enid has moved

enid has moved. no, not to san francisco, but to http://www.enidd.com she's decided it's time to get out of rented accommodation and buy a place of her own. come over and say hi!

and, because there was someone else on the interweb called enid, she's had to spell her name differently too. she's now enidd with two d's, like pantyddafad.

good word, pantyddafad.

red nose day

if you're british or live in britain, or both, get your good socks on and send your funniest post off to mike at troubled diva. he's had a big idea, which really deserves capitals, but enid doesn't want to stop the habit of a blog-life.

next friday (march 16) is comic relief's red nose day. mike is going to assemble and publish – in the space of just seven days - a paperback anthology of blog writing that can be sold to raise funds for the charity. the book will be called shaggy blog stories: a collection of amusing tales from the uk blogosphere.

enid's already entered, cunningly giving herself a couple of days advantage over both her readers. get to it, mum and dad!

gravy ripple ice-cream

both of enid's readers have been pleading and pleading for her to share the disgusting game with them. readers, she wonders why you are so short of entertainment of an evening. don't you have television in england?

the disgusting game was named thus because it is disgusting and a game and enid is a very literal person. the idea is to invent the most disgusting dish in the world by combining foodstuffs that are not, in themselves, inedible. for example, gravy ripple ice-cream. just makes you want to rush off to baskin-robbins, doesn't it? here are a few more to help you get the idea, then please give enid a giggle and have a go yourself in the comments.

• tuna and snickers toasted sandwich


• liver and onion cheesecake


• oxtail pavlova


• kitkat in the hole


• cornish kipper cream tea (scones, kipper paste, clotted cream)


• steak tartare and custard


• tripe and onion crumble


• herring soufflé with hot fudge sauce


• black forest spam gateau


• peanut butter and peanut butter
  

black butts 2

you mad fools, you. you wanted more of black butts, and you shall have them. (if you've not read part one, you probably should. at least, if you want part two to make a little more sense than it otherwise might.)

SCENE 2. INT. TOM & HELEN'S LIVING ROOM DAY 2 [11:00]
HELEN IS SITTING ON THE FLOOR, LEANING AGAINST A PACKING CASE MARKED "BOOKS YOU DON"T REMEMBER BUYING" AND READING A RHYMING DICTIONARY. TOM ENTERS, CARRYING A BOX MARKED "JUNK”

TOM:
Where shall I put this?

HELEN:
What’s in it?

TOM:
(READS LABEL) Junk.

HELEN:
Most of them say "junk". I was packing the drinks cupboard when I did the labelling.

TOM OPENS BOX, PULLS OUT A DIABOLO, A BICYCLE SADDLE AND AN AMERICAN HAT.

HELEN:
(SURPRISED) Junk. It can go with the others in the spare room.

TOM’S IMAGINATION: SPARE ROOM AS BEFORE

TOM:
I’ll do it later.

WE HEAR OPERA IN THE BACKGROUND SWIFTLY FOLLOWED BY A VAN PULLING UP OUTSIDE.

HELEN:
Have you met the postman yet?

TOM:
The singing postman? I think it might be a local tradition – like a whistling policeman.

HELEN:
Laughing.

TOM:
No, you can’t laugh and whistle at the same time. (TRIES) See.

THE DOORBELL RINGS. HELEN OPENS THE DOOR TO THE POSTMAN.

POSTIE:
Hello and welcome to the area. I hope you’ll be happy here. But remember as Siegfried said: “Far away I shall be at home; your hearth is not my house, my shelter not your roof.”

HELEN:
Siegfried with the big white lions? I thought he was in hospital…

POSTIE:
No, the opera. (SINGS OPERATICALLY) “But a fish never had a toad for a father!”

HELEN:
Yes, scientifically speaking, it’s unlikely.

POSTIE:
Hmm, maybe it was Brunnhilde.

HELEN:
Maybe. Anyway, thanks for the parcel… And the welcome... And the opera.

