I need new gimnicks

Now I'm a cyclist, I have come up with a few ideas as to some urgently needed bike accessories. I don't know why nobody has thought of this before, but ... no, I'll start in a different way.

Today I was going to Steglitz on my bike. I was smoothly riding down the cycle path next to Grazer Damm when I saw from a distance that there were people in my way. They were busying themselves with some things they tried to get into or out of their car , which was parked on the side of the road, right next to MY cyclepath. They were deep in conversation, a lot of traffic made a lot of noise as well and there I was, approaching at high speed, ringing my bell somewhat like that: ping! ping!ping!

It then occured to me that I need a new bell. I thought of something along the lines of this:
This, Ladies and Gents, is a Fireship's signal horn. Sure, it would increase the weight of my bike and velocity would diminish, especially uphill, but on the other hand it would not only make people notice me when they're in my way, the mere shockwave of that thing would blow them to next wednesday!

I'm off to the harbour now and then to the patent office!

Babe, I'm on fire

...so the Auld Reekie sighed when I told her I was leaving...



I'm homesick.

Neues Kapitel

Oh Gott, oh Gott, ein langer Text, doch verzagt nicht! Auch du nicht, lieber Günni. Sei tapfer, du wirst sogar erwähnt.

Alles neu macht der August. Neues Beförderungsmittel, neues Lebensgefühl, neues Feindbild!

Neues Beförderungsmittel; ein von Steffernie geliehenes Herrenrad, fährt wie ne Eins, is schnell wie die Sau und ich habe seit der Woche, die ich es habe, keine Bahn mehr bestiegen. Spart Geld und ich fühle mich sowas von sportlich!!

Neues Lebensgefühl; der Arsch tut weh. Herrensattel und so...

Neues Feindbild; Fahrradfahrer. Now don't get me startet. Ich wusste es nicht, aber anscheinend gibt es für Fahrradfahrer extra Verkehrsregeln, so Rot ist das neue Grün, Grün ist das alte Grün, in die richtige Richtung fahren is für Vanilleeisesser und wer ist eigentlich dieser StVO, von dem alle sprechen?
Die Spezialistenfraktion von denen sind ja jene, welche mit breitem Arsch und im Gehhilfentempo zu zweit nebeneinander auf dem Fahrradweg dahinsiechen und wenn man sie endlich überholt hat, steht man an der nächsten roten Ampel (automobilist by birth) und die fahren breitärschig an einem (in diesem Falle mir) vorbei und das ganze Spiel geht von vorne los. DA KÖNNT ISCH AUSRASTE!!!!!! Ich hoffe dann immer auf einen gut gezielten Dreißigtonner -wuusch-!!! Aus die Maus, Ende Gelände, dann kannste im Himmel scheiße Fahrrad fahren.

In diesem Zusammenhang eine kleine Geschichte, die sich folgendermaßen neulich ereignete, als ich (damals noch mit Jo's High-End-fährt-eigentlich-von-alleine Fahrrad) nachts von Gunni (hier bitte, ich hab nichts von Hauptrolle in diesem Epos gesagt) nach Kreuzberg fuhr:

Ich fuhr also nach Shelbyville...nach Kreuzberg anner Skalitzer entlang und es war Nacht. Und ich war schnell, denn Schnell ist meine Religion. Vor mir fuhr einer, und der war es nich. Also wollte ich ihn überholen, musste aber erstmal abbremsen wg. Gegenverkehrs und schaltete deshalb runter. Macht ungefähr so nen Geräusch: krxzgrk-zk. Dann schwenkte ich aus und zog, wie es so meine Art ist, elegant vorbei. Der Überholte kommentiert diesen kleinen Standardvorgang mit "Scheiß Gangschaltung!" An der nächsten Ampel enspinnt sich dann folgender Dialog:

Penner so: Willste nen dicken Macker machen mit deiner Gangschaltung?
Ich so: ?
Penner so: Diese scheiß Gangschaltungen!
Ich so: Alter... was willst du denn von mir, ich hab doch nur geschaltet...!
Penner so: Kannst ja mal in deinen höchsten Gang schalten, dann machen wir ein Beschleunigunsrennen...!
Ich so: Ähhhm ... nein.

Dann wurde die Ampel grün und ich ließ Taten sprechen, schaltete in meinen niedrigsten Gang und zischte nonchalant und Fernando Alonso-gleich davon.

Und den Fazit von die Geschichte: Lieber Gott, bau mehr große schwere LKW.

Days of yore...

it seems ages since we strolled along in sunny Aberdeenshire where it was rather cloudy. But behold: like a token from a time lost in the mist of .. well, time, I just set eyes on these pictures taken on our last trip to the scottish countryside:



Because you see, I've BEEN in the sea when I was in Scotland, just as I had planned... and how good and gracious I looked, like the starlight descending from heaven itself and falling on the sparkling water of the well at the end of the world. But see for yourselves:



Ahhh, welch Grazie! Welch pantherhafte Agilität...! Und nein, ich hau mich nich grade auf die Fresse, ich kick es wie Beck.. lassnwerdas.

