The best days of your life??

So, in a bizzarre twist of, well, my mind I guess. The SP story reminded me of when I was at school.

No, not in an alcohol and sex fuelled way (well, not completely), more in a “SP could have slept with one of my teachers kind of way”.

Let me explain in my usual unnecessarily long winded and wordy way.

My Dad was posted to Guetershloh many years ago (no envelopes were used, this is a military term) and I ended up at school 3892 of my short life (at least thats how it felt). As was the norm in these cases, I was tested to see what class I would be placed in for my continuing education.

I seem to remember not paying attention to what I was doing, and I ended up in the top English class. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I don’t know what I was doing really. You see, I tended to drift at school and decided early on that I would prefer to coast than work hard. Not to get too serious, but it is something I regret with hindsight, as I have had to work that much harder since school to get anywhere. Had I actually applied myself like I was perfectly capable of, I might have had a slightly easier career path. Anyhoo, I digress.

Working hard bad, coasting good.

Right, thats me back on track. So I am now in a class full of hyper intelligent (and bloody boring) ubernerds. It was not fun, and I was all about the fun. Now, in an upcoming post I will explain about confidence or my lack of it in general. Suffice to say that in social settings I am fine, but public speaking is not my thing.

Top set (as it was called) involved a lot of presentations to the rest of the class. Mainly to give your interpretation on some supposed literature and I hated them. They were just another reason to get the hell outta that class.   I was deliberately failing the class to meet my goal, when it came…the big stand-up presentation to the class.   I had prepared well, but about an hour before I was due to give my presentation, the panic started creeping in.   Rather than take the predictable “Sick” route….I decided to cause some chaos.   It was an old school, and some of the fire alarms were large levers rather than the “Break Glass, Push Button” type.   This meant that I could pull the lever quite a way, and balance it rather precariously to allow me the time to return to class before it went off.   Not that I would do anything like that.

After the school was evacuated, I ended up not having to give my presentation and was graded on my notes….result.

So, at the end of the year, my goal was achieved and I got moved into the middle group.   This is where my earlier statement about SP comes into play.

My teacher as a certain Miss Hyde.   She dressed like a tramp (no, not the 50s connotation…an actual tramp/hobo type) and introduced herself to the class as an ex-prositute.   Being over 55, she still insisted on putting herself on display whenever possible, much to the disgust of the class…causing a large percentage to “speak to god on the big white porcelin telephone”.   I think SP would have liked her, although she may have had too many teeth.

I have to say that Kings School was great, I don’t know if it qualifies as the best time of my life, but it was certainly fun.

I remember getting banned from youth club after being caught leaving the toilets with 2 girls…and a porn mag Oops! That led to some interesting discussions at home I can tell you.

For some reason, I ended up as a Prefect at one point.   Probably not the best idea that the teachers ever had.

I got the entire Social Studies class in detention when I persuaded everyone to ditch the class one day.   I never fully understood the idea of that punishment though.   It’s kind of like giving someone a driving ban as a punishment for joyriding.   Suffice to say, it only took me a matter of seconds to convince the class to ignore detention too….

I do remember being particularly evil once though.   Our German tutor was not the strongest woman and unfortunately she was dealing with a class that contained me and James Woolley.   The way I recall it reminds me of a scene from a movie.   The quiet teacher trying to get the attention of the unruly class who are ignoring her and talking.   So, she lost it and started screeching.   This got our attention pretty quick and we all snapped out of whatever we were doing.

Unfortunately she had already lost it and, began telling us how hard she had worked on some visual cue cards to help us with our German vocabulary.   She was doing that staccatto speech-breathing thing that people do (especially kids) when they are trying to hold back from crying.   When she said something that I have never forgotten :

“I spent all night working on these last night, and all you lot can do is mess around and make me hoarse”

What?   You didn’t think it would be some poignant shit that made me straighten up and fly right, and then follow to this very day.   No no no.   What I did was whinney, loudly, like a horse…a big, loud horse.

What happened next goes back to the movies.   She stormed out, and went to fetch her husband who just happened to be the head of year.   By the time they got back, we were all sat prim and proper, studying hard from our text books.

