Tag Archive: germans


When I first set up this blog, the aim was to impress a global audience, all of whom would be enchanted by the unrivalled poetic beauty with which I convey my thoughts on life. My inbox was to be jam-packed with emails from editors begging me to contribute to their publications and they’d pay me a king’s ransom to do so. I’d then retire at the age of 30 and fulfil my dream of turning MultiYork (née Oadby Furnishers) into a GTA Vice City-style 80s bar, complete with casino. That life hasn’t turned out like that is a big fat travesty. The fact that I can rarely be bothered to write anything and when I do, it’s of absolutely no interest to anyone is if no statistical significance whatsoever.

The above is, of course, bollocks. However, I wanted to write it as many a time, I’ve been asked what it is that I do for a living. The opening paragraph is a perfectly succinct microcosmic example. I’m a gobshite and this gobshite hasn’t updated his blog in a while as he’s been busy being a professional gobshite in order to earn the requisite cash that will keep him away from the UK for a little longer. To return to the land of his birth at this stage would be tantamount to suicide – he cannot jeapordise his recovery from a working-in-Wellingborough-for-four-years induced breakdown just yet.

Back to writing in the first person.

I will return, one day. Maybe in 2015. That’s because in 2015, we are due to have a general election and countries magically improve the day after general elections. Or that’s what people seem to believe as they alternate their vote between two parties with a history of failure and the exact same policies, time after time. That’s right, it makes perfect sense to vote for the Tories once you’re tired of Labour rule and then switch back to Labour again when you’re sick of the Tories. If you repeat this trick ad infinitum, you can convince yourself that you live in a democracy, feel better that your country invades other countries to install similar “democracies” and gleefully denounce anyone who thinks otherwise as a fruitcake. Speaking of “fruitcakes”, I’m very pleased that UKIP has so spectacularly managed to upset the status quo with its staggering success in this week’s council elections. However, I’m sure the LibLabCon cabal will continue wreaking destruction upon my homeland making the prospect of a return less appetising than a ones-up with Diane “I’m not racist” Abbott.

Other than losing more hair and getting agitated with the brainwashed robot radicals that are a cancer on the UK, what have I been up to? In a nutshell, I’ve been enjoying life. I’m of the opinion that you’re a long time dead and while money is of course, an unavoidable necessity, human beings were simply not put on this planet to carry out a lifetime of drudgery (work). So while I have been working, I’ve been doing it as and when I want, and on my terms. Not between the hours of 9 and 5 on weekdays as so many are forced to. Instead, I’ve been bettering myself. I’m getting physically fit for the first time in years, I’ve resurrected my once semi-successful tennis “career” and I’m learning a new language – Spanish. Fair enough, the latter is proving difficult and I’m largely incapable of coherent conversation, but I’m persevering. I just cannot get my head round the need to assign genders to inanimate objects. La mesa? El sofá? What if something new is invented? Who decides whether it’s male or female and what criteria do they use? Maybe if the Spanish weren’t so busy faffing round with the dictionary, they’d never have had to cede Gibraltar to us Brits!

While I have been expanding my cultural horizons, I have not forgotten the things that make Britain great either – stupendous tea and incredible beer. Thanks to my dad’s generosity, a shipment of the finest organic tea arrived last week. If there’s ever a slight crisis, out come the teabags. Similarly, each day now begins with a good cup of tea, as it should. For St. George’s Day, I managed to procure four bottles of Abbot Ale and two dimpled pint glasses. It was a truly fantastic moment to enjoy “warm beer” once again (I’ve explained that it’s not warm, many a time, but it’s rarely understood). Maybe that’s because I explain in English, like every arrogant Englishman should. And if I’m still not understood I talk a bit louder before smashing the place up, safe in the knowledge that I tried my best.

One thing that did amuse me the other day was a chance encounter with some Germans. There I was, making my way to admire the sun set over the Pacific Ocean from a beautiful cliff top vantage point in Larcomar, when not one, but two distressed Germans accosted me. This is pretty much a summary of our exchange:

Heavily-perspiring German: “Habla Español?”

Me: “No”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “Yes”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Thank you, thank you. Where are you from?”

Me: “England”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Nice to meet you. I’m from Germany. I hope you’re not offended by what I am about to say but I need some help. Earlier today, my backpack was stolen and I lost all my documents. My passport, money, EVERYTHING. I have been to my embassy and they have managed to get me a hotel room for the night, for free, but they’re not like your embassy. They won’t give me any financial assistance. Once again, I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but would you be able to give me some money so I can get something to eat? I haven’t eaten for over 24 hours and I’m so tired. I can give you my details so that I can repay you as soon as I can”.

Me: “I’m really sorry, but I only have enough money for my taxi home and I don’t have my cash card with me. Best of luck though”.

