Tribute To Guitarist Pat Martino - Scan 03 07Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while will have noticed that I occasionally struggle for inspiration (fine..more than occasionally).   Fair enough I suppose, it happens to the best bloggers, so it is bound to happen to someone as low down the blogging chain as me…

Inspiration is a funny thing though, sometimes you see something that just hits you.   Other times you remember stuff from your past.   Occasionally, inspiration is thrust at you…like Frodos mum, who tries to sell flowers to any guy even remotely close to a woman in the Anglo most nights, shoving roses in your face with a grunt…and a suggestion of an impending curse should you fail to buy.   So when   Zs girlfriend IP complained that my Wombats post was somewhat lacking of IP activity, she suggested I write something to rectify this.   Suggested in this case in a sort of accusatory, pouty, threatening kind of way.   So with fear of a Z based beatdown….

Let me take you back to the Wombats gig.   Now, I have known Z for a while and when he informed me that his new girlfriend was coming along…I am sure you can forgive me for a certain amount of 3rd wheel trepidation.   Absolutely not the case.   Not only did they both avoid placing me in the 3rd wheel position, IP was actively involved in the stereotypical German accent’ athon.   My biggest shock though was me throwing out a random Fast Show quote and IP knew what the hell it was…and was able to respond…with one of her own.   IP was actively involved in the “showing off to 14 year olds on a train” spectacular and even went so far as to acknowledge their class and uber-coolness…by chugging half of their wine and trying to match Z by doing somersaults using the grab handles on the train.   Fast forward to the weekend and I am being taken along for drinks and to meet new people….me likey.

Spin on a little more and I am in agony with my (probably) karma induced bad back.   I will admit to some whining, moaning, whinging and more than a little complaining.   I won’t admit to crying…not saying it didn’t happen…I am just not prepared to admit it.   Anyway back on track…IP starts asking doctor’esque questions about the pain, where it is etc etc.   Then she offers to help me fix it.   Which she then does.   Blessed relief

Seriously, who does that?   Who gives up their own time and energy to help a relative stranger?   IP, that’s who.   A rare breed of person that is generous and genuine.   I would, of course, like to think that I would have done the same….but would I have really?   Would you?

Now I realise that this could easily devolve into an IP love-in, but far from it.   If I can just get a little sentimental here for a second (and it is my blog, so damnit I will), I am in a very fortunate position of having made some incredibly good friends in Frankfurt and yet I am still surprised when I make another one.   I think it is the Anglo effect.   The few false people I have met there have not lasted long, did not ever really get in with the group and were certainly not missed.

The others are still there and the group grows a little from time to time.   I am fortunate to be a part of it.

Plus…who doesn’t like having a free massage, complete with baby oil…from a woman that gets your jokes ;-)

I’m off to let Z kick the shit out of me…and then try and find an Uncle Fester coat for the impending Halloween weekend frivolity.

Breaking the space/time continuum

1.21 GigawattsOk, try not to panic everyone, but I may be causing a catastrophic space/time event that could do untold damage to this ball of chemicals we lovingly call Earth.

Let me explain.   I watch TV shows…a lot of TV shows.   Now other people say that they watch a lot of shows and really…they don’t.   To give you an indication, I am watching (in no particular order):

American Dad, Family Guy, My Name is Earl, Bones, Ghost Whisperer, Heroes, Supernatural, Prison Break, CSI, CSI Miami, CSI New York, Flashpoint, Smallville, Chuck, Californication, Dexter.

And these are just the shows that are airing at the moment, on top of this I watch every Liverpool match, some films, listen to music, write this blog, am active on Facebook and a number of forums, design websites, call my kids, chat with friends and have a bloody active social life.   I hold a full time job, go wandering aimlessly around Frankfurt and I do actually sleep from time to time.   Oh, and I occasionally double as a failure at helping people hang lights and move home.