It was quite funny really, they never bought it though and within a minute James, who was sat next to me, was sent to the Headmaster for making the horse noise.

If only I had been thinking, I could quite possibly have been an evil genius.   Although I don’t like sharks, can’t be arsed with lasers and I sweat when the sun comes out, so living under a volcano doesn’t really appeal….

Close encounters of the vehiculer kind

Yesterday something interesting happened to me.   By interesting I mean painful and by happened to me I mean…well, happened to me of course.

I was walking across a pedestrian crossing when I was clipped by some moron that decided to go through a red light.   At least I think it was a moron, they definately had all the hallmarks.   For a kick-off they were driving a big Merc, also, rather than stop to see if I was ok they accelerated.   Unfortunately I was too busy rapidly spinning and falling to the ground to get the number plate.

Fuck you inertia.

Still, at least there were plenty of helpful passers by……oh thats right there wasn’t any.   So, after hobbling back to the apartment, I realised that the likelihood of me getting up the stairs were pretty slim and decided to head to the hospital.

At the hospital they gave me some wonder juice that took the pain away.   Well, most of the pain anyway.   Fortunately nothing was broken except my pride.   I must remember to Ebay for a pride protector damnit, it’s always damaged in these situations.

The reason for the damaged pride?   Well, as the pain was coming and going, walking was interesting.   Now, when the pain was there, I had no issue, people could clearly see I was in pain.   However, when it moved to being an ache, I start walking like a white Huggy Bear.   All I was missing was the damn furry hat and cane.     Which is where I am a day later.   I now have people looking at me like I am some kind of saddo wannabe pimp.

I may have to take out some sort of vendetta against all Merc drivers on the basis that at some point I will get the guy that did it.

The thing about this event is that it reminded me of a few years ago, where I also thought I could take on a vehicle.   In this case, I was at least in a car of my own.   My oponent, however, was a double decker bus.   I think I must have unresolved vehicle issues from some sort of trauma in a past life.

It’s interesting that a double decker bus could get the better of me in a Peugeot 306.   I mean, sure he had the weight and reach advantage, but I was quicker and had the lower center of gravity.   In MMA terms it should have been a closer match.   Alas, being a double decker bus, my opponent was more inclined to slam into my shoulder at around 30 MPH.

Basically, I was pulling out of a junction and needed to cross traffic.   It was rush hour and this particular road was pretty busy.   I see a gap in the traffic heading the way I want to go.   So I check again to see if there is anything to stop me crossing and I see a bus.   The bus is indicating to pull into the road I am currently sat in and is slowing down.   So I pull out, all the while making sure that the gap is still there for me to get into.   When I was happy that it was, I look towards the bus.   Unfortunately someone had replaced the bus with a rather large grill and headlights.   That’s right sports fans, the bus (whilst still indicating) had decided that turning wasn’t on the agenda and thought he would like to drive my car.   He did this by slamming into my drivers door.

It was at this point that pandemonium broke out.   My back wheels hadn’t actually crossed the junction, but the force of the crash actually span the car so that I was facing the opposite direction.   Some kindly soul called the….well…the world it would seem.   I couldn’t move, my shoulder was pretty banged up, the bus driver (I believe his name was Mr N E Gligence) couldn’t get the door open.   3 fire trucks, 2 ambulances and about 5 police cars show up.   I discover that the bus is in fact a school bus and start panicking about the kids on the bus.

I remember seeing all of the hydraulic cutters being brought out by the fire brigade and wondering how bad it actually was.   Just as they are about to start chopping the car up, one of the firemen decides to try and open the door.   2 seconds later a (dare I say dissappointed) fireman is putting the cutting gear away and the car is swarming with firemen and paramedics.

Why is it that they say that they are going to make you comfortable to be removed from the vehicle??   They slapped a neck brack on me, which was practically cutting my windpipe.   Ah well, it seemed to make them feel better, and certainly the chances of my head falling off were considerably reduced.

It is about then that I realise where I am and become rather uncooperative.   I shout to one of the coppers that someone needs to go and tell Sarah, preferably before someone that recognises the car decides to phone her.   Sarah was heavily pregnant at this point, I think about 7 or 8 months if I recall, and the last thing I needed was someone panicking her.

