As you all know, Marina the Nut lives and works in Germany, Europe, Third Rock from the Sun.
So many of her co-workers are Cancers and Leos, apparently, that for the past two or three weeks there has been cake almost every day on the occasion of somebody's birthday. They've been pulling a Laney on her! (That's short for Elaine Benes, obviously.)
Not that she minds!
Anyway, yesterday morning she received this e-mail from a colleague, sent to the whole floor:
Subject: Can it be true??
Yes it can!
Cake today at 3 p.m. at the usual place.
By 3p.m. the following sign had appeared hanging on the door to the “usual place”:
Cake we can believe in!
Who said they didn't have a sense of humor?
--
So the price of oil has been going up and up and up and tumbling down and up and down. Ask any smart-ass like us and they will tell you that, obviously, there are forces at work using aggressive speculation to push some players out of the market and create some kind of powerful elite or whatever. Nothing to do with real-time supply and demand. So now we told you and the world is smarter. So what? So what?
Can we do anything? No. Can you? We didn't think so.
Does this sound uncharacteristically depressing?
Oh, don't mind our moods. Something else is bothering us, really.
Nine months of labor on this blog to make Sven famous and... voilà. Mission accomplished. As you know, he has his own blog now. He's out there on his own! He doesn't need us anymore! ***sniff***sigh*** We need a purpose.
Should we give a golden apple to George W. Bush for saying Wall Street was a binge-drinker in a bad hangover? When he thought the world was not listening? Naahhh.. That would be like giving U2 a leaden cucumber for a second-rate bootleg recording.
Showing posts with label Germans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germans. Show all posts
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Amelican Plesidential Elections
Our notorious friend Biko the Azinuth, as much as he loathes blogging, he can't keep his mouth shut. You know that already. But we love his silly stories – fictional or not. The other day, for example, he was telling us what it was like to watch soccer – football, if you prefer – on TV in his home country, Belgium. Suppose you are watching on Belgian TV a Dutch team play against a German team and score a goal. The speaker will, as usual, rave about the beauty of it or highlight some dumb defense mistake or whatever. You can then instantly switch to a Dutch channel and watch the jubilations and then to a German one for some moaning. Sounds like good old innocent fun over little neighborhood rivalries! It's even better if, as a Belgian, you are watching a Belgian team score against, say, the Dutch, because you can switch to the Dutch channel and indulge in the misery you've just caused them. Unfortunately, you can do the same exercise when your team loses. If you are a masochist, that is.
A Belgian with good language skills can also follow the news that are broadcast in different neighboring countries – but that's less interesting, because there are no wars anymore. Who cares when the French are on strike and whether the number of registered unemployed Germans has dropped (because many sank into poverty instead)! As long as these two bits of information have nothing to do with each other, the entertainment element is lost and you'd better stick to the affairs that really affect you.
The extinction of war should account for the success, within Europe, of football and the Eurovision thong contest (or is it song contest?), at least to some extent. Hurrah and cheers for both of them then!
--
This bblogg, meanwhile, has been trying rEAl hArd to avoid talk of the American elections. Because there can't possibly be anything we could say that has not been said already. All day long, molning and evening, on TV and the pless and all alound us, Amelica votes, Amelica is plepaling fol elections. It's been years already, let's get it over with, please! Oh, it will be so great to finally have an American President again on this planet! We've been sitting on golden bananas -- and other fruit and veggies -- for ages! Why not award some already? For fear of inflation, that's why!
--
We've invented a new syndrome. The PMS, as in Pre-Menopausal Syndrome – the one that makes you enjoy Shoes and the City – or is it Sex and the City? Something like that. (Sorry, fans. Couldn't hold it back.)
--
Yes, we had some good coffee this weekend and we're ready for more! The only kinds of coffee that can do the trick in this heat are Italian freddo, for the refined palates, and Greek frappe, for the brutes whose top priority is really to stay conscious as the world melts into blazing numbness around them. Cool!
A Belgian with good language skills can also follow the news that are broadcast in different neighboring countries – but that's less interesting, because there are no wars anymore. Who cares when the French are on strike and whether the number of registered unemployed Germans has dropped (because many sank into poverty instead)! As long as these two bits of information have nothing to do with each other, the entertainment element is lost and you'd better stick to the affairs that really affect you.
