Tuesday, July 22, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 2)

Hi all. As promised. The latest update.

Well, time is ticking down on the clock (unless you own a digital one, in which case you hear nothing, until it screams its stupid head off with those nerve racking beeps that tell you to go to work with totally frayed nerves).

Sadly, I have been forced to work a bit this week. Luckily, it rained today, so - knocked off early.
Getting home, rather bedraggled and steaming a strange musty cloud, I had a look in the Old Paper recycling bin.

Yes, yes. I had a delivery. Ah, you might say, but I had missed a couple because I had to work hard for my money (not). So they leave a card. On the back you tell them where to deliver. Neighbour or a secret place. Well, as I live in a Cul de Sac and the only dodgy person I have ever seen around here is me when I shave, it was logical.

What mad thief would look in the paper bin?

So, I am only missing the 12volt charger for the notebook. That is coming from the UK. (Panic.)

Meanwhile, back in the land of lunacy, my sponsors are cropping up thick and thin. Thin as not many, and thick because they are coughing up some nice dosh. Therefore, yet again, thanks to Sue Duffy and Charm Smillie. But it was this touch I loved – Rainer and Ali Obergrussberger want this sticker on my roller – so CUTE.

Now – here are pictures of my trusty roller (not sure about that, it wouldn't start yesterday, until I gave it a kick), before it is washed and full of promotion and sponsor stickers.

Then I mused over how I am going to pack everything. In these pictures, I have a bad feeling that this will not work.

Finally. Here is all that I plan to take. Yes.... (and if some dimwit says 'where is the kitchen sink', I will defriend them). Soooooo. It looks like a lot. BUT, as a Rhodie... I have a plan. I can always reduce by one pair of socks and underpants.

To wrap up. Why are underpants called a 'pair' when it is just one object with three holes?

Ah, hang on - I have a great idea. I could sort of  'sit' on the sit... 


Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 1)

Starting on Saturday 26th July and lasting approximately one month, an old lunatic will attempt a pointless mission of going there and back just to see how far it really is. To do this he has decided to take an extremely modern form of transport - a tiny two stroke roller.

If this sounds insane, it gets even more absurd because the penniless bum intends to go camping the whole way. This means that he is likely to be picked up very quickly by the police as they watch amazed, as a huge pile of plastic bags of rubbish are apparently moving on their own accord, tied to a noisy thing on two wheels.

The person who will attempt this mission impossible is none other than me – The infamous Gokwe Kid.

So – here is the planned trip. It is about 1500 km. 

Cities intending to check out in the Czech Republic and Poland (going up) – Cesky Krumlov, Brno, Ostrava. Katowice, Krakow, Warsaw and (going down), Lodz, Wroclaw, Prague, Pilzen.

I will use as many minor roads as possible. Several reasons. It makes no difference as far as speed is concerned. I can only go a maximum of 45 kmh. So in theory - I actually can make more direct routes.

There will be less traffic, hence the odds of getting killed are slightly better.

Then, all the little villages will be full of friendly peasants, and there will be plenty of cheap places to eat and make loads of friends, who will fill me up on wicked schnapps and ice cold beer, accommodate me for free, and let me sleep with their wives and or daughters, sheep, goats and chickens.

Alternatively, the place could be crawling with rampant, rabid, robbing Rhodie rapists, and my buggered corpse, shrouded in the green and white, will be dumped as a warning to the dangers of going where no Rhodie has gone before.

Due to a budget close on a small overdraft, I have and will lobby for donations and sponsors.
So what do you get in exchange ? -

Ah, there is plenty.

I will be posting on a regular basis (presuming some of the hovels I zip through even know what free WiFi is), and you will giggle at my antics (even if I do get run over).

You can sponsor me a beer or two. For that you get your name up here and on a picture/video with your name stuck to the glass/bottle.

You can sponsor a stretch of the trip. A photo will be taken of the entrance sign of some joint with me holding up your name and another picture as I arrive at the next kaff.

You can ask for a postcard from a particular place (limited to major cities). There I will take a photo, have it printed, and send it as a card. (Address needed obviously.)

