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Jingle All The Wey-Hey-Hey!

So, another Christmas has come and gone – and half of us are wondering what the hell to do on New Year’s Eve. As if we have to do anything, actually. I may well open up the humble abode to those of my pals who will be waifs and strays that night – or are in a ‘can’t be arsed with New Year’s Eve’ frame of mind.

Then again, I might just plump for the pleasant quiet-night-in that I went for on Christmas Eve.

Having had a couple of ciders down the pub, I headed home with the intention of watching a DVD. Given that it was the night before Crimble, I thought something religious might be appropriate.


Now, I’ve got in the region of 90 DVDs in my collection but not one of them fit the bill. Then I remembered my ‘other’ collection – and watched ‘Nun's Stories Volume 7’, instead.

I can’t pretend it was particularly religious - and there were certainly no virgins by the end of it – but at least the rather fetching ‘Sister Cordelia’ did have the benefit of what is euphemistically called ‘the Holy Trinity’ at one point, courtesy of three attendant monks…

I did fear for the poor woman’s wimple, though, bless her.

Anyway, Christmas Day came and went with only one minor drama – I had invited Kiwi Ed around for dinner-and-a-wine-cellar-full and had just put the spuds in to roast when – bang! –the kitchen fuse tripped and the bloody oven and fridge went off. Potential disaster situation.

But within minutes my Antipodean pal, who is quite adept at this sort of thing, had clambered over several blue binbags full of empty white wine bottles, located the fuse box and – voila! - all was working again.


"Where's the fookin fuse box, mate?"















As for the grub, Kiwi Ed made an excellent prawn cocktail that actually had more than three prawns in it. And quite a lot of hard liquor too, judging by the taste. For the main course, the homemade bread sauce was the best I’ve ever created and my freshly made spinach stuffing – complete with rosemary and nutmeg – was delicious, if somewhat difficult to extricate from the red-hot tin foil without heat-resistant body armour.

As there was only the two of us, we had chicken as an alternative to turkey. This was rubbed with butter and thyme, splashed with lemon juice, covered in salt and pepper and boasted several garlic cloves rammed unceremoniously up its arse.

(Incidentally, I heartily recommend the use of fresh rosemary and thyme, as opposed to the crappy dried stuff. The difference is amazing and the aromas are quite incredible.)

The new potatoes were first gently tossed in a pan with oil, lemon juice and thyme then roasted with mushrooms and breadcrumbs. I chucked some honey-glazed carrots and onions in the oven, too, for good measure. Then I made the gravy from the chicken’s juices, a teensy bit of stock cube and a splosh (or three) of Chenin Blanc.

The only hiccup on the food front was the absence of Ed’s traditional cauliflower cheese, which ended up in the bin. It seems I’d inadvertently bought the only fromage in Belgium that wouldn’t melt, even in the fires of Mount fucking Doom. With hindsight, we should have saved it for the crackers.


Wish I'd thought of that...















But it was a feast fit for Kings, though I say so myself. I just wish I had a bloody dishwasher. Oh, and a recipe for cauliflower, potato, spinach, carrot, mushroom and lettuce broth - as I didn’t use even half of the stuff and don’t want to chuck it.

That night, off I went to a slightly seedy bar in nearby Matonge, there to lust after the perfectly formed African barmaid over a glass or seven of cheap plonk. I was forced to communicate with her in French, as she speaks no English, so the plan was to keep buying her drinks until we reached the small ‘Oui!’ hours. Fnarr.

No such lack, alas. Then again, it was undoubtedly for the best. Because, if Laura had found out, I would not have lived to regret it. Trust me, my blonde beauty could make the torture scene in Casino Royale seem like mild S & M.

So, in the end, a damned-near-perfect Christmas Day all round. And I hope you had a great one too.

Tx

Eat, Drink And Be Mary

It’s been a while - but I’ve had a mate over from Blighty for a few days and, well, I’ve only just sobered up long enough to send him back to Waterloo on the Eurotart.