The extinction of war should account for the success, within Europe, of football and the Eurovision thong contest (or is it song contest?), at least to some extent. Hurrah and cheers for both of them then!
--
This bblogg, meanwhile, has been trying rEAl hArd to avoid talk of the American elections. Because there can't possibly be anything we could say that has not been said already. All day long, molning and evening, on TV and the pless and all alound us, Amelica votes, Amelica is plepaling fol elections. It's been years already, let's get it over with, please! Oh, it will be so great to finally have an American President again on this planet! We've been sitting on golden bananas -- and other fruit and veggies -- for ages! Why not award some already? For fear of inflation, that's why!
--
We've invented a new syndrome. The PMS, as in Pre-Menopausal Syndrome – the one that makes you enjoy Shoes and the City – or is it Sex and the City? Something like that. (Sorry, fans. Couldn't hold it back.)
--
Yes, we had some good coffee this weekend and we're ready for more! The only kinds of coffee that can do the trick in this heat are Italian freddo, for the refined palates, and Greek frappe, for the brutes whose top priority is really to stay conscious as the world melts into blazing numbness around them. Cool!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wir haben das doch gewusst!
Yes, we are back! Hurrah! And yes, this is still an English-spoken bblogg. And yes, we still have a vision: Television.
On TV: a filthy-rich person, no pun intended, strolling about his vast veranda, looking over his vaster garden, being interviewed. He regrets, he says between cigar puffs, or blows, the existence of poor and ordinary people: He runs into them during his holidays in less vast places and that annoys and disgusts him. And why should ordinary people care? Contrary to germs, poor and ordinary people's existence is currently pretty well protected by law. And not all wealthy people are such sociopaths. What most wealthy people have in common is not arrogance, just a very protective attitude towards their wealth, often bordering to criminal negligence. What, you didn't know that?
When TV journalists (aka back-row C- students) don't count the blinks of, and innuendos between, presidential candidates (as opposed to, say, pay attention to what is being promised by said candidates, and keep the elected ones on the tip of their toes), they take baths with elephants to raise awareness -- and to display their muscular anatomy in wet T-shirts. We knew that already. We now also know, that when German journalists don't solve the world in long, fancy sentences and long, fancy words, they get easily shocked. So it turns out that thousands of rich Germans have been smuggling their money to bordering little tax havens. Oh, what blinding, deafening shock! Men from Mars, women from Venus, and journalists from unparallel universes. To their defense, it must be tiring for journalists to have to pretend they're clever all the time. They constantly have to defend themselves as they fail to remain within – let alone be ahead of – reality. That's when the big, loud, blinding headlines come: we are as shocked as you are!
OK, we understand. Pat on the back. The good news for the “ordinary” Germans is, there are enormous fines to be collected. The prospective magnitude of those well deserved fines is to drool over! The good bespectacled turtleneck's job is to propose constructive usage thereof. No? No. Stuck with principle and moral and daily witch quotas. Oh, lord. Platonic ideas won't put bread on the table and platonic love won't give you children – IVF aside. It's no secret, everybody knows, come on back to the war, etc.
--
Back to us!
We did not win the poster competition, but we are very proud of our creation. For more posters and the results go here!
Sven and RockFrog have a new friend, as we've mentioned already some time ago. His name is Frog Ted and he's quite the story teller! He kept Sven and RockFrog and other curious animals awake for two days and two nights when he arrived! Here's the evidence:
You can invite your own Frog Ted from Frog's Shop. Read more here!
Cheers!
--
PS: If you ended up here by googling “IVF+Germany”, our sincere apologies. Next time please try Yahoo.
On TV: a filthy-rich person, no pun intended, strolling about his vast veranda, looking over his vaster garden, being interviewed. He regrets, he says between cigar puffs, or blows, the existence of poor and ordinary people: He runs into them during his holidays in less vast places and that annoys and disgusts him. And why should ordinary people care? Contrary to germs, poor and ordinary people's existence is currently pretty well protected by law. And not all wealthy people are such sociopaths. What most wealthy people have in common is not arrogance, just a very protective attitude towards their wealth, often bordering to criminal negligence. What, you didn't know that?
