Bloody hell.

Been either working or drunk or eating too much cheese to post anything. I will be though my friends, I will be. And I've sunk another boat. Would you believe it? If I hadn't been standing waist deep in the Ljeeenstraatgrachtensjleeeefkreeeizen van de Pyp canal I wouldn't have believed it. But I was.

I've only gone and pranged the new tub.

I got a new tub after I holed the previous when I drove her into a submerged bong attempting the infamous Ljaanbeertaarljeergsaaaniereeergraacht van der Deewartleejlieerberger bridge.

The new one was an S -Class. Yeah you heard me. The 2200. So you can imagine how keen I was to get my hands on her gunwhales. Anyway. I weighed anchor at her berth outside our flat and got her wedged in the canal attempting a three-point turn. It turns out she was precisely the same length as the width of the canal. Some stoned old hippie at the helm of a traditional Dutch Faaart barge making 6 knots, rammed her amidships and unfortunately she turned turtle and went under.

Bloody hippies. Or hjippies as the Dutch would probably have it. Wjankers.

My S-class 2200 after my boating accident.

I'm getting a new one tomorrow. Avast behind!

Bicycles and Boats.

We found out that the appartment comes supplied with one bicycle and one boat. You know, for transportation services. Above is Yu about to wobble off to see Andy "Beardy" Edwards and Wendy "The Sprout" Sproit.

He's wearing his Mao Tse Tung hat and an alpaca scarf from his recent sojourn in South America (where, incidentally, his mate Jason was overwhelmed by a intestinal urge, several days into the Inca trail. An urge who's needs far outweighed any notions of decorum and propriety. You know where I'm going with this, don't you. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. He did a big poo on Machu Pichu. Jason is now known the length and breadth of the Andes as The Inca Stinker).

Anyhoo. Yu got the bike and I got the boat. Alas driving a boat is not "like riding a bike" and tragedy struck on my maiden voyage. Two minutes out of port and I found myself suddenly holed below the water line. My first thought, naturally enough, was that I'd been torpedoed by a duck but no, the explanation was more Amsterdamesque. I'd only gone and driven the old tub into a sunken bong abandoned by some hippie after a night on the old Waccy Baccy.

Bloody hippies.

Anyway, they're providing a new boat tomorrow, so I'll be able to get to work via the canal system. Shiver me timbers and hoist the mainsail if it ain't so!

Me hearties.

Well I never.

I like a good swear as much as the next man but I draw the line at displaying the kind of effing and blinding on the sides of buildings that seems run-of-the mill here in Amsterdam. Whatever next I ask myself.
Next they'll be selling cannabis bold as brass in cafes or something and/or section off an entire area of the city in which ladies sit in the window semi-naked, beckoning at passers by.......hang on a bloody moment!

Bloody hell it's a free for all over here.

Amshterdam

I'm in Amshterdam, home of the clog, Edam cheese, the tulip and, annoyingly, the Dutch bloody idiot on a bicycle. I haven't blogged for a while because sadly I have gone back to work. When I get my arse into gear I'll be on it more. Or not. Who knows?

This is the view from outside my appartment.

Shuper.

Bloody computer.

My bloody computer broke. Now it's fixed.
Me and Yu are off to Amsterdam for a month to work, do crazy Dutch accents and dance the merry hornpipe.

Look at this big nosed idiot!

I took a picture of this old stone set in the wall in Herbal Hill and made it into a T-shirt several months ago. Yesterday I went for Sunday lunch at The Coach and Horses just round the corner from there, with my silly friend Dan and his Mrs + two children. I was wearing my wonderous t-shirt so I got Dan to take a pic of me with his swanky iMobilephone. Et voila! Here it is.
Unfortunately it gives the impression that I've got a bit of a massive conk. Which I haven't. In reality it's a little button nose.




In other news I have to leave my flat. The landlord's sold it round my ears. I have a month to find a new pad but that's OK. It's exciting to change where I lay my head.
I know one thing though. It must be within a hop, skip and a jump and a puke of The Calthorpe on Gray's Inn Road. In my opinion, London's best pub. In almost everyone else's opinion therefore, crap.