POSTIE:
Well, you know what Puccini wrote in Madame Butterfly?

HELEN:
Surely he wrote all of it?

POSTIE:
No… well yes, but specifically: (SINGS AGAIN) “Bene arrivato. Bene arrivato.” Welcome sweet child, dearest one, don't cry, not for those croaking frogs.

HELEN:
Are you sure… yes, well, I’m sure you’re sure.

TOM JOINS HELEN AT THE DOOR AND SPOTS THE PARCEL.

TOM:
Oooh, those must be my new binoculars.

POSTIE:
Bird spotting?

TOM:
Vikings.

POSTIE:
Are they a rare kind of swift?

TOM:
No, you know, Scandinavians blowing big horns.

POSTIE:
I don’t deliver that kind of thing. Against Post Office regulations.

TOM:
No… I mean… what do you know about “The Ring?”

POSTIE:
And I certainly don’t do that kind of thing. Just because you like a nice bit of opera everyone thinks you bat for Huddersfield. For your information, I’m engaged to Sub Post Mistress Jones, and we’re hoping to get married once we can finally come to an agreement on whether to replace the Bridal March with an aria from “The Magic Flute” …

TOM:
Wagner’s opera.

POSTIE:
I think you’ll find Mozart wrote “The Magic Flute”, although at the Postal Service Opera Circle, some more radical elements suggest the tune was based on an earlier composition by…

TOM:
No, what do you know about Wagner’s opera “The Ring”?

POSTIE:
Ah. “Der Niebelung”: “Das Rheingold”, “Die Valkerie”, (GETTING EXCITED)“Gotterdammerung”…

TOM:
There’s no need to get tetchy. It can be dangerous in German.

POSTIE:
That’s not German, it’s opera… Well, it is German, strictly speaking, but more importantly it’s… opera… and I know because I happen to be South East Postal Service “Opera In their Eyes” champion three years running, or would have been if it wasn’t for… (TOM SLAPS THE POSTIE) Sorry, I do know a bit about Wagner. Why?

TOM:
I was wondering if there are any, kind of, um, “festivals”, or something, in the Norse calendar soon?

POSTIE:
Well, we’ve missed the one where they dress up as wolves and set fire to cats. The next one will be “Lithasblot”. Towards the end of “Gotterdammerung”. Or was it “Siegfried”? Fantastic vocal part for the fatter tenor. Of course, in 1972, when the…

TOM:
Shush. “Lithasblot”, you say?

POSTIE:
Yeah, Midsummer Festival, summer solstice and all that. They used to sacrifice their first born to the sun.

TOM LOOKS AT HELEN SMUGLY.

POSTIE:
(CONTINUING) Reminds me of Glyndebourne 1984. Me and my brother Tim had front row tickets, but they wouldn’t let him in, on account of him wheeling the barrow from both ends, if you get my drift. Well, you would, I suppose, being fond of the cricket yourself (WINKS). Of course, I just looked them in the eye and quoted well, sang, but in quotes if you will, from Gotterdammerung. Did I tell you I used to be a tenor, course I was a lot fatter then. You need a good bit of girth for…

TOM AND HELEN CLOSE THE DOOR IN HIS FACE.

SCENE 3. INT. TOM & HELEN'S LIVING ROOM DAY 2 [11:00]

TOM:
We have to do something

HELEN:
Yes, the poor baby!

TOM:
And East Anglia!

HELEN:
East Anglia? Yes, whatever, what do you suggest?

TOM:
If the Vikings are invading we should gather the women folk into the long house…

HELEN:
Tom!

TOM:
(CONTINUING) …and dig an extra ditch around the village.

HELEN:
Tom, that won’t work in this case.

TOM:
You’re right, you’ll need to fight with me and the village is too big to dig a ditch round, what with the new estate, and Sainsbury’s. Let’s take stock of the situation. If only Tony Curtis was here. Tell you what, let’s watch The Vikings again.