When TV journalists (aka back-row C- students) don't count the blinks of, and innuendos between, presidential candidates (as opposed to, say, pay attention to what is being promised by said candidates, and keep the elected ones on the tip of their toes), they take baths with elephants to raise awareness -- and to display their muscular anatomy in wet T-shirts. We knew that already. We now also know, that when German journalists don't solve the world in long, fancy sentences and long, fancy words, they get easily shocked. So it turns out that thousands of rich Germans have been smuggling their money to bordering little tax havens. Oh, what blinding, deafening shock! Men from Mars, women from Venus, and journalists from unparallel universes. To their defense, it must be tiring for journalists to have to pretend they're clever all the time. They constantly have to defend themselves as they fail to remain within – let alone be ahead of – reality. That's when the big, loud, blinding headlines come: we are as shocked as you are!
OK, we understand. Pat on the back. The good news for the “ordinary” Germans is, there are enormous fines to be collected. The prospective magnitude of those well deserved fines is to drool over! The good bespectacled turtleneck's job is to propose constructive usage thereof. No? No. Stuck with principle and moral and daily witch quotas. Oh, lord. Platonic ideas won't put bread on the table and platonic love won't give you children – IVF aside. It's no secret, everybody knows, come on back to the war, etc.
--
Back to us!
We did not win the poster competition, but we are very proud of our creation. For more posters and the results go here!
Sven and RockFrog have a new friend, as we've mentioned already some time ago. His name is Frog Ted and he's quite the story teller! He kept Sven and RockFrog and other curious animals awake for two days and two nights when he arrived! Here's the evidence:
You can invite your own Frog Ted from Frog's Shop. Read more here!
Cheers!
--
PS: If you ended up here by googling “IVF+Germany”, our sincere apologies. Next time please try Yahoo.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
...but the heart and the stomach of a concrete rhino!
Dear readers, we are back. Back together, and back altogether.
We don't know what we were thinking and how we survived. Next time Roufa goes along with Mimi. By now we are like Siamese twins: We can't even walk straight when we are not together. It's ridiculous.
So Mimi could tell you about her adventures up in the mountains with the skiers and the snow. It was not Davos, but it was a professional affair nonetheless. She could make fun of all the big German men typing away on their minute Sony Vaio laptops. They looked like bears on children's bikes. It was a rather silly spectacle. Although she has but the weak and feeble body of a small non-German woman, Mimi is buying a minute Sony Vaio no more. Not after this.
Being away without a laptop, or a TV, or newspapers, she had no idea what was happening in the world. An avalanche rolling its way down the idyllic slopes would have been a hint. But there was no avalanche. Luckily!
Yeah, we could write about all that, but give us some time first to recover from the cruel separation. We are not fully ready to blog yet. We hope you'll understand.
We don't know what we were thinking and how we survived. Next time Roufa goes along with Mimi. By now we are like Siamese twins: We can't even walk straight when we are not together. It's ridiculous.
So Mimi could tell you about her adventures up in the mountains with the skiers and the snow. It was not Davos, but it was a professional affair nonetheless. She could make fun of all the big German men typing away on their minute Sony Vaio laptops. They looked like bears on children's bikes. It was a rather silly spectacle. Although she has but the weak and feeble body of a small non-German woman, Mimi is buying a minute Sony Vaio no more. Not after this.
Being away without a laptop, or a TV, or newspapers, she had no idea what was happening in the world. An avalanche rolling its way down the idyllic slopes would have been a hint. But there was no avalanche. Luckily!
Yeah, we could write about all that, but give us some time first to recover from the cruel separation. We are not fully ready to blog yet. We hope you'll understand.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Seascape with Tannenbaums
Hallo, dear friends! Here we are again, almost two weeks later and several eurodollars richer! It was not easy to post, though we did manage to hop hop on some of your websites and leave some comments here and there, which was fun.
Have we said already how thankful we are for the Mediterranean? The climate, the ancient civilizations, which have produced nutty people who talk in songs and who know what and how to cook? Yes, we have.
During this latest trip, we've made two new and important realizations:
One. Italians don't walk; they strut. They strut their stuff, like Little Jerry the rooster. We can't tell whether it's their shoes, or if they make shoes especially to bring out the better of their strut. The development of the two, shoes and strut, must have been the result of a mutual feedback process over the ages. We, for one, don't strut when we wear Italian shoes, or at least we don't think so. Do we?
