This is the last one...
the last scottish based blog entry, now would you believe it.
I spent the last days packing, cleaning, sending, buying stuff and furthermore sleeping under a mini duvet because the big one sleeps in its bag in Rachel's suitcase. My walls are bare, except for Kevin who I don't really know how to safaly get down and home again, the fridge is empty and so are my cupboards and shelves. Everything I possess is sitting in some bag or other and half of it is actually already on the way to Berlin.
Fra and I went to Craigmount yesterday to say goodbye and give the department a rather dodgy looking plant and a wee card that said "Thank you teachers (we added the "s") for making my schooldays so nice" or something like that.
The Lady dedicates her time pretty much to the one task of cleaning the flat, which is quite a challenge if you have lived with spanisch people for half a year, or so I'm told.
And with all this busyness, I hardly have time to realize that...and now bear with me...
I AM ACTUALLY LEAVING.
So last night at eleven, Lady Rach and I went up the Crags (Pav so "why", wir so "cause we can") to enjoy one last time the sparkling panorama of the City by night. We came down at about one in the morning and the sky was still evening blue, believe it or not. The wind was rustling in the grass and the stars were out and it was all very nice and serene.
So tonight I'm getting wasted!
I'm meeting Kenny Campbell in the Golf Tavern (hear, hear) at about four in the afternoon and later at eight, I'm meeting the Advanced Highers (!) in the Peartree and will be joined there later by the Lady, David Finlay, my favourite flat mate Princess Pav and Leighton, the Leightyboy, hoping to be able to get up at eight tomorrow morning to clean up the rest of the mess and carry my belongings to Waverly station to take one last train to Glatzgow Central to have one last cappucino and muffin with Fra and then say goodby to the boys in a three day hanging out celebration.
So just in case my brains are completely shrivelled by tomorrow night, hear this my last message from Caledonia:
SETZT KAFFE AUF, DIE MAMI KOMMT NACH HAUSE!!!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
There's a new man in my life
Or at least, he hopes to become one in another 20 years' time.
The deliquent is five years old and the son of Raquel's aunt's neighbour's friend or something like that.
Now the lady in question, Rosmarie, is from Paraguay while her husband, Oliver, is from Aschaffenburg and as German as you can get, chequered shirts and all. A deadly mix! And as the kiddo is german-paraguayan, his mother insisted on a long name and his dad on a german one, as they used to live in Germany until three years ago. Anyways, the parents settled for the name "Karl-Christof", and you can literally hear the hyphen. The poor devil. And to make maters worse and in accordance to the custom in Paraguay, he is constantly adressed by his full name. Shidde, die arme Sau...so werden Psychopaten gemacht.
Carlito, as I, for sanity's sake, have come to call him, speaks spanish, german and english. In theory that is. Not to me, though. I have been looking after him for over a week now and he didn't say a single word to me. Also his only german reference is his dad so the kid grows up to speak some kind of westfraenkisch believing that this is how people speak. Also he hasn't quite gotten his head round the difference between "R" and "L". Au Backe.
My job is to pick him up from his nursery in the afternoon and take him to his home. That involves a walk to the busstop which would take any pedestrially challenged granny about five minutes. What can I tell you, it takes us 10.
Karl Christof never walks anything but leasurly and never in a straight line. He picks flowers along the way, walks through people's front gardens and marvels about the ugly guy's lawn mower. He especially likes to do so when it's windy and it rains and all I want to do is get in the bus and home so I can see the second half of the match. He so reminds me of my ex-boyfriend at times (and I can see my readers shudder at this) it scares me.
So we stroll along to the busstop while I carry his stuff and basically talk to myself, because the boy is not to be gotten a reaction of, no matter what I do.
UND DAS MIR!!!! Give me ten Kyle Finlaysons anytime! But this is doing my head in! I'm just glad the what with my genepool, this will not happen to me "in real life".
The deliquent is five years old and the son of Raquel's aunt's neighbour's friend or something like that.
Now the lady in question, Rosmarie, is from Paraguay while her husband, Oliver, is from Aschaffenburg and as German as you can get, chequered shirts and all. A deadly mix! And as the kiddo is german-paraguayan, his mother insisted on a long name and his dad on a german one, as they used to live in Germany until three years ago. Anyways, the parents settled for the name "Karl-Christof", and you can literally hear the hyphen. The poor devil. And to make maters worse and in accordance to the custom in Paraguay, he is constantly adressed by his full name. Shidde, die arme Sau...so werden Psychopaten gemacht.