I am genuinely concerned.   I went to bed at 10pm last night.   Yet..I had managed to leave work late, walk home instead of using public transport, make dinner, chat to friends, and watch a number of shows.   It is entirely possible that I have found a way to bend space and time, I can only apologise for when the world inevitable blows up from my abuse of this new found power.   At some point I am bound to require a white haired professor who is guaranteed to require one point twenty one gigawatts of power for something extraordinary.   That reminds me, I must remember to get a picture of myself and key family members to keep in my wallet.

I should probably aim to use this new found ability, to make time my bitch, for good though.   Hopefully not in a comic relief Hiro from Heroes kind of way though, and I would probably end up creating a series of nefarious schemes that would help me get a) Money and b) Laid (not necessarily in that order).   Although, I could go back in time and stop my past self from over-eating…that could work.   I just have to be careful not to step on any butterflies apparently.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to use the “not enough time in the day” excuse at the moment.   I am probably stealing yours :-P

The dating game…

DesireOk, so getting back in “the game” is a little more difficult than you realise.   Especially when you haven’t been in said game for quite some time and you are not quite the same person as you were when you were having moderate success.

So I have taken to trying to get inside the minds of women...not just inside them*.   How have I done this?   Easy, by making lots of female friends and quizzing them.   Also, by stealthily reading blogs..written by women who are in the dating scene.   Unfortunately, neither of them live anywhere near me, nor have they written expansively on why Uncle Fester is a much overlooked superstud…so I will continue to use their thoughts read with interest their take on the whole dating malarky….and learn some things along the way.

So far I have learned that Online dating seems to be considered as an ok option, providing you pay attention to some ground rules.   You have to make your first contact interesting, avoid using txt spk, don’t IM unless invited to, make your profile relatively interesting.   If given a phone number, call it…if they wanted to read something from you they would stick to IM or email.

See, us blokes can learn things occasionally.   Only occasionally mind…

The biggest lesson, that was delivered most recently, try and pay attention….especially if you have an unwavering desire to talk about your feelings incessantly, and the person you’re with does not.   Oh, and if ignored….TAKE THE HINT.   Do not, under any circumstances, write an email explaining how patient you were and try and lay the blame for you own failure to listen to them.

How am I doing so far?

I like it.   Admittedly, I can no longer count on stealth in my pursuit of knowledge regarding the female mind (damnable mind and it’s lack of blog imagination)…at least that part of the female mind that deals with dating.   It’s a start though right?   Plus, I get the feeling that they might find it akin to guys trying to read Vogue or Cosmo in the 80s ;-)

See though, here’s the thing.   I am perfectly comfortable talking to someone on IM.   I am even perfectly comfortable walking smack into the “Friend Zone”.   So I am waiting for the information to start flowing from these lovely ladies on the “signs”.   I am great at body language at work, in meetings and presentations etc.   I can tell you if a member of my team is paying attention to whatever I am saying.   I can even see if people need more comfort, agression, compassion…whatever.   However, put me next to women in a social situation and I see them as foreigners…making no movements I can understand…it’s a bit like being an English bloke living in, say, Germany…and not speaking the language.   You know that what they are “saying” means something, you just don’t know what that something is.

So I make a lot of friends…and the encounters I do get into are not the ones I want….either they have a weird stalker thing going on, or they are friendships that I don’t want to risk for the sake of being “in the moment”.

What is a character from an old black and white gothic TV show to do?   Other than electrocute myself for kicks or have a shower set to scalding.

Maybe this post will drag out some helpful hints in the comments….subtle eh?

So…are you fluent in body language?

EDIT:   Since posting this I have been thinking and let’s face it, it doesn’t happen often enough.   I am no longer a child… I should be mature enough to deal with things in such a way that I won’t allow a friendship to be ruined by an attempt to alter the relationship towards the romantic.   Short edit, but an important revelation nevertheless.

* Sorry…no, really

More finance shenanigans

The trap

So…after a few days of excruciating pain and finally moving the pain to an amber alert I am able to type a little.   Fortunately, for a man bereft of interesting things to blog about, there was an interesting diversion today where I work.