HELEN:
I’ve got it!

TOM:
No, it’s still in the DVD player. I was just about to watch the Director’s Cut version with the commentary by Lars Hefflgot, professor of Tony Curtis studies at Oxfordshire University. It’s on disk four of the special edition. Hefflegot is, of course, the proponent of the radical view that Curtis was reading from some off-cuts of the script to Sparticus in the latter scenes of Vikings. That’s why…

HELEN:
No, I know what we should do.

TOM:
Yes, I was saying, Professor Hefflegot has theories that Viking invasions in East Anglia stopped because there was a mix up in the script and everyone thought they were Roman slaves.

HELEN:
No, I know what we should do. Arrange to go down the pub with them. Have a chat.

TOM:
No long houses?

HELEN:
No.

TOM:
Or digging ditches?

HELEN:
No.

TOM:
No Viking stuff at all, in fact.

HELEN:
No. (SEEING TOM’S DISAPPOINTMENT) Well, not till after the chat anyway. You could go down with Olly first, get him on his own. And I’ll wander over later with Fiona, try to find out how she feels about her baby. Despite all your nonsense (TOM LOOKS AFFRONTED), I am a bit worried about the poor thing.

TOM:
Yeah yeah, me too. When we go to the pub, can I wear a Viking hat?

reader, why i married him

if you don't read usually dooce, you should read today's post. any blogger who can write "and so what if he’s good-looking, it won’t matter the first time you have to poop in a bucket" deserves five minutes of your blog-reading time. john, dooce's husband, is both good-looking and handy. the man, enid's husband is... fun to be with.

back in the old century, enid and the man left blackbutts cottages and moved into a newly renovated london flat. the builders had run out of money just after installing the taps and just before installing the bathroom light fittings, so showering was done by touch alone. the man had to leave shaving until the sun came up, which since it was england and december resulted in him getting a long ginger beard and a written warning from work.

he had to do something. he went to b&q and spent the annual income of a small african country on new tools. back on the job, he removed the face panel from the shaver point. then he cut a channel in the wall from the light down to the shaver point (necessitating a second trip to b&q - it is enid's rule of thumb that the smallest job done by a male shall require a minimum of two trips to the diy shop). finally he attached a wire to the light and laid it in the channel.

"do we really need a shaver point?" he asked enid.

"no," said enid, who's a girl and so forced by her genes to borrow the man's razor and blunt it on her legs in the shower.

the man plastered over the shaver point, then sanded his work at length, until the wall was perfectly flat and smooth. he bought a touch-up paint (the b&q staff were greeting him by name now) and carefully matched the new wall to the old. the job had taken all day, but the bathroom looked even better than before. enid was truly impressed.

until she flicked the switch for the light. it was off, and it stayed off.

the man had failed to connect his new wire to the shaver point. even worse, he'd not tested the light before doing all his meticulous re-plastering work.

sometimes enid wonders how he manages to run a small company. does he never forget to develop a small, but very important bit of the software?

enid and the man stayed in that flat two years. the light in the bathroom never worked.

p.s. enid hasn't forgotten she's letting you choose what she'll write next. (you can choose more of blackbutts, "the disgusting game" or a san francisco house update.) she'll post on your choice tomorrow, so please go and vote. twice if you like, enid likes to feel popular.

black butts 1

due to huge demand*, enid is going to share some of her and the man's comedy, "black butts." (named after the first house she and the man bought, a tiny mid-terrace victorian cottage in an english village not too far from london).

* that's you, tinks.

she's also going to give you the chance to vote on what she should write about tomorrow night. do you want

(a) news on the house purchase in california? (warning, there isn't much of it)
(b) an amusing piece about another of the man and enid's games, called "the disgusting game."
(c) more black butts?

onward and upward. here's the backgroundy bit to black butts, and then the start of the first episode.