Two. Santas look silly in the hot'n'sun. And we are not talking about Australian beach girls in red bikinis. Bearded, old, head-to-toe-in-red Santas in the sun look like a bad hallucination. Seascape with Cacti and Tannenbaum's.
Now this doesn't look silly at all in the sun:
Isn't this the perfect place for Sven to be! Naaaah... Knowing him, he prefers to hang out on our coffee table with RockFrog. Too much sun and too much family would get on his nerves and bring out the pricklier in him. Sven and RockFrog also like the Reading Hero Lounge and the DAFTS Gallery. Nature's not really their thing.
Frankly, as much as we respect it, nature's not really our thing either, outside the occasional romantic walk along obscenely non-virgin paths. There must be a reason why we don't live in caves anymore - but hey, that's us. We like our electricity outlets and we show them our appreciation by feeding them beautiful lamps. That is to say, we spent the better part of our fresh eurodollars on an Italian designer lamp. Never looked back. Always in the spirit of enjoying our money and our very, very bad eyesight while we can. Needless to say, we appreciate contact lenses too.
--
The Mediterranean is all fine and well, as long as you don't find yourself amid a minor crisis, like, say, a flight cancellation due to bad weather (2min of snowfall) at, say, a small airport in the south of Italy. The local victims of the cancellation tend to raise hell in their big, round a's and o's and i's that can only spell “panic” or “you are all idiots”. Heavens forbid, they will reach Milan three hours too late with the next flight. But what if you have to connect to an international flight and you miss home soooo very much? The airport employees appear astonished that such a problem exists and that it's actually them, not the gods, that can do something to help you. The paranoia of the crowds and the seemingly lobotomized staff must have been the divergent result of a mutual feedback process over the ages. Where are the Germans when you need them? Nowhere. No Lufthansa employees to be found in the south of Italy.
Why do you think it took Ulysses 10 years to reach home? He was stuck in the Mediterranean.
Our famous cousin, Marina the Nut, had a near-Ulysses experience amid a minor crisis, namely a flight cancellation due to bad weather, at a small airport in the south of Italy.
After wedging her way through the “you're all idiots” opera, and trailing an AirOne employee “that looked as stupid as Nicolas Cage” for four hours (being a Mediterranean Nut herself, she knew what she had to do), little Marina the Nut managed to “get the hell out” of that stupid little airport and on a late flight to Rome, with a promise, via telephone, for a seat on the first Lufthansa flight to Germany early the next morning. She blew the better part of her then fresh eurodollars, to spend what was left of the night in the only hotel in Roma Airport, the Hilton “Bed and Shower”, as she likes to call it now. 180 euros, you do the math. It was the most expensive shower she's ever had.
Have we said already how thankful we are for the Mediterranean? The climate, the ancient civilizations, which have produced nutty people who talk in songs and who know what and how to cook? Yes, we have.
During this latest trip, we've made two new and important realizations:
One. Italians don't walk; they strut. They strut their stuff, like Little Jerry the rooster. We can't tell whether it's their shoes, or if they make shoes especially to bring out the better of their strut. The development of the two, shoes and strut, must have been the result of a mutual feedback process over the ages. We, for one, don't strut when we wear Italian shoes, or at least we don't think so. Do we?
Two. Santas look silly in the hot'n'sun. And we are not talking about Australian beach girls in red bikinis. Bearded, old, head-to-toe-in-red Santas in the sun look like a bad hallucination. Seascape with Cacti and Tannenbaum's.
Now this doesn't look silly at all in the sun:
Isn't this the perfect place for Sven to be! Naaaah... Knowing him, he prefers to hang out on our coffee table with RockFrog. Too much sun and too much family would get on his nerves and bring out the pricklier in him. Sven and RockFrog also like the Reading Hero Lounge and the DAFTS Gallery. Nature's not really their thing.
Frankly, as much as we respect it, nature's not really our thing either, outside the occasional romantic walk along obscenely non-virgin paths. There must be a reason why we don't live in caves anymore - but hey, that's us. We like our electricity outlets and we show them our appreciation by feeding them beautiful lamps. That is to say, we spent the better part of our fresh eurodollars on an Italian designer lamp. Never looked back. Always in the spirit of enjoying our money and our very, very bad eyesight while we can. Needless to say, we appreciate contact lenses too.
