Time Amazon copped on

I bought Mrs Castro Glugger a watch sometime ago. Must be getting on for five or six months, I reckon. She paid for it, of course. But I did the actual buying - complex button-clicking upon king retailer Amazon's multi-paged site. A week or so later, her little silver watch popped through the letterbox. She was happy. I suppose Amazon were happy. And I was happy (my wife being happy makes me happy - marriage is like that; you want as little grief as possible).

Since then, I must have had at least half a dozen spammish mails from Amazon asking if I want to buy another watch. Do you know what? I did. I bought digitals, analogues, Mickey Mouse watches, boys watches, girls watches, antique watches, movie tie-in watches, wrist watches, and Swatches. I now have more watches than they do. Each time I get an email from them telling me about the latest new watch, I one-click-order immediately, then reply to their mail saying, "Thank you. My watch collection is getting bigger."

They always reply offering me another watch.

But you see the point of my latest, pointless (see what I did there?) wittering? Damn them. Damn them all. If I wasn't so lazy, I'd amend my preferences...

On shutting up, comrade

You'll pardon my cheap, unnecessary and outdated reference to 'comrade' in the title as I continue to write about the behaviour of Russians and other former Soviet Union bloc country nationals who happen to attend the same Danish class as me.

I shall be unpleasant and continue to say they all behave in a similar fashion by talking endlessly to each other throughout each class. "Nyet! Da!" and other goddamn commie talk expressions and comments presumably about learning Danish (but probably plotting revolution, or worse, westernisation) all get in the way of the rest of us honest joes struggling to get to grips with the gutteral slurrings that are the national tongue of Denmark.

I would not be writing this if I hadn't observed it in all of them in my class. They joined one by one, then quickly grouped in collectives. This is not unusual in language classes, and I myself often sit next to a fellow English chap (when he bothers to show up, the lightweight). It can be helpful to have someone from home with whom you can foul-up and look stupid with.

But then chattering started. I hit back, shooting glances across the room but they hit their target. Indirectly, the teacher caught them and she became my ally in classroom cold war conflict. Interrupting their yakking (surely a pun!), she asked them questions, then watched as they struggled.

And struggle they did, for along with their endless rabbit, all of them are possessed with an arrogance when it comes to their command of Danish. I was thrown out of my last language school for being so crap, I was slowing everyone up. The Russian scientist (I was instantly suspicious) took to reaching over and actually writing in my notebook corrections to my exercises! In my current class, another did the same! But they aren't as good as they think, and sounding like a frustrated schoolmaster, I suggest they quit talking among themselves and concentrate on the language.

Now, excuse me while I go off and punish myself and dream of being more than I ever will be.

The Onion Bag Issue 235: Give us a break!

The Onion Bag Issue 235: Give us a break!

Offensive filth like this just makes the world a poorer place, if you ask me.

Poor David Busst, he certainly does not look like he's made a full recovery to me:



What a depressing fellow the author of this cheap, unfunny attempt at humour must be.

I despair.

On Indian food in Denmark

Where I work, the canteen folk stick a little sign over so-called hot dishes, if they make a curry or suchlike. First time I saw these, I thought, better go easy. A few moúth-fulls later, I was searching the condiments trolley (it's that posh) looking for something that might give this poor excuse for a curry something close to a bit of pep.

Suffice to say, I found none. Another time, I order an Indian takeaway. By the time I got over the shock of the cost (c£25 for two dishes, and I mean two, with two measly portions of rice), again I had the same lame attempt at making me sweat (truth be told, the bill did that).

What a relief, then, that I found this maharajah
among websites

What bliss! I now made several of these and yet to be disappointed. And the lamb rogan josh tonight was a blinder.

They can't do spicy food in Denmark. They're scared of it.

Psychos in cyberspace (or something)

WITH REMARKABLE ease, did I not two hours ago connect to the online multiplayer world of Medal of Honor Heroes 2 on my blessed Wii.

Straight in, guns blazing, notching a kill inside just a few minutes. Notched up quite a few deaths'n'spawns of me own, but that's another story.

Anyways, the quality of minds you find in such places. Some sharpshooting wag called Colonel Kaos or something, an expert player equipped with every cheat known to man, no doubt, creeps up behind me and hoses my spine with 9mm rounds. Down I go. As I await re-spawning, the game gives me the pleasure of watching what Kaos does for the next ten-15 seconds before my resurrection. What does he do? Stand over my very dead corpse and empty his gun into it. Then he get his next gun and does the same. And with a third, just to be certain.

Kaos is probably a fat teenage boy living Knucksville, Tennessee. Let's hope he stays there, huh?

Again with the blogging

How many times now? How often have I tried with this damned blog? Yet each time, I am thwarted, usually by a pesky lack of enthusiasm. It's really important to me, however, that one or two people out of the billions get to read what I am jacking on about.

So I try again.

Who sang, "Words, don't come easy to me?" Glad I can't remember.



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Now playing: Stereolab - Margerine Melodie
via FoxyTunes