiting are not publicised in the travel agents or advertised on TV, meaning the chances of being surrounded by idiots are substantially diminished. Plus it is in the UK, and people should see their own country before they have full licence to slag it off it to foreigners.

Uberfahrt - Crossing

Trusting drivers by default at zebra crossings will probably get your legs smashed off - it‘s only a matter of time. Generalizing massively, I can state that most drivers are selfish pricks, and care more about saving that five seconds on their journey than potentially maiming a penniless pedestrian like me. I think most people avoid accidents because they’re not great for either party; they driver gets a ban or a prison sentence, and the pedestrian gets a wheelchair or a funeral. There’s no real winners, or rather there shouldn’t be. But then compensation culture crossed the Atlantic and now we’re bombarded with adverts demanding we claim the pots and pots money that’s rightfully ours. If someone’s put you out in any way, regardless of how much a genuine accident it was, they need to pay you for it through, of course, a scumbag lawyer firm who’ve adopted a ’trading name’, such as Injury Lawyers 4 U, to cynically appeal to the working (but mostly unemployed) class. Even drivers who hit pedestrians at crossings are able to sue if they can ‘prove’ they weren’t paying attention to oncoming traffic. Which is so ludicrous you may think I’ve just made it up for this piece to shabbily prove an insubstantial point. So, unless you want to get injured, dead, or find yourself paying for the Injury Lawyers 4 U Christmas rape party (I‘m assured that‘s what they do to celebrate the festive season), always look both ways before stepping out!

Takt - Tact

There are nice, or tactful ways of making requests, broaching subjects and asserting authority, that avoid making people feel like you’ve just taken a massive shit on their duvet cover. There’s also not so nice, or tactless approaches that do just the opposite, although duvet cover could be exchanged for any household item or body part. I understand why people can be purposefully tactless, if they want to be a prick and for everyone to hate them. Demanding, for example, an employee do some demeaning task or other rather than asking politely makes them feel special, big and clever, as well as suggesting they have inadequate genitalia and/or self-esteem. It’s the people who have no idea they are being completely tactless in any circumstance that worry me. How anyone cannot think before they open their big, offensive gob that what they’re saying might actually upset someone, or piss them off entirely is beyond me. Perhaps I’m totally wrong and simply overly sympathetic, empathetic, or just plain old pathetic, but I’d like to think another person’s feelings should be considered before your own. The obvious exemption to this is comedy. I think if you’re performing standup, you have licence to say absolutely anything you want, so long as it’s funny. The people in the audience know that your set is basically an act, and so shouldn’t be taken completely seriously. It’s when serious people, seriously piss other people off with their conscious or, more worryingly unconscious disregard for tact that I start to seethe inside. Unfortunately however, I lack the ability to construct an adequately tactful approach for telling them they’re being an insufferable tosser.

Pfirsich - Peach

Millions of peaches, peaches for me. Millions of peaches, peaches for free. Although it sounds more like part of a George W Bush speech on world trade or poverty, these are actual lyrics from a band called The Presidents of the USA, and their song Peaches. That is the only song I can readily attribute to them, but it’s catchy as hell, so for me they should be spared being thrown on the awful one-hit-wonder pile. Perhaps a more appropriate lyric for the current president would be something akin to Millions for impeachment, impeachment of me. Millions for impeachment for free. Okay, that was lame, but at least slightly topical. But really, this whole intro was just a springboard to dive into the news surrounding the race to succeed W, that’s going to reach its blistering conclusion in just over two weeks time. Imagine that! Two weeks until the Bush dynasty is no more! Given it’s going to take years and years to sort out all the shit he’s done, even longer if by some anti-miracle, or rather just by plain old pessimistic inevitability, McCain beats Obama, but either way, the world should be a better place. Watching the last debate it genuinely amazed me how McCain was only behind by ten percentage points. Obama came across as the confident, commanding, eloquent and truly capable candidate, whereas McCain seemed nervous, beaten, bumbling and just hopeless. It would be more helpful for the USA in the long run if in the polling stations they instigated a simple system whereby a vote cast for McCain would result in a sectioning, delayed by twenty four hours so it doesn‘t discourage anyone else from voting that way. So therefore I’m not suggesting this is used as a fear-mongering tactic, Mugabe-style - it would have to be totally unbeknownst to everyone, including the candidates. The who point of it is that if someone turns up on polling day and votes for McCain over Obama, they are clearly mental, and should not be allowed to live amongst the general populace. And if you think this is just a crazy, crackpot idea, just think of all the assets that could be expropriated from the mentals, as well as all those extra jobs up for grabs. The US’ economic misfortune would be turned around overnight, and the rest of the world would breathe a collective sigh of relief, and maybe even scrape together a million peaches as a thank you gift to the new administration. Sorted.