Seconds later, another German approached.

German #2: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “No”.

As a man who talks bollocks for a living, I found this story to be highly dubious. Firstly, I’m sure German embassies don’t abandon their citizens like that. Secondly, it might have been more convincing if both weren’t wearing brand new t-shirts emblazoned with “Atlantic City Casino” in the middle of the gambling part of town. It would seem that, given the extreme panic emanating from every pore, one of them had stuck the lot on red, while the roulette ball agonisingly settled on black. Strangely, in my three months away, I’ve encountered numerous inefficient Germans. Is it Merkel’s policy to deport the inefficient minority these days? I hope so. I also hope that they replace “Deutschlandlied” with Nena’s “99 Luftballons” as their national anthem.

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As I sit here, 35,000 ft above the Atlantic Ocean, presumably several hundred miles off the coast of Portugal, I feel compelled to document my travels thus far. Fair play, I’ve only been on the move for about 11 hours but enough has happened already for me to open up my new Microsoft Surface and road test the note taking capability of its wafer-thin keyboard. Take note Apple cultists – this would be nigh on impossible with the oversized phone (iPad) you’ve come to love and defend so vehemently, despite its numerous limitations. Unfortunately, I’m not able to upload this blog as a fly, for LAN Airlines has yet to embrace in-flight connectivity. However, according to this chap (fraud), things could be about to change – and soon. Then again, who on earth would listen to a man who ums and erms, throws in the odd “you know” and visibly melts under the glare of a studio light hotter than a vindaloo consumed on the surface of the sun. Not me. Nor you, probably. Well if you do, read on for tales of arrogant Germans.

Yes, whilst milling around in Madrid, waiting to board a plane destined for Peru, I encountered the krauts. Many a time I’ve sat by a European pool and feared the arrival of a hirsute female or europop-loving, speedo-clad mullet-wearer to make an appearance and signal the presence of the hun. I know it’s an unwritten rule for the English to meet the Germans abroad, but this time, I was unprepared. I was taken by surprise. There I was minding my own business, when I spied a queue. I wasn’t completely sure it was the queue for flight 2707 to Lima but being English, I joined it as that’s what we do. Feeling slightly superior at being at least a foot taller than every other prospective passenger, I inched my bag along every couple of seconds, safe in the knowledge that my place in line was assured. That was until Fritz and his egg-in-bun mate, Jurgen, showed up. Displaying a complete lack of consideration for anyone in the vicinity, the Deutsche duo barged past a petite Peruana to my left and cemented a position just in front of me. Amazingly, neither had read the sign that stipulated that those to the left were to be seated at the front of the plane, and those to the right were to head to the rear. The Germans had found themselves in the wrong line. I say amazingly as Germans are known for their ruthless efficiency and a mistake such as this is punishable by death back in Berlin. Even more amazing was the fact that I had somehow managed to find myself in the correct lane, despite an incredibly frustrating history of getting every 50:50 decision I’ve ever faced in my life wrong and also, being unaware that two lines were actually in operation. As the enormity of this unfamiliar situation sank in and rendered Fritz and Jurgen immobile, those who had been supplanted marched forth to liberate their places and the krauts were once again removed from land they had had illegally occupied. Beautiful.

Buoyed by this news and convinced the times were-a-changing, I confidently answered the Chilean check in attendant’s enquiry as to how I was – in Spanish. Predictably, he replied in perfect English and left me questioning my ability to converse with any non-English speakers upon arrival. Undeterred, I decided to order myself a “vino tinto” when airborne. Thankfully, a beautiful drop of Chilean red found its way into my hands as intended. Maybe the times are a-changing after all. Nope, the twat in front has predictably put his seat back (the first on the plane to do so) and reduced my personal space to something a battery hen would be dissatisfied with.

Time for a kip.

Day 1: After many days of uninterrupted sunshine prior to my arrival, I was greeted by grey skies on my first day in the Peruvian capital. Believing this to be great news for my pasty white skin, I decided to take a stroll to Parque Kennedy – a pretty little park dedicated to the late US president and inhabited by a number of stray, but tame cats. One decided to sit on my leg – my first pussy of the trip. After a spot of people watching where I saw a man who looked like Screetch from “Saved by the Bell” serenade his decidedly uninterested girlfriend, I returned to my hotel, passing a gay chap who took a fancy to me on the way. Catching a glimpse of myself in the room’s mirror, I realised I had underestimated the cloud cover and was now resembling a Swan Vesta match. Obviously, it was time to buy some sunscreen so I set off to find the nearest supermarket in search of some “keep white” cream. No sooner did I leave the hotel lobby than a bird emptied the green and white contents of its gut on to my arm and previously clean shorts. Now looking like a red, white and green idiot, a woman decided to film me as she walked past. An interesting first day.