Anyway, so this is Christmas. And at this time of year it’s not just about the giving and receiving of gifts (although that’s nice), or having too many drinks and too much food and being rude to Auntie Doris and watching granddad repeatedly blame the dog for every Brussels sprout fart.

No, it’s about celebrating the birth of a baby, God’s only son, sent into this world and - 33 years later - nailed to a couple of pieces of wood at Easter in order to pay for our sins.

The price was a bit steep, if you ask me. Personally, I’d have waited for the Summer sales.

Whatever, he did this because we’re all born with ‘Original Sin’. One day, I’ll happily tell you about the most original sin I was personally responsible for - but now is not the time.

No, right now it’s all about the Son of God.

And it pays to remember, at this time of year especially, this simple but pertinent message:


Right, now that’s out of the way, here’s a last minute gift idea if you’re stuck. I have a teenage sister from my dad’s second marriage and, a decade ago, when she was about three, I stayed at the family home.

I’d bought presents, of course. But what do you buy a three-year-old girl? Well, after much thought, I elected to give her a powerful torch. My dad, predictably, went nuts.

So, I shut all the curtains, shone the torch under my sister’s chin and said triumphantly to my old man: ‘There you go, dad. She loves it.’

And it was true.

You should have seen her little face light up…

Anyway, that same year I received my worst present ever. It was in a big box that contained another slightly smaller box and so on, until all that was left was a matchbox. I opened it and inside was one single grain of rice.

Thank you, thank you, Uncle Ben.



And finally…

While my mate was here we watched the original Holiday Inn (since renamed White Christmas after the famous Bing Crosby song).

For the first time, I noticed something peculiar about the credit list, which ran as below. I particularly liked the contributions of ‘Two Ears’ Laybelle and Mrs B. White.

Enjoy, and try reading it with the song in your head:

Emma Dree
Minerva White
Chris Muss
Jess Likedee
Juan Swee
Hugh Sterno
Wendy Treetops-Glissen
Ann Chilled-Wren
Liz Anne
‘Two Ears’ Laybelle
Cindy Snow

Emma Dreamin
Arthur White
Chris Muzzwit
Avery Kriss
Miss Carr
Dai Wright
Mayor Dazeby
Mary-Anne Bright
Ann Mayall-York-Rhys
Mrs B. White


'Two Ears' Laybelle












Have a belter.
Much love (actually)
Txxx

Listen Up, Schmuck!

In the end, Laura and I didn’t watch a DVD the other night.

Prior to her arrival, I’d pulled out all the ones that I thought she’d like – the obvious no-brainers such as Notting Hill, A Knight’s Tale, Bridget etc and the slightly more off-beat ones that she sometimes goes for, such as Adaptation or Sideways.

I’d even added Closer to the pile, in case she yet again wanted to try and convince me that Julia Roberts’ character in that movie is anything other than a complete bitch.


Julia in Closer.
What. A. Cow.















But no. Laura wanted an Indian takeaway and to talk over a couple of bottles of wine: ‘Preferably not Chenin Blanc, T. Surprise me.’

Now, when a woman says she wants to talk the male brain registers either one of two things: ‘Oh, shit. I’m in for a three-hour lecture,’ or ‘Oh, double-shit. No sex.’

In my case I registered both simultaneously.

But it turned out that, as we hadn’t really seen each other properly for ages and as she’s going home for Christmas, Laura just wanted to talk about ‘normal shit’.

So I listened intently to her going on about her cat (now fully recovered) her job (at the Commission bla bla bla), her landlord (a git), her desire for kids one day (I really had to bite my tongue for that half-hour) and her relationships - some good, some not so good, some very bad - with her family and many friends.

I poured wine and listened. I did the washing up and listened. I ran her a bath and listened. I sat on the end of it, later, while she sank into the scented, soapy water and listened. In fact, I barely uttered a word.

When she laughed, I laughed with her. And when she cried I put my arms around her or just held her hand or occasionally wiped her snotty nose with tissues and gently kissed her eyelids.

I might have whispered ‘I love you’ once, I can’t be sure. Maybe it was just in my head.

I’ll get my reward in heaven, I thought, with an ironic, silent laugh. And, do you know what? About an hour later, I did.