Schatzung - Estimate

Estimating time is not a strength of mine. Things always seem to take far longer than I think they should. Whether this is down to an inaccurate estimation, or just my general ineptitude causing things to get held up, I’m not certain. Most people probably know by now that an Andy five minutes generally means ten. If I’m to be somewhere, meeting someone at their house or the pub, and I’ve known about it for hours and hours in advance, I still find it impossible to leave the house on time. I’ll often be ready to leave early, but for me that’s just as annoying as being late. In the back of my mind I’ll be thinking that getting there ahead of time is just a waste, and that something productive could have been achieved in those five or ten minutes. So I’ll decide to start backing up my computer system, or engage in some other not exactly pointless, but hardly pressing task that I’m convinced can be done within an Andy five minute period, inevitably causing my reputation as Mr Punctual to be substantiated further. It’s the same with my initial estimate at the start of this project - these pieces were to be written within ten minutes. Then I had to lamely issue a disclaimer stating it’s more like thirty because time was passing far too quickly. Time flies when you’re struggling to be even vaguely funny, I suppose. Which may go some way to explaining why I never finished any of my essays for written exams at A Level. Since then, I discovered that middle-aged markers don’t really find masturbation and rape jokes that hilarious. But still, picturing the look on their faces when reading about such filth brings a swift smile to my face, and that’s all that matters.

Partitur - Score

There are probably at least twenty different meaning for the word score, based on the five or six that came to mind instantly, so here is my spontaneously ill-conceived attempt at not only listing a score of score definitions, but being vaguely humorous too! For the first time, one of these writings will contain a numbered list, breaking from the traditional overly extended paragraph format. When my own ideas run dry, I’ll probably consult the internet and pass off as my own various entries, after, of course, a little thesaurus-driven editing.

1. Even though I’ve played on it already, I owe it as the inspiration for this entry: a collection of twenty things, be they years, loaves of bread, or baggies of the latest designer street drug.

2. The verb, To Score, as in a goal in football, or a point in any other game.

3. Used as a noun, related to #2, referring to the score at any time during or after the game, but never really before. Usually, pre-kick off both teams have the same score.

4. To score drugs. “Hey Nigel, I’m running a little dry on my crack, my good man. Be a gent and go score me some more from Nathan, our local dealer, don’t you know.”

5.When sexual intercourse occurs - guys will often brag to their friends about how they’re going to score on an evening. If they’re also a drug addict, a double scoring could well occur.

6. Not sure if this is spelt the same way, but to score across a bit of card or paper to make a fold easier. Doesn’t quite work as well across someone’s face.

7. A musical score - referring to sheet music. That’s notes and bars on paper, not KKK rally songs.

8. A criminal caper (such a robbery, not a felonious legume) - “Hey Nigel, I do say that what we’re planning will be quite the big score. Quite, yes.”

9. Settling a score - the sorting of out an old grudge. Or calming down a group of twenty rowdy people. Perhaps.

Well, this is where I falter. Not even half way. That’ll teach me for, well I’m not sure. But I’ve certainly learnt my lesson. Final score? It’s irrelevant - I lost. Plus I don’t really know who beat me. Myself I suppose. Either way, it’s best for everyone I stop writing immediately. Right now. Here.

An|lehnen - To Lean

Trying out a new takeaway for the first time can be a daunting prospect. You’ve just moved house across the city, have a craving for Chinese food, and found to your horror that your old place won’t deliver so far away, despite your desperate pleas and promises of extra cash. You’ve passed a few places in your new neighbourhood that smell pretty good and look at least reasonably clean, but haven’t had any recommendations. So, being quite logical and pragmatic about the whole thing, you walk to three potentials and grab a copy of their menu and have a ten-second nosy round the inside. You’ll then take this recon info back home where it can be analysed in detail. Was the person at the counter friendly? Frowning? Nonchalant? Watching X Factor? Were there pictures of Mao adorning the walls or rats scuttling across the floor? Was there anyone waiting? Any vaguely oriental-looking customers? If actual Chinese people eat Chinese food from there, it’s a good indication it might at least be authentic. With regard to the menu, price is of course a factor, but shouldn’t be definitive. Other points to consider include its look and feel. If the font is gaudy and the colours are bad, feelings of hunger can quickly turn to nausea. Spelling mistakes are not necessarily a bad thing: it could go someway to proving they are actually foreign and therefore what they cook may not consist solely of an Uncle Ben‘s stir-in sauce. On the other hand, it could just be evidence that they’re thick. Scoring all this criteria, and using a bit of maths (those orientals would be proud!), a winning establishment is selected. However, it’s still not guaranteed to be anything close to decent meal! You can choose to gamble and order some beef or duck dishes, but whenever I’ve done that, the meat has been far from lean - more a fatty, tendon-filled mouthful of guaranteed-gag. So if you’re nowhere near as anal as me, and want to skip all the other needless, speculative and borderline racist analysis, just always go for the chicken! If you can’t find one that gets that right, you’d be better off moving back to your old house, or face a depressingly bleak existence devoid of Chinese takeaway.

