Hollywood Actor in vicious Nightclub Brawl
In shock revelations today, a once Oscar nominated sex symbol heart-throb actor was pictured throwing an appallingly girly punch at a respected (sic) member of the press.
A spokesman said the girly punch was thrown "in the direction of" an extremely aggressive individual who did not clearly identity himself as a member of the press, in fact he may not have been a member of the press. He went on to comment that it was "highly unlikely" that the "punch" would have caused any damage given that the actor in question is known to be shagging his manicurist, who may or may not be female.
The Bishop of Bath and Wells was reported to Say "I'm not drunk. I was just trying to buy a bottle of champagne for my friend to help celebrate his birthday"
It is not Known whether this or anything else the Bishop says is relevant here, or anywhere else. He was in Swansea at the time of the disturbance, no one knows where he is now.
In heated scenes outside the infamous Python Room, no-one had to restrain the actor as he babbled incoherently, vomitted and fell over. There was chaos and mass confusion in the ranks of press as the assembled paparazzi looked at each other, bemused. One allegedly said "was that supposed to be an punch or did he just fall over?"
The actor is well known for his portrayal of a giant half-man half-machine half pot-plant which takes on the entire Iraqi Revolutionary Guard in "Robo Geek : Sheesh, that Hurts" Parts 1,2 and 4. Part 3 was controversially held back by the studios after allegations it contained nuts and/or celery, also know as The Evil One (in the vegetable world). In real life the actor is 4ft 8 and has the social graces of a three year old. A three year old baboon, that is.
A police spokesman, who wished to remain anonymous, said "No one has been arrested although the actor is helping the local PD with their enquiries. Normally there has to be a complaint before we arrest someone, the only complaint we received at the scene was that there aren't enough real celebrities in the Python Room these days."
A close relative or friend of the actor said "He's like, real sick you know, he has issues and stuff. So he had a drink, it's not a crime! We all love him very much and were gonna, you know, support him and stuff? and make sure he gets into Betty Ford's ok? I really hope they can help him to get his head out of his ass, I might get that done too".
The owners of the Python Room were not available for comment but released the following statement through their lawyers "Yeah, he was all goofed up on Pissweiser n' pretzels, said he can't find no work. Since the war an' all, the studio ain't making no hard-man movies no more. I guess he's all washed up now."
There might be more news tomorrow, but it's unlikely.
JJ
Friday, 27 April 2007
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
Which way is to Paris?
Today is Administrative Professionals Day In America, if anyone has any clue what the leaping larry that is, feel free to keep it to yourself.
Expanding on my previous Suggestion of a national day for England and prior comments about helpdesks, here is my new and most cunning propoisal, yet. Global Indian Helpdesk Amnesty Day. For one glorious day of the year, all the industrious little beavers in Bangalore can take the day off and go to the beach or to the flea market and trade credit card numbers etc. While we will have the entire day to phone any service or business we want to, relaxed in the knowledge that we won't be diverted to someone who can barely understand our problems let alone sort them out.
Of course, Belgium isn't known for it's service culture and I can't speak any of the official languages so for me, personally, it might end up as a frying pan - fire situation. Hmmmm, seemed like a good idea at the time.
Oh, the title, outside the office about 15 minutes ago, a complete stranger walked up to me asked for directions to Paris. I sent him to the gas station to buy a map.
JJ
Expanding on my previous Suggestion of a national day for England and prior comments about helpdesks, here is my new and most cunning propoisal, yet. Global Indian Helpdesk Amnesty Day. For one glorious day of the year, all the industrious little beavers in Bangalore can take the day off and go to the beach or to the flea market and trade credit card numbers etc. While we will have the entire day to phone any service or business we want to, relaxed in the knowledge that we won't be diverted to someone who can barely understand our problems let alone sort them out.
Of course, Belgium isn't known for it's service culture and I can't speak any of the official languages so for me, personally, it might end up as a frying pan - fire situation. Hmmmm, seemed like a good idea at the time.
Oh, the title, outside the office about 15 minutes ago, a complete stranger walked up to me asked for directions to Paris. I sent him to the gas station to buy a map.
JJ
Monday, 23 April 2007
New England Patriots, The
You know it's St George's day today? That historic moment when an English man did something and the nation was proud instead of all looking at their shoelaces and mumbling about trumpet blowing. Is there no pride left in England? Where did it all go?
Last year there was mass flag waving on the streets of Germany for the first time since the mid 1940's. Until then it was very much frowned upon to hoist the flag in public, even to the extent that some egg manufacturer's turned the flag sideways and pretended to be Belgian (as seen in the GB on Rue de Tongres, fooled me the crafty blighters). Gerry seems to be over it now so what's wrong with English? As far as I can recall, celebrating St. Georges day came to the agenda in the 90's, along with New Labour, but it's still just a discussion item.