--
The Mediterranean is all fine and well, as long as you don't find yourself amid a minor crisis, like, say, a flight cancellation due to bad weather (2min of snowfall) at, say, a small airport in the south of Italy. The local victims of the cancellation tend to raise hell in their big, round a's and o's and i's that can only spell “panic” or “you are all idiots”. Heavens forbid, they will reach Milan three hours too late with the next flight. But what if you have to connect to an international flight and you miss home soooo very much? The airport employees appear astonished that such a problem exists and that it's actually them, not the gods, that can do something to help you. The paranoia of the crowds and the seemingly lobotomized staff must have been the divergent result of a mutual feedback process over the ages. Where are the Germans when you need them? Nowhere. No Lufthansa employees to be found in the south of Italy.
Why do you think it took Ulysses 10 years to reach home? He was stuck in the Mediterranean.
Our famous cousin, Marina the Nut, had a near-Ulysses experience amid a minor crisis, namely a flight cancellation due to bad weather, at a small airport in the south of Italy.
After wedging her way through the “you're all idiots” opera, and trailing an AirOne employee “that looked as stupid as Nicolas Cage” for four hours (being a Mediterranean Nut herself, she knew what she had to do), little Marina the Nut managed to “get the hell out” of that stupid little airport and on a late flight to Rome, with a promise, via telephone, for a seat on the first Lufthansa flight to Germany early the next morning. She blew the better part of her then fresh eurodollars, to spend what was left of the night in the only hotel in Roma Airport, the Hilton “Bed and Shower”, as she likes to call it now. 180 euros, you do the math. It was the most expensive shower she's ever had.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Beautiful Little Germans #1
In Don DeLillo's “White Noise”, Jack has named his first son Heinrich, in order to render him invincible. A person with such a name, he felt, nobody and nothing could ever touch. Jack is a Professor of Hitler Studies at the College on the hill and, if we are to accept the view of a colleague of his, with his very choice of subject Jack hoped to defy death himself.
There is something about the German language. Once you've made your statement in German, it is final, and nobody can challenge it any more. One can agree, or try to refute, but clarity is not to be escaped, if the Teutonic exchange is to carry on. Having built your thought in German means you have made sure, that all your carefully chosen words have fallen into their age-old places in the sentence, bearing the gravitas of ancient rocks, of monumental meteorites emplaced on a dry river bed a thousand years ago.
Jack could not speak German for sour apples.
But our notorious cousin – who lives in Germany and whose name we shall not reveal this time, because we have received threats – can! She actually claims that the Germans are very sweet people and very tolerant towards her grammar mistakes. When she expresses a request in a shop, for example, the sales assistant will repeat her request in correct German and then proceed to fulfilling said request with the utmost efficiency. Because being correct is more important than being polite. Besides, a correct request means better chances to reach a correct result – and on top of that, thanks to all those corrections, she-who-we-shall-not-speak-of gets the chance to improve her German. Win-win!
Of course we visited our cousin during the Weltmeisterschaft 2006. It was great fun! Even the weather was unbelievably great! And every time a match ended, part of the population took to the streets honking and waving flags of the winner country in joy and granfaloony! Because you will find people from all nationalities living in Germany. Germans appear to be a minority in their own country. There was a funny spot on German TV (they are fun loving people too): a German went to work at a Turkish kebab place, but it was a disaster, because he couldn't tell his tash-kebab from his sish-kebab, his chicken from his lamb. The gloomy voice-over warned: Did you know that more than 60 million Germans do not speak Turkish?
Our cousin reports that hosting the 2006 FIFA World Cup did wonders for the psychology of the country. Opening up to the world for all the right reasons! Finally, World War II could stay where it belonged – the Last Century. Finally, the black-and-white documentaries that haunted state TV night after night after night, were brought to a halt. Hurray!
We have very fond memories ourselves, but now and then we like to make fun of the little Germans, out of impetus, momentum, compulsion if you like, and we don't mean harm. The old clichés are itching. After this disclaimer, let us share with you a few related one-liners made in our household. Enjoy! And if you are German, remember – it is out of love!
--
RTG said: “German is not a language – it's a martial art!”
RTG on a wild improvisation spree about a dermatologist: “As a German doctor, his specialization is whip scars. In fact, latex allergies and whip scars!”
and continued: “he also has a surgical specialty: tattoo transplants!”
Woman on TV: “This depression gave me the strength to work” RTG said: “This is just the German business model.”