And heaven it was, too.

So, I got my ‘early Christmas present’. But I was left with the distinct impression that I’m as dumb as shit and had been taught a valuable lesson. Hmm. Seems there’s more to being smart than doing The Times crossword. Sometimes you just have to be there for someone and shut the fuck up…


I've been a good boy, this year. Honest.














Anyway, moving on, it’s the annual staff Crimbo party at one of my hostelries of choice tonight. It’s an invite-only job and, in my role as Part-of-the-Furniture-in-Chief, I always get asked along.

The deal (supposedly) is that several invited customers work the free bar, giving the staff we’ve been bawling out all year the chance to wreak a well-deserved revenge.

However, once the ‘novelty’ photos have been taken, my stint at the business end usually lasts until I’ve (quite deliberately) screwed up the first three lagers in order to create a passable European Foam-and-Beer lake.

At that point one of the owners invariably shouts: ‘T! Get out from behind the fucking bar. You’re wasting more beer than you’re fucking serving, man!’

With a look of mock hurt (that nobody, but nobody, is buying) I go back to my barstool and proceed to get monumentally pissed, while the same owner plays Santa – handing out funny and appropriate personal gifts to all the staff.

Thus are traditions made.

Just a thought: maybe wiping the runny nose of a tearful loved one and taking pleasure in the company of friends are what it’s all really about, after all.

Cocktails And Sausages

Jeeee-suuuus!

Everything hurt on Saturday morning - my back, neck, legs, arms and, of course, my head. Meanwhile, I’ve still got kidneys that feel like they’ve been used as a punch bag by Mike Tyson and I swear even my ‘jingle bells’ are swollen.

I wouldn’t mind if I’d been in an actual fight but the nearest I got to that was a vain struggle with Aloicius for the last piece of garlic bread from the buffet. Ah oui, I smell like a fucking Frenchman too.

Honestly, I was absolutely fine till the JDs came out.

Dunno whose idea they were (I suspect American Lenny) but after three large ones I apparently tried to chat up a pillar. In my defence, it was elaborately decorated in Christmas tinsel and to (what was left of) my mind looked vaguely girly – if a bit on the tall side. Talk about ‘beer goggles’ – but at least it wasn’t Kiwi Ed.

Anyway, courtesy of my old friend Mr Jack Daniels, I fell asleep for an hour in the pub’s disabled toilet and woke up to a bar tab that roughly matched the GDP of a medium-sized Caribbean island. And there were only eight of us, for fuck’s sake.

So, farewell then, office party. The festive spirit has been well and truly drunk (with ice, no coke, natch) and I’m relying on blonde Swedish hotty Margot Wallstrom’s cocktail bash for the press to convince me I’ve got value for money.


Is it just me, everyone? Well, is it?
I thought so...













Yes, good people. The 50ish-but-still-sexy European Commissioner is to spend a not inconsiderable amount of your taxes on Tuesday with one aim: to get the mostly EU-friendly members of the Brussels press corps even more EU-friendly by force-feeding them alcohol.

Good work, woman.

I’ve calculated that I’ll need to glug about 35 Bond-style ‘Vesper’ Martinis to redress the fiscal deficit brought about by the office ding-dong, although that many strong drinks won’t do much for my own ability to balance – even on all fours safely hidden under a table trying to look up skirts.

But, sod it, the Commission’s paying and, as the eminently shaggable Margot has yet to invite me to join her stark-bollocko in the Berlaymont sauna, the least she can do is fucking well get me rat-arsed.

God bless the European Union.

Party On, Dudes!

Well, it’s time for the magazine’s ‘office’ party later today.

I put the word ‘office’ in inverted commas as we don’t actually have one, but that’s no reason not to have an office thrash, eh?

The magazine is written on various PCs across town and subbed/headlined/designed on the home computer I’m now using (with Quark XPress and Adobe Photoshop – not InDesign, bleugh! - for those who know about these things).

Then it goes to the printers to be spat out and stapled over a couple of days before we pick it up and turn into delivery boys. Which we did last night – taking our baby to far-flung bars and restos across Brussels, for your delight and delectation.