A well dressed businessman, complete with briefcase tried to gain access to the building today and to say he seemed a little peturbed doesn’t do it justice.   I believe he was calling our beloved CEO some names that would make even the hardiest sailor blush.   He also claimed that he had one million…what I am not sure..other names to call out maybe.   Surely if he had one million, he would be rather happy.   I know I would.

Suffice to say that our ever astute security team decided that this was one meeting that the CEO would rather not take and proceeded to block said businessmans entrance.   They finally escort the gentleman from the premises, only for him to give them the slip and head back in via the revolving doors.   That was a mistake…our revolving doors are the ones that no matter how hard you push, they never really go any faster.   So within a split second, the faster of the guards decided to grab the door to stop its revolution, just at the point that the man was literally trapped.

It is at this point that our security team looked, it is fair to say, like the house cat that finally catches the mouse and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.   Furtive glances were exchanged in a sort of “Now what?” manner between the guards while another simply sighed and called the police.   Eventually, the police showed up and took him away.   I say that they missed a trick though, they could have released the latch that stops the doors moving fast and had a kind of abusive russian roulette.   Spinning him round at high speed must surely fall under “subduing”.

This guy clearly misunderstood the nature of our business…we are in banking, but we are not a bank…nor do we handle investments as such, so any loss he may have occurred simply cannot be attributed to us.   This is something I tried to explain to some guy calling on … what can only be described as … a tin can and string, from India, to ask me as Head of IT (I love it when they do that…regardless of how untrue it is) to answer a 5 minute survey on IT within Retail Banking.

Him:   Do you have 5 minutes for a survey on IT within Retail Banking?
Me:   No, but even if I did, we are not a Retail Bank
Him:   It onlytakes 5 minutes
Me:   It doesn’t matter, we are not a Retail Bank…as I have already said
Him:   It will probably take less than 5 minutes and is just asking questions about your business
Me:   Not if you think my business is Retail Banking it isn’t.
Him:   But surely you have 5 minutes?
Me:   OK, what is the survey about
Him: Retail Banking
Me:   And what have I said that my business is NOT about
Him:   It’s just 5 minutes though
Me:   *click*

I appreciate he probably had a script and I had deviated desperately from it, but still….PAY ATTENTION FUCKTARD…seriously!

In other news, how the hell is it possible to go to bed on a Thursday evening feeling absolutely fine and wake up ON MY DAY OFF in pain so bad I can’t move?   Is it some sort of karmic retribution for deciding to take a short notice Friday off?   If that is the case, surely it would punish me more to have me be completely recovered and healthy on Monday morning?!?   Not, still sitting in frickin’ agony on Wednesday evening.   Admittedly, my recover may have been speedier had I not decided to drink some of that fine German painkiller on Saturday night…forget the pain….and then dance around to cheesy old music all night…but still.

Well screw you karma, Zs girlfriend IP is a physiotherapist and she is helping fix me.   I have managed to progress to actually getting to sleep and staying asleep for a few hours before the pain hits again.   In your face karma….in your overly judgemental face!

Blessed relief

Due to a bizarre twist of…probably my back.   I can’t spend an awful lot of time typing at the moment.   So until I can come up with something that doesn’t involve inhumane shoulder transplants and a desire to kill anyone or anything that even looks hard at my back…I leave you with Dylan Moran (He of Black Books fame)…hey! he is cheering me up.

More discombobulated ramblings as soon as I can spend more than 5 minutes typing.

At least they are honest…

Financial CrisisNow I know that the current financial crisis is causing problems in the industry.   I know that banks and their employees are in a semi-permanent alternating state of catatonia and panic.   I didn’t, however, realise that it had gotten so bad where I am working.   I went to the smoking area today and there is a meeting room next door, it is one of the posh meeting rooms where they have signs outside announcing the meeting going on in that room.