Von jetz an "Sie"

because after all those years of lingering and lungering around, I am finally respectable now. Means I got a job, regular income in prospect and I even have the key to the place! From yesterday on I will help little people to improve their grades in English (normal), French and German (HAAAAHAAHHAHAA).
My first pupil is called Sebastian and he needs to spend his undoubtadly hard earned holidays brushing up his french in order to move on to 8th grade.
The reason his teacher (a woman whom I never met but already strongly dislike) gave for holding him back in seventh was that, and this is a quote:

"He didn't always get everything right."

If that had applied in MY AGE, I'd still be loitering around in fifth grade sitting over my maths.

But we're gonna show her, that somebitch! Today we are starting the getting-into-shape program with numbers, the clock and articles. She'll see!

And because I'm a respectable person now, you all have to call me by my last name.
Hold the phone, you already do ... I knew there was a hitch...
in that case I'll just invent myself an utterly unreadable signature.

Sincerely yours,
Flksiuzd

John Holmes aufgepasst!

(en allemand pour tous ceux qui en ont besoin: Schamhaarparken; nur kleine Pümmel)
Hehe.

Off to Melmac...

I have just come back from a foutnight's trip to space.
Some of you will say "You lying bloody bitch, I saw you the day before yesterday and you were not in space". But I assure you; what you saw and talked to was just the lookalike that the aliens left here to take my place and lull my friends in a delusive feeling of being secure.

It all startet on the day of the match for the third place in the worldcup. Early in the evening already did the aliens announce the forthcoming arrival of their mothership by sending out plate sized and shaped drones as we know them from starwars, the ones that land on Hoth to search the frozen landscape for the rebel base...anyway: One of those drones came flying over the roof towards the group of people lying on the rooftop and enjoying beer and barbecue (which would be us). Volker tryed to catch it, but his strength was no match for the alien engine and it flew on unhindered, hit Johannes' head and shattered on the veranda. Everybody thought that Volker had slung a plate at Jo and the commotion was big and only died down minutes later. Of course, Volker was flabberghasted and didn't understand what was going on; I could read it in his face.

I wanted to scream to point out to my friends that it was not Volker throwing anything but already the alien brainwaves had seized my mind and I couldn't do anything.

Some time later, the alien mothership landed on Alexanderplatz.
The intruders knew that everybody would be watching football and as there was no public viewing on Alexanderplatz, it proved a safe anough place for them to land secretly and unnoticed. I saw them land their massive UFO and when my two friends with whom I was sitting with their backs to what was happening on the roof weren't looking for the fragment of a second, they beamed me into their ship and replaced me with a high tech dummie that looked exactly like me. (One of my friends was so drunk that he probably wouldn't have noticed a green flourescent one eyed alien appearing on the roof, snatching the beer from his hands and eating the bottle. But I'm not going to mention names here...)

Unfortunately I can't tell you what happened during my two weeks in space. First of all because my brain was partly cleansed before they brought me back an hour ago and I can't seem to remember the better part of it, second because they seem to have implanted in my brain the knowledge that my telling of the things I experienced and saw would make the multiverse implode. So I'd rather not say anything. BUT: Before the brainwaves paralized my mind completely, I could take this picture, so as to prove my story:



So this is to say: Volker is innocent...

Sinnspruch der Woche

Nach vollzogenem GV sagt ein Mann zu einer Frau:

"Ich wollte das gar nicht, ich wollte Halflife spielen...!"

What the world is coming to...

The hottest shit in town

Weil ich ja jetzt schon alt bin, habe ich auch Freune, die heiraten.
So geschehen heute erst, mit Dae-Wie und Doris.

Zu diesem Anlass entdeckte ich die neueste Showsensation diesseits von Kurdistan:
Katholische Gottesdienste.



Der Parrer tattert sich mit Hilfe seines Vicaroderdiakonoderwas vom Rednerpult zum Altar und ich sach zu meinem man, Schatzi, sach ich, das wird lustig.
Es wird also gedankt und gebetet und gebetet und gedankt und Segen erbeten für all die zerrütteten Ehen. Schönes Thema für nen Traugottesdienst...
Die beiden Pfarrersleut (oder heißt das Pastor? Ich kenn mich ja nich aus beim Katholischen...) verneigen sich synchronschwimmerartig artig hinter dem Altar

und küssen die Bibel ab. Das alleine ist schon sehenswert, vor allem aus den hinteren Reihen.

Doch dann kommt der Höhepunkt:
Ich vergaß es fast, aber katholische Geistliche singen gerne gregorianische Monologe, die hören sich ungefähr so an (leider gibs hier keine Tonspur, deshalb müsst ihr euch die Gruselmelodie dazu denken).
"UndderHerrsprachessolleinSegenliegenaufeuremHauseundauchaufdemHauseeuresNachbarund (kleiner Melodieschnörkel gefolgt von Pause) außerdemmögeneureSorgendahinschwindenwieButteraufnemFordV8Motor.DerHerrmögeeuchinsein
HausaufnehmenundeuchgebenSpeisundTrankim Überfluss (nächste Pause) damitauchihrgebenkönnteuremnächsten..." undso weiterund so fort.