Carlito, as I, for sanity's sake, have come to call him, speaks spanish, german and english. In theory that is. Not to me, though. I have been looking after him for over a week now and he didn't say a single word to me. Also his only german reference is his dad so the kid grows up to speak some kind of westfraenkisch believing that this is how people speak. Also he hasn't quite gotten his head round the difference between "R" and "L". Au Backe.
My job is to pick him up from his nursery in the afternoon and take him to his home. That involves a walk to the busstop which would take any pedestrially challenged granny about five minutes. What can I tell you, it takes us 10.
Karl Christof never walks anything but leasurly and never in a straight line. He picks flowers along the way, walks through people's front gardens and marvels about the ugly guy's lawn mower. He especially likes to do so when it's windy and it rains and all I want to do is get in the bus and home so I can see the second half of the match. He so reminds me of my ex-boyfriend at times (and I can see my readers shudder at this) it scares me.
So we stroll along to the busstop while I carry his stuff and basically talk to myself, because the boy is not to be gotten a reaction of, no matter what I do.
UND DAS MIR!!!! Give me ten Kyle Finlaysons anytime! But this is doing my head in! I'm just glad the what with my genepool, this will not happen to me "in real life".
Friday, June 16, 2006
Hey Mr Taxman,
put a record on. I wanna dance with my money.
So oder so aehnlich schallt es in meinem Kopf heute. Die Inland Revenue sendet was die datende Welt als "mixed signals" kennt, das is das wenn wo man nich weiss was Sache is und alles im Kopf von den anderen leuten Kartoffelsalat is und ganz anders als man das eigentlich gerne ordentlich und gut haben moechte.
Hm. Hab ich das gedacht oder getippt?
Egal. Die Empfangsperson von dem Verein, mit dem ich heute sprach, hat kein kleines muffiges Empfangshaeuschen mit Glas davor sondern steht nur dumm in der Einganshalle rum, ein kleines Schild an die Putenbrust gepinnt, und das sagt "Dave".
OK, DAVE sagte mir also, dass ich keine Steuern zurueck bekomme, weil wieso auch und das gibt es nur, wenn Schotteland und Tschoermani ein besonderes Abkommen haetten, wovon ER, DAVE aber nicht wissen tute.
Ueberraschung, Dave! Es GIBT ein solches Abkommen. Ausserdem erzaehlte er noh irgendwas von P86S anstelle von P85 und vergass ausserdem, mich darauf hinzuweisen, dass ich mein P65 an den Sissikaunsl schicken muss. Alles in allem ergab das Gespraech folgende Folgerung bei der Lady und mir: wenn Dave irgendeine Ahnung von irgendwas haette, wuerde er nich dumm in der Einganshalle zu stehen haben, sondern waere ein ordentlicher Steuerrueckzahlungsformularexpertensachbearbeiter. Rischtisch? Rischtisch.
So oder so aehnlich schallt es in meinem Kopf heute. Die Inland Revenue sendet was die datende Welt als "mixed signals" kennt, das is das wenn wo man nich weiss was Sache is und alles im Kopf von den anderen leuten Kartoffelsalat is und ganz anders als man das eigentlich gerne ordentlich und gut haben moechte.
Hm. Hab ich das gedacht oder getippt?
Egal. Die Empfangsperson von dem Verein, mit dem ich heute sprach, hat kein kleines muffiges Empfangshaeuschen mit Glas davor sondern steht nur dumm in der Einganshalle rum, ein kleines Schild an die Putenbrust gepinnt, und das sagt "Dave".
OK, DAVE sagte mir also, dass ich keine Steuern zurueck bekomme, weil wieso auch und das gibt es nur, wenn Schotteland und Tschoermani ein besonderes Abkommen haetten, wovon ER, DAVE aber nicht wissen tute.