Today, this particular meeting room had the following sign:


Now, as the title says, at least they are being honest.   I appreciate that the Germans have a reputation for being methodical and organised about everything, but if people are shitting themselves all day at the moment…surely they don’t need a test?   Of course, it is worse if you consider that they might not be shitting themselves currently, but have planned a session in the near future and want to ensure that all of the staff have their emergency nappies and moist towellettes within easy reach.   Perhaps they are demonstrating the quickest ways to remove various clothing items.   It seems like they are a caring company…most would focus on soiling avoidance, but these guys are with you every step of the way.   “Shit away, we don’t blame you..but do it properly and it doesn’t have to be too bad”

I fully expect to see more meetings like this advertised over the coming weeks.   Maybe a course in hurling ones self from the top of the building, with the focus on minimising trauma to any witnesses and of course taking into account that the landing site is easily accessible by the authorities so that half of Frankfurt doesn’t need to shut down for the Spatula brigade to scrape you up.

You could have hari-kari 101, cyanide application training…vehicle exhaust re-routing seminars.   Of course, in this industry you will of course have people that aren’t quite ready to “cash out” so to speak.   For these people there will be “Scapegoat Cultivation and how to apportion blame without guilt” and of course the very popular “Embezzlement, it’s not just a funny word…it’s a lifestyle choice”.

The irony of Embezzlement of course…..where do you put your ill gotten gains….you wouldn’t seriously want to put it in a bank would you?


Cake or death….

Not even close....but you get the ideaSo it looks like there is a possibility I will be in England for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my folks.   It goes without saying that I will do my damndest to get to see the kids at the same time, and I am sure I will manage to achieve it.   That said, it will be Christmas with the parents, and I am the son that lives furthest away….

Now, being the oldest of 3 boys means that certain expectations are placed on you to be responsible, level headed and able to look after yourself (and your brothers).   Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t spoiled and went without….far far from it.   I have mentioned before that I had a great childhood and wouldn’t change it for the world.   However, I didn’t always get the option for certain things..the options were normally delivered to the younger brethren before me.   Where the hell am I going with this??   Oh yeah, eldest son..far away…got it.

As it is now a rarity to see me, I am pretty much a shoe in to get the option of a special thing to be prepared.   This is guaranteed to be my Mums very special and never matched…Devils Food Cake.   It should be said that, despite my ample girth (and my belly ;-) ) I am not really a chocolate lover.   However, when you have tried some of my Mums Devils Food Cake, you could easily become a chocaholic…instantly…followed rapidly by a chocolate induced coma…with possible drowning by double cream.

It is one of “those” recipes… in that it is a closely guarded secret, has changed over time and consists of a plastic wallet with random pieces of sort of resembles a kidnappers ransom note starter pack and would probably have reduced the guys that cracked the Enigma device to tears trying to recreate it.   I was given the recipe, once…and subsequently lost it in the great hard disk crash of ’01.   Subsequent attempts to gain access have been futile, so I am left with the rare occasion when I can ask for this creation of the gods to be made for me.   Serious pleasure is all I am saying.

All of my 35 years on this planet will count for nothing when I regress into a mewling babe whislt simultaneously begging my Mum to make me this cake… I may ask for two to be made…specifically so I can have one with “Daves…keep off” iced on.

Now, I just need to work on getting Mum to make me a chilli and a lasagne, and I may weep a little.   It’s pretty pathetic really, but I am just about to embark on a new diet…and it is one of those 4 days on 3 days off things…I worked out my optimum start day to ensure that the 3 off falls outside of 2 events.   The first is the visit of my Dad next month, and the second being Christmas at my folks place.   The logistics of doing this should really be added to my CV…creative accounting, time management…political lies…it has it all, but all things considered…I will be drinking with my Dad quite merrily next month without feeling even the least bit guilty and then eating my bodyweight in Devils Food Cake at Christmas guilt free too.