You can design your own sticker, send it to me and it will be on the roller. Or, I will do it as a transfer on a T-shirt.

I am open to more ideas.

On the right is a PayPal link. The sums are small. (Use multiple donations if necessary.) Please use your discretion. 50 Pence will not, for an example, get you a postcard.

Sponsors/donations so far -

Irena Schartz of Töging, Germany.
Free tent and sleeping bag (brand new), and the use of her SatNav.

Family Obergrussberger of Pleisskirchern, Germany.
Bits and bobs and technical help.

Kat Hall, Worcester, UK.
Gas cooker, camping chair, rucksack.

Sue Duffy, Bristol, UK.
Sponsors, the drive, Wroclaw to Prague.

Please leave comments here and on Facebook. Comments here may take a bit of time to check.

Contact me is the same as in my books -

I will start to use twitter on this trip. Details soon.

Next posting will be about preparations, along with hilarious pictures. Catch ya all soon.

Wednesday, July 02, 2014

The great PPC advertising debacle

By 1967, Premier Portland Cement (Pvt) Ltd of Rhodesia (PPC), was inundated with complaints. Not for the quality of the product but the fact as soon as a bag was picked up it promptly split it seams or simply tore in half.

This resulted in many a Baas cuffing his faithful servant for 'Mekkin a bludda mess of my car boot and vellies, hey!'

With sanctions hitting hard, the Prime Minister was personally involved when a similar incident caused him to throw away an almost brand new safari suit. Threatening the PPC management with
several months of touring Gokwe Tribal Trusts lands on foot, naked except for a split bag on their heads to cover their shame, they raised the price and invested the new income on a sturdier bag.

Unquestionably, there was a huge improvement but when the PPC decided on an advertising campaign demonstrating the strength with the slogan 'Not even a grown man can punch his way out of our paper bags', that things were to go seriously wrong.

An extra large bag was specially made for the occasion and the advert would be filmed by self-employed camera man, Paddy Murphy, who had recently been extradited from Pakistan and he offered special rates. An amateur boxer from a Salisbury gym was given the unenviable job to attempt the task for $12,75 ($10 after deductions).

To stop the bag and its struggling combatant from falling over, it was quarter filled with quick setting powdered cement. The idea being that when he was eventually cut out of the bag, covered in a fine coat of grey, all would cheer as he gave a despondent smile of defeat. Well...that was the plan.

The boxer (no one remembers his name), was duly popped in and under a blazing midday sun was soon punching away amid the sounds of coughing reminiscent to a really bad morning smoker. After about 30 mins, the management and camera man wandered off for a two hour lunch break and left the hapless man pounding away in terrible desperation.

Returning (less Paddy Murphy, who had mysteriously disappeared along with the the senior management's BMW), the paper bag was rather still and made no sounds even when spoken to.
To much hilarity, the bag was cut open, and to everyone’s surprise, instead of a tired boxer sitting down, there was one standing, still punching, but perfectly encrusted in 2 inches of quick setting cement that obviously been created by his sweat.

A quick debate broke out. Ad hoc plans were scribbled on the back of a fag box. The disappearance of the boxer would be covered up as MIA (Missing In Action) whilst fighting, which was close to the truth. The body would be dispossessed in such a fashion that no one would raise an eyebrow should it be spotted and that would be that.
The picture shows a man walking past the boxer without raising an eyebrow.

Friday, June 13, 2014

The Legend of the Gokwe Kid and the Witchdoctor.

A story for children 8-12 years of age.

Now, gather around the camp fire children for Uncle Karl will tell you a nice goodnight story.

Once upon a time, deep in the bush of the badlands of Gokwe, the great Kid was on another goddamn patrol. Feeling a tad dizzy from a stinking hot yellow ball cooking his head, he heard a right ruckus coming from a patch of dry elephant grass.

Such a screaming and roaring did pound his ears in time with his boiling blood and mindful of his police pledge to help the innocent, he rushed over to the scene. What a sight to behold, for lo, a big black mane lion was having a merry old time chewing off the leg of a witchdoctor. The poor old man was howling a ballyhoo fit to burst a gut.