Gerade - Straight

Yep, I’ll get straight to the point - sexuality. What is it really all about? People get labelled as either straight or not-straight depending who they want touch when naked. Perhaps that’s a bit of crude description, but that’s essentially the deal. Apparently I’m straight because I have a thing for women, even though people call me a big gay all the time. I suspect however, this is used as a derogatory term because gayness isn’t considered massively cool, at least not in Norwich anyway. I have friend who is a boy, but certainly not my ‘boyfriend’ (as that would be gay) who likes to touch men when naked (and also while fully clothed) and so he is authentically not straight, or ‘bent’ if you want to skirt across the boundaries of political correctness. However, nobody calls him a big hetro as an insult. People just call him a big gay too. It works for girls who like girls also - although guys tend to not care so much about that, especially if the ‘lesbians’ (as they’re known) are particularly attractive. Another (boy) friend of mine really, really, really fancies one specific lesbian, which really seems about as worthwhile as having a crush on your teacher when you’re fourteen - the chances of anything ever happening are so slim, it’s just an exercise in futility. Unless of course you watch, and believe as fact the storylines of teen tosserfest, Hollyoaks. There’s also a group of people who like humans of both genders, and we call them bisexuals, or just desperate if you want to apply a tired and overused joke. I know a few such people, and I respect their honesty. I think it would be totally impossible for even the ’straightest’ of straight people to never, ever have a single even slightly gay thought, and vice versa. The labels of straight and gay are so sharp, crisp and supposedly unambiguous. Labels that have been handed down from paranoid and prejudicial ancestors who take archaic religious stances against anything other biblical heterosexual shagging - the sole purpose for which has always been to create more baby Christians, Jews or Muslims, generally to wage holy war against other baby Christians, Jews and Muslims when they all grow up. It’s high time we update our thoughts on the subject, evolve our ideas and just decide to like who we like, if and when we meet them, without the thought of possible sexuality label-change and the subsequent fear of frowning parents and peers clouding our judgement. But in a label-obsessed world, I don’t think that’s going to happen en mass any time soon! [Wow, how was that for a nuclear tonal shift!]

Unterschatzen - To Underestimate

Being something of cynic and a pessimist, underestimating the abilities of others as well as my own is quite routine. I simply cannot abide, nor could I ever be, a self-assured, arrogant dickend who struts around obliviously gathering contempt from anyone and everyone they meet. I mean if you’re going to be confident about something, keep it to yourself. Don’t shout it from the rooftops, because nobody really wants to hear it and you’re just setting yourself up for massive ridicule if you fail, or nonchalant congratulations if you succeed - nobody likes a cocky prick. Well I don’t anyway. But if you don’t build things up, if you don’t expect much from yourself or others, then you can be very pleasantly surprised when things turn out well. Vague optimism through constant pessimism, as contradictory as that sounds, is the way to go. For example, as my other recent writings suggest, I’m in the process of writing a stand-up comedy routine, which is of course a joke in itself. I’m almost certain it’s going be a complete disaster, but that doesn’t stop me from attempting to make it less disastrous by spending a lot of time writing and rewriting. I am underestimating my own ability, and expect nothing more than failure, so if by some miracle it goes okay or even well, I’ll feel better than I ever possibly could had I been just optimistic in the first place. So when people ask me if I’m confident, five minutes before I hit the microphone, I’ll respond a healthy Hell No! and just see what happens. It is definitely the same with all other aspects of life - expect complete shitness and the mental dividend for anything that turns out even fleetingly good will be tenfold. That promotion at work is never going to come, that new Coen Brothers film will disappoint you, John McCain will be the next US president, Fifty Cent will continually avoid assassination, and so on. Try it. It’s an underrated state of mind, although I won’t guarantee it working for you - in fact, I thoroughly expect it not to.

Ein|tragen - To Put Down

Having already discussed the evils of Chocolate Finger addiction in an earlier piece, I could easily write similar drivel regarding Walkers Sensations crisps or any supermarket’s own-brand packs of luxury triple chocolate cookies. They are equally impossible to put down and require an unbearable amount of willpower to not scoff the entire lot in one sitting. But instead, I’ll touch upon how easy it to put down people who clearly eat too many biscuity-crispy-cookie treats - or ridiculously fat people. Luckily, my current constitution allows the eating of almost anything in however large quantities I choose, without putting on any weight whatsoever. And I’ve tried. Yet I hover around the ten, to ten-and-a-half stone mark, and have done for the last several years regardless of what I do. So I just stopped caring and it’s not made a shred of difference. Most other people, however, eat two bags of crisps and all of a sudden they’re Rosanne Barr, or any other overweight celebrity of your choosing. These people hate me, so it seems only fair I hate them back, at least a little bit. No, I could never be such a bastard, but that doesn’t stop my desire to poke fun or put them down once in a while in a friendly, jovial kind of way. I mean nothing by it when I giggle at them waddling down the road, squeezing through passages and doorways or deciding to take that seat in a fast food restaurant window, stuffing double burgers into their cakeholes to the horror of passers-by. I get called a skinny wretch all the time, yet it’s politically incorrect for me turn that around on the massively overweight. I suppose obese people are still, if only slightly, in the minority. Perhaps after another decade of supermarkets pushing their biscuity-crispy-cookie snacks, us thin folk will cease to be the majority and fat jokes will become as inoffensive as those targeting white guys or dyslexic kangaroos. Here’s hopping anyway.