Don’t get me wrong, I know all of you (well most of you….some of you at least) believe that your Mums cooking is better than anybody elses Mums cooking and you will never be swayed by any argument that anyone would care to make.   This is fine, but there is a difference…you are all wrong!   It’s a subtle difference I know, but an important one nevertheless.

I am quite looking forward to it now :-)

What is you favourite (albeit inferior to mine) Mums cooking that you would regress to your childhood for?

Dedication…that's what you need…

IM001322…so said Roy Castle of Record Breakers fame.   Personally, I don’t think I am going to be setting any world records anytime soon…although I have set a few personal bests for beer consumption.

Who in the blue hell comes up with these bizarre records though.   I mean there is a recent record of putting the most t-shirts on in 4 hours…155 if anyone is interested (I wasn’t, but it was on the page).   Most women could beat that in one sitting simply by being undecided as to what outfit looks best (well, it doesn’t seem to stipulate they all must be on at the same time).

I mean, when a world record is of something worthy or something that demands training, endurance and skill then fair enough.   But most hot dogs consumed in 5 minutes?   Seriously?

Balancing eggs on their end?   Their mother must be so proud.   Some of them are pretty specific…there is a record for the most Ferrero Rocher chocolates eaten in 1 minute…were peanut M&Ms too tough?   Also, shouldn’t there be some rule about exclusionary tactics for all the peanut allergy sufferers…although, that *would* be a world record and a many peanuts can a nut allergy sufferer eat before they need to use the Epi pen to revive them?   Extreme peanut eating, it’s the future.

Let’s face it, in a world where Extreme Ironing exists, having an anaphalactic’athon has gotta be around the corner somewhere.

They say hospital doctors don’t get a lot of sleep most of the time…what about a fund raising surgery’athon?   The possibilities are endless.

For my part, for the last couple of weekends I have attempted a Jug of Beer’athon which has led me to resolve to “try” not to drink…at least this week….or at least only one night this week…or no more than 10 pints… or something.   At least I am trying :-P

No stalkers this week although, thanks in no small part to a certain GW delivering particularly noxious fart, I did end up ruining my streak of not being sick during a drinking session.   That streak had lasted around 5 years, so I was somewhat embarrassed to say the least.   Special thanks to Z for thinking quickly enough to capture the moment for posterity…damnit.

Anyway, back on track – What world record would you attempt, or have you already attempted one?

Bring on the heat

pimentasI was talking to the guys at work yesterday, as it would appear that some of them are missing the national food of Great Britain…namely Hot Curry (and yes, the capitalisation is necessary).   Apparently, a place has been located that understands the term “English Hot please”.

Germans don’t do spicey food..they place a 3 chilli warning sign on what are essentially tomatoe flavoured crisps.   They consider standard, run of the mill bell peppers as excessive.   When you ask for chilli on your kebab…they look at you strangely when you ask if they have real chilli anywhere.   Not a spicy hot food nation is all I am saying.   Very occasionally, I will concede, you get a surprise…I went to a kebab shop some months ago and went through the usual routine:

Me: With chilli please
Kebabman:   *lightly introduces concept of chilli to kebab*
Me:   No I said chilli please… I am English, the hotter the better
Kebabman: I have put chilli on
Me:   No, you have given the kebab a theory lesson on what chillis are
Kebabman: *sighs* Ok, more chilli
Me:   Thankyou
Me:   Bites into kebab
Me:   Head explodes
Me:   Recovers and (hopefully) successfully hides the nuclear reaction going on in my mouth

Suffice to say, he is my favourite Kebabman.

So consequently, the curries here (whilst full of flavour), do not require a gallon of beer to cool off…which of course increases the enjoyment factor…as long as you get in touch with your inner lager lout.   So, a “proper” curry house has been discovered and we will be going for a heat competition in a couple of weeks.   For my part, I will be ensuring that there are plenty of toilet rolls in my freezer for when I get home.   I will also place paramedics on standby and maybe eat some candles…Homer Simpson stylee.   When I return from my dream walk with the talking fox…I may blog about hallucenigenic curries and their effect on inner city Frankfurt.