Ueberraschung, Dave! Es GIBT ein solches Abkommen. Ausserdem erzaehlte er noh irgendwas von P86S anstelle von P85 und vergass ausserdem, mich darauf hinzuweisen, dass ich mein P65 an den Sissikaunsl schicken muss. Alles in allem ergab das Gespraech folgende Folgerung bei der Lady und mir: wenn Dave irgendeine Ahnung von irgendwas haette, wuerde er nich dumm in der Einganshalle zu stehen haben, sondern waere ein ordentlicher Steuerrueckzahlungsformularexpertensachbearbeiter. Rischtisch? Rischtisch.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
IWF: Irrelevant Worldcup Facts
date: 10.06.2006
match: England vs Paraguay
player: Roque Santacruz
passes attempted: 9
passes screwed: 9
checks on hair: 14
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Endings
These last days, truth shows her ugly face in our everyday lives, constantly reminding us of the fact that everything associated with our year in Scotland is coming to an end.
The laptop left an empty spot on my desk and myself cut off from the world,
Sitske, Charline and Constanze left already,
The Lady's telephone, internet and Sky TV connection was cut; very appropriately, E4 showed the last ever episode of Friends on the day before that,
My ridacard expired and I'm not going to top it up, because what with the few days remaining that I am likely to take a bus, it's cheaper for me to pay as I go,
I can't get a library card, because I'm not staying long enough,
I'm using my last pay...
I even find myself musing about the last purchase of toilet paper before I leave; everything has this feeling of 'the last ever, definitely' about it and I HATE it.
But luckily, LUCKILY, we even abolished winter; people in shorts and sleeveless shirts are welcoming and celebrating
my last ever scottish change of weather...
The laptop left an empty spot on my desk and myself cut off from the world,
Sitske, Charline and Constanze left already,
The Lady's telephone, internet and Sky TV connection was cut; very appropriately, E4 showed the last ever episode of Friends on the day before that,
My ridacard expired and I'm not going to top it up, because what with the few days remaining that I am likely to take a bus, it's cheaper for me to pay as I go,
I can't get a library card, because I'm not staying long enough,
I'm using my last pay...
I even find myself musing about the last purchase of toilet paper before I leave; everything has this feeling of 'the last ever, definitely' about it and I HATE it.
But luckily, LUCKILY, we even abolished winter; people in shorts and sleeveless shirts are welcoming and celebrating
my last ever scottish change of weather...
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The countdown starts...
... one weak to go to the worldcup and here on the island tempers are boiling.
As for England, BBC keeps us updated on how England won the Worldcup in '66 and how the actual cup was stolen from a Museum in London during the competition and how the trophy was found by a dog named Spot or Sparkle or Pickles or something like that. On monday, we are impatiently awaiting the 18. TV programm about the whole affair, entitled "How England won the worldcup" (yeah, ok, lads), followed by a film called "Pickles, the dog what found the worldcup". Aaaaaargh. Oh, and also people are in a wave of reminiscence and joyful remebmering about how England beat the bloody Germans TWICE! Once in the worldcup (in '66, the year in which by the way they won it) and once 5:1 (in a friendly). The TV programs about THAT are entitled things like "In your face, Fritz" or "How we beat the Krauts". Oh, Jesus, that's like 40 years ago, dudes. It's nice to hold on to your memories, but THIS is actually so sad that it's funny...
The other thing that keeps BBC football people busy is the state of Wayne "Loony" Roony's foot. Let's face it, Sven, the boy is not gonna make it, hahaaa!
And by the way, the next item on the list of those things to be shot through the head: English football commentators! All they ever have to say is "That's Beckham" (which we can see, because it's actually written on the back of his jersey) or "Wayne Roony is going to have his foot x-rayed on monday" (which we know because the papers meticulously cover every single one of Roony's farts) and then instead of showing the team who is just singing their national anthem (in this case Hungary!!! I wanted to actually see them you ignorant, arrogant bastards!), they show the son of the guy who owned the dog what found the lost worldcup in '66. Aaahhhh, here we go again. FIRE AT WILL!!!
As for Scotland, now that's a different story.
Worldcup qualification didn't work out quite according to plan, which is a nice way of saying they blew it and consequently have to stay at home.