I get a “yeah, no problem” from some copper.   10 minutes later I see Sarah running down the street to the car.   Thank you Mr Policeman, thank you so much….

They did try and stop Sarah getting into the passenger door of the car, but there were only blokes on the “scene” and frankly, us blokes are easily scared of heavily pregnant and hormonal women.   You think a women scorned is bad….get one pregnant – Holy crap.   I digress.   A friend of ours had been really tactful and clever.   Sarah had recieved the following phonecall:

Friend:   Hi Sarah, how are you
Sarah:   Fine thanks, you
Friend:   Not too bad.   Hey, just remind me, what is the number plate of Daves car?

I will leave the conversation there….not the brightest fucking idea really.   I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily know what to have said myself, but I am fairly sure that wouldn’t have been the method I employed.

So, they get me out and into the ambulance.   Strap me in and start giving me pain relief.   On the way to the hospital, the driver tells me that the news is there and filming the car.   I insist that we turn around, after all it isn’t every day you can become a celebrity.   Unfortunately these paramedic types have some sort of code or something that says that car crash victims have to be treated in a hospital.

A number of things happened by the time I got to the hospital.   Rumour central is a wonderful thing, and the following stories were spinning around:

  1. I had been cut out of the wreckage
  2. I had walked away
  3. I was cut out of the wreckage and been airlifted by helicopter to hospital in critical condition
  4. and my personal fave – I died.

Unfortunately, I am not even joking about that last one.   All of these things had done the rounds by the time I got to the frickin hospital.   Sarahs Aunt called Sarah in tears…I think she heard the dead thing.

Apparently, at the scene the local doctors surgery sent out its staff to check the kids out and gave everyone a clean bill of health, which made me feel a whole lot better.   So imagine my joy when, around 8 weeks later, I got the first of 20 odd letters from parents suing me for the accident.   It was like something out of a bad movie, one of the kids supposedly in a neck brace and unable to move was doing sprint relay in school sports day the day after the frickin accident.

There was one genuine injury, and I was devastated when I found out.   A young girl had just gotten back to school after surgery on her knee, which she then banged when the bus slammed into the car.   She was OK though, but I was in pieces when I heard.   Her dad was actually consoling me while I was waiting for X-Rays.

But the others were just opportunistic ambulance chasing, lawyers 4 u advert watching bastards.

The moral to this story, if you intend to pick a fight with a vehicle, ensure the odds are in your favour.

I am off out to buy a Hummer..

SP..The man, the myth, the…human being?!?

This is an unusual post as it isn’t about me. It is about a close friend. He will hereafter simply be referred to as SP. To those that know him, it will be abundantly clear who SP is, to those that don’t the moniker will retain some small measure of mystique.

Now SP has a reputation with the ladies. It’s a decent reputation (if you are male) and it seems to be something of a challenge to the female of the species. I am fairly certain there will be more posts about the inimatable SP, but this first excursion into SP territory is about the human side of him.

It’s a story of intrigue, romance, mature ladies and possibly a little vomit – How the man, the legend became mortal once more. He is not a machine – he is just a man….

…quite a strange man as it turns out.

For me, it all begins on a recent Friday morning with a message via Googlemail Chat:

SP: Jesus Christ, you will never guess what I just woke up next to
Me: Not again, go on, how hot?
SP: No, you don’t understand….oh my god, just thinking about it made me throw up a little bit in my mouth
SP: Not good… I just had to pretend I was going to work, I got the suit on and everything just to get her to leave
Me: What? No way…how pissed were you?
SP: Fairly pissed….she only had 2 teeth mate..and she was at least 45

The conversation continued in this vein (as only blokes can do) for some time.

Later that night as we are all out having a few bevvies in the wonderful pub that I can now call my living room Wink the topic moves onto the subject of the previous night.

The beauty about this is that there are actual witnesses to the event. Not only that, based on description, Z recognises who the person is and proceeds to explain a number of previously missing details.

