Poisoned by the Barbarians

I awoke today and realised I had not passed away into the night. That is obvious because I was asleep. Dumb expression, but I noticed I didn’t have my boots on.

I stopped wearing them in bed after I left Rhodesia.

Received a text from Ex. She can’t make it – it seems she has to go to work instead. What a terrible life. Fancy having to work for a living? It’s a hard knock life. I bet she even pays TAXES! I just pay for Taxis to get to the shop and back. I am not a big fan of walking. Once you spend several months walking about in the bush looking for gooks, it sort of puts you off. And, as for using that bicycle – (no comment.)

I was a little puzzled. Something didn’t quite seem right about last night. And then – ahh - I recalled. The barbarians have a secret weapon. Home made schnapps.  I recall that I, as a foreigner, participated yesterday in this ritual. The locals, as babies, suckled on the stuff so they drink it like – no problemo.

Stupidly I accepted some. I did some research. It is no wonder the Romans never conquered them. I mean – the bad ass Romans rock up wanting to thieve some more land, rape and pillage and so on. What do the Barbarians do? They send a few crates of home made schnapps and a little note – ‘Enjoy, we will pop around in a couple of hours.’

So the Barbarians just chill out in the forests a bit (believe me, they have shit loads of forests around here) and wait till the Romans start singing Ti Amor and other songs from home. Then they wander in to their camp and hack all their heads off.

I think I better stop watching Game of Thrones. (I do fancy ordering that cool sword on Ebay.)

Fire and Ice – Walking with your guardian angel on earth. Danger!

Well, today started like most days. The night is replaced by some form of light and you realise you are reluctantly still alive.

That’s the good news. (Good?) I make coffee and decide that I have no intension of switching on the laptop and read abuse. I get a phone call. Oh-oh. It is from the Ex. No big deal, we gave up killing each other years ago.

Now with that sorted, and the only reason she is popping around tomorrow is for the second season of ‘Game of Thrones’. I decide I should watch the last episode again because I am sure I missed bits.

(Actually, as clever as I am, this is so complicated you really do have to pay attention.)

Then…Tring Tring Tring. No, it is not the Rag and Bones man; it is…THE BIG BOSS.

(Big Boss – run for your lives!)

‘Karl – Big Boss here. What are you doing and have you time?’

Now…that is a very tricky question. It is Sunday, I am sort of watching ‘Game of Thrones’  whilst scratching at my scrotum and STILL wondering where the mielies went.

Two options – Lie and die or Bullshit. I am an expert in the latter and will eventually land up with the former.  (Ooooo – this is clever writing.)

I have to be veeeeeeeery careful now. What do you do? I think rapidly.

‘Er,. Big Boss, what’s the plan?’

‘We will meet in the middle of nowhere, drink and eat and there will loads of people there and I pick you up in an hour.’

Sounds rather curious but I have translated the conversation from the German. Luckily, I am highly intelligent and conclude that this idea sounds a pain, but there would be more pain if I refused.

Naturally, I comply. The option would be called - ‘Don’t bother shooting yourself in the knee, simply use your head.’

(Oh-oh. I don’t like what I am doing. I am manipulating English to very dangerous levels.)

Big Boss parks up. We are walking along, and then   - the bombshell. I nearly parked a coil.

‘Do you want to stay here with us - in the  land of the Barbarians?’ Have you a plan?’

‘Nah, you are a bunch of wankers, my Daddy should have bombed you to bits and are you fucking insane? If it wasn’t for you I would lie rotting under a bridge!’

Of course I did not say that. I am lucky. I am looked after. These people have money that does grow on trees but, just like those Gokwe days, the locals realise I am a bit odd. Harmless - but strange.

.

So…tra-la-la. All very nice. Lots of old foggies. A nice view, lots of eats and drinks and all look at me as if I have just fallen from another planet. I suppose I have to get use to it… 

Motor mouths and Mielies

Check this – check this!

(You must wait a bit for the Vienna story. Meanwhile…)

So another day in paradise starts. Just for a change I got my ass in gear and decided to clean up. Gawd, I feel exhausted! Besides doing the washing up, I vacuumed the place and even mopped the floor! I am a very tired Sixpence.

Meanwhile – a fat envelope has arrived. Let’s take a looky peeps inside.

‘Sehr geheehrter Herr Greenberg,’ (that’s me)

You are fired and get your useless bum out of our flat within 7 days otherwise you will be put against the wall and shot.

Nah, not really. They gave me 8 days…tra-la-la.

No, actually it is a load of paper work to do with my teeth. It is from the AOK, which is sort of like the British NHS but better at thieving the gold fillings in your mouth. Well, looky here. Plan one they gonna cough up – a cool 450 Euros. Not bad; that is more than I earn in a month. Plan B is a little bit more dodgy. (I grant the Germans this, all this paper work arrives in just about a week!)

Well, they want to know the inside and outsides of my wallet. I thought of posting it, but I guessed they wouldn’t get the joke. That means a trip down to the ‘Firm’ on Monday to get that nice lady who does all the wages to fill in the forms, make loads of copies etc etc. Then post it off (they can do that, saves me two Euros), and await the outcome.