From The Xenophobe's guide to the Germans: “In Germany, humor is no joking matter.”
Ohne Komment:
-Sprechen Sie Englisch? Mein Deutsch ist ein Bisschen kaput.
-Aber kaput Deutsch sprech'ich doch! Kaput Deutsch ist kein Problem!
There is something about the German language. Once you've made your statement in German, it is final, and nobody can challenge it any more. One can agree, or try to refute, but clarity is not to be escaped, if the Teutonic exchange is to carry on. Having built your thought in German means you have made sure, that all your carefully chosen words have fallen into their age-old places in the sentence, bearing the gravitas of ancient rocks, of monumental meteorites emplaced on a dry river bed a thousand years ago.
Jack could not speak German for sour apples.
But our notorious cousin – who lives in Germany and whose name we shall not reveal this time, because we have received threats – can! She actually claims that the Germans are very sweet people and very tolerant towards her grammar mistakes. When she expresses a request in a shop, for example, the sales assistant will repeat her request in correct German and then proceed to fulfilling said request with the utmost efficiency. Because being correct is more important than being polite. Besides, a correct request means better chances to reach a correct result – and on top of that, thanks to all those corrections, she-who-we-shall-not-speak-of gets the chance to improve her German. Win-win!
Of course we visited our cousin during the Weltmeisterschaft 2006. It was great fun! Even the weather was unbelievably great! And every time a match ended, part of the population took to the streets honking and waving flags of the winner country in joy and granfaloony! Because you will find people from all nationalities living in Germany. Germans appear to be a minority in their own country. There was a funny spot on German TV (they are fun loving people too): a German went to work at a Turkish kebab place, but it was a disaster, because he couldn't tell his tash-kebab from his sish-kebab, his chicken from his lamb. The gloomy voice-over warned: Did you know that more than 60 million Germans do not speak Turkish?
Our cousin reports that hosting the 2006 FIFA World Cup did wonders for the psychology of the country. Opening up to the world for all the right reasons! Finally, World War II could stay where it belonged – the Last Century. Finally, the black-and-white documentaries that haunted state TV night after night after night, were brought to a halt. Hurray!
We have very fond memories ourselves, but now and then we like to make fun of the little Germans, out of impetus, momentum, compulsion if you like, and we don't mean harm. The old clichés are itching. After this disclaimer, let us share with you a few related one-liners made in our household. Enjoy! And if you are German, remember – it is out of love!
--
RTG said: “German is not a language – it's a martial art!”
RTG on a wild improvisation spree about a dermatologist: “As a German doctor, his specialization is whip scars. In fact, latex allergies and whip scars!”
and continued: “he also has a surgical specialty: tattoo transplants!”
Woman on TV: “This depression gave me the strength to work” RTG said: “This is just the German business model.”
From The Xenophobe's guide to the Germans: “In Germany, humor is no joking matter.”
Ohne Komment:
-Sprechen Sie Englisch? Mein Deutsch ist ein Bisschen kaput.
-Aber kaput Deutsch sprech'ich doch! Kaput Deutsch ist kein Problem!
Friday, October 19, 2007
Blogging was not invented in France
In the following we quote the new finance minister of France remembering her good old days at Baker & McKenzie with nostalgia:
"The more hours you worked, the more hours you billed, the more profit you could generate for yourself and your firm. That was the mantra."
Well, she's now in a position to work her frustrations on the French people. This Delphine-Roux-success-story – who still cannot argue with a cabdriver, let alone the French unionists -- went on to deliver the following punch-line and find her place in stand-up politics:
"What was really striking to me when I came back from Chicago in 2005 was that the law on the 35-hour week had passed and [...] had produced disastrous effects. [...] People did not really talk about their work. They talked about their long weekends."
Anyway, this week's Golden Banana goes to Christine Lagarde and Roger Cohen for this.
--
With this and with that we wish you a lovely weekend. Of course we won't be blogging during the weekend, we keep it for when we suffer the office bore-out. So here's your homework: recite ten times and upload to your blog the following Blackadder moment:
"I've no desire to hang around with a bunch of upper-class delinquents, do twenty minutes' work and then spend the rest of the day loafing about in Paris drinking gallons of champagne and having dozens of moist, pink, highly experienced French peasant girls galloping up and down my - hang on..."
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