Ziehen - To Draw

I find it stupidly difficult to draw even the simplest of things to any degree of skill of accuracy besides the average kindergarten art class project. With special children. Okay, so perhaps children with disabilities may be on a slightly lower rung of that ladder, but that’s only because it’s not wheelchair accessible. If it was art-skill ramp, I’d be eating their dirt - which would make a change for them, as that‘s usually something they do. Drawing shouldn’t be that difficult: you have a perfect, infinitely high definition image right in front of your eyes or in your head. All that’s required is the transposition of that to paper via a pencil with your amazingly complex and capable hand. Yet it becomes such an impossible task! I’m glad it isn’t just me that struggles with this, and I can happily laugh at other people’s frankly shit efforts because I’d be fine with them poking fun at mine. If only everyone else shared the same self-deprecating attitude the world would be a far better place. But people get so defensive about everything - “You couldn’t do any better!” Well yeah, I know, but that doesn’t stop yours from being absolutely shit, does it? The two are mutually exclusive! My lack of skill has absolutely no bearing on yours. I have no self-confidence about almost everything I do, so I really don’t care if someone insults me or something I’ve created. Or my inability to end a piece of writing with any real sense of conclusion. Except this one of course. Any criticism will result in immediate retaliatory physical violence. You’ve been warned.

Durch - Through

Through studying hard at school, it’s very possible to land a spot in a decent university on a good course. The ultimate aim being attaining that coveted bachelors degree and a very well-paid job with wonderful career prospects and the promise of a very comfortable life. Having graduated over four years ago, my view on this have changed considerably. Now a cynic would probably point out that I’m only saying this because I haven’t got that amazingly well-paid job and all those career prospects, but to them I say a hearty fuck you. I think going to university was an essential experience less for the education, and for more for the growing up, the frugal lifestyle and the people you meet. I think so many people spend so long studying for something they’re not passionate about, with a view to entering a career that will bore the shit out of them and leave them returning home from work every night quite wealthy, but ultimately feeling empty and unfulfilled. I’m a strong believer that happiness is far, far more important in life than being rich. Once you learn to live a simple existence without the need for so much of the pointless consumerist shit, life becomes so much better! Given I’m quite happy saying this because of the UK’s amazing student loan system, whereby I only have to pay it all off once I’m earning a certain threshold - were an American graduate, I’d be utterly screwed and be forced to drop this bohemian, hippy-fuck attitude in an instant. Even I’d have a hard time justifying $100,000 of college to work as a projectionist. But generally I’m through with everyone saying stuff like “Andrew, time to get a real job!”. You know what? I’m happy and I’ll do whatever the fuck I like with my life, so piss off and get back to your stressful life working for the man, monkey boy! Meanwhile I’ll leave my movies and the office and write vaguely humorous rants about randomly-selected German-word topics. Usually for more vaguely humorous than this, I might add!

Sooft - Whenever

Whenever I turn on the news at the moment, it’s all about the global financial crisis worsening. Continually. Stock markets are plummeting, banks are becoming, well, bankrupt on a daily basis and governments are scrambling to secure the assets of their citizens. I can’t help but smile just a little bit. Personally, I have no substantial savings, no real debt besides my student loan (which frankly is probably never getting paid off), no stock portfolio, no mortgage, and collect a salary substantially less than the average university graduate. A year ago I’d have been worried about my situation, but now I’m in great financial shape. I feel somewhat impervious to whatever this ‘crisis’ throws at me! With no car, no nicotine addiction, no serious alcohol problems or other less legal fiscal sinkholes, the most I’ve felt is an extra few pounds on my weekly twenty-quid shop (big deal) and less of those horribly annoying, yet strangely alluring property shows to watch on the BBC’s daytime schedule. I’m just enjoying watching the massively rich squirming around as their million-pound retirement stocks evaporate and the sad realisation sets in that their later years are more likely to be spent in Brighton than Bermuda.

