Dorm Life – Part 1, Bucharest

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Last night was a posh hotel, tonight is back to reality – dorm life. I was greeted in the dorm by an extremely hairy man, scantly clad in nothing but a towel. I’m officially too old for this shit now. To make matters worse, the room stunk. Then, to my bemusement, I noticed a window, shut. W…T…F? I turned to my chubby, follicly blessed friend, and struck a confrontational tone, ‘Ah, excuse me, why is this thing closed? It stinks in here, open it… Now!’ ‘Me no spek englis’. ‘Me no speak Euro either, open the fucking window, tubby!’ I then started  whipping him with his own towel, while he was naked, ‘Dance tubby, dance!’. I was promptly removed from the site. I’ll be in Bucharest a while, the court case is in November. Adrienne, make your way to Australia without me, my mum is expecting you. You’re now her oldest son, same name, what’s the diff?

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The Bucharest Canine

The real reason I travel is not for the sites, culture or any spiritual nonsense, no – I travel the world so i can report on the cats and dogs I meet along the way. I have written glowingly of the venerable Tel Aviv dog, the complexities of the Siberian canine, and the belligerence of the Jerusalem cat.

Recently, I came into contact with the Bucharest Canine. The Bucharest canine is an embattled creature – they are born in to abject poverty, they will die in abject poverty. Their innings at the crease is an arduous one, city life offers them little respite. Many are forced to rely on the welfare system for survival, hand outs from the humans who are more well off than them. They are often accused of being benefit scrounges, a menace to society, ‘Why don’t you get a job serving your owner in a family  home?!’, the humans cry. ‘Woof woof, who will have us?! Woof!’ they bark back. ‘We are reviled by your kind, woof! I offer no apology for my existence, it is you who should apologise to me, for you have demeaned a noble dog, woof!’. This is the great tragedy of the Bucharest canine, there is simply no demand for their services. They would be worthy members of any Romanian household, arguably as worthy as any domesticated dog, but no-one will employ them. Such is their plight, that simply to offer the Bucharest canine food, is to be condemned by the humans. ‘Don’t feed the Bucharest dog, they’re scum!’. ‘They’re worthy’, I yell back, ‘we’re all worthy!’, fist raised, as I offer my burger to the grateful Bucharest Shepard.

Despite the odds, they are among the worlds great survivors. They offer fierce resistance to the prejudice of their human nemesis, they refuse to lay down and die. While some are forced to rely on handouts, others have turned militant, and hunt for their food. Many are quite shapely in appearance – evidence of their accomplished skills in hunting and gathering. They have immaculate coats, big smiles and a bouncy walking style, you could even say… they look domesticated. They are the independent dogs, those who could get a spot in a home, but choose to retain their independence, albeit for less personal wealth. Not only have these dogs learnt to accept their independence, they’re fiercely proud of it. They look on at the domestic dog in disgust, ‘Yes master, yes master, I’ll sit, I’ll stand, I’ll fetch, yes master’. Pathetic! Nothing more than pampered middle class primadonas, you wouldn’t survive 5 minutes on the streets of Bucharest!’

The Bucharest canine is intelligent. They understand that they are all capable of surviving alone, but together they can achieve more. They share their food, they share their territory, they walk the streets in groups, they never fight. They’re all in it together, and they’re spirits are high. A purebred will share food with a mixed-breed, a well fed black dog will share his wealth with a skinny orange dog. They are blind to fur colour and breed. They trust each other. For these reasons, they will live long. In this respect, the humans have a lot to learn from the politics of the Bucharest canine, ‘Woof, we look out for each other, woof, unlike your world, woof!’

The Bucharest canine, respect.

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Posted in Travel Post Comment

#Hashtag

Some of you may have noticed I’ve been using a few hashtags in my photo captions. The hashtag, if used correctly, can be a useful technique to add some extra bounce to your text. However, many people abuse the hashtag, by using it incessantly, unnecessarily, and inappropriately. For example, Shellie updates everyone that she’s at the coffee shop – ‘I’m at the local coffee shop having a coffee with friends’. Ok, not sure why you told everyone this, but we understand what you’re doing, there’s no confusion – you’re drinking a coffee. Then, like a machine gun fires a lethal round of bullets, Shellie unleashes a tirade of reckless hashtags: #coffee #coffeeshop #coffeedrinker #fun #latte #coffeelove #weekend #Sundays #cafe #London #friends #friendship #friendsforlife. Whoa, slow down kid, we get it. But wait, there’s more #love #art #casual #sip #uk #coffee #milk #poo #etc #etc. Some of them aren’t even words, what the fuck is a coffeelove? By the end of it, everyone is in tears, ‘Stop, please stop, we understand what you’re doing, no more hashtags, please!’. The hashtagger then descends into tongues, shaking all over, frothing at the mouth #goat #grass #baby #person #mental #building #cup #dildo #god #bridge #street #duck #qwack #qwack #qwack… Shellie! Shellie…. *Bang!* #gun #smoking #shellie #dead

I always wonder what hashtagger is trying to achieve with the tongue-styled hashtags. Do they think that I read the update, ‘I’m at the local coffee shop having a coffee with friends’, and think, ‘Oh, look at that, shellie’s on the moon with a coffee. Fantastic. Oh wait, theres some descriptive hashtags too, providing me with more information. Oh, it says #coffeeshop, oh, I get it, she’s at the coffee shop, not the moon. Superb use of hashtag Shellie. Thanks. Well done mate’.