Most countries around the world have a National Day or Independence Day, when they celebrate their culture and values or just get blind drunk. The Irish have cleverly combined all three. Admittedly, many of those Independence day's are celebrating Independence from the British, but that's not the point.
OR IS IT? Make the comparison, when does the German "re-habilitation", for want of a better word, begin? After all the countries were returned to the rightful owners? Maybe it really began when they joined the EU (he-hee, little joke-ette in case you're bored) or perhaps the falling of the Berlin Wall, could be any number of things, one point stands out to me at least.
(Aside : Why do (West) Germans envy the Chinese? - Because they've still got their wall)
The building of the British Empire could only really begin when they stopped fighting the Scots and the Welsh. Only then could they lead their army outside the shores of Great Britain. In this sense the Empire is still very still very much alive, in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. In this situation the English still see themselves as the guardians or parents, so while they're glad for the children to have a party they don't really want to make too much of a fuss for themsleves. This could be the crux of it, the war isn't yet over for the English, I mean the war that established and maintaned the Empire.
In order to assert, or re-assert, their own identity and then be in a position to celebrate (or not, as the case may be), England needs to become a country again. But going back to football, as we inevitably must, this was all brought home to me last year during the world cup. I had erected a small cross of St George on my desk, several other people showed their colours in similar manner. Ours is a very multicultural office, so the world cup was quite the event for us. I wasn't the only one with an England flag though. One day, one of my flemmish colleagues asked me "what are all these flags around here? Norway?" I then had to explain to him the difference between England and the UK and that England has their own flag apart from the Union Jack - he thought the UK was a country. In some, political sense, it is.
OR IS IT? Ok, that was just melodramatic, ignore that. I suppose the flag misunderstanding would be cleared up if the Scots and Welsh could qualify for the World Cup every now and then. On the other hand why not cut the dithering and get on with this devolution business properly. We all know were it's headed so what's the benefit of dragging it out? The next election should be fought on full and total devolution, a separation of the countries. Then England can start planning the St. Georges/Independence Day celebrations.
Which reminds me, I never did celebrate my divorce proplerly, perhaps I shall do both tonight…
OR WILL I?
Your Faithful Servant,
JJ
Last year there was mass flag waving on the streets of Germany for the first time since the mid 1940's. Until then it was very much frowned upon to hoist the flag in public, even to the extent that some egg manufacturer's turned the flag sideways and pretended to be Belgian (as seen in the GB on Rue de Tongres, fooled me the crafty blighters). Gerry seems to be over it now so what's wrong with English? As far as I can recall, celebrating St. Georges day came to the agenda in the 90's, along with New Labour, but it's still just a discussion item.
Most countries around the world have a National Day or Independence Day, when they celebrate their culture and values or just get blind drunk. The Irish have cleverly combined all three. Admittedly, many of those Independence day's are celebrating Independence from the British, but that's not the point.
OR IS IT? Make the comparison, when does the German "re-habilitation", for want of a better word, begin? After all the countries were returned to the rightful owners? Maybe it really began when they joined the EU (he-hee, little joke-ette in case you're bored) or perhaps the falling of the Berlin Wall, could be any number of things, one point stands out to me at least.
(Aside : Why do (West) Germans envy the Chinese? - Because they've still got their wall)
The building of the British Empire could only really begin when they stopped fighting the Scots and the Welsh. Only then could they lead their army outside the shores of Great Britain. In this sense the Empire is still very still very much alive, in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. In this situation the English still see themselves as the guardians or parents, so while they're glad for the children to have a party they don't really want to make too much of a fuss for themsleves. This could be the crux of it, the war isn't yet over for the English, I mean the war that established and maintaned the Empire.
In order to assert, or re-assert, their own identity and then be in a position to celebrate (or not, as the case may be), England needs to become a country again. But going back to football, as we inevitably must, this was all brought home to me last year during the world cup. I had erected a small cross of St George on my desk, several other people showed their colours in similar manner. Ours is a very multicultural office, so the world cup was quite the event for us. I wasn't the only one with an England flag though. One day, one of my flemmish colleagues asked me "what are all these flags around here? Norway?" I then had to explain to him the difference between England and the UK and that England has their own flag apart from the Union Jack - he thought the UK was a country. In some, political sense, it is.