Now Jack McConnell, (I'm not sure whether that's his name, but it will do for the moment) a leading MSP (that's Member of the Scottish Parliament, honey), publicly announced that he wouldn't support England during the worldcup, because he would rather support the smaller teams like Trinidad and Tobago. Which for everyone with a little grey matter is fair enough and absolutely common sense but which caused a political outrage in which Gordon Brown, the little Nutte, had to sell himself big time and let everyone know the HE would support the team from south of the border because that's just good manners or whatever. He hopes to succeed Tony Blair as Prime Minister, the little whore, so he kind of had to say that. How sad, du kleine Nutte.
The rest of the nation is divided into those who will support their neighbours and those who'd rather have a nice big bowl of shite for breakfast every day.
The latter group of people (I consider myself one of them, be it only for English football commentating) for several reasons have adopted the team of Trinidad and Tobago. First of all, many of their players are based in Scotland, secondly, if you wanna shout for Scotland, Jason Scotland of Trinidad and Tobago is as close as you will get to the real thing. The fact that T&T are in the same group as England and two thirds of the nation hope they will make English life as hard as possible has nothing to do with this adoption, of course.
Well, my half hour of free internet is running out and also I have to start to learn the names of T&T players.
May you have a merry worldcup, I'll catch up with you half way through it.
Till then, immer schoen real keepen...
As for England, BBC keeps us updated on how England won the Worldcup in '66 and how the actual cup was stolen from a Museum in London during the competition and how the trophy was found by a dog named Spot or Sparkle or Pickles or something like that. On monday, we are impatiently awaiting the 18. TV programm about the whole affair, entitled "How England won the worldcup" (yeah, ok, lads), followed by a film called "Pickles, the dog what found the worldcup". Aaaaaargh. Oh, and also people are in a wave of reminiscence and joyful remebmering about how England beat the bloody Germans TWICE! Once in the worldcup (in '66, the year in which by the way they won it) and once 5:1 (in a friendly). The TV programs about THAT are entitled things like "In your face, Fritz" or "How we beat the Krauts". Oh, Jesus, that's like 40 years ago, dudes. It's nice to hold on to your memories, but THIS is actually so sad that it's funny...
The other thing that keeps BBC football people busy is the state of Wayne "Loony" Roony's foot. Let's face it, Sven, the boy is not gonna make it, hahaaa!
And by the way, the next item on the list of those things to be shot through the head: English football commentators! All they ever have to say is "That's Beckham" (which we can see, because it's actually written on the back of his jersey) or "Wayne Roony is going to have his foot x-rayed on monday" (which we know because the papers meticulously cover every single one of Roony's farts) and then instead of showing the team who is just singing their national anthem (in this case Hungary!!! I wanted to actually see them you ignorant, arrogant bastards!), they show the son of the guy who owned the dog what found the lost worldcup in '66. Aaahhhh, here we go again. FIRE AT WILL!!!
As for Scotland, now that's a different story.
Worldcup qualification didn't work out quite according to plan, which is a nice way of saying they blew it and consequently have to stay at home.
Now Jack McConnell, (I'm not sure whether that's his name, but it will do for the moment) a leading MSP (that's Member of the Scottish Parliament, honey), publicly announced that he wouldn't support England during the worldcup, because he would rather support the smaller teams like Trinidad and Tobago. Which for everyone with a little grey matter is fair enough and absolutely common sense but which caused a political outrage in which Gordon Brown, the little Nutte, had to sell himself big time and let everyone know the HE would support the team from south of the border because that's just good manners or whatever. He hopes to succeed Tony Blair as Prime Minister, the little whore, so he kind of had to say that. How sad, du kleine Nutte.
The rest of the nation is divided into those who will support their neighbours and those who'd rather have a nice big bowl of shite for breakfast every day.
The latter group of people (I consider myself one of them, be it only for English football commentating) for several reasons have adopted the team of Trinidad and Tobago. First of all, many of their players are based in Scotland, secondly, if you wanna shout for Scotland, Jason Scotland of Trinidad and Tobago is as close as you will get to the real thing. The fact that T&T are in the same group as England and two thirds of the nation hope they will make English life as hard as possible has nothing to do with this adoption, of course.
Well, my half hour of free internet is running out and also I have to start to learn the names of T&T players.
May you have a merry worldcup, I'll catch up with you half way through it.
Till then, immer schoen real keepen...