Dauernd - Lasting

The effects of alcohol abuse can be terrible and long-lasting. Messed up liver, prison for the almost inevitable domestic abuse, and homelessness due to lack of cash directed at anything other than a liquid diet of booze and possibly Cuppa Soup. I never quite understand how people can get addicted to alcohol. I’m not going to debate with medical professionals who can prove it’s a drug that is physically addictive. I’m sure whatever they tell us is based on sound research - unlike the totally fraudulent stuff that constituted most of my GCSE, A-Level and university coursework. I enjoy drinking but only to a certain point; once you get beyond tipsy and start to loose control, it ceases to be fun and becomes something far more sinister. Also you know you’re in for an absolutely horrific hangover day where you’ll have an unbearably pounding head and be puking up nothingness by the bucket load. I just can’t be bothered with that any more. The only reason to drink beyond the merry and tipsy stage is for the enjoyment of others, and if that’s your aim at the start of any given night out, you’re in trouble from the get-go. On a rare occasion I will just throw caution to the wind and decide to drink to excess, but that’s often only because I’ve not been violently sick for several months and because I know I’m not an angry or violent drunk - I just get a little more stupid and sometimes slightly more funny. Still, the next morning I do regret it, which is probably the vicious circle in which actual alcoholics find themselves ensnared. The regret leads to more drink which leads to more regret and so on and so. To break the cycle can’t be very easy, but I’d suggest directing that powerful regretful emotion into something more positive - I’m currently too pissed to think of anything that useful or even a bit funny, but there must be something. I’d conduct some research, but I’d only make up the results anyway so it’d be a bit pointless.

Nebenkosten - Extra Changes

Editing can be addictive. Continually making extra changes can ruin what was an originally good piece of writing. The first draft can sometimes be so pure it needs no work whatsoever, but still the temptation to comb through it again and again can be great, but potentially destructive. That’s why for this article, regardless of how badly it turns out, I’m not going to change a single thing. At all. Except that - I wrote “Aat all” originally, and that would just be silly. It perhaps would have had helped to have a better idea initially, but there’s no turning back now! Clearly I’m not one for taking my own advice though. I’m in the process of writing my very first stand up comedy routine and I’m utterly terrified. It’s imperative the jokes I choose to perform really hit home and are the funniest they possibly can be, utilizing the most succinct adjectives and comically apt nouns. But that’s just the half of it! I have to work out the tone of voice, the pace of delivery, the comic timing and general stage posture and microphone technique. I’m not one for self-confidence or arrogance, but I’m almost certain I’m funnier than at least half of the regular performers at the night I’ll make my debut five minutes, but that’s irrelevant if the delivery goes fully tits-up. So continually making extra changes, combing through and fine-tuning my material is basically what I’ll be doing for the next two weeks, and while I am very aware it could kill the jokes, it’s better than being under prepared and having massive regrets. I hope. Otherwise I’ll, for years to come, totally regret making those two weeks of extra changes.

Geschenk - Present, Gift

Whenever a gift is required by default for a set occasion, it’s always so much harder to choose something worthwhile, something that will truly be appreciated. Birthdays and Christmas, where people get gifts for absolutely no reason other than they themselves, or the son of a supernatural entity being born on a specific day, are always so difficult to buy for - especially if you’re a present-purchasing-procrastinator. I often find myself wandering the city streets on the day before, or literally at the last minute before closing on Christmas Eve trying to find something that isn’t a book voucher or the latest bland CD from the year’s hottest insipid singer-songwriter. Inevitably, those are the items I go home with. It’s not that I don’t care about the people I’m buying for, I suppose it’s just a problem with them deserving presents for doing absolutely nothing, besides existing, which in Jesus’ case is still subject to debate. It’s much better when you’re browsing the shops and see something you think will really make someone smile or have at least hold some small significance and you impart a gift when it’s not expected. Given, you have to be careful it’s not misconstrued as a bribe or an attempt to get into their pants - especially with children, but generally it’s a lot better for everyone involved. They’ve received a present out of the blue and cannot help but feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside, unless of course they’re a complete bastard. You can feel like a good, kind-hearted person for a while at least, before you go back to stamping and kittens or spitting on old people.

Quatsch - Rubbish

It’s difficult to comprehend the vast amount of rubbish we dispose of when we‘re faced with an estimate of our annual total. Even with the massive push to be greener, we still produce a staggering amount of refuse. Once more turning to my all-knowing spiritual mentor, Google, I’ve found we throw out an average of 374kg every twelve months. That’s almost an entire Rick Waller. Given, I gleaned this from a blog related to The Sun newspaper, so it’s probably totally inaccurate, but really we don’t need figures to know we’re stupidly wasteful. I never understand exactly where it all goes. There can only be so much land to fill before it starts poking up through the middle of golf courses, a la The Simpsons. So it’s not so much an environmental concern for me, rather a physics based puzzle - how does it all fit? It’s a difficult question to ponder at the moment though, because I’m off on holiday tomorrow, so this is definitely one of the most rubbish writings I’ve committed to word processor. I’ll just take as much of my waste as possible and deposit in various bins in different countries - that should reduce our landfill burden by a good ten to fifteen percent… of 0.00000000000000000000006 percent of our total. Every little helps.