OR IS IT? Ok, that was just melodramatic, ignore that. I suppose the flag misunderstanding would be cleared up if the Scots and Welsh could qualify for the World Cup every now and then. On the other hand why not cut the dithering and get on with this devolution business properly. We all know were it's headed so what's the benefit of dragging it out? The next election should be fought on full and total devolution, a separation of the countries. Then England can start planning the St. Georges/Independence Day celebrations.
Which reminds me, I never did celebrate my divorce proplerly, perhaps I shall do both tonight…
OR WILL I?
Your Faithful Servant,
JJ
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Travel Monologue, Epilogue
After careful consternation and much soul searching I decided to replace the final escapade with a mixture of fact and conjecture. I felt there weren't enough germans in the prequel so this one can be loosely called "The Revenge Of the *insert name here*"
Eventually, after eighteen months of comitted procrastination and stoic residence I managed to lay my greasy mitts on a residence permit. It would've gone on longer but my powers of "doing it tomorrow" are no match for the belgian authorities.
Girlfriend sternly advised me to carry it at all times and I retorted "what?, that flimsy bit of card won't last a week!". So she bought me a protective plastic thingy to protect it, matron!
That was a mere two weeks ago and since then I've been looking for opportunities to flash my sheathed identity at the first official in address. With that in mind I determined to test the validity of Schengen along with my own propensity to being arrested or killed for the most unlikely reasons.
I always wanted to try my mobile phone on an aeroplane since I heard the only reason they don't allow it is that the cell providers can't sort out the charging. I'd do it but what if something happened?
It would be so embarrasing. What with all the people being smacked into the deep blue and all that, I don't know if I could live with it. What would the neighbours think?
St Peter: Just not your day is it? First you downed an Airbus, killing everyone on board, though I'll let you off the four illegals hiding in the landing gear. They were probably frozen already unless they were foreign, those foreign types are a jolly inventive lot. Not to be trusted at all. Nevertheless, you're in the wrong queue, heathens shouldn't be queueing here.
Me: Well where am supposed to queue then mister St?
SP: What ID have you got?
Me: Just my Belgian residence permit, is that ok?
SP: Belgian eh? You need to queue over there.
Me: Noooooooooooh! I'm stuck in Etterbeek for all eternitje!
JJ
Eventually, after eighteen months of comitted procrastination and stoic residence I managed to lay my greasy mitts on a residence permit. It would've gone on longer but my powers of "doing it tomorrow" are no match for the belgian authorities.
Girlfriend sternly advised me to carry it at all times and I retorted "what?, that flimsy bit of card won't last a week!". So she bought me a protective plastic thingy to protect it, matron!
That was a mere two weeks ago and since then I've been looking for opportunities to flash my sheathed identity at the first official in address. With that in mind I determined to test the validity of Schengen along with my own propensity to being arrested or killed for the most unlikely reasons.
I always wanted to try my mobile phone on an aeroplane since I heard the only reason they don't allow it is that the cell providers can't sort out the charging. I'd do it but what if something happened?
It would be so embarrasing. What with all the people being smacked into the deep blue and all that, I don't know if I could live with it. What would the neighbours think?
St Peter: Just not your day is it? First you downed an Airbus, killing everyone on board, though I'll let you off the four illegals hiding in the landing gear. They were probably frozen already unless they were foreign, those foreign types are a jolly inventive lot. Not to be trusted at all. Nevertheless, you're in the wrong queue, heathens shouldn't be queueing here.
Me: Well where am supposed to queue then mister St?
SP: What ID have you got?
Me: Just my Belgian residence permit, is that ok?
SP: Belgian eh? You need to queue over there.
Me: Noooooooooooh! I'm stuck in Etterbeek for all eternitje!
JJ
Travel Monologue, the Third
Got up at 7am, washed dressed packed, did the auto checkout, skipped breakfast and headed for the 8am presentation. Boss called and told me the Sydney trip is postponed, you can sneak back out of the luggage Shaz. I was expecting that, they've been brewing trouble down under for a few days.
Lunch was going to be swordfish steak but the fella in front of me took the last one. I couldn't wait for them to bring another tray, "time is monkey!" I cried and sidled up to the beef stroganoff, like a crab approaching a bottom shaped rock. 5.15pm, taxi to Paddington, Heathrow express to err, Heathrow. The self check-in machine rejected me so grinningly I jumped the apparently static Fast Bag Drop queue and got checked in without queueing at all, arrived at the gate with 3 minutes 22 seconds to spare - good job I brought a book.
I must have been the last to check-in, I got a middle seat in the last row, there was only one thing on my mind now, chilled red wine and lots of it, go on call me a philistine I've earned it.