Background

A week ago, Tom and his partner Helen moved into their new house - a mid-terraced cottage at the end of a cul-de-sac in [censored], Berkshire. Helen, 30, is a literal-minded science teacher who writes contrived poetry. Tom, 35, is a medical supplies salesman with a wild imagination. Tom’s view of the world is radically affected by what he watches on TV, reads in Hello magazine or even eats for breakfast. He meets his perfectly ordinary neighbours, and thinks that they are vampires, prophets, Norse gods or serial killers.

As the introductory titles roll, we see:

Tom is slumped on his settee watching “The Vikings” starring Tony Curtis on TV. A car pulls up outside and Tom’s next-door neighbour Fiona (25) gets out. She’s dressed like a hippy given carte blanche at Harvey Nicks. After she’s extracted two huge IKEA bags from the boot, the driver pulls away, but then stops and toots her horn, attracting Tom’s attention. Fiona dashes back to the car, and unclips her baby from the back seat.

As Tom’s film ends, Helen enters and waves a bottle of wine at Tom. Back outside, Fiona’s husband Oliver (28) gets into his Volvo. He’s a tall, heavily built Yorkshireman, and he’s wearing unflattering shorts. The car makes lots of ugly noises but fails to start. Oliver gets out, opens the bonnet and pulls about at bits of engine at random. Something big comes free in his hand. Oliver is furious – he beats the front of the car with his new weapon and then slings the engine-part over his shoulder and strides back inside. Tom sees Oliver’s silhouette – a Viking warrior, with a helmet and a huge axe.

SCENE 1. EXT. TOM AND HELEN’S BACK GARDEN. DAY 1. [15:00]

HIGH VIEW OF BOTH BACK GARDENS. TOM AND HELEN ARE SITTING AT A TABLE DRINKING WINE, HELEN IS WRITING. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE, UNSEEN BY THEM, FIONA IS READING “NEW WIKKA WOMAN” MAGAZINE. THE BABY IS IN A COT BESIDE HER. WE CLOSE IN ON TOM AND HELEN ONLY.

TOM:
No, this time I’m certain.

HELEN:
That our new neighbours…

TOM:
Odin and Freya.

HELEN:
Oliver and Fiona. Are Vikings.

TOM:
Yup, as certain as you’re sitting there writing… What are you writing?

HELEN:
It’s a poem about the futility of modern schooling. I’m trying to contrast the struggle of a modern science teacher, well, junior head of department actually, against the trials Galileo Galilei faced from the Catholic Church in fifteenth century Florence. I’m having trouble defining a lyrical yet scientifically accurate metaphor for…

TOM:
Good. I was saying about Odin

HELEN:
(SHARPLY) Yes. So you were claiming that Oliver

TOM:
Odin

HELEN:
Oliver is a Viking because he shouts a lot, drives a Volvo and wears a helmet with horns on.

TOM:
And Freya-

HELEN:
Fiona.

TOM:
Freya shops at IKEA.

HELEN:
Even though the hat

TOM:
Helmet.

HELEN:
I would say that there’s a high statistical likelihood that that helmet was an engine part - possibly a carburettor, or a big end.

TOM:
He does look like a Viking.

HELEN:
He looks like the fat one out of Abba.

TOM:
Agnetha?

HELEN:
Tom, let me get on with this poem – the deadline for the competition is tomorrow. Have you unpacked the box with the paper and envelopes and stuff yet? It’s in the spare room in a box marked “Junk”.

TOM:

(SCARED) No.

TOM’S IMAGINATION: THE SPARE ROOM IS DARK AND MENACING. THE CURTAINS BLOW AROUND BUT THE WINDOW ISN'T OPEN. RIDE OF THE VALKERIES IS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND. THE BOXES, ALL MARKED JUNK, ARE PILED HIGGLYDY-PIGGLEDY ALMOST TO THE CEILING. A HUGE TENTACLE COMES OUT OF ONE AND MOVES AROUND THE ROOM, SEARCHING.