I digress…. the conversation about thermonuclear curries reminded me of a Chilli that my Mum cooked many years ago.   We like reasonably hot stuff in our family, but my Dad had a friend coming over..and Mum said she would cook a Chilli for everyone.   This prompted said “friend” to ask if it was going to be a proper Chilli or some weak thing.   My Mum insisted that we like our food HOT, but that wasn’t enough and it turned into a macho “I can eat food so hot, they can power small countries with the ‘output'” conversation.   My Mum assured him that it would be suitably hot and she felt sure he would enjoy it.

So the night arrived, and I stumble into the kitchen to get a drink and notice that Mum appears to be making 2 individual pots of Chilli.   One of the normal family size variety…and one of the somewhat smaller and, dare I say it, sinister…evil..child of Nosferatu variety.   Various spoons and possibly the bottom of the pan were most definitely melting.   My Mum may have been cackling as she dropped small and unassuming ingredients into this smaller pan…each of them met with a cloud of purple smoke, a smell of the sulphurous pits of hell and a distinctive gurgling sound.   I think what gave away her intentions though, was the leather apron…welders mask and lead gloves she donned whenever she went anywhere near this smaller pot.

So dinner is served and we all tuck into our Dads friend failed to notice that all of the plants with 10 feet of him had withered and died the second that Mum walked past with his Chilli in a specially reinforced bowl, and began to munch away.   No sooner had he got the first spoonful to his mouth, he broke out in an instant sweat.   His head was so red, I literally thought he might pass out…every few seconds he would glance across at us..quietly munching away, chatting normally and generally enjoying the experience.   After the 2nd mouthful..I believe he lost the use of his tongue, and his speech became slightly slurred.   He made some pitiful excuse shortly after, something about having a big dinner and he was really sorry, but couldn’t eat anymore.   At least, that’s what I think he said…to this day I couldn’t understand him properly.

The moral to this story is of course…do not cast aspersions at my Mums cooking…she may try and kill you.

Wish me luck…

Oh…thought I would leave you with this Chilli cookoff story :

Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Tester Named FRANK, who was visiting
Texas from the East Coast: “Recently, I was honored to be selected as a
judge at a chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last
moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge’s table asking
directions to the beer wagon, when the call came.

I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili
wouldn’t be all that spicy, and besides, they told me I could have free
beer during the tasting. So I accepted.”

Here are the scorecards from the event:



JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.

JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.

FRANK: Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried
paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope
that’s the worst one. These Texans are crazy.



JUDGE ONE: Smokey, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.

JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken

FRANK: Keep this out of the reach of children I’m not sure what I am
supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to
give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they
saw the look on my face.


JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.

JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.

FRANK: Call the EPA, I’ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I
have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now get me more
beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is
in the front part of my chest. I’m getting shit-faced from all the beer.


JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.

JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or
other mild foods, not much of a chili.

FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to
taste it, is it possible to burnout taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was
standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. Bitch is starting to
look HOT, just like this nuclear waste I’m eating. Is chili an



JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding
considerable kick. Very Impressive.

JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must admit
the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.

FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can
no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed
paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili
had given me brain damage, Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring
beer directly on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I’m burning my lips off?
It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming.
Screw those rednecks!


JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice
and peppers.

JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic.

FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous,
sulfuric flames. I shit myself when I farted and I’m worried it will eat
through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that
slut Sally. She must be kinkier than I thought. Can’t feel my lips
anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!


JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.

JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of
chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried
about Judge Number 3, He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is
cursing uncontrollably.

FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn’t
feel a damn thing. I’ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like
it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid
unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like shit to match my
damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they’ll know what killed me. I’ve
decided to stop breathing; it’s too painful. Screw it. I’m not getting
any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I’ll just suck it in through the 4-inch
hole in my stomach.