Meanwhile… as I am unhappily cleaning away, I hear a strange noise. And, no, it wasn’t from my fridge. This din penetrated my ears above the screams of my cheap Chinese vacuum cleaner and the bellowing of Bruce Springfield’s ‘Born to do a Runner’.

Going off on a tangent – lateral thinking – English is an amazing language. Pure garbage. I mean, how else do your hear but through your ear. Can you hear through your eye? Actually, I did once when a very naughty black boy scout punched me in my left eye and I did hear a rather loud bang in my head.)

Where was I? Oh, so there is noise. I look out my window and watch with intense boredom some farmers hacking up the mielie field. (Maize plants for non-Rhodesians.) I have watched them grow. Nothing much else to do here than hang your head out the window and watch mielies grow. What a life. I suppose it is more exciting than watching concrete set underwater.

I thought they were shit mielies. Scraggy sort of things. Not even baboons would be interested in them. All around here they plant the things. I was curious, so asked my partner (from work) what was the point. Well, it seems that it is either cattle feed, refugee feed or bio-fuel. But, the Germans don’t mess about with Sixpences and slashers. Nah. They simply shove two million Euros of machines on ten hectares and chew it up in less time it took to write this.!

Now I have a busy schedule and wrote it all down.

1. Wake up, it is Friday morning – check. (WTF - what happened to Thursday?)

2. Stagger around trying to find the toilet – check

3. Urinate whilst realising in your blurry mind the kettle is on and is boiling away – check

4. Make coffee and whilst supping it contemplate the pain of cleaning up – check

5. Clean up whilst moaning a lot – check

6. Write some rubbish for The Gokwe Kid fans  - check (Remind myself to kick some cheeky babes up their bums.)

7. Write a review for Bruce – not checked yet

8. Write a blog posting about the trip to Vienna – not checked yet

9. Reply to Step-Mum in Zimbabwe. Hmm. ‘Hi Mum, thanks for your Email. I am glad you are fine. I am not well in the head but will feel better once I am dead. Lots of love.’ (Or maybe not. Leave unchecked…)

10. Wander into bathroom and look in mirror. Remove and replace with a picture of me aged 23 and looking drop dead gorgeous – check

So that should keep me busy for a bit and…what is that terrible noise? This time it is coming from the fridge. I could murder those little bastards and suck the life juice out of them…

(This little bit of nonsense is dedicated as an apology to Alex Woods. I had no right to have a pop just because he called me a big headed git. He was correct.)

Greeks, Bailout, Don’t mention the war and Rain

I had a dental appointment today and took that bastard bicycle  ‘Die Hard’ and to just really piss down on my parade, it started to rain again just for a change because the bloody stuff has not stopped for over a week. How much goddamn water can still be up there?

I thought this climate change malarkey meant we would soon be living like in the Kalahari – cooking away and dying of thirst. No chance of that, we will drown just walking to the bus stop (which promptly sprays you from top to bottom as it pulls in).

So well wet and not feeling to good at the way the dentist was explaining my predicament, I had a jolly old panic attack. The poor woman thought I was about to kick-it. So did I. So would anyone that had been told that most of their teeth need to be removed and replaced with… Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter –money!

 

That is that stuff that doesn’t grow on trees and if it did in this place, it would just be a sodden mess hanging limply from a wet stick, not even worth giving to some begging Greeks. (I suppose they could take the papier-mâché back to where they come from and try drying it out and sticking the notes back together. A bit like their economy at the moment.

Remember that old sketch in Fawlty Towers and Basil keeps telling his staff that Germans will be staying so - ‘Don’t mention the war!’. Well that is off the menu - now if you want to hack Germans off - never mention Greeks and Bailout in a sentence – you could start another war!

 

So back to my rather large problem and considering a future of supping chicken soup through a straw for the rest of my miserable existence, the kind lady explained she will make a plan and come up with a bill that will stop my heart. Exactly how much the German health system will cough up doesn’t look too good as they gave all the money away so the Greeks can have solid gold fillings!

As I crawled out the place, blubbering and moaning into the rain again, I had in my hand a piece of paper (not that one, signed by you know who - that did start a war [Don’t mention the war!], it is a train ticket. She felt sorry for me and printed it out as I don’t have one at home.

The train is taking me to… Vienna! A few reasons why I chose to visit there was, firstly, I conned a nice young lady to let me sleep on a mattress in her bathroom for FREE. It bad enough forking out a fortune for the ticket when the dosh should be really being put aside for a rainy day like chewing on plastic teeth. Secondly, I have never been there and it is supposed to be very lovely. And thirdly - Am I glad to be getting out of this one horse town where even that nag keeled over from boredom.

 

 

Unfortunately, judging by the weather report I will be singing ‘Vienna, Vienna, under my umbrella’, but better there than here. The train rides sounds quite nice also. I switch in Salzburg.