Now the Kid was in a bit of a pickle and as he watched the grey soil change colour into a deep shade of red, suitable to grow great mealies, he scratched at his sweaty, itchy hole in a desperate bid to switch his brain on. You see, there could be evil gooks lurking around and filling the lion with hot lead could alert them to his presence. Not only that, he might miss and accidentally kill the man and get charged for murder!

“Bass, Bass, pliss hilp me pliss,” the terribly injured man pleaded in barely comprehensible English, as his uninjured leg thrashed about looking for a bucket to kick.

“Never fear, Shamwari, for the Kid is here, I will save you,” he explained and placed his trusty rusty bayonet on the end of his FN assault rifle.

Grabbing the giant pussy cat’s tail, he lifted it up to expose his target and with one arm, powered by adrenalin, neatly freed the lion's sweetbreads from its body. Well, as you can imagine, that took the now enraged beast by surprise and with bulging eyeballs released the witchdoctor’s leg and throwing its huge head back, let out a mighty roar... Except it sounded more like a bog standard moggy ally cat tom, down at the vets and getting neutered without anaesthetic.

It was of a such high decibel range that the Kid's sunglasses were shattered. Half blind and realising that the lion would soon conclude it wouldn't be doing much cub making anymore, and decide on revenge, he thrust with all his strength the bayonet all the way up to the magazine in the lion's brown eye – killing it instantly.

Quickly finding his first aid kit, the Kid found his spare shoelaces and in a jiffy had stopped the
witchdoctor’s bleeding.

“Dank U Baas, dank U. I great witchdoctor and grant you one wish for safing me.”

The exhausted Kid collapsed and without thinking - “I want a 12 inch penis.”

And so children, as the picture shows, the Kid didn't quite get what he wanted but he still has it and shows it off now and then. The End. Any questions?

“Yes,” said a little girl of ten, “this is so cute, I want one also.”

“I'm afraid you will have to wait till your at least 16.”

“How did you get your rifle out the lion?” asked an observant 9 year old boy.

“That is a very sticky question because rigor mortis had set in. So throwing caution to the wind, the Kid emptied the entire magazine, blasting the lion's head all over the trees and then, after removing the magazine, thrust his arm down its exposed throat, and pulled the rifle out, lock, stock and smoking barrel.”

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Rhodesians Worldwide Magazine

Hah, how about this hey! Cool beans or what. This is the latest RWW magazine. Great little rag and well worth subscribing to. I will certainly continue and place more adds.

On the back cover is (top right) Dave Parrington. He is mentioned in a chapter of StP. We went to the same school, Mount Pleasant High, Salisbury, Rhodesia and the same swimming club. Dave (as you know), went onto represent Zimbabwe in the 1980 Olympics as a diver.

I never could work out what made people walk a plank freely, hop around on it like some semi-naked crazed druggie, leap high into the air and then perform terrible contortions of writhing pain, before piling 30 feet, head first, into the bottom of a 15 foot deep pit full of ice water. Madness!
Now he is a top notch head coach in America. (And a member of FB TGK.)

Bottom left – the one and only The Gokwe Kid, chillaxing with the last copy of RWW in Mühldorf am Inn, Bavaria, Germany. As for my aquatic career with MP swimming club. I hated every moment of it. All those beefy lads with shoulders the same as Arnold Schwarzenegger, and legs that could kick start a jumbo jet, would with gleeful shouts leap into the water and swim faster than a starving shoal of piranhas.

Me, with my half starved, skinny form shivering in fear, would hesitatingly put an emaciated large toe in the water and screech as I immediately received frostbite. At this point some bastard usually pushed me in. Even the piranhas didn't bother wasting energy stripping a bit of shrivelled flesh from my bones.

Two years I put up with this torture. (I did love the trips to Beira though.) My Daddy had wanted me to become a champion. But I finally quit after entering the 4 by 100 metres individual madly, at the annual 'let's race each other' competition. It was supposed to last only a day but dragged on for another two as people screamed enthusiastically at me to hurry up.

I recall, treading water, whilst having a breather on the second lap, shouting back -

“What is all the fuss about? There is no one behind me!”