Ich muss inzwischen einen Hustenanfall vortäuschen um nich laut rauszuplatzen vor Lachen. Alter, wie dümmlich das klingt, und es hört auch nich auf!
"MariawobistduichschlagdichimDomino-o-o..."
Die könnten auch den Beipackzettel von Durchfalltabletten runtersingen, das würde keiner merken, in Wahrheit. (In Wahrheit is biblisch und heißt soviel wie "echt jetz", das hab ich auch gestern gelernt.)

Keine 5 Minuten später.
Pfarrer: "Der Herr möge sein Antlitz leuchten lassen über euch. Der Herr möge auch behüten und geleiten. Der Herr möge euch (das sind in diesem Falle Dae-Wie und Doris, die sind ja auch noch da) viele Kinder schenken und möge euch die Kraft geben, sie im Christlichen Glauben zu erziehen..."
Jo: "Sonst klatscht et!"

Da war alles zu spät.
Ich glaube auch, der Herr hinter uns (also jetz nich DER Herr, sondern nur so ein frommer, der hinter uns saß und lauthals gebetet hat) hat ein Wort bei seinem Herrgott eingelegt und wir müssen jetzt alle in der Hölle schmoren.

Oder Big Brother gucken. Zur Strafe...

Children of the night

OK, here's some retrospektive:
If there's one thing I didn't like about being in Scotland (if indeed such a thought was thinkable), it would be missing my friends. Sooo much. And at some point in February, I was seized by a formidable attack of homesickness. It subsided quickly, only to grow back again twice as strong during my last weeks in Edinburgh.
As sorry as I was to leave my beloved bens and glens (please note the absence of capital letters here), as joyful I was thinking of home, of the streets of Berlin and the counterfeits of my loved ones.
And now, behold: what I came back to, what I indeed lovingly call "home" and "normality":



Home, sweet home, Alabama...

Forebodings

Mein Körper spricht ja seit neuestem in Zeichensprache zu mir. Neulich ließ er mich auf unsubtile Weise wissen, dass er mein neues Sommerschuhwerk nicht schätze.

Heute betrachtete ich im Spiegel einen Mückenstich auf meinem Wanst, der die Form von Frankreich hat.
(Der sah so in etwa ungefähr aus wie die chicke Graphik da oben, nur weinger Flüsse und mehr rot.)
Mein werter Körper ist also der Meinung, dass die Froggies heute Abend Weltmeister werden.

Leider weiß ich jetz nich, ob das tatsächlich nur ne persönliche Meinung von meinem Körper is, oder ob er das aus zuverlässigen Quellen sozusagen weissagen kann. Aber ich weiß eines: ich will nich, dass Frankreich gewinnt.

Andererseits will ich auch nich, dass Italien gewinnt.
Da bin ich jetz in der Zwickmühle. Um das herbeizuführen, müsste sich schon die Erde auftun und das Olympiastadion verschlucken.

Das wäre erstens verdammt schade drum,
und zweitens hat mein Wanst davon nichts gesacht.

Hier noch eben

das letzte Bild der Schottelandextravaganza; bitteschön: ein Mann ohne Zähne

Öch bön wöder da...

... um mal meinen Guten Bekannten Erich Maria Kleinschmieder heranzuzitieren.

Ich erlebte also einen retro-Dreiwettertaft-Werbespot.

Glasgow, 8.00 Uhr, starker Wind und Nieselregen. Die Frisur sitzt.
Berlin, 12.00 Uhr, die Sonnefackenisdasheißhier.

Also raus aus den dicken Klamotten (unter anderem Winterjacke...man will ja nich dass der Koffer so schwer is...wie dumm!) und rein in einen trockenen Martini. Den erst kürzlich auf der Nicholson Street erstandenen Wickelrock samt neuen Flipflops ausm Koffer...die gabs als Zugabe bei der Glamour, also die Schuhe, nich den Rock.

Und was soll ich sage, zwei Tage Sommeroutfit verwandelten meine Füße in blutiges mash. Als ich dann mit schmerzverzerrtem Gesicht in der einen und der antiseptischen, lokalanästhisierenden Wundsalbe in der anderen Hand das alte Pflaster vom geschundenen Fuß zog, betrachtete ich mir die Wunde, die die bösen Schuhe auf meinem Körper hinterließen.
Die abgewetze Haut hatte die Form eines was die Wissenschaft und jeder Landschulheimsaufenthaltsorganisator als "festes Schuhwerk" kennt.

Ich so: "Jaja, ich habs ja verstanden."
Ab jetzt wieder Fußballschuhe.

Alright ...

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!!!

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".

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.

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

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 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...

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...