Monday, May 29, 2006
Quote of the day:
Playing a boardgame with 2.03 (my favourites, I LOVE these kids), the dice went amiss. Keyla thought that Murray had taken it and asked him to come forward with it, to which request Murray (11) replied:
"Stealing the dice!? What do you TAKE me for; some sort of crazy terrorist??!"
Will miss those kids...
"Stealing the dice!? What do you TAKE me for; some sort of crazy terrorist??!"
Will miss those kids...
Friday, May 26, 2006
Also,
am Dienstag geh ich Kanu fah'n. Und am Mittwoch auch, bloss dass ihrs wisst. Davon gibs dann KEINE BILDER. So. Weitermachen.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Hey hey hey!
Three new entries in one day! Plus this one makes four! HAHAAAAA! Who's the Queen of blogging, eh!?!
Public Announcement
my "bringing-german-culture-to-unappreciative-little-kids" project is coming to an end, I only have two more days at school and tomorrow I'll have to hand in my laptop, as my boss Mr Miller (you know him by the name of Headofdepartment) apologetically announced today at lunchtime.
So I'll have to part with this stubborn, ugly little darling of mine, wich granted me access to the world, especially on Europe mainland, for the last nine months.
Which means that from now on, there's going to be no more pictures on my blog and entries will be rare and precious. Even more precious I mean. Also I won't be able to check my email as regularly any more, so in case you need to get in touch, you are going to have to pick up your bloody phones and give me a buzz, you unfaithful bunch of mutes!! Eherm. Sorry.
I promise though to spend heaps of both time and money in the Honey Pot, sipping hot tea respectively ice cold Appletizer and exploiting their free internet access and the not quite as free chicken tikka burgers and try to stay in touch that way.
I love you all; spread the word.
And now lean back and please enjoy the last couple of pictures of my beloves caledonia (huch, I should be a folk singer)...
So I'll have to part with this stubborn, ugly little darling of mine, wich granted me access to the world, especially on Europe mainland, for the last nine months.
Which means that from now on, there's going to be no more pictures on my blog and entries will be rare and precious. Even more precious I mean. Also I won't be able to check my email as regularly any more, so in case you need to get in touch, you are going to have to pick up your bloody phones and give me a buzz, you unfaithful bunch of mutes!! Eherm. Sorry.
I promise though to spend heaps of both time and money in the Honey Pot, sipping hot tea respectively ice cold Appletizer and exploiting their free internet access and the not quite as free chicken tikka burgers and try to stay in touch that way.
I love you all; spread the word.
And now lean back and please enjoy the last couple of pictures of my beloves caledonia (huch, I should be a folk singer)...
Things I am going to miss (Part three)
Steve McKenna from Real Radio,
because he reminds me of how relatively sane we all are. His weather forecast sounds something like "Throughout the day there's going to be light showers, a jacuzzi and seven baths", in a way that it takes your brain a while to think "Hold the phone, what did he say???".
He's an absolute mental case, which leads me to:
because he reminds me of how relatively sane we all are. His weather forecast sounds something like "Throughout the day there's going to be light showers, a jacuzzi and seven baths", in a way that it takes your brain a while to think "Hold the phone, what did he say???".
He's an absolute mental case, which leads me to:
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Things I definitely definitely WON'T miss (part two)
The Liverpool accent, coming towards me from all angles as soon as I switch on the TV. They don't close their vowels EVER!, they put diphtongs where there really shouldn't be any, they even invent totally new ones, juhuu! it sounds like a drunkard with a cold AND his mouth full of marshmallows or somebody else's cock mocking the english language. I's doin' me 'ead in!! "10.33 pee aeaem. Muost uf the haaousemeeaates are in the kitchaen..." Is that the punishment for watching big brother? Well, sometimes the punishment don't seem to fit the crime.
The only person to get away with it is Paul O'Grady,
an elderly ex-transvestite with a workday afternoon TV show and a thing for lap dogs. Because, let's be honest, strange and annoying is exactly the way someone like that should talk.
The only person to get away with it is Paul O'Grady,
an elderly ex-transvestite with a workday afternoon TV show and a thing for lap dogs. Because, let's be honest, strange and annoying is exactly the way someone like that should talk.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Ein Blick aus dem Fenster verraet:
Es pisst und windet dermassen, dass die Pfuetzen auf dem Parkplatz kleine Tsunamis beherbergen.