That done, our small-but-perfectly-formed main team will this afternoon be gathering at a bar in Schuman to partake of ‘festive’ cocktail sausages, chicken-bloody-goujons and copious quantities of brain-crushing vino collapso, all while wearing silly hats.

By next Christmas, I fully expect that the mag will be doing well enough for us a) to have an actual office and b) to be able to have the festive hoolie at great expense in the Conrad. But, for now, it’s a holiday-period team-building bash with b-grade plonk and a tenner-a-head buffet.

And, rest assured, we will never forget our humble origins. This is because Tarquin will be there with the fucking camera…

So, if you come across any photos of a bunch of what appear to be pissed-up giant dwarves gate-crashing a Convention for Retired Santas, then that would be us.


Anyway, once it’s all over with, the sick cleaned up, the tab squabbled over and the inevitable apologies made to the barstaff, it’s off to Leuven on the morrow for some more ‘research’. But I’ll be back in time for an evening in with Laura, a movie, some wine and a ton of chocolate.

Now regular readers of this blog will know that I prefer a Mars Bar or two with my DVD. It’s less common-knowledge, however, that Laura prefers Snickers. And this can cause problems - as she guards her chocolate jealously.

I tend to scoff mine early on in the movie then start eyeing hers with undisguised envy – the Green-Eyed Chocolate Monster ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness from Her Royal Wholesomeness.

But I have to tell you, if you hadn’t already guessed, that it is sadly only on the very rarest of occasions that I am allowed access to Laura’s Snickers…


Show us your Snickers

Corny, But True

Warning: those of a sensitive disposition should stop reading today’s blog right here because, I confess, it is gratuitously rude and may offend the narrow-minded.

It is, however, somewhat amusing and completely true.

OK, still with me?

Right…



I had a bizarre conversation last night with a lovely ladyfriend of mine who happens to be knowledgable about food, nutrition and digestion.

She also knows a bit about taking it up the bum.

We had been discussing a couple of gay male friends and, as the drink flowed, the conversation began to, well, lower in tone somewhat – not to mention plummet several feet in terms of physical geography.

The young lady confessed that on the one occasion she had elected to be taken, shall we say, by ‘the third way’ it had put her on the pan for a couple of days with a bad case of the Eartha Kitts. ‘I won’t be doing that again,’ she confessed.

Apparently, the ‘bomb bay’ hadn’t been quite clear enough and the squits duly ensued. Not at the time, thankfully, but the next morning.

Well, while attempting to keep hold of my drink as I was laughing so much, I recalled an unfortunate incident of a slightly different but certainly related nature.

It was around the time when that great UK advertising icon The Jolly Green Giant was on the telly a lot and, yes, there is a connection.

For the uninitiated (as it were), the Jolly Green Giant was used to market sweetcorn and he would bellow his immortal catchphrase ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’ like some demented, oversized, green Santa.


The song began ‘down in the valley of The Jolly Green Giant’ and carried on for a whole verse as little munchkin types went a-gathering their corn for the dinner tables of England and beyond.

When I mention that sweetcorn is indigestible by the human stomach, some of you may guess where this is heading.

Suffice it to say that on one memorable journey up the Marmite Motorway, the Bovril Boulevard - nay, the Toblerone Trottoir - it was not so much ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’ as ‘Uh? Uh-Oh!’

This when I realised that while ‘down in the valley’ my Tower of Power had been topped off by a single yellow comestible which had obviously undertaken the Jolly Green Giant journey from field to factory to dinner table and, er, beyond.

Not so much ‘corn on the cob’, really, as ‘corn on the nob…’



Don't try this at home, folks...

Publish And Be Damned

Well, a few news items have caught my eye recently, namely: vice-president of the European Commission Gunter Verheugen being snapped on a nudist beach with his mistress (who works for him), Margaret Hodge, the UK minister for industry, blocking EU plans to put a cap on mobile phone roaming charges and an Indian actor and actress on trial for kissing on screen.