Age: Approximated at 45 by SP, actually 55+ confirmed by Z
Nationality: Guessed at Russian by SP, actually confirmed by Z as Dutch
Occupation: Guessed as retired by SP, confirmed by Z
Former occupation: Unknown by SP, confirmed by Z as prostitute
Spouse: Assumed to be none by SP. Confirmed by both AC and DS as present, chatty and none too happy when SP left with her

You can imagine the torment SP has been suffering since this happened. However, it gets worse (or better depending on your perspective).

So, SP decides to redeem himself. The other night he seems to be having some success, culminating in both SP and Z going back to the apartment of a couple of lovely ladies. Z goes into bedroom A with lady A and SP into B with B. So far so good.

At this point it started going wrong. SP decided to take a seat on a chair behind the door, where alcohol consumption, coupled with a rapid change in atmospherics (he was outside before Razz ), resulted in what can only be described as instant inebriation. Lady B rapidly exited the bedroom. SP believed that she would return shortly. However, somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes elapsed before Z appeared. Apparently lady B was a little unnerved by the erratic behaviour of SP and the 2 ladies thought it best if the guys made a retreat.

SP was at this point ejected from the scene.

2 strikes in rapid succession…it isn’t looking good for the hall of fame shoein.

To complete the fall from grace of our resident ladies man, SP was the target of a very hot air stewardess (as described by witnesses) and failed to spot a single subtle sign. Let me provide to you these subtle signs and see if you can pickup on them. I have to warn you, those of you not skilled in the art of the ladies may find this one difficult…..so I hope you are paying careful attention. I will give you the question posed by our lady of the sky, followed by the SP response and any comebacks. This information comes from our intrepid reporter TC and has been independently authenticated by our team of expensive lawyers:

We pick up the action mid-way through the conversation:

Hot Air Stewardess: Are you single?
SP: Yep
H.A.S: Good, I really don’t want to get slapped by a jealous girlfriend
SP: No danger of that happening

H.A.S: Do you live close to here?
SP: Not too far, about 10 minutes away, what about you.
H.A.S: I stay here around 5 days a week

H.A.S: Do you have a mobile phone?
SP: Yep
H.A.S: …
SP: I gotta go

Unfortunately, our intrepid TC was unable to get further comment due to the inexplicable actions of SP.

Now I ask you internets, are these the actions of a man with an almost flawless record over the past 2 years? I thought not. I am left distraught and in a quandry…being the somewhat overweight and unlikely to pull type myself, I have recently been living vicariously through this man.

What do I do now? Clearly he is suffering a major meltdown. But is he finished? Will he be able to recover from this or will he end up in the pick-up artists equivelant of non-league football?

More news as we get it….

A very unhealthy dose of paranoia

Intimidation is a funny thing, especially if you are a big guy. Being a big guy who is surrounded by friends can be a recipe for some unfounded confidence, especially when trying to intimidate a (somewhat) bigger guy on the strength of having more friends around you than he has.

This happened to me a few years ago. We were at the Snooty Fox pub in Ollerton enjoying a sunny day on Marcs birthday. Ickle (not an ironic moniker) Bren and I decided to head into the bar as it was getting dark and colder outside. Marc and the others were going to join us shortly thereafter.

We ordered some beers and picked a prime seating location and were chatting like people tend to do in these situations.

It was at this point that a fairly big asian guy stood up near us, he was surrounded by a large group of his friends. Now, it should be noted at this point that Bren and I were sat next to each other, but facing this guy and his group whilst chatting.

Bren tells the story a lot better than me, so I will try and detail what happened from his point of view, as he relayed it to me back then:

Fairly Big Guy: “Did you say something then?”
Me: “What?”
FBG: “I said, did you say something”

According to Bren, it was about this time that he noticed that FBG had around 7 friends with him, did the math and realised that we were somewhat outnumbered. I believe the phrase he used was “I shit meself”

Me: “Of course I said something, we are having a conversation. That generally involves speaking”
FBG: “….” *rapidly drinks beer and looks around, realising he is the only person standing up he looks somewhat uncomfortable*

I couldn’t leave it there though.