Posted in Analysis Post Comment

Dealing with Noisy neighbours, The Official Guidelines

I’ve devised a series of useful tips to help readers combat the problem of noisy neighbours. Read it, stick it on your wall, email it to your friends, this is your ticket to serenity!

Number 1: Invite them over for dinner, and don’t let the conversation ever reach a natural pause or conclusion – just keep talking til all hours of the night. And don’t let them interject with the old ‘Ah, it’s getting late, we better go’ line. It won’t necessarily solve the problem of excessive noise, but it’s an entertaining form of sociopathy that will also be highly satisfying. I seem to go to a lot of dinners like this – we chatted, we ate, now lets all kindly separate. No, that’s when Joe Monologue feels it’s the right time to offer an extended reading of his memoirs. A Long, long reading. About nothing. A reading with so much pointless detail it’s physically painful to endure. I sit there, face grimacing, thinking ‘I get really tired after a big meal, and it’s 12:00, why can’t we just end this? Why cant you detect social cues?’. So if you don’t like someone, and want to punish them, invite them over for a long, painful dinner. I do it at pubs when I detect that the person I’m talking to wants to get away from me. I keep talking, without offering a natural pause in the conversation. I talk about the weather and stuff. ‘How about that weather, hey? Who would’ve thought. My names Adrian. I like to walk. And I like the colour red. My name is Adrian’. He squirms, thinking, ‘I gotta get out of this’. ‘My name is Adrian. Book. My name is… Etc etc etc.
#sociopath

Number 2: When they’re all standing out in the street yelling and being generally obtrusive, casually walk over to their yard and start dousing it with petrol, as though you’re watering the plants. When they look in horror, calmly say ‘Sorry, don’t mind me. I’m just dousing your house in petrol. If you don’t shut the fuck up, and if I have to come back, I’ll light this match. I spent most of the day working on your back yard, too, so it won’t take long for this place to burn’.

Number 3: If the neighbours are black, and you happen to be white a supremacist, white nationalist, member of the BNP, an Italian or a white South African, write a racist message on their house, as seen below. This is also relevant if their surname is Black. I have suffered this form of abuse in almost every house I’ve lived in ‘No Guerins!’.

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Good luck with the noisy neighbours guys!!

(I’m now on the road, Bucharest to be exact. Travel posts to follow shortly)

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The life of a young Catholic boy

The legacy of my 12 years of Catholic schooling, 6 of which were in a single sex College, was not a loose faith in God, Religion, or any sort of religious moral code. No, it was the creation of a 17 year old manboy completely void of any of the skills necessary to interact with the opposite sex. I lost my virginity at a very uncool age. Six years spending every single day with no-one but boys and men, will rob any kid of his ability to interact with woman. It will, however, give the Brothers a much greater selection of young doodles with which to fiddle. God bless the Roman Catholic Church.

It took me most of my 20s to pick up the pieces of my social awkwardness with woman. It was in my late teens I realised something was desperately wrong. I’d go to speak to girl at a party, and all that would come out was an abstract sound somewhere between a bear groaning and a fly buzzing. I’d then scuttle away, cursing myself in the process. So I stopped trying. Then I realised I was getting a bad back due to the weight of carrying around my gigantic, unused testicals. I needed to have sex. Immediately. That was about the same time I discovered the effects of alcohol and substance abuse. So I started getting very drunk on weekends, to loosen up a bit, so I stood a chance of occasionally having sex. My assent to suburban white trash was complete.

Then in my mid to late twenties I became a stud, or as I preferred to be called, a Stallion. I’d introduce myself to people as the Stallion. Not a stallion, the Stallion. There’s only one. The high point was a sixsome with 5 models. The downside was they were male models. Oh well, gotta take what you can get when times are tough. This was about the same time I became a bullshit artist. I don’t mean I became a Graphic Designer, I mean I began talking crap. I’d make up stories for my own amusement. Not for the amusement of others, for my amusement; there’s a difference. I still haven’t managed to shake that one yet. As you may have noticed, I’ve expanded into writing made-up stories too. So yeah, I had sex with a lot of woman. And I mean a lot. Or not. Probably not. To shag woman you generally have to talk to them first. I never really did that. And I’ve yet to accomplish the feat of shagging someone without having ever spoken to them. The straight to business move. I used to try it, e.g. in the office kitchen I’d wait til a woman walked past, then knock on the table to catch their attention, then give them a Fonzerelli-sytled thumbs up, with a really serious face. Zilch. Or on the train, I’d rub myself against woman on crowded carriages, looking ominously at them. But it never worked. I had to do time for that last one, thanks Jesus.

Mum, Dad: don’t worry, I harbour no animosity toward your decision to have me endure 12 years of Catholic schooling. Bullshit cough. I’ve been working on a joke, wanna hear it? Ok, how to you create an Atheist? Send them to a Catholic school. That’s comedic gold Adrian. Thanks mate.

The End

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