HELEN:
There’s nothing in the spare room, Tom.

TOM:
Yes there is. That which cannot be named, Yog Sothoth, he who waits beyond. Vast, Polyphemus-like, and loathsome, it darts like a stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith of boxes, about which it flings its gigantic scaly arms, the while it bows its hideous head and gives vent to certain measured sounds…

AS TOM RANTS WE SWITCH TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE. OLIVER STRIDES DOWN THE KITCHEN STEPS, SLAMS THE DOOR BEHIND HIM AND THROWS A HUGE ENGINE PART ON THE GROUND.

OLIVER:
There you are! Fucking hell, Fiona, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

FIONA:
(MUTTERING) Breast toning exercises? With bells? Sorry, sweetie?

OLIVER:
Fee, the fucking car won’t start, I’m right fucked off with it. There’s more action in Stephen Hawking’s trousers. Fucking great fucking heap of fucking Scandinavian fucking shite.

FIONA:
(STILL LOST IN MAGAZINE) What? Has Magnus been on the curry again?

OLIVER:
No, the fucking Volvo. Bastard won’t start: absolutely cock-all happening in the engine department.

FIONA:
What’s up with it? What’s that wiggly spider thing?

OLIVER:
The wiggly spider thing is a distributor and it should not be on the fucking patio, it should be in the cocking engine delivering high bastard voltage to the spark twatting plugs. Something I’d like to do to the Scandie tosser who designed it. In layman’s terms, the bastard won’t start which means I can’t get into the office tomorrow, and I’ll get my arse reamed if I miss my bi-monthly inter-personal one on one performance review with Jim.

FIONA:
I’m sure it’ll be…

OLIVER:
Jeez, Fee, these days the bloody Scandies couldn’t win Eurovision never mind build a decent executive estate. All they’re good for is handing out dope to hippies and giving out degrees in arse like “Relationship Dynamics and the Emerging Socialist State”. To think they were once Vikings: pillaging and rapaging and generally scariging the shit out of everyone. Harder than fucking Yorkshiremen – now look at them, bunch of fucking uphill gardeners. (PAUSES) That Volvo’s a heap of shite, it’s time to trade up, Fee love.

FIONA:
Oooo, I always fancied one of those big German ones. BNPs. But we can’t afford a new car, can we, sweetie. I really don’t want to go back to work while I’m lactating…

OLIVER:
(INTERRUPTING) Yes, yes I know, but if we consider…

WE MOVE BACK TO TOM’S SIDE OF THE FENCE. TOM IS LOOKING TOWARDS OLIVER & FIONA WITH A WEIRD EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE.

HELEN:
(READING BACK TO HERSELF) “Oh, my sweet love, If I could keep safe, Each of your locks so fair, Then I would have, to take the population mean, Thirty-five million hair.” Hmm, it should be hairs, really.

OLIVER: (O.O.V)
(SHOUTING) No, we’ll show them what it’s like to be a Viking! We’ve got to make sacrifices!

TOM:
See! They are Vikings, I knew it!
TOM’S IMAGINATION: OLIVER & FIONA ARE DRESSING IN SKINS AND HELMETS, DANCING AND MAKING BATTLE CRIES AROUND A HUGE STONE TABLE ON WHICH LIES THEIR BABY, SCREAMING.

TOM:
They’re going to sacrifice the baby! We’ve got to do something!

HELEN:
(NOT CONVINCED) Yeah. Where’s the thesaurus?

TOM:
Not bad, Helen, not bad. Slight historical incongruity and possibly against the Geneva Convention, but you’re right, the only things harder than Vikings are dinosaurs. Where will we get them? I reckon we could extract dinosaur DNA from prehistoric flies trapped in amber…

HELEN:
No, Roget’s.

TOM:
Ah yeah, Roger Attenborough, the old guy who owns Jurassic Park? Brother whispers about birds and stuff, maybe he could bring sharks too?