Me: “Thats a fairly unhealthy dose of paranoia you have got there mate”

Bren tells me that at this point, he has re-assessed the situation and felt confident that we would prevail any altercation….provided he could stand next to me Wink

FBG: “…” *Sits down*

5 minutes later they all left.

I am glad that I am not easily intimidated.

Grin

Back in the day…

… I wasn’t always the upstanding IT professional that you find today.     No no no, I was quite the tearaway says I…says my mum…my dad…and pretty much anyone that knew me back then.

I can’t remember exactly how old I was, I think I was around 14 or 15.   Much too old to go on a camping holiday with my parents and kid brothers.   So, somehow, I managed to persuade my mum and dad that they should leave me behind, where I would stay at a friends place whilst they were away.

I would of course require the house keys..you know, in case I needed anything.

Oh christ….what was I thinking.

Well, obviously I was thinking party.   It would be the best party in the history of best parties anywhere, featuring girls, beer, more girls and possibly sex…given any kind of opportunity.

I was left at a friends and the plan was hatched.   We told his mum that there we would be staying at someone elses place on the Saturday night (yeah I know, classic – but it worked..go figure), everyone did likewise.   If any of us had been kidnapped, the combined might of the 3 CSI teams and that bloke from Numb3rs couldn’t have worked out who was supposed to be where, let alone where we all actually were.

Come to think of it, if anyone could have gotten hold of my Dad, he could have sussed it in about 2 minutes.

Anyway.   The groundwork was laid, beer was organised, food laid on, people invited.   That really hard kid from school that noone likes, but always gets invited to the party to keep away the “unwanted guests”.   And like any other hot blooded teenager, unwanted was defined as anyone that could have potentially pulled whichever girl I fancied my chances with…it was a thorough tactical analysis and invitation scheme.   If I could remember the formula it could well be used to solve many crimes….

So the party begins, and everything is going well.   Then someone found the Beer Steins.   For those of you that don’t know a Beer Stein holds around a liter of liquid.   I say liquid, as beer was only a very temporary option.

My parents had quite a substantial booze cabinet with a wide and varied collection.   Of course at the tender age that I was, you don’t fully appreciate the rapid effect that alcohol has on you and those around you.   The Steins were rapidly filled (and then refilled) with what can loosely be described as “Cocktails”, insofar as the literal definition of a “mixed drink” goes.   Generally, cocktails have names like “Fuzzy Duck”, “Pan Galactic Gargleblaster”, “Screwdriver”, “Screaming Orgasm” and the like.   If I were forced to name our attempts, I would have to go with something appropriate..like “Stomach Pump”.   It was only our tender age that meant the pump would not be called out, as within minutes of drinking the massive quantity of alcohol in the Stein, most of us were sick pretty quickly.

So the party progressed, around an hour after it started most of us were “somewhat merry”.   I definately recall gatecrashers getting their arse kicked by the hard kid.   I have a vague recollection of trying to fit around 15 of us into a normal sized double bed.   At least 2 people were asleep in the bath and another on the bathroom floor.   I forget where I slept.

I do remember waking up, kicking everyone out and then looking at the mammoth task of the clean up.   A task that was made all the bigger when I realised that my mum had turned the boiler off to go away on holiday…and I had no idea whatsoever as to how to get the feckin thing back on.

So now I am cleaning everything using cold water and no small amount of panic.   Honestly, I thought I had done a good job.   I was pretty happy with the place when I headed back to my friends for some sleep.

My next memory is being dragged (literally) from my bed by a somewhat annoyed Dad.   Turns out that they had all gotten sick on the camping trip and got back almost a week early.   A day earlier and they would have turned up mid-party.   As it turned out, my “superb” clean up effort had not been the best and they had realised what had happened within about half a second of their arrival home.

I was grounded until after we moved back to the UK…in fact, there is a chance that I am still grounded.

Good times.

Wolfstock…or Wolfstonbury

So, Born Wild have been playing for 90 minutes if you don’t include warm-ups. They are pretty good to be honest.

A few poor covers, but some good quality stuff too.

Thought I would send a quick update to show you the view from my living room window. It’s like having my very own VIP box to a gig…I feel all showbiz lol.