So I must start to throw a few things together. I will of course make sure I have my Rhodie and PATU Sweatshirts from The Bush War days (Don’t mention the war!).

What else? Umbrella, raincoat, wellingtons, rubber trousers, rubber hat, rubber gloves, rubber rucksack, rubber socks and jocs, snorkel and goggles.

I must check that my MP3 player has plenty cool vibes, Supertramp – ‘Its raining again’, ‘Ella Ella under my sodding umbrella’ by dunno; have been deleted. Adel’s ‘Set fire to the rain’ (more like seriously torch the stuff), is okay.

I suppose a bit of clean up wouldn’t hurt. Just in case a bad man breaks in to do some thieving and promptly to fall over some empties and break some teeth. Then I land up being sued and coughing up for two pairs of gnashers. (Or we could share them. I use of during the day and he wears them when on nightshift.

Not that there is a lot to steal in my flat, unless the widows and front door count, but they don’t belong to me. There is a tiny Hi Fi and a small TV. He can also help himself to a book some one gave me as a goodbye present, called

How to make new enemies and lose old friends.

I haven’t bothered reading it, sounds naff and anyway - as if I need guiding in that direction.

Is this the ultimate Rhodesian double act?

Oh, he is funny. Very. He writes in pure Rhodesian slang. For a Jew boy I am amazed. I couldn’t be arsed to learn half of the slang, unless I was paid for it. Still, saying that, I struggled to learn English and even that is debatable.

First you have to read this. Unless you are Rhodesian, it comes across as complete and utter gibberish.

https://wheniwasawhenwe.wordpress.com/2013/09/13/the-enemy-within/

And how I laughed -  but - I do not compare, nor do I even try to match  his skills. We both do our own thing – So, I read, laughed out loud and replied…

As usual - hilarious. I am surprised that, as a Jew boy, you do not charge an entrance fee. We could be a double act.

I recall being ‘tested’ when at Blakiston Junior School. Blakiston was that idiot who got slotted along with the other land thief, Rutledge, out there where they were looking for gold and landed up just planting orange trees. Which is of course why I write this because orange is sort of the same colour as urine.

So, I get the injections on the shoulder. You should have heard the girls crying - such a pathetic yowling, I could hardly hear them above my own blubbering. I recall that if you had two ‘bumps’ it could mean you had the parasites in you. I, as usual, managed to achieve that. Was I concerned – of course not. It all made sense. It was the reason why I slept through my entire education. I was a sick little boy.

The thing is that these ‘tests’ were not a 100%, a bit like Windows Vista or version 8. What you had to do then was rather sick. You had to wee for three consecutive days in some form of container, and better still ;shit on the floor and scoop some of it into another sort  of container. Because of sanctions we were severely short of them.

The plan was that after three days your innards were sent off somewhere and clever people would examine it all. Why? I mean, what kind of job is that? Going a little lateral thinking here… Imagine having a merry old party with a load of bores and as usual you ask each other what you do for a living. I can proudly announce ‘nothing’ but what about the bloke who empties those portable shit houses?

‘Oh, I have great form of employment. I suck shit out a plastic box with a huge pipe, give it to farmers for free and they spray onto their fields to help grow potatoes that turn into French fries and you eat them.’

Besides the point. So, I am weeing away and using a spoon to ladle crap into a rather worn out Tupperware box and all this is put in…the fridge. Yeah, where else is the piss and shit going to be stored for three days? My sister opens the fridge one of those days and gets all excited. Oh look, someone has put a bottle of Mazoe orange in here. She reaches for it with much enthusiasm.

Luckily, step-mom clocks and hollers –

‘Stop taking the piss, it belongs to your brother and whatever you do; don’t eat the chocolate fudge. He made it also. If you are hungry, stick to the cheese.’

I tell this for free, what kind of people were The Last of Rhodesians that kept piss and shit in the fridge between the gem squash and awful tasting lumps of cheese. And we called it ‘The good old days’ Yussus, I would hate to know what the ‘Good old new days’ are like.

I look in my fridge now and it has one of two options. Full of piss or empty because I have pissed it all away. I certainly do not have containers of crap chilling away waiting to be examined by some expert who has nothing else to do but spoon shit all day under a microscope. And you thought Gary  Glitter was a pervert!

In conclusion – I was beaten yet again by my dearest Daddy. Sadly for me I had no things crawling in my system that made me weak, tired and listless. I had something worse that the best doctors in the world could not cure – laziness.

 

Cowboys and Rhodesians – Prologue. A little hint of the direction I might go in…

Cowboys and Rhodesians – Prologue. A little hint of the direction I might go in…

And so the curtains fall on the final scene. The audience, all one of them, leap up and rush to the toilet to throw up. The actor appears for his accolade and encore. Instead he is offered a bottle of plonk and a corkscrew, along with his P45. He is sacked.

He does not care. Fame – for one glorious moment he was the ultimate, the unquestionable, people cried out his name ‘Who the fuck are you, you dumb twat?’

The actor just smiled – he knew what he was - Last of the Rhodesians. Unique, rare and very much insane, but he has lived a life most people would be proud not to have experienced.

