Feuerwehr - Fire Brigade

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

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

Übernachten - Stay Overnight

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

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

Ansprüche - Requirements

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

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

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

Geschützt - Protected

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

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

Befand - Found

I was shocked and disturbed last week when I found a lump. In my mashed potatoes. As a guy, besides in porridge or on your balls, there are few worse places you can unexpectedly discover a lump. One on your head, for example, would be an expected consequence of nutting a brick wall or Mike Tyson. You’d know it‘s on its way. Similarly, it’d come as no surprise to find Jerry Lumpe in a collection of 1950’s New York Yankees baseball cards, or the best-of album Lump in amongst the illegal downloads of any true Presidents of the United States of America fan. However, testicular cancer is no joke, unless of course the afflicted ball belongs to comedian. In that case the tumour is born of laughing stock and so is inherently at least a little bit funny - funnier still (for cathartic reasons) if it belongs to Dane Cook or Adam Sandler. As for porridge: it simply shouldn’t be lumpy. It comes in the form of dry, separated oats that’ll smoothly bind together provided there’s adequate milk, it’s stirred once in a while and you’re not a complete cretin. Lumps are therefore most unexpected and most unpleasant.

Now, with mash you are in complete control. If you’re happy doing a half-arsed job, you can reasonably anticipate the odd or (even) frequent lumpy bit. I, however, spend an average of five to ten minutes decimating my potatoes, not before adding an abundance of milk and Olivio spread. (If you’re wondering, New Zealanders voted a resounding NO! in last year’s Olivio to Bertolli referendum. An important victory indeed for the Keep New Zealand A 90’s Great Britain party.) This combination creates the lushest, creamiest, (non-sexual) goop you’ll ever taste. In my mash I believed there was zero possibility of any chunky bits slipping through to the dinner plate. Until last week. After the initial panic, I had decided to just ignore it. Keep it a secret - what harm could such a small lump do? Fear for loss of mashing reputation clouded my judgement and brought about a full-blown denial. But luckily, and inexplicably (as I’m running out of time) after a few days I came to my senses and sought professional advice. Within minutes, the reanimated corpse of Keith Floyd had some good news. Being soft and squishy, the lump turned out to be benign - apparently it’s the hard (undercooked) ones that can cause the serious problems. Phew. Bottom line: always check your mash, and food-based cancer parodies aren’t funny.

Eigene - Own

I arrived in Auckland two months ago with three bags: a small to medium-sized Berghaus backpack, an average-sized Columbia rucksack, and a Cole’s supermarket plastic carrier containing a half-eaten, full-sized foot-long sandwich. The contents of the latter had to be scoffed down within minutes of landing before New Zealand’s bio-security agents busted me. I envisaged them slapping on the cuffs and renditioning me to Morocco for some ugly snack-based questioning. They couldn’t give a shit about an impending anthrax attack, but if you’re bringing in plant matter - even in the form of salad leaves - you’d better watch your back. You should see the Kiwi version of 24 where Jeck Biwwer (my worst ever textual interpretation of the local accent) spends the day chasing a French tourist who didn’t declare his recent hiking in Switzerland! Nightmare! Jeck soon catches up with him, but only after snapping his neck like a rustic baguette does he find the tainted boots are gone! And so on. Grippingly convoluted stuff. Anyway, to get back on point, everything I had this side of the planet was inside those three bags, approximately 18kgs in total. That’s maybe three stones. Or forty-two pounds. Or three hundred spazloobs. Now after almost nine weeks and feeling relatively settled here, I’ve begun to build up a collection of stuff that’ll almost certainly have to be ditched in ten months when my visa‘s up. A speaker system for my iPod, a printer, books, DVDs, clothes and of course my amazing Egyptian cotton bedding with 500 threads per 10cm squared. It’s sad to think an increasing amount of the stuff I own is destined to part company in less than a year. It’s like a lonely soul buying a terminally ill Labrador retriever. Up to its death/my departure, it/the things will make life a lot more bearable, the joys and comfort brought hopefully exceeding the inevitable sadness and sorrow of saying goodbye. Especially to those Egyptian cotton sheets. Jesus, (it is December so it’s far less blasphemous) nothing can rescue this piece from the shroud of doggy-death downer I just evoked. More depressing still is that god awful (Christmas - not blasphemous) Owen Wilson film Marley and Me is now lodged firmly in my immediate conscious. But I’ve ranted to death about that previously (Mit Dem Schwanz Wedeln - 28/4/09) so will instead simply do the happy dance. Along with plotting when, where and how.