Anyhoo – Heres the vid – I Youtubed it

I should point out…this is through closed double-glazed windows too.   I didn’t have any windows open despite checking loads of times

Hmm – There could be a reason for the price…

So…I moved into a flat that is above a busy Irish pub in Frankfurt. The rent is great and to be honest the noise doesn’t bother me. In fact, since I moved in, it has been considerably quieter than I anticipated.

Tonight, however, may test this theory. The bar across the road from the flat left me a flyer in my mail yesterday…

Could be a sleepless night

You will note the “19:30 bis 22:00” statement on the bottom left of the flyer. Check out the “ab 22:00 bis 05:00” on the right. This could get loud.

Now I heard them warming up earlier and they sounded pretty good, even though they are called “Born Wild”. I am expecting a tiger prowling the stage with them….I will probably see a woman in a 80s style leopard print catsuit and a bloke with hair reminiscent of a certain Joey Tempest of Europe fame.

Also, lets be honest here…nothing good can come from a DJ called “Lord Dagor”

I am scared.

I think I need to have a few hours sleep before it starts, just to make sure I have actually had some….. I just saw this outside my window.

Coming soon, Final Countdown karaoke ;-p

This should be fun Eek!….oh, and, no I didn’t zoom the camera at ALL, that is really how close it is

F\/ck Night at the Hop Pole

Speaking of the Hop Pole massive* (as I was in a recent post). I mentioned that we would all go to the club around midnight, the reason for this was that almost all of our group worked at the Hop Pole Hotel in some capacity.

The Hop Pole used to be run by Marcs mum and dad, so the possibility of “waiting for the taxi**” after they all finished work was always there. Generally, Marc and Darren (being Chefs) would finish before the rest of the group and go and get changed. The taxi would be called and inevitably Marc would bring his guitar down to the bar.

This was referred to as “Fuck Night”, as in “Oh fuck, Marcs got the guitar again”. I have to say though, I miss those nights. Marc is a kick-ass guitarist and we would wait for the taxi by singing Beatles, Oasis and loads of others. As people finished work, more would join in the singing. We would always end with Twist and Shout, a real throat killer just before the taxi arrives.

It was somewhere during these nights that I recieved the title of “Bloke who will drink anything”, something that has served me well… or not. I have never really been a beer drinker (sorry Germany), but I do love me some spirits. Apfelkorn is my personal fave, and I was able to pick some up from the NAAFI on the RAF base my dad was working on, so I would buy a bottle of Pils, drink it and then head out to the boot of my car and refill the bottle with Apfelkorn. It was an interesting concept and probably lead to the idea that I couldn’t hold my beer.Herbert und der Apfelkorn

I remember one particular night, I had been sneaking Apfelkorn in a Pils bottle all night and finished a full bottle of it. During the “lock-in and wait for the taxi” part of the night, I brought out some Feuerwasse, which I can only really liken to Vodka. I had just poured myself a small half-pint measure when someone yelled that the taxi was there… Rather than put the drink down, I decided that the best course of action was to neck the entire half-pint. Needless to say, the remainder of the evening was something of a blurr to me.

I do vividly remember needing to go to the loo after we had been in the club a while, but not able to start the walk over to it.   So I rocked back onto the bar and pushed myself off in the general direction.   Once I got a little momentum going, it wasn’t a problem…except for those people on the dancefloor I went through.

Speaking of the club,   we had many an entertaining night at our club of choice.   My two faves have to be Marc and Anne standing at the bar, talking perfectly normally, with their respective trousers and skirt around their ankles.   The 2nd was when me, Marc and Darren decided to embarrass Maria who made the mistake of standing in the corner.   All 3 of us dropped to our knees and started in on a (particularly good) rendition of “You’ve lost that loving feeling”.   This gave us an audience, who made the mistake of surrounding us in a circle.   The bouncers saw the circle of people and assumed that there was a fight going on and waded in to break it up…only to see a red-faced Maria and us 3 idiots singing to her..good times Smile

* ooh get me…from the street and all that…innit!

** Read: Lock-in Rolls Eyes