The actor bows to an empty atrium. He is happy. He knows what he has to do next – start begging on the next corner for a brown bottle and dig in the dustbin outside McDonalds for a half finished ‘Shitburger’, but he has still his pride intact.

His clothes may well be in tatters, but he has one advantage over those that laugh at his plight – they are all idiots. Any fool can make money and live a grand life. It takes brains to be a total loser…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcBh153GXJ0

Dragon’s Den – Made in Rhodesia

Dragon’s Den – Made in Rhodesia

Dragon’s Den is a well loved TV programme. It is about total losers pitching their ideas to a bunch of tax avoiding arrogant bastards. The idea is that if they think you are not a total tosser, they will give you a few quid, steal your whatever and recommend a local bridge popular by bums to sleep under.

I have my own idea. I think it is a winner. However, because I am a natural born rebel without a cause and a home grown socialist anarchist – I give this idea away for free.

I do this because if I was to try and present it myself… the usual would happen. I would be beaten up and thrown out the country.

So I decided to write it down and let a Rhodesian entrepreneur do it for me. I only want 10% of any profits and nothing at all if it all goes tits up.

Being a former Boy Scout (before I left in disgrace), I like to believe I am always prepared. With that in mind, I constructed in my mind, how the interview would go –

 ****

Hi, tax avoiding arrogant tossers, my name is fame, so remember it. I am here to propose the greatest invention since the word was..erm…invented?

It is called the ‘Rhodesian Anti-Enter click block drunken thingy-me-jig.’ I am still working on the exact name. but that is a minor detail.

I have here in my hand the key to everyone’s problem, even if they did not know they had one. It is a CD RW with a minus dash after it. Why a minus dash? Because if it had a plus sign, my computer no longer computes.

As you will see, there is nothing on it. It is just a piece of plastic I bought from ALDI on special offer. It is blank. It has neither been burnt nor looked at digitally. But, now here is the crunch, if you lot like my idea, you get some of your gooks, er geeks, whatever, to put dashes and dots on it and then it will be installed in every computer in the world. And, quoting the great late Tommy Cooper who died live on stage (is that an oxymoron or just a dead magician?) – ‘Just like that.’

Now here is the genius of it all. It works a bit like - you know when you write something and it says ‘Save or discard’, etc but THIS is connected to your eMails and all the social websites like Fakebook and StinkIn and stuff. And the warning sign says  ‘From your incoherent rambling and spelling mistakes we will refuse to allow you to send unless you use the tube to prove otherwise’.

Okay, that is a bit longwinded - but I am working on that. Anyway. See this. This, in my other hand, is a 50cm piece of old garden pipe. I cut it off from my neighbour’s hose because I did not want the expense of buying 20 meters of the stuff. You will notice that both ends have a hole. It is your job to work out how to turn one end into a universal butt slot. Or USB as I think they are known as.

All very logical - you blow down the pipe and the clever software says ‘No, try again when you wake up.’ and that is that! So seemples.  

And badly quoting the great Sixto Rodriguez – ‘Thanks for your time and I thank you for mine and after that – forget it.’

Weird Feeling

I have just pushed the enter button, and off it went. It has taken over six years and now I have finally sent my last exam.

That is it – school is out for summer; school is out for ever. 12 modules I did (one I cancelled a third of the way through because it was a load of shite) and now… that is that!

That was one hell of a voyage of discovery. When I look back at all what I did –

    T211 Design and designing (2012)

    T183 Design and the Web (2011)

    TU120 Beyond Google: working with information online (2010)

    EA300 Children's literature (2009)

    A363 Advanced creative writing (2008)

    A103 An introduction to the humanities (2008)

    A176 Start writing plays (2007)

    A215 Creative writing (2007)

    A174 Start writing fiction (2006)

    Y160 Making sense of the arts (2006)

Completed qualifications

    Bachelor of Arts Open

    Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing (E25)

    Certificate in Humanities (C36)

It is like…wow, I did all that!

Some were a breeze and I just messed about, some were like drawing your own testiness out and eating them. Over half of them - I had a fall out with my tutor. I think I was given four official warnings from the OU to behave myself or get banned for ever.

Nothing new there. In the old days you either got caned or if that didn’t work – expelled.

The hardest ones were - An Introduction to the Humanities and Children’s Literature.

The former taught me about evolution, religion, history of art, art, Roman architecture, philosophy, music and how to quell a native uprising with the help of a Maxim machine gun.

The latter was unquestionably the hardest academic thing I have ever done. Remember, with Creative and Advanced Creative Writing, I simply let them teach me how to write The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest. But, The Humanities and Kid’s Lit needed serious stuff written.

The funny thing is, when I enrolled with Kid’s Lit, I hadn’t really read the guidelines. I thought all I had to do was write stories for kids. Er – wrong, very wrong. I had to read kid’s book and systematically analyse them and write pages of clever-clever stuff.  (Nine months of it (so was the former module). It almost broke me but – it took me to another plane. Ryan Air actually…lol.