JUDGE ONE: A perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili, safe for all,
not too bold but spicy enough to declare it’s existence.

JUDGE TWO: This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild nor
hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge Number 3 passed
out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure
if he’s going to make it. Poor Yank, wonder how he’d have reacted to a
really hot chili?

Close encounters..

Stalker.. of the stalker kind.

It is interesting to me what makes people tick.   It is also interesting to me what goes through peoples minds sometimes.

Let me explain…and whilst I do I am aware that some of you reading this might consider this a good thing and others will think of me as an arsehole….you are probably all correct.

I had an “encounter” last Friday night.   It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t sought, it just…happened.   The entire “encounter” lasted under 4 hours from the conversation starting until she left the apartment.   One of “those” nights I suppose (although they rarely happen to me).   I alluded in my last post to a mysterious note that was left on my computer.   The note basically gave me her phone number telling me to call if I wanted to see her again, and then ended with “Thankyou for opening so many doors for me”.   It is this last bit I am confused about.

I don’t recall being particularly chivalrous, and even if I was…there are only 3 doors that are in the way of the route that we took.   Does 3 count as “so many”?   I suppose it depends on your outlook…if you live in a building full of windows and get into your apartment through a catflap…I suppose 3 could be quite a lot.   I tried to think back over the night for any door related activities…I know I opened the pub toilet door an a number of occasions…possibly even on many occasions….but I can say with (some) certainty….I wasn’t with her during my trips to the toilet.   The door to the Anglo is permanently open whilst the pub is serving, and is in fact held open with some kind of futuristic hook device…so I know I didn’t need to open that one.   Clearly we are referring to some form of metaphorical door, which is far too deep for a hangover to deal with…so I did the next best thing and went back to bed.

After waking up in the same amount of confusion, and after spending most of Saturday wondering about doors, I failed to phone her and went out again.   During my evening of consuming “Jugs of doom ™”, I recieved a phonecall from the Anglo….telling me that someone had called to ask if I was there, every hour…for around four hours.   Thankfully, S resolutely refused to give out my number and instead said that they would pass her number onto me.   Having dodged that bullet…I continued with the drinking and thought no more of it.   Again, I failed to call on the Sunday, although this time it was as I was somewhat scared that I might return to my apartment one day and discover a bubbling pan filled with a bunny rabbit that I don’t own.   The situation was discussed on Monday night with JW, where the options were weighed up:

Option 1
Call her..explain that it was a spur of the moment, one night thing.   Apologise if necessary and move on

Option 2
Don’t call her..risk her visiting the Anglo on Friday or Saturday night this week and take the inevitable slap that will head my way at this point.

It was decided in a fit of macho bravado and testosterone/beer fuelled decision making, that I would take the slap.   The reasoning being that it might not happen…and if it did, it might gain me some kudos points.   Let’s face it, the world loves a bastard.   It also stopped me from having to admit that I can’t remember what she looks like.

Then yesterday…I get home as usual after work, check my mailbox and discover a letter addressed to me.   People generally don’t send me letters…well they do, but they are rarely handwritten and are generally asking for money.   That said, I knew immediately who it was from.   Sure enough, it was from my ‘encounter’….again, getting very very deep for someone that knew me for less than 4 hours…and the “me” she met was hammered on copious amounts of German Beer and Jagermeister.

Now I know that it is possible to feel a connection with someone pretty quickly, we have all of us (at some point) been speaking to someone that we feel like we have known for years after 5 minutes.     Knowing these things, however, does not equip me with the tools to understand what is happening here.   How do you form an obsession with someone you don’t know.   I can only think that she is one of those “Superfans” of the Addams Family and has an unhealthy Uncle Fester fixation.

Have you ever stalked or been stalked?   What caused it or how did you deal with it?

Oh…and does anyone want to rent a flat above an Irish bar?   One careless owner…