Ducks All England Synchronised Arses Championship 2010

Here's the favourites. Really showing those feathered bot bots.

Oh that's marvellous stuff...those feathered bum cakes are really on show...well done girls.....

Oh no! Look carefully and you'll see one of the feathered bottoms is perfectly poised in the air and the other one (on the left) is bobbing about on the surface of the water like a champagne cork. They'll be marked down for that. Probably an air pocket in the beak or perhaps a mistimed foot flap. As so often happens.

The views of a short distance runner

Occasionally I go for a run from my flat in Farringdon and down Regent's Canal from Islington (or Islingtwat as I call it) to Victoria Park. And, of course, back again. It's about 6 miles. In summer it's a really nice run except for all the other people out on the towpath for a stroll or the cyclists out on the towpath for a hurtle. It's less crowded now it's getting colder so it's less bloody annoying to be on. These are the sort of views one can see when one does this run. Assuming:

1. You've avoided falling into the canal (trickier than it looks).

2. You aren't beating a cyclist to death for ringing his/her stupid bell and, wrongly as it turns out, assuming that the little pinging noise temporarily makes no else exist. Helmeted bell pinging wankers.

e) Fish (long story).

vii) A photographer hasn't suddenly darted in front of you and then, after you've saved her life by stopping so suddenly your knee bursts and your hair hurts, tutting. Well I'm sorry, madam, for exercising my legal right to go for a sedate run down the canal. How could I have been so selfish to not be psychic enough to realise you were going to do something unbelievably stupid, you daft bint.

Honestly. Some people. Here's the pics.

The lake at Victoria Park

An ad for Ron's Eel and Shell fish shop. I feel a T-shirt coming on. There's some really poor typography going on here. Go on. Click on the pic and see how difficult the copy is to read. I looked into this ad and found out it was art directed by Englebert Humperstink. So that explains it.

This is a drinking fountain. No really. It is. A massive bloody drinking fountain.

(I like the idea of public drinking fountains but I'd always be worried about miscreants rubbing their bottoms on the nozzles.)

A building.

Fashion's Winter Season - A 10 step "how to" guide

Getting hold of this season's must haves can be a distressing time for the Generation X male, of which I consider myself, a splendid example.
Shops are full of assistants asking complicated questions and saying "hello" to you. And shops are full to the brim with lady shoppers doing that strange, vacant, oblivious thing they do when any common sense they might have had, is rendered impotent by the all enveloping prospect of buying things. It's like they're possessed or something.
They stand in an aisle cheerfully blocking it while they examine two identical garments, they dart alarmingly into your path when they spot something "to die for" in their peripheral vision, they veer from side to side as they are, in turn, attracted by a new thing on one side, then another new thing on the other side, they stand on the left of the down escalator (their brains are so full of happiness at the important thought of purchasing new things, they cannot remember that there actually are other people on the planet).

But don't worry my friends. Here is an indispensible guide to shopping. Throughout the process try to give women a wide berth to allow for abrupt stops and sudden, unannounced changes of direction. Try to avoid eye contact. Don't try things on. (Why would you ? You should just be buying replacements for the stuff you brought last year, identical except without holes or toothpaste dribbles down the front). Same colour, same size. It's not rocket science.

1. Look in your cupboard or chest of dawers or on the bedroom floor. Note the sizes of the garments you wish to replace. Don't write it down. You'll be needing to forget this important detail later on.

2. Go to Uniqlo.

3. Try to locate the stuff you want from outside the shop.

4. Try to remember the location of the garments you require. Like Robocop targeting villains.

5. Go in.

6. Walk straight to the target locations.

7. Pick up what you want in the sizes that you bought it in last year (or the year before) if you can remember. If you can't remember take off all the clothes you are wearing and look at the labels. Or simply buy L and hope for the best.

8. Go to till.

9. Pay the lady.

10. Leave.

This is what I did yesterday. Here it is. Jumper (x2). Pant (x 2pr). T-shirt (x2). All in nice bland grey, white or black. £52. Voila. All shopping for the Winter 2010 Season done in 8 mins flat.

Shop 'til you stop, me boys! (Should take no more than 10 mins).
Then drink. Drink like you've never drunk before. Why? Because you're worth it.