What happened was that I was forced to stop arseing around and concentrate. I did and I learnt much. I was border line getting a Grade Two Pass. I needed it because at Level Three, with two Grade Two passes, I was 90% guaranteed that when I go on to Honours, I could walk out (well, cyber walk out) with a 2.1 Upper. The second highest behind a distinction.

And then, I did an amazing thing. It had never been done and I doubt it will ever be repeated. I knew I needed over 80% for an exam to get my desire and I went into that zone that frightens people.

I took the exam requirements and turned them around. I was warned by many people that I was doomed. But I had a hunch it would pay off. The exam was about comic books for children. I decided, at the ultimate risk, to actually answer – in comic form. I ran against two problems. One was it wouldn’t be accepted and secondly; I could incur the wrath of the publishers I was mimicking.

The result? I created over three weeks at 10 hours a day, a masterpiece.

It is, at great risk, ‘up there’. –

http://lastrhodesian.blogspot.de/2010/04/tintin-in-congo-essay-with-attitude.html

And so – I did it.

And now, I have my BA, but I wanted Honours. Why -? Because without what the OU taught me – you would have none of my books to read, none of my Photoshop jokes, in fact…nothing at all - besides some drunken rambling. (Has any thing changed?)

Till next time – very soon.

An Open letter of Complaint and should I have to use a hammer to shape my dinner? More Chronicles of an African Anarchist in Germany.

Today I worked very hard. Up at the crack of… me hitting my own face as one the sneaky mozzies must have got through the fag hole I accidently burnt in my window shield. Then it dawned on me, it was time to wake up and I immediately got cracking.

So, it was the crack of dawn (hah-hah, stupid idioms), and after getting organised, such as peruse my sales, listen to the wails and moans on SKY News (enough to make you desire to amputate Andy Murry’s legs off – and why not, they seemed to be very tired attached to him – let them simply walk away from his complaints), and mounting Die Hard, set out for my next destiny with anarchy.

Unfortunately, it all went rather smoothly, besides the fact that after we loaded the trailer with enough dry sticks to make a really great bonfire, I flatly refused to drive.

It turns out that the entire load was for a fence and the brake lights didn’t work on the trailer.

As an honest ex-copper, I didn’t quite like any of this information. I thought I worked for an honourable firm! I wondered if my partner’s real name was Uriah Heep because he was certainly old enough.

It was explained that the wood was for us to MAKE a fence - as in a barrier between two properties. Oh no, not again. Two weeks ago, doing that nonsense, I was hit on the head by a giant stick, had my nose smashed and staggered around with blood pouring down my face. (That story is still in the making.)

Besides. Recalling the Rhodie ‘Good Old Days’ - didn’t White Bwana stand around drinking beer, chatting with the properties owner, whilst occasionally shouting at his faithful labourers to dig deeper and faster, pull wires tighter because the sport’s club opens at 4.30.

Whatever. One furious argument later, the ancient cretin decides he will drive even though he shouldn’t. He gets dizzy spells. Me thinks – crash = compensation and there is the hope the airbag saves my stunning looks.

Well, besides the relic rotting from the inside out, resulting in the most amazing tunes of bacterial redemptions of Bavaria’s scary composer Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana  everything went, well - ‘cool beans’

Extremely disappointed that nothing out of the extraordinary had happened to me today besides a job well done (yawn), I toodled home in the autumn heat and pondered what I should have for my din-dins. The first din I put on was Trance Radio. Excellent to turn your mind into mush and write mushy stories.

(WARNING – the term ‘Mushie’ down here is a pet name for a fur burger. I was caught out many years ago when asked, via my translating German girlfriend, if I enjoyed my meal which had been made by her mother. I had been invited for din-dins because they wanted to actually meet the mad man who was skewering their daughter as a version of a Rhodie kebab. Chirping up – ‘Tell your Mom the meal was Mushy, and did she make it herself?’ - started a long war.)

Anyway, after checking out how many plonkers have been saying nasty things about me via the ‘Socialising Networks’, Email, Amazon etc etc, I popped two chicken legs into a pan with mushrooms and onions (Oh No, I just remembered I forgot the peppers! They are going a bit soft. Can’t be arsed – I am writing a story.)

But, what was I going to have with them? Now, this is the bit where this mad anecdote is building up to. Check out this picture – It is entitled – Grill- & Pfannen – Kartoffel

Now, you neither have to understand German or be a half wit to understand what it shows on the box cover. It is very simple. Nicey-nicey, sort of mashed potatoes riddled with spices and stuff, shaped like oval mini cakes that are easy to grill or fry. Job done.

 

Imagine my horror (oh-oh, you are all saying – now what?), THIS is what I found inside – (see picture).

Me thinks – Bloody hell, I have been shafted or the firm are complete idiots. WTF? Not being a complete simpleton, I sniffed around with my eyeballs (bulging with hatred) and checked out the small print on the side of the box. I was stunned almost speechless (which isn’t hard because not even my ‘friends’ Skype anymore.).

