Thursday, September 28, 2006


To the man who pulled his car over in the pouring rain, to dash across traffic and remove the upturned supermarket trolley lying in the middle of the opposite lane -
I'm sorry I glared at you when you hit your hazard lights and swung your car of the side of the road - I didn't see why at first. I hope you realise the smile I gave you as you ran across the road in front of my car was intended as a 'Thank-you' for doing such a nice, sensible, good thing. Not just because you had a cute bum and looked hot with rain slicked hair. I hope you heard me shouting 'You're my hero!' through the window and over the traffic noise.
You're lovely. And you looked like sex on legs. I hope good things happen to you.

In other news, boo hiss to colds. My vocab seems to be reduced to 'Uuughg' and *sniff*. I apparently sound like a Southern Belle on valium, and feel like my head is the size of one of those ginourmous pumpkins that turn up sporadically in the newspaper. As sort of an 'Oooh, look at the size of Mr Albert Fletcher, 76, 's pumpkin. Mr Fletcher has been growing pumpkins since the Boer War, and believes this is the largest yet. He says the secret is regular mulching, and burying his dead budgies in the pumpkin patch' filler for when there's no news.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Oh kom op scheidsrechter!

I've been musing on this for some time. I've tried listening quietly, intently, like I was at Bletchley Park in the 40's trying to figure out Enigma. I've tried singing along loudly and with enthusiasm, channeling my inner Brighton boy band and hoping the words will automatically flow out of me. I've asked other people's opinions, hoping someone in nuhziland can interpret britspeak. (Not unless it refers to sport, it appears. Kiwi fans are able to repeat 'Aw, come on ref!' in at least five languages, and perform the haka in nearly 30 english dialects, but would be unable to ask directions to the nearest library in Leatherhead or Statford on Avon.)
I refuse to resort to looking it up on or its ilk. The last time I did that, I went around singing about stoic squirrels in Alanis Morissette's 'Uninvited'.
What the hell are the lyrics!?!
I know, she knows, that I'm not from the right school...
I know, she knows, that I'm not a fond rascal...
I know, she knows, that I'm not the Fonz on skis...


Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Blatant prejudice.

I am terrified. I am about to reveal the secret inner working of my soul here. Unbeknown to any, I have a small 'meeehh' to reveal. (Meeehh is pronounced in 'small squished meerkat trying hard not to let anyone else know its been squished' voice)
Ok. Here we go. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

I don't like Dutch people.

I know, I know, in todays PC society, the shock and horror you must be feeling right now to hear someone proclaiming her dislike for an entire nation of people. Allow to me to explain.
- First there was the crazy Dutch lady and her farmer husband who went insane (er) on me during my farm work experience, and chased me off the farm wielding a shotgun for asking no more than 'So, what are we doing today?"
- Then there was my flatmate K's husband A, who shagged round behind her back with various interbimbos. Dutch. (Him. Not sure about interbimbos).
- Every single dutchoid I have ever met has a bizarre sense of humour. Which seems to come across as a bizarre *lack* of humour, normally expressed in a clipped, curt, dutchy accent. It freaks me out. Seriously,maybe it's not so bad in A'dam when they can have all the pot and canals they want, maybe overseas they are suffering from tulip and clog deficiency and it turns them into fucktards.
- Tulips. I mean,seriously. Fields and fields of freaky tulips, and they can't manage to make a black one. And they've been trying for some time. I hate failure.
- Rembrant. Actually, scratch that, let's say the entire class of Dutch Masters. Paintings that only belong in a brown cafe, because they looked like they've alredy been smoked at for five hundred years. Brown, murky, realist paintings of ugly flowers, dead pheasants, and ugly dead people. Oh, also add horrible tiles and porcelain.
- Dykes. Small boys with fingers in. Canals. The entire fact that nature wants this country entirely under water should tell you something.
- The Dutch. Live in The Netherlands. Also known as Holland. What the Prague? They should be the Dutch from Dutchland, the Nethers from the Netherlands, or the Hollish from Holland. Seriously folks.

I will concede windmills, salt licorice, and cheese as exceptions to this rule.