Monday, June 09, 2014

The Gokwe Kid and the Mystery of the Plastic Meat.

Sometimes even I worry about me. That is because no one else does. No one phones, no one pops around, no one invites me out. T
hat is because they think I am a weird. Even my own children avoid me. The people I work for placed me in an apartment at the end of a cull in a sack on the outskirts of town, to rot away without causing too much chaos to their idyllic, peaceful life.

Well, last night, whilst cooking the pork belly, I noticed a funny smell. A bit like burning plastic and then BOOM, everything went off, plunging me into a shaft of light from the dying sun, via the loft window.

For a moment, in my panic, I thought maybe I had bought ornamental meat. I recalled when I nearly died in Rhodesia whilst visiting a china. Starving as usual, I spotted some fruit in a bowl. Grabbing a shiny, rosy apple, I took a huge bight and masticated like a an Ethiopian getting some Band Aid.
Suddenly, whilst my china stared in wonder, I noticed that it tasted rather odd. The nearest I can describe the waxy goo was when in one of my 'strange thoughts in my head', I wondered what a candle tasted like.

Anyway. With all the lights off, along with everything else, I found my torch by standing on it barefoot, nearly breaking a metatarsal, and went back to the hob to investigate. (I am not the greatest Bush detective for nothing hey!) To my horror, I realised I could have DIED. Some complete idiot, had turned on the wrong ring, and instead of frying the pork belly, the back ring was frying the kettle's electric wire!

Totally traumatised, (I unplugged it, reset the fuses), cooked the pork belly, and still shaking with adrenalin, went early to bed...only to hear the fixed phone ring! I was already half asleep and in my delirium sort of listened with half an ear and brain as TGK member, Petra Thynne's, husband droned on the answering machine that he sadly can not meet up today because they are obligated as members of a Norwegian ex-pat club in Munich, that they must help in some ritual of seal pups clubbing down at the zoo.

And – just as I was using my own version of counting sheep (I pretend that I stole a nuclear submarine and loaded with missiles, I bomb places like Mecca and the Vatican), one of my mobile phones rings! Eish. I looked this morning. A Munich number. Very dodgy...

Thursday, June 05, 2014

The Gokwe Kid and Funny Money

The Gokwe Kid and Funny Money

The sun came out today and just for a change I slipped on a pair of shorts. They are rather old. I bought them at Vic Falls. They are nylon with plastic pocket zips and a cool logo of a white water raft and the words 'The Mighty Zambezi, Zimbabwe'.

They are still in good knick considering where they have been. I put a hand in a pocket and there I felt and heard a rustle that sounded familiar... money! Lo and behold... 15 Euros. My lucky day. I did work out where the dosh came from, but it made me recall a Gokwe story. It goes like this -

It was one of those days. Stinking hot and I am reduced to weeping over my rotten luck of ever joining the BSAP as five off us stumbled over rocks and dodged thorn bushes whilst weighed down in weapons of gook destruction. Yet again I was walking cannon fodder, when suddenly Point hollers out -
“Gooks- run for you lives!” And legs it asap past the bloke called 'up the rear'.

That was me. Awful job. In theory it meant that should you bump into any of the mad bastards, as last in the stick, you would be last to be taken out. The problem was that as part of the miserable way to claim an extra $3.75 tax free a day allowance towards a set of your own wheels, was that it made you dizzy. This was because you had stop walking forwards every 30 seconds and walk backwards to see if any gooks were snickering up that maybe were interested in your rear.

So. Actually, the exited constable at Point had called out something in Shona and ran over to a small bushy like tree. He was immediately followed by our other two black coppers who oohed and aahed and each broke a small branch off and put it in a pocket of their combat jackets.

With lunch time approaching, what the hell, take a break and ask what was going on.
“This, PO Greenberg,” said Point, pointing to some obscure green and brown thing growing out the ground, “IS A MONEY TREE.”

Hardly. I might being going blind from the sunlight and self indulgence but wasn't exactly seeing currency of any denomination dripping of its bedraggled arms. Okay. Us whiteys know this as kids from when we first got our pocket money. Every year you asked Daddy for a pay rise and every year received the same answer – 'money doesn't grow on trees'. A simple 'no' would have sufficed.