Deshalb bin ich in die Royal Terrace umgezogen, wo das Wetter besser ist
und das ist der Blick aus meinem Fenster. Immer. Und wenn ich so an meinem neuen Alkovenfenster sitze und Tee schluerfe, dann denke ich jetzt immer "huch, Isengart".
Ihr merkt, es ist Sonntag abend und mir ist LANGWEILIG weil ich pleite bin und nich rausgehen kann wegen dem Wind und der Tsunamis und weil sogar ICH mein Fernseh - Pensum fuer heute erschoepft habe (Big Brother included). Aber morgen starte ich durch! Der grosse Bericht darueber natuerlich in due course an dieser Stelle.
Gute Nacht, geschaezte Menschen!
Deshalb bin ich in die Royal Terrace umgezogen, wo das Wetter besser ist
und das ist der Blick aus meinem Fenster. Immer. Und wenn ich so an meinem neuen Alkovenfenster sitze und Tee schluerfe, dann denke ich jetzt immer "huch, Isengart".Ihr merkt, es ist Sonntag abend und mir ist LANGWEILIG weil ich pleite bin und nich rausgehen kann wegen dem Wind und der Tsunamis und weil sogar ICH mein Fernseh - Pensum fuer heute erschoepft habe (Big Brother included). Aber morgen starte ich durch! Der grosse Bericht darueber natuerlich in due course an dieser Stelle.
Gute Nacht, geschaezte Menschen!
Friday, May 19, 2006
HALLELUJAAAAAA!
I finally made it!!! All this Foreign Language Assistant stuff was really nothing but a nice little coverup story for my real purpose, which was to get the very snapshot that I got to take tonight while I was browsing through the Whisky section at Jenners. Here it is:
He only let me take the picture after I promised to sleep with him, and that kept me busy all afternoon, so that's why in case you tried to call me today I wasn't in because that's where I was and now I'm exhausted.
Heheheeee.
(...just kiddin', please don't sue me, Mr McGregor...)
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Wenn man so nen richtigen Scheisstach hat...
..wenn schon direkt nach dem viel zu fruehen Aufwachen Gedanken an den nicht zur Kommunikation bereiten Bruder im Kopf herumtanzen und an die Uni, in der man total versagt hat und der man sich bald wieder stellen muss und ob man denn ueberhaupt das sein will, was die Uni aus einem macht und Gedanken an wie man bitte alles das bezahlen soll was man bezahlen muss und daran wie duenn die Chancen sind, vernuenftig Geld zu verdienen bevor man 30 ist...wenn all diese fiesen Gedanken das Gehirn in Schutt und Asche legen bis die Augen rot sind und sich anfuehlen, als wollten sie aus ihren Hoehlen herauspplatzen, und wenn dann auch noch Wolken am Himmel sind und kein Essen im Kuehlschrank..wenn das alles passiert, dann hat man zwei Moeglichkeiten.
1. Man oeffnet das sich in Armeslaeneg entfernt befindende Fenster, traellert ein "arrividerci" und springt aus dem obersten Stockwerk.
oder
2. Man richtet den Blick mithilfe des Fernsehers nach Barcelona und hofft, dass Michael Schuhmacher seinen SCHEISS FERRARI mitsamt seiner dummen Hackfresse und ordentlich Schmackes in einen freundlichen spanischen Reifenstapel faehrt dass es nur so splattattert! (Die Chancen stehen schlecht, aber die Hoffnung stirbt ja bekanntlich zuletzt.)
Waehrend die Optionen abgewaegt werden, schalte ich schonmal den Fernseher an.
1. Man oeffnet das sich in Armeslaeneg entfernt befindende Fenster, traellert ein "arrividerci" und springt aus dem obersten Stockwerk.
oder
2. Man richtet den Blick mithilfe des Fernsehers nach Barcelona und hofft, dass Michael Schuhmacher seinen SCHEISS FERRARI mitsamt seiner dummen Hackfresse und ordentlich Schmackes in einen freundlichen spanischen Reifenstapel faehrt dass es nur so splattattert! (Die Chancen stehen schlecht, aber die Hoffnung stirbt ja bekanntlich zuletzt.)