There, the liars, explain in very small print (so small I had to use the magnifying glass on my Swiss Army knife), that contrary to what it shows on the box, you have been conned into buying two potatos cut in half and sprinkled with a smattering of weeds.

I nearly had a hernia. I thought maybe there was some mistake and I had forgotten to pick up the cake shaper and a hammer to beat them into some resemblance of the picture on the box. But no. I paid a fortune for two mangy potatos.

I mean- like. I work for a very professional, well respected firm. It runs as smooth as StP car additive until, erm - I am the additive. But they tolerate that…still.

It is like, they show you this –

You, the customer sign his/her life savings away and is rather upset when he/she gets this! And when they moan – they are waved the small print in their faces.

No, I will not take this standing up. I will sit down and send a strong worded letter to this firm, that ironically, is just down the road and my youngest was born in the town. He hasn’t spoken to me since…

Shower time and then beat potatos into shape – stay well and stay tuned for another episode of – FAME, remember my name – Eish.

Disclaimer – On a serious side. This is another bit of pure satire and ‘piss-take’. It is what I do. I intend no harm to individuals or corporations. I just like to make people laugh. My antics are based on the truth, but, highly exaggerated. (In case you didn’t clock...)

(Written in three hours, unedited, based on what happened today.)

 

Eviction, Tanks, Psycho farmers, Fighting off werewolves and Setting fire to the rain - the further adventures of an African anarchist in Germany.

What an interesting morning I had today. I was loaded up with my standard weapons of war –a retractable Stanley Knife, a 20cm long builder’s pencil and a two meter folding measuring stick. These you need when entering the dark, dangerous forests of Bavaria.

The knife is to slit the throats of savaging giant forest adders, the pencil is for poking into the eyes of savaging werewolves and the measuring stick is to well, measure up how big the wild Bavarian bear is before hollering ‘Giant Barbaric Bavarian bear – run for your lives!’

Before catching my ride, I opened the mail box. There was a fat envelope inside from ‘The Firm’. I am always happy when I get no mail at all because any that does find its way into the slit with the name – ‘Greenberg does not live here – go away’, tends to bring news of imminent doom. Judging by the bulk; it could only be a polite letter, a voucher for a second-hand cardboard box from Aldi, and a bus pass to the nearest bridge.

So, not opening it, playing my MP3 player and singing along to the 1987 hit ‘Living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box’, I toodle down to HQ on Die Hard (which is seriously getting on my tits now).

Due to the information I received that I was to be actually working today, I would have to acquire a vehicle needed to penetrate the deep, dark, dangerous, deathly damp depths of the Bavarian forests. Unfortunately the Tiger II – Panzerkampfwagen (in English - big mother fucker of a tank ), was being used to fire some more enthusiasm into a load of English sub-contractors working on the firm’s refit of LOUIS VUITTON in Paris. It seems the lazy sods, led by some self-made leader by the name of Mr Smithers, wanted a paid three hour lunch break. I gather that idea was soon shot to smithereens.

So instead, I was presented with the keys to a VW Caddy. Me thinks –‘How odd, do the Germans hide golf courses in forests?’

Before I had time to mull over this latest problem, there is someone else in the HQ logistic box. (It is actually called ‘The Logbox’.) I take one look and holler – ‘The Big Boss – run for your lives.’ I gap it and hide in the mixed rubbish skip. Of course everyone squelches on me and I am ordered to follow him for a ‘little chat’.

Little chats are like fat letters. They read and sound bad. I dislike taking orders. Anyone who has read my books knows this, but there are exceptions to my self imposed deranged rule. The Big Boss is one of them. So I followed on all fours whilst keeping the soles of his shoes clean. We went into the cafeteria.

Word must have gone around fast. The place was deserted. It was only 7.30 am but you would believe this is High Noon!

There are photos on the wall. Big Boss at the age of 12, strangling his first bear to death, Big Boss eating an entire wild boar for breakfast, Big Boss at 25 beating an entire pack of werewolves to death with a rolled newspaper. AND – alarmingly…a picture of ME.

Wanted, Dead or Alive, sprang to mind, but the blah blah was in German and I wasn’t thinking very straight. The heavy letter was still in my pocket. I was doomed!

I made myself a coffee from the free automat. I had noticed that he was wearing a lovely shiny grey, snake skin belt to match his perfectly cut Gucci suit. The problem was it still had the snake in it and was flicking its tongue at me!  I sat down and held my cheeks together firmly. His eyes bored through mine, straight down my oesophagus, lower and upper gut and exited via my palpitating rear orifice. (That’s the one that really does talk shite.)

‘Karl,’ he started with.

That is perhaps a good sign. ‘Herr Greenberg’ is normally followed by the sounds of a firing squad.

‘Exactly what is your plan? 9 months you have been here…so, I would like to know.’

Plan? Oh, I have a plan alright. After all I am a former Boy Scout   .

‘Well, for a start, I think flogging myself to death last week, doing 38.5 hours in two and a half days and not getting paid for it is tantamount to zwangsarbeit.’