[There were no entries for the month of September as I spent most of it swanning around the Baltics. Fear not, I did a lot of writing in my notebook, on tour guides (mostly paper, not human) and on newspapers. Perhaps they’ll get transcribed someday. Perhaps]

Mandarine - Mandarin, Tangerine

A mandarin, along with any other relation to the common orange, is on the list of foods I truly cannot ever be bothered eating. Actually, I don’t have such a list, but if I could ever be bothered writing one, it’d be on there. They’re a messy fruit. I hate when people eat them on trains and leave their massacred peel strewn across the table, along with the associated juices that so effectively bind to it the magazines and paperbacks of innocent bysitters. Even if you’re a responsible orange-and their diminutive cousins-consumer and you want to clean up your mess, you have to make sure, in advance, you’ve got a bag for the remains. Foods that requires any sort of post-eating planning are just not worth the effort. At least with an apple core, you can carry it around easily enough till a bin is found, or even eat the entire thing if you’re feeling brave. But imagine getting off a train after scooping up a handful of peel, clenching it in your fist while trying not to look like a cocky shit cruising for a fight, or any other fist-heavy activity. Then you’re attempting to open doors by carefully unfurling a finger, only to find your fist immediately starts to excrete a mandarin-skin turd. There’s no way of getting out of that situation without looking like an idiot, a litter bug, or a struggling palsy sufferer. It’s just a nightmare scenario I’d sooner avoid. So what about mandarins in the home? You can be civilised and get a plate or bowl to put your peel in and catch all the drips and squirts, scooping the mess straight into the bin. Well, that still seems like an awful lot of effort just for one of your five-a-day. It’s far easier to buy a multi-pack of orange Kitkats - you can shove five of those in your mouth in the time it takes to peel a single mandarin and you get the same great taste, but chocolaty too! Also, the only rubbish you’ve got is foil and paper, which can easily be screwed up and chucked in the bin or even thrown on the floor if you‘re a scruffy shit, in any case leaving no sticky fingers or juicy mess. Who needs real fruit when you have pre-packaged biscuity-snacks? Nobody. That’s who. Now I’m off to work on that list to see which other irritating foodstuffs can be critiqued to such inept effect.

Tanzlehrer - Dance Instructor

Not all men who are really into their dancing are necessarily gay. Many heterosexual guys find that being a good dancer is a great way to pick up the ladies - mostly fag-hags, but women nonetheless. I have to go completely off topic for a second to mention the brilliance of my auto-correct spellchecker. When I typed in faghags without a the hyphen, it transformed into Afghans. The image of a bunch of cocky metrosexuals pulling some crazy moves on the dance floor to impress a shy, huddled group of hijab-clad fundamentalist Muslim women just won‘t leave my head. But anyway, I’ll try and at least push into a small box in the corner of my mind’s eye, like a Blind Date contestant’s reaction headshot as their horribly scripted holiday video is played to the unduly gleeful audience. But getting back on point, or at least trying to, Bill Hicks said it best: ‘Real men don’t dance. They sit, sweat and curse.’ Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to adhere to this, I always seem to have enough drinks to get on the dance floor and make a complete tit out of myself. My moves have been described as spastic chic (or was it like a spastic chick? Neither is particularly flattering) and like you’ve got Parkinsons, only shitter. Whereas you look at these guys who are wasted but can still dance like an extra in Step Up 2. I’d never want to be anywhere near that accomplished, lest I get talent-spotted and have to quit my job as a projectionist to tour the world’s craziest suburban middle-class ghettos for oodles of cash. That would be awful. But if I could improve just a little to progress beyond being compared to sufferers of chronic degenerative motor conditions, I’d be a tiny bit happier.

Kurznachrichten - News Summary

Has there ever been a news summary hasn’t featured single gloomy, depressing or fear-mongering story? Of course local news doesn’t count - especially if you live in Norfolk. An Anglia News summary generally consists of heart-warming tales of skateboarding pensioners, genius toddler musical maestros and courageous cat rescues. There is an occasional worrying traffic forecast but any delays are often caused by motorists slowing to observe a seventy-six year old lady in her skate gear showing off her supernatural dexterity. National news just isn’t anywhere near as fun. War, death, destruction and every other conceivable source of human misery, pain and suffering are kicking and punching each other to get to that headline top-spot. Who’ll get the gold? Warmongering Russia? Inflation crazy, election-rigging Zimbabwe? Or maybe even Famine-hungry central Africa? Who knows. Whichever way, it makes for exhaustively depressing viewing. I‘ll choose the agile aged over that business every time.