Oh, and let’s not forget the British bishop found with a black eye and a bumped head, throwing kiddies’ toys out of a Mercedes-Benz after a party at which he apparently got pissed.

First Gunter. I met him in a church in Venice while on holiday from European Voice and while he was taking a break from slightly more important business. Verheugen had been at the Athens summit finalising the deal concerning the accession of ten new EU member states that following May.

I greeted him as ‘Commissioner Verheugen’, told him where I worked, congratulated him on a job well done and prepared to leave him alone when he said: ‘Come with me.’

Intrigued, I set off with him to the back of the church to a tomb sealed off by a metal gate. There lay the remains of Giuseppe Monteverdi, the father of modern opera and Gunter’s favourite composer, so he told me.

I received a five-minute lecture, delivered with considerable enthusiasm and in perfect – if Teutonically accented - English on the relative merits of old Giuseppe before we parted with a handshake. He impressed me with his knowledge and intelligence, I have to say.

So what the fuck he’s doing shagging his assistant and waving his todger around on a nuddy beach, I don’t know. And given that the German presidency of the EU begins soon, I bet Auntie Angela Merkel is less than chuffed. Perhaps they should change his title from ‘vice-president’ to ‘president-of-vice’...


Hands up if you got your nob out








Now then, Margaret Hodge. Well done, the UK.

Again.

Hodge reckons that letting the pan-EU telecoms industry voluntarily lower its roaming charges is the way forward rather than forcing it to do it via legislation. Yeah, right.

According to the EU’s media commissioner, Viviane Reding, blocking the move will put the whole job back about seven years. Basically, the UK has bowed to industry pressure. As ever.


Write 100 times 'I am a plonker'









Now, despite being an occasional drinking buddy of UKIP’s leader, Nigel Farage MEP, I don’t agree with his line that the UK would be better off out of the EU.

However, I’m fast coming to the conclusion that the EU would be better off without the UK. Either come to the party, boys and girls, or get-to-fuck. Bugger off out of it and keep your pound, your passports and your piss-poor transport system too.

Speaking of the EU, the row rumbles on about whether Turkey should be allowed to join. Yes, it’s a secular state but it’s predominantly Muslim. And, apparently, by the end of the decade, Birmingham - the UK’s second city - will also be predominantly Muslim.

Now, I’m all for religious equality - as I despise one organised religion as much as the next - but this is about culture.

On the streets of Europe, Westerners don’t tend to indulge in forced marriages, perform ‘honour killings’ or make women cover up in public. It’s not in our psyche and it’s not part of our centuries-old multi-national identity.

If other cultures want to do that stuff, well, it doesn’t matter whether I agree or disagree, we do things differently here. We’re ‘European’.

Which brings me to the goings-on in India. Bollywood actor and actress Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai (a former Miss World) were in court this week over an on-screen kiss. No, really. A lawyer has brought a criminal case by accusing the pair of ‘lowering the dignity of Indian women and encouraging obscenity among India’s youth’. And this in the country that gave the world the Kama Sutra.


Well, I would. On or off screen...








Now, I know India is not Turkey – or even a Muslim country – but I suspect you will all find the lawyer’s behaviour ridiculous. It’s totally alien to us. A million miles away from being anything like our culture. An on-screen kiss, for fuck’s sake? It’s nearly 2007…

And that’s my point. I’m not talking about stopping Muslims, Hindus or whoever settling in Europe. But I don’t want to live in a Europe that shifts slowly towards a culture in which women are covered up by law, wives are treated like chattels, a peck on the cheek in the street means a public flogging and little kids get their hands chopped off for nicking a bottle of milk from a doorstep.

And an on-screen kiss lands you in court.

There’s a limit, is all I’m saying. I’m a Westerner and I want to live in a predominantly Western-style society, if that’s OK with everyone.

Anyway, just to provide a bit of balance and show that the powers-that-be in Western religion can be as nutty as those in any other, let’s talk about the bishop.

OK, so he may well have been pissed out of his tiny. And he may be telling porkies when he says he was mugged. And he may have had at least one younger priest sacked for drinking in the past. But his fellow clergy and those of other religions have absolutely gone to town on the guy and I for one say it’s time that the wankers packed it in.