Of course I didn’t say that! I might be mad but even I knew some eggshells are best left uncrushed. It turns out my arrival and style wasn’t exactly popular in the beginning but the firm now accepts my position as the ‘Insane Dog’s body’ and every one is happy. Guardian angel, you have worked overtime yet again.

Well – it was all quite simple really. I was his latest star. It turns out the ‘kids’ from the Uni slobbered big time about my efforts. I asked for more hours so as to save for my little camper bus. That is all I want. I don’t need a bigger TV, or more powerful HiFi. I am happy with what I have. I want to write but I can’t do it 24/7 stuck in the middle of no where.  All agreed! I get more hours, a proper breakdown of what to do and that was that and by the way...the letter in your pocket is a photocopy of you and the crew in the newspaper.

But, happy as I now was…I still had to go deep into the scary forests of Bavaria.

Picking up my partner, we loaded up a trailer and headed to the place where even the Romans shat themselves entering.

It turns out we have to load trailers with rotten fir tree branches eaten by worms. Whatever. Not sure if my BA covers that, but sounds artistic enough. Before we reach the designated zone  (deep in the you know, blah blah forest), a tractor is parked across our path. A road block, which is ironic as what I was driving on would struggle to be called a road and a GPS system would just shout at you ‘Bears – drive for your lives.!

I think of Zimbabwe and look in my wallet for a bribe. It is empty, but I had a pen and paper and I could write an IOU. My partner knows the old man. Not surprising as I reckon between them they added up to 125 years of age. They mumble on about this and that and I, always polite, wander over and shake hands. The farmer asks if I am ‘The New Kid on the block?’

Not quite hey. As the two continue in almost incomprehensible deep Bavarian forest dialect, I think it would be a perfect time to roll a quick smoke. I had barely started, when this farmer blokes really starts to give me a hard time. My mind was still in happy times, so I wasn’t really trying hard to decipher a dialect from deep in the Bavarian whatever, but presumed he was chastising me for being a smoker and that I would die soon from it.

I smiled. I agreed and kept rolling. He went berserk and threatened to kill me! Bloody hell, me thinks. What have I done now? I know I will die eventually from smoking but why does he want to terminate me now?

I didn’t really understand a word the man was ranting but I gather that my life was in danger. Luckily, my partner, knowing my weird style of German, switches to some form I can comprehend and says

‘Absolute verbot, Rauchen in Wald.’

That means – ‘No smoking allowed in the forest.’

Me says – ‘Why not?’

He says –

‘Because all very dry, you could set fire to forest and roast bears and werewolves and all fir trees kaput.’

I am standing up to my ankles in mud. It would take some serious gasoline to set this place alight. I might as well set fire to the rain. I know. I have been an expert arsonist since the age of three. Still, I don’t argue, I don’t want my new terms and conditions terminated by a roll of a fag.

So, after I understood, he goes off and we get to work. One trailer load later we turn up on the front lawn of Big Boss Snr. According to the instructions from Big Boss Snr, we unload it all and set it on fire. I like this idea – sadly some others did not!

The house keeper rocks up just as we are emptying the stinking mess and has a heated discussion with partner. I gathered she thought this was a bad idea. I think it is a perfect opportunity to have a smoke since we are now out of the forest and about to have one mother of a fire.

Housekeeper does a lot of moaning and calls Big Boss Snr’s wife. I love her and wave as greeting the newspaper article about I am famous and thinking this could really start a cool fire. (Big Boss Snr wasn’t around; he had decided to do the Tour De France with some mates.)

More heated discussions. I am wondering when we can set fire to the lot and get some serious heat. Big Boss Snr’s wife isn’t happy with the idea. Listening carefully, I suss out that I could have job for over week keeping a fire burning and holding onto a hosepipe to stop burning down the house. My dreams are coming true!

Sadly – I was told to drive the mess back to HQ, let them sort it out (one riot later), and I concluded –

I get paid to be shouted at! I love this job.

An insane precursory guide on writing fiction.

Good news and bad news. The good news I am working tomorrow. The bad news is that I must yet again have to mess about in some damp, cold Bavarian forest, dodging adders, wolves and mountain bears. Which, of course, is a load of crock. The only thing you dodge are nestles and the only life sign is some fancy tarts taking their Gee-Gees for a trot.

They are always polite – saying ‘GrussGott’, which is Bavarian for ‘Greet God’ (what a bloody daft way to greet a non-believer), and they go off giggling and talking amongst themselves about how nice it is to have such peasants as myself to keep their forests clean.

Me thinks – I have just finished my final exam for a BA with Honours (2.1 Upper) and you can kiss my ass because no matter how well you polish your Gee-Gees rear end, it will land up in a dodgy lasagne, and with luck you will eventually be eating it in some dodgy Italian restaurant run by Poles.

Neigh (Nay?), how can I be so cruel? That is easy. What is not so easy is suddenly finding out that rewriting fiction is one hell of a story. (Ooh, that was clever-clever.)

At least, when I wrote my memoirs - I had undeniable restrictions. History, facts and bullshit. Now I have presented myself with bullshit, some history and f all facts! Eish.