HELEN:
Roget’s Thesaurus. The one with synonyms in.
TOM:
(TO HIMSELF) Don’t the pages stick together? (ALOUD) Ummmm, dunno, I’ve not seen it.

HELEN:
It’s in the spare room, isn’t it?

TOM:
Might be.

TOM’S IMAGINATION: SPARE ROOM AS BEFORE

TOM:
What’s up anyway? I might be able to help - I have a very large vocabulary.

HELEN:
Maybe. I’m getting a bit stuck with the middle bit -“Heartstrings tie in knots when they’re left in a drawer, Complexity of knots can be given a score. Most knots score a one, But some are just tangles, Their score is like one eighty minus the degrees in a triangle…s.” I’m trying to show what it’s like to be a maths teacher in love for the first time yet unable to demonstrate that love for fear of prejudicing one’s chances at promotion to junior head of department.

WE MOVE BACK OVER THE FENCE.

OLIVER:
OK, so we could stop buying those fluffy things for the baby.

FIONA:
Teddy bears?

OLIVER:
No, nappies. We’ll send him round to your mother’s to get cleaned up. (THINKS) …and fed.

FIONA:
We could stop eating meat. It’s ever so expensive and “New Wikka Woman” says a vegetarian diet is much kinder to your body, cleansing, you know? And it makes your chakra ever such a pretty shade of mauve…

OLIVER:
Fuck that. I’ll cut down on the fags and you can stop all that tantric bollocks you do on Thursday nights with that fucking hippy in the kaftan. Sold. Want to come to the BM dealership with me?

FIONA:
Oooh, Olly darling, fab!

OLIVER AND FIONA GET UP AND GO INTO THEIR HOUSE, LEAVING THE COT. A FAINT CRYING NOISE COMES FROM IT, BUT NEITHER OF THEM TURN ROUND. THE DOOR SLAMS BEHIND THEM.

the saga of hank continues

last wednesday, hank demonstrated his mastery of logic like this: "if he doesn't send 2,000 bucks, we'll never get to the usa. the landlord will throw us out and the baby will die. so i win."

"what sort of winning is that?" the man asked.

"pop doesn't get to see his grandson."

it's hard to argue with this kind of insanity, so the man didn't try.

rewind. in last month's thrilling episode, enid and the man had paid hank's rent to save his family from being evicted onto the snowy streets of kernib. the next time he saw hank, the man lectured him: "we're moving to the states in a month or two*, so you can't count on us paying you for much longer. anyway, you don't earn enough from a few hours' cleaning to pay for that flat. and we're not going to bail you out again, dead babies or no dead babies. so you've four weeks before you run out of money. either olga gets a job or you move somewhere cheaper. ideally back to dniperpropersk." (olga has a flat there, so there'd be no rent to pay.)

(*optimistic to spur hank on a bit. at this rate it will be next winter.)

so the weeks go by. does olga get a job? no, she wants to be an air hostess, and those kind of jobs don't come up too frequently. when enid suggests she should lower her expectations to, say, the usual level of people on planet kernib, hank agrees but says she has her heart set on it. enid suggests that a better plan might be setting her heart on not spending next month in a bus shelter.

do hank and olga go back to dniperpropersk? again, no. when the man asks why, hank responds that "olga doesn't want to." the man asks why olga prefers the prospect of sleeping on some icy kernib concrete to a comfy mattress in a warm room in dniperpropersk. hank treats this as a rhetorical question.

so what do hank and olga do? write to daddy, of course. hank sends an email to pop in west virginia demanding the cash to buy a spouse visa for olga so they can escape molvania. 2,000 bucks, he says.

pop, who has obviously known hank a little longer than enid and the man, asks for proof. in a surprise twist to the story, hank provides it. ok, says pop, i've sent you $1,500 already this year, so here's the extra $500.

of course, as enid's astute readers will guess from the need to bail him out, hank has already spent pop's $1,500. so here's a quick quiz for you. you're hank and you've been given $500. you're living in a flat whose monthly rental is $300 and your monthly income is $240. do you (a) move to a cheaper flat, rental $100, live off $120 (possible if not fun in kernib) and save the $500 towards escape to your homeland, mother of the free? or do you spend it on rental for your current place and a bit of high (well, less low) living?