Frankly, someone needs to tell the religious leaders of all denominations to grow up...





and stop bashing the bishop!



(If anyone needs that last joke explaining, well, just ask...)

'Tell Laura I Love Her'

Ah, the festive season. Brings it all home, doesn’t it?

Well, not it Laura’s case it doesn’t - as it’s sending her home instead. Back to the UK for Crimbo, although she’s here for the new year.

So I’ve got less than a week to grab that festive fumble. ‘Deck the balls’ and try climb the chimney etc…

Contemplating this was probably what made me grab my usual ‘comfort movie’ and curl up on the sofa last night. That and it was fucking freezing outside.

The movie Love Actually always makes me laugh – all the more when accompanied by the bottle of chilled Chenin Blanc (thank you, fridge) that is de rigeur for such occasions - along with the Mars Bars and box of tissues, the latter just in case I get too pissed and weep at the poignant bits.


Which I did last night.

Well, it makes you think about ‘love’, doesn’t it? The nice gooey bits. The achingly, yet somehow deliciously painful, sad bits. And the bastard bits.

Nursing an empty wine bottle I got to wondering why love never seems to last for the Tippler. And I got to thinking back over the years, being honest and figuring out that (with one or two notable exceptions) nearly every break-up, every ‘death of love’, was down to me.

I can’t laugh it off anymore. So why?

Some friends, acquaintances, random passers-by (and one ex-wife) have posited the theory that I just don’t like women. This is not correct. I adore women – and I’m not talking about the bump and grind stuff either. OK, sex is great and I love watching a girl put on my dressing gown, sip tea at my table, wear my t-shirt or put her make-up on sitting at my mirror – not to mention ‘accidentally’ leave an item of underwear at the flat - but I don’t mean that stuff.

In general, I find women beautiful, witty, charming and downright clever. They come at life from another angle and I go crazy for that. They’re wired up differently and that’s how it should be. Vive la chuffin’ difference… I’m really, really lucky that I know so many fantastic women.

But I keep fucking it up when it comes to ‘love’.

Actually.

Other friends have told me that it’s a fear of rejection thing – and that’s probably closer. So, runs the theory, I always unconsciously get my rejection in first - push people away because I have a dark room somewhere in my heart and the door is permanently closed to anyone – even if they’re knocking on it hard enough to wake the dead.

And if you can’t receive love, then how can you give it? Fucked if I know.

Love for me is a bit of life that always goes just slightly askew. It’s like typing on an azerty keyboard when you’re used to a qerty: the sentence is almost understandable but there’s that one blind spot – and all your ‘a’ letters come out ‘q’.



That’s how I felt last night. Not unhappy because I don’t feel loved – I have many close friends. And friends you love differently. I ‘love’ them back.

No, I was just a little sad that I don’t seem able to love anyone in the way I would like. The way they would like, which instinct tells me is more to the point.

Laura’s smart. She gets this. So I don’t blame her for keeping her emotional distance.

Because I’d win any stupid emotional nonsense games, you see. Which means, in the end of course, I’d lose. Lose, as the look of shock and hurt spread across her face and the tears flowed and yet another set of clothes were stuffed into yet another bag and yet another door was slammed shut forever.

The ultimate own-goal, yet again.

Fuck it, I’m off down the pub.

Joke Bloke

Soon be back to normal as the magazine goes to the printers on Tuesday morning, to hit the streets Thursday. Wahey.

That will be the last one until the end of January, so I'm looking forward to enjoying the festive season - and possibly getting a sympathy shag from the ever-delightful Laura.

Meanwhile, here's a gag that made me howl. It's a bit rude, so don't say you haven't been warned...


Murphy calls to see his mate Paddy who has a broken leg.

Paddy says: "Me feet are freezing, mate, could you nip upstairs and
get me slippers?"

"No bother, ta be sure" Murphy says and runs upstairs.

And sitting on their beds are Paddy's two stunning 19-year-old twin daughters.