Waehrend die Optionen abgewaegt werden, schalte ich schonmal den Fernseher an.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Aus der Rubrik "Tiere, die dumm gucken":
Heute: der Ochs vorm Berg
Nich so kluk sein, aber Hauptsache Piercing...
Nich so kluk sein, aber Hauptsache Piercing...
bits and pieces all over the place
You lovable anglophile people will probably know the story of Giant's Causeway. For everybody else: there's this lovely little place in the north east of Ireland, the spot closest to Scotland (on a clear day you can see the Argyll coast, or so they say...yeah, clear day, like that ever happens!), the coastline of which consists of myriads of octagonal basalt collumns. (Or something like it, damn, I'm not a bloomin' geologist.) Now funny shaped collumns alone don't make a causeway, but the fact that on the other side of the sea, on the west coast of Scotland, the geologically interested traveller can find just the same kind of collumns (forming the island of Staffa and the like), does.
Mythology has it, that in the dark years of the earth, before there were ferries, a Giant from Ireland built the causeway to fight a giant from (or should I say "fae") Scotland, destroying it (the causeway) on the way back so that the other one couldn't follow and also there was some kind of sexy mighty bosomed giantess involved, I cannae remember the details. Anyway, for some reason, the giant fom Ireland (let's call him the Green Giant) left his boot on the shore, as can be seen in my blog entry of 19. February.
And now we are actually getting to the point:
Knowing all this: FORGET ABOUT GIANT'S BOOT.
I actually found the Green Giant's nose, on the other side of the causeway on the island of Iona:
Or maybe it's the Tartan Giant's nose, bitten off in the fight. Who knows...
Mythology has it, that in the dark years of the earth, before there were ferries, a Giant from Ireland built the causeway to fight a giant from (or should I say "fae") Scotland, destroying it (the causeway) on the way back so that the other one couldn't follow and also there was some kind of sexy mighty bosomed giantess involved, I cannae remember the details. Anyway, for some reason, the giant fom Ireland (let's call him the Green Giant) left his boot on the shore, as can be seen in my blog entry of 19. February.
And now we are actually getting to the point:
Knowing all this: FORGET ABOUT GIANT'S BOOT.
I actually found the Green Giant's nose, on the other side of the causeway on the island of Iona:
Or maybe it's the Tartan Giant's nose, bitten off in the fight. Who knows...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Lasst Bilder sprechen!
I might not be the smartest, but at least I've got the looks!
Bueck dich, Fee, Wunsch is Wunsch... oder whie oer whuad???
With friends like Lady Rach, you can't even sit on the bog without having a camera shoved in your face...!
Germany is in whot direction??
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Bloed
finde ich, wenn am Ende vom Waeschewaschen und -zusammenlegen zwar noch zwei Socken uebrig sind, die aber leider unkompatibel sind, auf dem einen eine Giraffe prangt und auf dem anderen ein Zebra.
Bloed ist auch, dass die Batterie von der Kamera alle ist, womit man dieses optisch schmucke Ungemach fuer die Ewigkeit haette festhalten wollen. (Ne Giraffe und Zebra! In einem Raum!!)
Ausserdem ist auch noch bloed, dass der Walkman (jaa, liebe iPod-Kinder, ihr habt richtig gehoert, ein guter alter Sony Walkman, nich son neumodischer Krams!) nich aufzufinden ist, wo nagelneu aufgeladene Batterien drinne sind.
Und zu guter Letzt ist hammerbloed, dass am Ende von der ganzen nichts taugenden Bloedheit nich mal ein gescheiter Blogeintrag rauskommt. Typisch.
Bloed ist auch, dass die Batterie von der Kamera alle ist, womit man dieses optisch schmucke Ungemach fuer die Ewigkeit haette festhalten wollen. (Ne Giraffe und Zebra! In einem Raum!!)
Ausserdem ist auch noch bloed, dass der Walkman (jaa, liebe iPod-Kinder, ihr habt richtig gehoert, ein guter alter Sony Walkman, nich son neumodischer Krams!) nich aufzufinden ist, wo nagelneu aufgeladene Batterien drinne sind.
Und zu guter Letzt ist hammerbloed, dass am Ende von der ganzen nichts taugenden Bloedheit nich mal ein gescheiter Blogeintrag rauskommt. Typisch.
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