“Well, as I can't see any money on this tree, either you and your fellow companions are on some serious illegal drugs, or I am.”

“PO Greenberg. It works like this. You take a twig and bring it home. Then with your eyes closed, place it any pocket in your clothes cupboard and forget about it for a long time. A time will come when you need to go out but have no money. You then go through all the pockets and you will find some money!”

Ahh, I was starting to twig -”How much money?”, I blurted out with over excited half Jewish genes.

“Sometimes, just one dollar. Sometimes ten, I myself once found twenty.”

Now this was very interesting indeed. Last time I searched all my pockets in desperation I found five cents. It had been enough to phone my bank and ask for an overdraft – refused. So I immediately went to work hacking off branches with my sheaf knife and stuffing them in every pocket till not even a Selous Scout would have spotted me.

This was watched with bemusement of my black colleagues. After I realised I could barely walk...

“Ah, PO Greenberg , Sah. It will not work. You can only take one twig from one money tree.”

Rather disappointed I did as I was instructed.

Months go by, and I am stationed in Gwelo. I have a date. Unfortunately I am flat broke once again. Then I remembered and with great enthusiasm went through every pocket of every piece of clothing I had in the room. AND – Bingo! I found a dried out twig.

The Gokwe Kid and being duty Patrol Officer

Duty PO. Part 1.

Being duty PO in Gokwe for a week wasn't too bad except you were not allowed to go on the lash on Friday and Saturday nights down at the local 'whites only' 'Sports Club'. This was because you had to be fit and alert for anything that might happen during the dark hours that needed the expertise of a white police officer.

There were also some rather daft jobs to do as well. One included setting your alarm clock for three in the morning and check out if the black staff had posted alert guards all around the complex. At that time, you suddenly remember that you can't remember the password and it was a good chance your fellow constables might also have forgotten it.

So off you go, stumbling along in the dark, passing enough frightened flatulence to open up your own natural gas plant, when the dreaded noise comes -

“Halt, who goes by?”

I reply in terrified falsetto - “It is me, Don't shoot. PO Greenberg. I forgot the password!”

“Ah, PO Greenberg. It is okay. But very dangerous not to know the Password. Better you know it when you check out the others. Tonight's password is 'ZANU PF' ”

It took me a few seconds for this to sink in as the constable watched me carefully under the brilliant stars and half a moon.

“What the F? What madman thought that up? You can't go around replying to - 'Halt who goes by?' and say 'ZANU PF' ! It could get me killed!”

A rather shiny set of perfect white teeth appeared in a very black face in a smile. “I am joking Sah. The password is really ' Smart Aleck'.”

By now my befuddled brain was switching on a bit and I recognised the voice and going nearer confirmed it was my friend Sammy, who was now in fits of giggles.

“Very clever Sammy. I will get you back for this.”

After getting the proper password, I moved on. I don't recall ever beating him. His satire was better than mine...

(Sammy, plus a picture, is mentioned in The Gokwe Kid.)

Hitler and the Gokwe Kid

Well, what a performance. Weeks and weeks of no landline internet. That was because the bloke I was thieving the WiFi off changed providers and had the cheek to make it closed. So in the end I had to get my own. Oh well.

Then I couldn't log into my blog. I finally solved that when I realised I had blown up the screen so large, it had hid all the buttons.

Not to worry. I have some nice bits to amuse you. First off -

Thursday, March 06, 2014

Blade Runner - The new film poster for Part 2

MediaMarkt – I am so stupid?

A Rhodesian on the war path – further adventures of the Gokwe Kid...

I hate people who take the piss or are actually being paid not to do their job correctly (that excludes me of course).

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of the dark side of the force when it comes to German proficiency.

Now, an annoyed modern Rhodesian Bush War fighter only takes so much before declaring WAR!

I have had it with the Bundespost, Landesbank Berlin and now the giant electrical chain by the name of MediaMarkt.

I have better things to do than spend my well donated money chasing clowns for a laugh. I want to see clowns - I just Skype my friend Tim Bell for free. Just looking at the state of him makes me pass a coil.