Mittelfinger - Middle Finger

I’ve never quite understood why giving somebody the middle finger is deemed to be offensive. Same with two fingers. Everyone just takes for granted that they are rude gestures and apply them to situations where a verbal outburst is either inappropriate or insufficiently insulting on its own. I’d be interested to find out where it came from and why it’s so powerful. It could have all come about from a simple misunderstanding thousands of years back. An out-of-work archer was stretching his digits one by one, sitting patiently outside the Job Centre. As he extends his middle finger, someone calls him a dole-dossing prick, to which he snappily replies Get stuffed, or something equally offensive, unwittingly flipping him off at the same time. Someone sees it and mimics the motion, exposing it to obscene-hand-gesture-craving public at large, who lap it up and use it as frequently and inappropriately as possible. I just find it odd that it’s only considered rude because we’re told it’s rude. Why is it perfectly fine when accompanied by its four smaller friends? He’s the life and soul of the party. Without him, all the other fingers look lame - some can’t even stand up straight! There’s nothing offensive-looking about him, except that maybe he makes Mr Thumb look like a midget. At a massive stretch it looks vaguely like a penis. But at any rate, getting the finger is considerably less offensive than someone shouting expletives and waving his cock at you. I’d absolutely take an up-yours over an awkward indecent exposure incident on almost any occasion. In fact, I’m certain.

Hygienisch - Hygienic

Gone are the days I’d only ever open a pub toilet door with a loo paper barrier separating my freshly cleansed hands and the pissed-up handle. I’ve grown up just a little bit since then. Now I use my little finger and attempt to select the least likely touched section, then after a successful exit, wipe it vigorously on the lower part of my trousers to remove as much trace bacteria as possible. Okay, so perhaps this does sound somewhat obsessive-compulsive, but if you’re a girl, you have no idea how disgustingly unhygienic guys are when they visit the bogs. Probably one in every five will wash their hands, and of them maybe twenty percent will bother with soap. Therefore, the door handle is just a massive piss-germ orgy that’s going straight onto your hands and into that double burger you’ve ordered - that’s assuming it hasn’t already been pissed in by the cheery kitchen staff. I understand that living ridiculously hygienically isn’t a great idea because we need to be exposed to at least some germs in order to build up our immune system. But of all the potential bacterial sources out there, I’d rather avoid anything relating to other men’s cocks and asses and their associated secretions.

Person - Person

Person: the same in English as in German. I wonder, would I have become the same person were I to have grown up in Germany instead of England? Of course this is a ridiculous hypothetical, but I’m stuck for ideas and only have ten minutes until my oven relentlessly bleeps at me to indicate my healthy fish and chips supper is fully cooked. But say I had the exact same family conditions, would being German have made me a stronger, more determined person? More authoritative? Less cynical? More evil? I’d almost certainly be bilingual which would be a bonus - I’d take that for extra evilness. I don’t like to think I’ve been influenced too dramatically by growing up in the UK as opposed to any other wealthy western country, but I suppose that’s stupidly naïve. Everything from the school curriculum to the books I read and the TV shows I ogled day after day will have shaped my character in some way. There is a chance I’d still have an interest in travel and writing, and not necessarily David Hasselhoff and punctuality, but it seems less likely. I’d love to investigate this further, but alas, my oven is incessantly telling me my fish and chips, not bratwurst and sauerkraut, are ready to be devoured!

Danke - Thank You

Nothing says thank you better than a box of Cadbury’s Roses. If you’ve guilt-tripped your neighbour into looking after your dog for two weeks while you’re living it up in a Spanish resort, a box of assorted toffees and biscuity chocolates are all it takes to repay them. For a longer holiday, or more demanding favour, the box can be upgraded in size accordingly up to the highest denomination - the tin. If you’re buying them more than a tin, it indicates you’ve really taken the piss with your favour demands. Just because Mr Nerdy Geek next door has a degree in computer science doesn’t mean he can solve all of your PC problems for free! An IT expert would charge something like eighty quid an hour to diagnose and solve whatever it is that’s messing your computer up, but some people think a three pounds box of chocolates is payment enough! It’s more a fuck you than a thank you. Now a tin would be a little better, but probably not enough. If we must make payment through the chocolaty-treat channel, I think we need some sort of formula for working out the exact amount of Roses required based on the monetary value of the favour. A tin, I’m theorising, should be equal to roughly one hundred pounds, a large box about fifty, a medium box - thirty, and a small box around fifteen to twenty. Kennel costs for two weeks are approximately 250 pounds, that’s two tins and a large box. Two hours fixing your computer, around 150 pounds, so one tin and one large box. Simple. Now far bigger favours that have no strict cash value would be harder to work out. Getting someone to help dispose of a corpse might require in excess of ten or twelve tins with an extra few packs of hazelnut whirls to boot. Someone smuggling several kilos of uncut heroin through Heathrow for you, perhaps twenty tins. An assassination: thirty or forty. Now it’s important to remember that while people appreciate gifts as thanks, actually expressing gratitude verbally is gratefully received. Sure, you may have given Mr Gunman of number 35 a large amount of sweets for removing to the top half of your ex-partner‘s face, but to look him directly in the eye and saying the words, ‘Thank You’ would probably mean a lot more to him. The chocolates alone are meaningless, but couple with a heart-felled danke, everyone is much happier.