"Hello dere girls," says Murphy, thinking quickly. "Your Da' sent me up here to shag ya both."

"Fook off, you liar!", say the girls.

"I'll prove it," says Murphy.

So he shouts down the stairs: "Both of them, Paddy?"

Paddy shouts back: "Of course, what's the use of fookin' one?"

Words Of Wisdom

Laura passed these on to me.

Can't think why...


"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy."
Tom Clancy


"You know 'that look' women get when they want sex?

Me neither."
Steve Martin


"There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal, particularly in women.

Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL."
Lynn Lavine


"Women might be able to fake orgasms.

But men can fake whole relationships."
Sharon Stone



"My girlfriend always laughs during sex - no matter what she's reading."
Yours Truly


"Clinton lied.

A man might forget where he parks or where he lives, but he never forgets oral sex, no matter how bad it is."
Barbara Bush (Former US First Lady - and you thought she had no sense of humour...)


"Ah, yes, 'divorce'.

From the Latin word meaning 'to rip out a man's genitals through his wallet'."
Robin Williams


"Women complain about premenstrual syndrome.

But I think of it as the only time of the month that I can be myself."
Laura


"Most women need a reason to have sex.

Men just need a place."
Billy Crystal


"Instead of getting married again, I'm going to find a woman I don't like and just give her a house."
Alex Hewetson, oft-wed UP Front wine writer


And finally...


"The problem is that God gives men a brain and a penis.

But he gives them only enough blood to run one at a time."
Robin Williams




Well, does it do it for you, ladies?

Car Trouble

I know you are a gullible lot, especially the guys, so I just wanted to make you aware of a new kind of scam before you get taken in – like me and American Lenny did

Those of you who may be regular GB customers should know that we fell victim to a very clever scam while out shopping recently.

Despite having no fridge for a while, I’ve still needed to shop for other essentials and simply going out to get supplies, with American Lenny in his car, has become potentially traumatic – and that’s not even taking into account his driving...

And it could happen to any of you.

Here's how it worked at the weekend:

Two extremely foxy girls in their early 20s came over to the car as we were packing our shopping into the boot.

They both started wiping down the windscreen with a rag and some cleaner, with their knockers almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. Yes, even in this weather. And it was impossible not to look.

Well, me and American Lenny struggled, anyway.

Then when we thanked them and offered them a few euro, they said ‘Non, merci.’ Instead, they asked for a lift to another GB.

Obviously, it would have been rude to decline. So, we agreed and they got in the back seat. On the way, they started having sex with each other.

No, I am NOT kidding.

Anyway, Lenny stopped the car and these two hotties only dragged us into the back and started performing oral sex on us.

Of course, it was only later that we discovered they’d had our wallets away while we were distracted.

Now that’s bad, as it stands.

But the thing is, and here’s the rub, I’ve now had my bloody wallet stolen Saturday, twice on Sunday, plus once again on Monday and three times just yesterday.

Also, it’s very likely to happen again this coming weekend.

So be careful.

Ice Cold In Ixelles

Your humble correspondent is somewhat more humble than usual today, being a tad embarrassed to report that the fridge is now working.

Now why’s that embarrassing? Fridges are supposed to work. One would like to think their natural state is one of working-ness. It’s what they do, surely?

Well I’m embarrassed because, having whined about it for weeks and finally determined to call the landlord, I arrived home last night after a day spent slaving over a hot keyboard to discover that my cleaner had fixed the damn thing.

Yes, my Polish ‘lady-who-does’ had obviously become so fed up of seeing notes ending with the words ‘frigo en panne’ that she sorted it herself.

And here’s the really embarrassing bit: all she did was change the bulb.


Anna and Co: 'no job too stupid'









Now call me thick – yes, I can hear you – but I always thought that the little light bulb was a desirable extra as opposed to a fundamental bit of kit. The general rule, I’ve always been led to believe, is that if the thing goes on when you open the door then this is a bonus. Enjoy it while it lasts, etc.

Not so in the case of my fridge, apparently.

How was I to know that if the bulb packs up the fucking fridge ceases to function? That’s not normal, surely? And how did Anna know this (I already wish I hadn’t asked THAT question)?