All I wanted was a smart phone that did simple tasks. The simplest task was listening to the salesgirl who had no idea what she was flogging me and sign on the dotted line.

As for the 'smart phone', it had problems thinking out of the box. Besides the fact it's ram couldn't service an ewe, it had a memory of a 2 year old chimpanzee – 4gig. Of course half of that was used up with Windows telling it how to think out the box once some fool bought it and plugged it in.

As soon as you download a couple of maps, the thing had enough space leftover to download 5 apps and three versions of 'Merry Xmas' by Slade. (That includes the techno version.') now, this is on top of being told that this Knockya 510 phone can take more sims than sums, but sadly this is not true.

Meanwhile, it struggles to connect up to my flat rate which made me flat irate, and, when I moaned on MediaMarkts FB, complete with my new designed logo for them, they deleted me in seconds!

Their official logo is 'I am not stupid.' I changed it to 'I am stupid.'

Balls and phones I say. I will be back chirping something rotten this Saturday...

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Deutsche Bundespost and Landesbank Berlin

Who are you! German style. 

I think this malarkey must be approaching close on a month now. It appears that the Landesbank Berlin have a problem proving that I exist. This is bureaucratic nonsense gone crazy.

It all started with Amazon Germany. I was busy buying some presents and for the zillionth time they offered me 30 Euros for free if I signed up for their VISA card. So why not? That was when the world came to an end.

Now, remember I live in the 'sticks' of deepest darkest Bavaria. Some people even think it is really werewolves that patrol the streets at night looking for unsuspecting tourists – hence why we have none. (Nothing to do with the fact that no foreigner alive could trawl the internet for years and still not find one entry of things to see or do here. Okay, they do have a PENNY discount store on the outskirts but if you have been inside one, you have been inside them all.)

So, a good looking chick dressed like a canary (that is the uniform), pitches up at my door with my new Amazon VISA card issued by a bank in Berlin. Oddly, she happens to know who I am as she has delivered post (including a TV) to me for 18 months. However, all of a sudden – I have to prove it really is me.

It isn't quite like in WWII films where they stick a Schmeisser sub-machine gun into your groin and demand 'Pappieren – Schnell!' They have grown out of that now. So, all is cool until we get to the part on her paperwork – Austellungs Ort? This means, where was it issued? A very good question.

There is a little bit which contains the letters UKPA.

'OOKPAH? I not no zees place. Wer is dis?'

Well, considering I handed in my application for a new passport to a tiny post office stuck in a corner of a Pakistani corner shop somewhere in London many years ago – she had me.

'University of Karachi Pakistan Administration,' was my useful reply. Why not? Most complaints by phone in the UK land up there anyway. ('Hello, listen you, my Sky is not working' 'Your Sky is not woking. Maybe it because it is dark. Wait till sun come up tomorrow. Can I be of father incense for you?')

After a lot of humming and aahing, I just tell her to put in Liverpool. Job done...not.

A week later I get a nasty letter.

'Wee not no you because YOU TELL LIES about AUSTELLINGS ORT. Go to post office and proof you – schnell.'

WTF. Eish. What a pain. Buses later, I land up arriving when the clowns take 2 hours for lunch (Yes they do, everyday except Saturdays and Sundays because they are closed for most of the weekend. You can buy stamps from a machine, but the thieving thing doesn't give change. Hence if you do not read the instructions an 80 cent stamp can set you back 2 Euros.)

Sadly, the paperwork I had neglected to have a reference number. That meant the computer said NEIN! The helpless sap of an assistant now makes frantic phone calls. No one has a clue. I am missing the next bus and a huge queue of irate nasties with triggers on their Schmeisser machine guns are thinking of starting another holocaust.

In this modern world she reverts to pen and paper. It takes ten minutes to find a pen and another 20 to find the correct form (she thinks, but not really sure), photo copies my passport and promises all will be alles klar....ahhh.

5 days later... A knock on the door. I peer out the window and am astonished to see the farmer's field full of armoured cars and Schmeisser toting POLIZEI, along with a film crew from SKY TV, reporting that the police have surrounded a house where a possible Pakistani terrorist, that had been attempting under false ID to purchase weapons with a VISA card from Amazon, is holed up.