(b), of course. which leaves us where we started - hank protesting that unless his father coughs up the whole sum, he'll never see his grandson. in fact, hank will renounce his us citizenship, and die in "this god-forsaken scumbag of a country." poor hank, enid thinks he's going mad. poor baby, with hank for a father. what should she do?

for those who are new to the hank story, here are parts one, two and three.

willy barber

the potential for comedy confusion is enormous. john the expat might glance up, chuckle at the name (these molvanians, never think about what anything might mean in english), and then stroll in for a hair cut.

but maybe, just maybe, the shop really is a willy barber...

john: "hi, willy?"

boris: "nyet, my name is boris. what you want?"

john: "err, i'd like something a bit hugh grant. kind of shortish at the sides with a long floppy fringe over the front."

bulwer lytton

enid's mission this fine and funny monday was to plumb the true depths of her lack of creative talent and invent a terrible opening sentence to a novel. what's so different to her usual postings, you're wondering. well, the difference is that this time it's a kind of competition, inspired by the humungously bad opening line of edward george bulwer-lytton's novel, paul clifford:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

here are enid's own rather poor attempts to do worse:

Smoking a last cigarette, the train swept thunderously past me into the station and, tossing my mane of red-gold curls so that the sun glinted on them enticingly, I wondered if Dante Birk-Polsworthy, the love of my life, whom I'd met only three months before outside the ladie's toilets in “The Frog and Bottle” in Islington, when he pushed past me mistakenly thinking it was the gents', would at last disembark and swallow me up into his manly embrace, like soft, white, doughy bread around the sausage in a hotdog?

“I've killed two birds with one stone!!!” he ejaculated with pride, but she knew he was talking arrant nonsense, because it couldn't possibly be possible to inject enough momentum into a stone to enable it to pass through the first bird and into the second, even if the first bird was a bird of diminutive size, such as a wren or a sparrow.


go over to min at mamadrama and have a hoot browsing the other entries.

the professionals?

enid's just read carpetblogger's great post on the boomtown similarity between baku and deadwood. in particular she says "But pretty much the biggest parallel between Baku and Deadwood is the social life. Other than drinkin' and whorin' there's not a lot to do in either place. Baku has all kinds of bars, as long as they are English, Irish, and Scottish, and any local woman out past 9 p.m. is likely to be a whore. Cognoscenti know that, with startling few exceptions, any bar that requires a descent of more than five steps doubles as a bordello."

this reminded enid of one of the man's early molvanian experiences.

it was january, the snow was falling and he and three colleagues were looking for a place to eat lunch. "this'll do," said his boss, hoohah, and bundled them all down a flight of steps and into the foyer of a restaurant.

"a table for four," hoohah demanded in english.

no reaction.

"four please," said the man, in russlish.

the staff continued to ignore them.

hoohah went up to demand a little attention (he's like that). the man took in his surroundings. the decor was plush and red. there was a cash machine. it looked like the waiting area of a curry house in suburban england - but big... very big. all the waitresses were wearing low cut, clingy red dresses and thigh boots. come to that, so were the “guests” lounging on the low seating at the edges of the room.

hoohah had failed to get the attention he needed, and was pushing through into the next room. "come on guys," he said. "if we sit down, they'll realise we just want some soup and a coffee."

the next room had no tables. it was just a corridor with rather too many doors off it.

“guys, we’re in a brothel,” the man said.

but hoohah was still trying to make his point to the increasingly confused madam. english had failed, so he fell back on sign language. pointing to his open mouth, he made a sucking noise like a very impolite person drinking soup.