Finally, how was I supposed to know that there’s been a spare bulb in the kitchen for the three-years-plus I’ve lived here, one easily recognisable to a former teenage ironing prodigy recently imported from a Third-World country, but not to me?

You see, I certainly didn’t buy any fridge-friendly light bulbs, and I’m not in the habit of spending a Sunday afternoon patiently classifying unidentified ones that may or may not be lurking in the hitherto unplumbed depths of kitchen drawers.

All in all it’s a bloody mystery, a bit of a rum do.

Anyway, while pondering this, I sent a text to Laura with the good news. She called me about an hour later: ‘Jolly good,’ she said. ‘Well done, Anna.’

‘And sorry it took me a while to reply,’ she added. ‘I was emailing my girlfriends with the latest example of your utter crapness and it was taking longer to type than usual.’

I sighed. Sometimes you just know. But, given that it’s in the male job description, I dutifully ploughed on regardless: ‘OK, Laura, why was it taking longer?’

‘Because, T, it’s bloody hard to type properly when you’re rolling around the floor laughing your tits off.’

It’s a fucking cruel world sometimes.



Meanwhile, here's a Bond Night pic




What a splendid display of, er, weaponry

Double-Oh Five-And-A-Bit

Well, I had good fun at the Bond night. It took a while to warm up, as these things do, but it was worth the effort. No one got shot or anything, although I had to have a severe word with some twat who brought a starting pistol, for God’s sake.

We didn’t make as much dosh as I’d hoped, sadly, so the UP Front team’s Christmas din-dins looks like being Milligatawny soup.

Again.


Yum, yum. Dig in lads...











Not that Laura would know the Bond night was worth the effort, of course, having not bloody bothered to make one.

I despair of that woman sometimes. Give her an excuse to put a bit of a frock on and you’d think she’d leap at the chance. But no. The dizzy girl had double-booked a dinner date with an old friend, so it was ‘tough titty, Tippler’.

Thinking about it, she probably did put a bit of a frock on for that.


Laura in a posh frock. Scary eyes, or what?















I was going to put on a DJ myself - but couldn’t find cufflinks for the dress shirt. The safe place I put them was obviously a little too safe. Also, I’ve completely forgotten how to tie a bow tie and couldn’t locate the internet-downloaded destructions either, so it’s probably for the best. Frankly, the end result could have been disastrous and certainly very un-007.


"A bow tie, Mish Moneypenny?
Peesh of pish..."













(Just a thought here. The double-oh moniker is for the guys with a license to kill, right? So, logically, MI6 can only have nine professional killers at any one time – 001 to 009. 0017 just doesn’t look or sound right. And nine doesn’t seem a lot from a global-stage perspective and would have been positively irresponsible during the Cold War. Either that or they were bloody busy.)

Speaking of busy, it’s deadline week at UP Front so I’m up to my eyes in it. It’s also the British Embassy’s annual beer fally-down event on Wednesday and United versus Benfica later that day. Need to get to Leuven at some point, too.

I’ve a feeling there’s something on Thursday also, but my pocket diary went through the wash and the ink has run. Can’t read a bloody thing. Then, of course, it’s the bloggers’ Christmas head-in-the-trough on Saturday - which at least means I’ll eat something this week.

This is just as well as there’s nothing in the kitchen. Yep, the fridge-freezer is still kaput. I’ve tried my very best to find out what’s wrong with it but have finally given up and will have to call the landlord.

Laura, for once, is in complete agreement. As she put it: ‘Move on, T. It’s all water under the fridge now…’

She cracks me up sometimes, that woman.

Anyhow, the upshot is that I’m relying on the party to provide my necessary intake of solids. And if any Brussels-based bloggers want to join in, just email upfrontlive@gmail.com and details will be sent forthwith.

Or even ‘thirdwith’ if I’m feeling efficient.

Let’s just hope one of our number (she knows who she is) has told the restaurant to stock up on the voddy. Otherwise, there’ll be tears before bad-head time.

Probably mine. Heigh-ho…