I had the news on at the time, hence I know that, but I was alarmed watching me put my hands up on the TV screen! I screamed out -

'Wait, I must clean the toilet before I let you in and don't shoot through the locked door just because you idiots don't have leg to stand on with this nonsense.'

The last thing I need is someone to tweet a picture of a dirty bowl. I would never live it down.
The pretty canary is back with more bits of paper. It seems HQ were not impressed with Liverpool and said it really should say UKPA. (United Kingdom Passport Authority.) Bingo. All done and dusted...Not.

Two days ago I receive a very, very nasty Email. Given the fact I refuse to prove I exist, they have blocked my card and under section such and such, paragraph blah blah, we will hang, draw and quarter you. I then phone the idiots in Berlin.

It now gets beyond belief. This can only happen to me. Let me see.

  1. I am a published author of two books on AMAZON selling nicely.
  2. I have had a blog for over 10 years.
  3. I have over half a million hits on my YouTubes.
  4. I am on FB with loads of 'friends' and even have my own fanclub.
  5. I am registered as from today on Twitter. (GokweKid)
  6. I am legally registered with the local council.
  7. I have just received my card entitling me to vote in the forthcoming local elections.
  8. I have two banks accounts and another VISA already.
  9. I am a legally employed person and have a medical insurance card.
  10. I have two legitimate German children that oddly enough are somewhere in a Bundesrepublik computer acknowledging them as the fruit of my loins.

And YOU lunatics say I do not exist!

It gets better (worse). After much 'Bitte warten, I look at your details,' which I am paying for as I listen to Handel's Dead March as background music, I eventually receive profound apologies that nothing has arrived in the post.

This very helpful person has of course identified me even though I do not exist. (HUH!)
What she tells me to do now is beyond belief. I must take my passport to my local bank, get them on their letterhead with rubber stamp to acknowledge that I am,I said and post it to Berlin.

Okayyyyyyyyyy. Today, I again had to use my time and bus fares to complete this task. What then transpired made a funny button click in my head and seriously think I should ask for a wagon to take strange people away in white jackets with strong brown straps.

I was told that legally only the Bundespost are able to confirm if I breathe or not. And, the woman at the bank was astonished that the woman at the Berlin bank had actually told me this bullshit. She suggested strongly I complain. Oh, I will complain, hence this posting.

Back in my pad I reread the threatening Email and decided to perhaps have a look at the attached PDF. Well, blow me down with a 9mm bullet from a Schmeisser machine gun – it contains more instructions for me to waste more time and bus fares wandering down to yet again the same post office but this time...Lo and behold, there are lots of clever reference numbers.

I will do this tomorrow. Meanwhile, I insist on at least 50 Euros compensation and that certain members of the Bundespost and Landesbank Berlin do a little 'refresher' course in how to do their jobs.

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Hi TeK – and not a clue

Not sure about all of this. Spent loads of money I don't have splashing out on things that are called 'very clever-clever.' The idea being it was time to enter the Digi age big bytes time.

One problem though. It is all well and good but I remember when you just popped a tape in a machine and pressed 'play'. When you were tired you pressed 'I am tired, goodnight and catch ya in the same spot tomorrow'.

Now you need a degree in rocket science just to fathom all the buttons on the remote of your really fab Blu Ray 5.1 player with all the snap, crackle and pops etc. I did work out where to plug it in...

Meanwhile, after returning from a 18 day cruise of my Manchester roots (loads of pics and stories),
I also got one of those phones. Well, I gather it is a mini computer and occasionally someone phones you. If I am lucky I can also phone out for FREE for 100 minutes, in Germany, as long as I pay 25 Euros a month. Plus, I can surf with it, but it is a bit small and I gather salt water is not good for them.

But, the stupid thing that was flogged to me isn't up to much cop and I really should moan about it.
No point. I can't be arsed with the hassle.

However, since I am doing my brains in with this all, check out this! Cool hey. And I am now going to set up a chirpy account thing. Not sure why but people say it is a good idea...