In this game, there are no rules. You have goodies and baddies. You ever read a book where every one is a goodie.? Louisa May Alcott’s ‘Little Women’ almost achieved that accolade before I set it on fire.

‘American Physco’ by Bret Easton Ellis, nearly achieved the opposite before I had this deranged idea to find the author, send him into limbo to have great sex with Louisa using a German made Skill, petrol powered chain saw. Serves them both right.

They were made for each other. Can you imagine their co-written love thriller - ‘Fifty shades of girls as mincemeat.’ And then – a copy given away with every MacDonald’s questionable horse burgers.

Sure beats Gideon’s bible supplied at Holiday Inn.

The Great American Rip Off.

Warning – the following anecdote contains offensive material. As usual it is complete utter nonsense, has no intention to insult individuals or race, or tramps, or tribes. It is neither a reflection of my own ‘Rebel without a cause’, ideology nor what I look at in the mirror each morning because that is hell.

You want to be a paperback writer? Read this first.  I will tell you about 33 American %.

I have had it up to here with them. They are thieving swine. If I, for example, write three words in a book such as - ‘Bomb the bastards’, and you, the paying customer, cough up your hard earned dosh to read it – I get shafted and the Yanks thieve the word ‘Bomb’. Or ‘Bastards’, because it is highly unlikely they steal ‘the’, because at three letters thy might think they are getting short changed.

Then – with MY money, they buy some serious fancy, self flying artificial intelligence missiles that have been brainwashed to bomb bastards. I am sick of it. What’s the latest ‘joy ride’- Oh, some hell hole, permanently baked by the sun, that charges the equivalent of a brand new Ferrari for a pint of beer, and now they all decide either the car or the beer costs too much, and they hack each other up. Better than living in peace with each other. Rather die in pieces. Hey!

And not only that, do I care? I mean, half of them run around saying they are all Shite and the other lot claim they all just want to live in the Shire – even though they aren’t hobbits, nor have hairy feet – just some serious hard core hairy times killing each other.

I mean what kind of conversation do they have with each other ‘ Hi my Muslim brother, are you totally Shite or are from the Shire?’ Depending on the answer, if you get it wrong - you get hacked up whilst both scream the praises of some deity. Weird stuff.

Next door, across the Gonad’s heights, they are just as bad. There they wander about asking if you are ‘Askanasty’ or… ‘Orforafox’. The one lot claim they are progressive, the other claim to be stuck in time. They haven’t a clue if they are coming or going, but, as long as there are bombs – everything will sort itself out. (Reminds me of the Battle of the Somme. Just about sums it up.)

But when it comes to bombing Syria - I have my own beef about this because – the Yanks are getting on my nerves and it isn’t funny gas I am taking.

I am taking this personally now. The thieving robbers are having a merry time taking a third of my earnings (illegally) pop it into a cruise missile and intend to fire it off at loads of people who simply really want to just have a shit in peace or pieces and maybe in the Shire. Nuts, I tell you. I mean, if, and a big if, they painted my logo on the side and trailed a flag behind announcing, ‘Buy The Gokwe Kid, now available on Amazon. You have twenty seconds to order and read before this missile tears your, arms, legs and head off. We come in Peace.’ Well, maybe I am getting my monies worth.

But, hah-hah, a big but. Uncle Sam, who always has some deranged plan, will let you off if you sort of do some paperwork. Forget that the snoopers know you watch porn at least twice  a week. Oh no, if you can prove that you are not a Yank, live elsewhere and quite frankly can’t stand the bombing bastards – there is way to maybe, just maybe, stop them stealing your money.

Now, my budding writers, here is a link. This link will make you want to hang yourself. Don’t even bother clicking it on if you have no desire to write and bomb people. I do not blame you. Imagine our ‘good old days’. The Rhodesian government says to you –

‘Hey china, bomb two Gooks for free, the third one you pay.’ Huh! Does this make sense.

http://kareninglis.wordpress.com/tax/

Ranting and raving- always keep postings to small chunks. I not only know this, I advocate it. I would for a moment get off my high horse but unfortunately the critter fell over stoned and I was forced to crawl out under the stupid incoherent nagging neighing thing.

So, finally, in summary, for me to stop the Yanks bombing bastards at a third of MY time; I have to start by phoning Philadelphia. Sorry. What for? The only thing I know about that place is that they shot deers, got an Oscar - made people thin with some terrible germs you pick up via your anal orifice (and got an Oscar) and if you chew a piece of biltong, pretend you’re of Italian descent, stagger around getting the bejesus beaten out of you, and, yes you guessed it -you get an Oscar. And I must phone this place of freaks to ask for my money?

It gets worse. Loads of letters backwards and forwards (I am starting to get bored writing this), your passport lands up in…TEXAS. That’s the place where they chain saw people and then fry ‘em on a stool with a sponge on their head. And, this takes weeks and weeks. They take more time processing a simple tax exemption request than bombing and frying people. Ah, America - home of the free.

EISH!!!!