The Irish Question

Like countless politicians before me, I find myself faced today with the Irish Question. But for once, Home Rule is not the issue at hand; neither is the economic viability of an Irish Free State. Today, there are far graver considerations pressing to be solved, namely: how the FUCK am I supposed to squeeze out 5000 words on a group of poets whose combined output is drier than the Famine-ravished Irish soil? At least I can seek solace in next term's reading: Dombey and Son, Dickens' 900-page celebration of the many excellent varieties of linen and leather upholstery available in London.

In other news, I think senile dementia has finally come to claim my father.

D: Do you want any gravy?
L: ... No.
D: All right.
L: Gravy's not vegetarian, Dad.
D: [Pause.] I said all right!
L: But why did you offer it to me?
D: You can get vegetarian gravies.
L: But... you haven't.
D: No, but you can.
L: But you haven't.
...
D: Well, I like it.

Is it any wonder the youth of today are disillusioned?


And finally, some amusing mistranslations from around the world.

In a Yugoslavian hotel: The flattening of underwear with pleasure is the job of the chambermaid.
A sign posted in Germany's Black Forest: It is strictly forbidden on our black forest camping site that people of different sex, for instance, men and women, live together in one tent unless they are married with each other for that purpose.
Advertisement for donkey rides in Thailand: Would you like to ride on your own ass?
In the office of a Roman doctor: Specialist in women and other diseases.
In an Acapulco hotel: The manager has personally passed all the water served here.
From a brochure of a car rental firm in Tokyo: When passenger of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage then tootle him with vigour.
In a Belgrade hotel elevator: To move the cabin, push button for wishing floor. If the cabin should enter more persons, each one should press a number of wishing floor. Driving is then going alphabetically by national order.
In a Japanese hotel: You are invited to take advantage of the chambermaid.
On the menu of a Polish hotel: Salad a firm's own make; limpid red beet soup with cheesy dumplings in the form of a finger; roasted duck let loose; beef rashers beaten up in the country people's fashion.

New Kid on the Blog

This is my new blog.

Well, in my quest to open with something contentious, provocative and even incendiary, I seem to have fallen at the first hurdle. It's probably customary at this stage in the proceedings to declare my deepest hopes that you will find the blog enjoyable, satisfying, entertaining, fulfilling, self-actualising, edifying, delightful, moist and so forth, and that the blog will find you happy, healthy, bonny, blithe, good and gay; except I don't know who you are, so I have no such hopes.

Bye.