Weinglas - Wine Glass

Is it awful to drink wine from a vessel other than a wine glass? Due to my heavy-handed washing up tactics, I don’t own a single one, just the scars of glasses smashed on my fingers. Last time I drank wine, there were thirty seconds of indecision as to whether or not to drink it straight from the bottle, but my delusional snobbery claimed victory and forced me to grab a tumbler from the cupboard, which really is only the fewest of rungs above necking it on the social acceptance ladder. To make matters worse, it wasn’t even a real glass - it was an old Nutella jar with a Simpsons motif on the side. So, filling up to Homer’s head (about three quarters), I brought the bottle into the living room and plonked it next to my chair and hit the Virgin On Demand button. And no, unfortunately it didn’t magically teleport several unsullied maidens onto my lap - I’ll have to become an Islamic martyr for that. Instead, it gave me a substantial list of TV shows I could watch right away, and perhaps aptly for that last dire joke, I chose Sleeper Cell. It’s a series following a muslim FBI agent who’s infiltrated a terrorist cell operating in Los Angeles. The dialogue is ridiculously forced at times, and just hilarious at others - one terrorist says to the undercover agent, “Yeah, Farik doesn’t trust anyone, except maybe Osama!”, and an all-American jock, the least convincing Islamic fundamentalist convert, remarks to another “Dude, We’re terrorists!”. In addition to the American, there’s an ex-skinhead Frenchman and perhaps a little more credible Bosnian whose family were murdered by Serbs in the Balkans War. Because I’m getting off Wine Glass topic, I’ll just say it’s both shit and good - the story is vaguely compelling and Darwin, the FBI agent is very likeable. The point of the show is clearly to illustrate that not all muslims are terrorists, and the struggles of a good, devout man doing the right thing in a prejudicial society, but I get the feeling that will missed by a large proportion of the audience who’ll just see its conclusion as America wins, the Islamic terrorists lose, USA, USA, USA! As I say, it’s not great, it’s not terrible, but should be enjoyed with a tumbler - or even a glass if you’re feeling classy - of cheap Sommerfield wine.

A Note About My Current Writings....

Unfortunately I seem to have strayed from my original brief: I gave myself ten minutes to write one of these pieces, but find myself spending an increasing amount of time. The average is now about forty minutes, which does render their spontaneity little less impressive, but hopefully the quality has improved to some degree. They are still essentially unedited - I tend to read through them once, make a few changes, then read through one more time. My entries are still entirely random, I haven’t got to the stage where I can find my own inspiration - that would be crazy! Anyways, I’ve written at least one every day for nine days now, so that’s something of a running record! I’ll attempt to keep it up till I leave for my holiday next week, and using the advanced technology of notepad and pen, I’ll try and write every day during that too. It may even turn into Improvised Estonian to English Dictionary Writings on my return!

Pauschaireise - Package Tour

It’s so easy, isn’t it? Leaf through a glossy magazine in your local travel agent, gawp at people having air-brushed fun in southern Spain or on an overcrowded Greek island, put your money down and shuffle onto a plane a few months later, safe in the knowledge everything will be organised for you. Why not spend two weeks being whisked around at someone else’s pleasure, stopping when they stop, eating when they tell you to and being stuck with the same group of people for the entire trip. I’m not saying all package tours are a bad idea, it just seems like a massive gamble for an entire holiday that will probably be, for most people, their sole getaway of the year . Sure, if you want to see five or six major cities in Europe over ten days, a coach tour is likely to be the most convenient and cost-effective method, but you don’t have to be complete misanthrope for other people irritate you. An annoying person forcing you into conversation on a train or plane journey - as nauseating as that is - can be walked away from, guilt-free, when you reach your destination. But on a coach tour, they’re right there, and will continue to be there, in your face, for days and days to come. Perhaps there is an equal chance of there being a really great group of like-minded people, with whom fantastic conversation can be had and deep, meaningful friendships could be forged - a coach-tour bond that will never be broken. But I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I’d never chance it. I’ll continue to book my holidays in small, manageable segments, so I can be my own boss and of course shake off any undesirables who start awkward conversations along the way!

Tageszeitung - Daily Newspaper

I read an awfully small amount for someone who wants one day to make it as a writer. Getting a daily newspaper should be the solution to increasing my textual intake, but I always seem to avoid it. I’ll pick up a copy of The Guardian if a long train journey beckons, but end up reading only the front and back covers as it‘s still folded over, as there just isn’t enough space to open out fully - doing so would just irritate my fellow sardines and I’d feel like a prick. I’m also not a very fast reader, which is probably the main reason I don’t actively look forward to sitting down with a magazine or novel. Somebody once bought me a speed-reading book, which, as bogus and contrived as this sounds, I gave up on because it was taking too long! Is it possible to be a good writer without a huge literary knowledge bank to call upon? I could argue my writing is less tainted by the works of others and is therefore far purer in nature than that of my peers. But that would sound like pretentious, arrogant twatty-twaddle, so I won’t be doing that. Reading should be far easier than writing, but for me it’s just such a chore.