I had a strange dream a few days ago about the landing in Oslo, the plane veered off to the left and then spun violently right, I woke up. It's kind of been festering in the back of my mind but it's ok now, nothing like that happened. They have parquet floors, beats the jelly beans out of that fake marble in most airports. Nice airport, I was impressed the cash machine let me input the amount in euros and showed what the equivalent Kroner would be. I didn't expect it to actually give me euros, so I went around again and took the Kroner equivalent out. Then it dawned on me, if the machine gives euros then it must be ok to... oh buggering bollocks!
It's 4 degrees outside, the captain said it might snow but it didn't. By the time I'd refunded one hour to the Greenwich Mean Timekeeper and slipped the cabbie 640 kroner it was 11.15pm. The Hotel restaurant was shut, the receptionist pointed me to the little shop in the foyer, there was some kind of odd Nordic look in his eye and I suspected it wasn't pride. I was right, dinner was a triangle-pack ham salad sarnie and a bag of crisps, "bon apetite" I said to myself sitting on my bed in the shoebox they laughingly call a hotel room. I put the tv on and found one of those Clint Eastwood and the Orang-u-tan movies, perfect, something I haven't seen since I was a kid. Regression therapy, bring it on! Just as I'd accepted the fact that they were showing such a crappy old film on Norwiegan tv, firmly sand-blasting the novelty off my first trip to Oslo, The Caption came up. Apparently, this is pay per view!! ehh? I suppose they must get a lot of tourists from Lapland, the Moose Family Gundersson perhaps.
Side note to Clint: why? why? for the love of Elvis, why? (did anyone see that wierd documentary last night about the medium who claims Elvis is doing karaoke through him? Bloody idiot.)
Well, the epic round the world voyage turned into a jaunt round 'yerp. I'll get to Sydney later but my friends from blighty won't be there, that's a shame. I'd better find the address I'm supposed to go to in the morning and get some sleep, I hope it's not far I'm a bit low on Kroner('s?).
JJ
Lunch was going to be swordfish steak but the fella in front of me took the last one. I couldn't wait for them to bring another tray, "time is monkey!" I cried and sidled up to the beef stroganoff, like a crab approaching a bottom shaped rock. 5.15pm, taxi to Paddington, Heathrow express to err, Heathrow. The self check-in machine rejected me so grinningly I jumped the apparently static Fast Bag Drop queue and got checked in without queueing at all, arrived at the gate with 3 minutes 22 seconds to spare - good job I brought a book.
I must have been the last to check-in, I got a middle seat in the last row, there was only one thing on my mind now, chilled red wine and lots of it, go on call me a philistine I've earned it.
I had a strange dream a few days ago about the landing in Oslo, the plane veered off to the left and then spun violently right, I woke up. It's kind of been festering in the back of my mind but it's ok now, nothing like that happened. They have parquet floors, beats the jelly beans out of that fake marble in most airports. Nice airport, I was impressed the cash machine let me input the amount in euros and showed what the equivalent Kroner would be. I didn't expect it to actually give me euros, so I went around again and took the Kroner equivalent out. Then it dawned on me, if the machine gives euros then it must be ok to... oh buggering bollocks!
It's 4 degrees outside, the captain said it might snow but it didn't. By the time I'd refunded one hour to the Greenwich Mean Timekeeper and slipped the cabbie 640 kroner it was 11.15pm. The Hotel restaurant was shut, the receptionist pointed me to the little shop in the foyer, there was some kind of odd Nordic look in his eye and I suspected it wasn't pride. I was right, dinner was a triangle-pack ham salad sarnie and a bag of crisps, "bon apetite" I said to myself sitting on my bed in the shoebox they laughingly call a hotel room. I put the tv on and found one of those Clint Eastwood and the Orang-u-tan movies, perfect, something I haven't seen since I was a kid. Regression therapy, bring it on! Just as I'd accepted the fact that they were showing such a crappy old film on Norwiegan tv, firmly sand-blasting the novelty off my first trip to Oslo, The Caption came up. Apparently, this is pay per view!! ehh? I suppose they must get a lot of tourists from Lapland, the Moose Family Gundersson perhaps.
Side note to Clint: why? why? for the love of Elvis, why? (did anyone see that wierd documentary last night about the medium who claims Elvis is doing karaoke through him? Bloody idiot.)
Well, the epic round the world voyage turned into a jaunt round 'yerp. I'll get to Sydney later but my friends from blighty won't be there, that's a shame. I'd better find the address I'm supposed to go to in the morning and get some sleep, I hope it's not far I'm a bit low on Kroner('s?).
JJ
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