Monday, December 18, 2006

Hellblock 13

Amsterdam. City of beautiful canals. Replete with wonderful museums. Chock-a-block with top nightspots and cafes where one can procure the finest hallucinogenics and undergo an uplifting, life-changing experience.

But why bother indulging in any of these pleasures when you can stay in your friends' house all night and watch Hellblock 13 on the horror channel? This film has it all. Zombies that giggle like little children will brutally stabbing innocent teenagers whose only crime is to wear bobby sox after 10pm. Gratuitious nude scenes. Men with large walrus moustaches who drink witches' poisons and swell up into giant pus balls. Acting that is worthy of a special school's christmas theatre production. Women who trip over carelessly discarded pizza boxes will running away from giant beer-drinking mutant scotsmen capable of knocking heads off with one swipe of their hairy neanderthal paws.

I've often harboured ambitions of writing a screenplay that defines the human condition and opens up everyone's mind to the prospect of a future together, living in peace as a race united, not divided. I no longer feel this is necessary. The creators of Hellblock 13 beat me to it.

I hail their visionary genius.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

A sight to behold

You often see more than you want to when you go to the baths in Budapest: old men that look naked because their beer bellies are hanging over their speedos and old ladies who find it difficult to keep their sagging assets penned into the swimsuits are pretty normal sights.

However, today not only took the biscuit, it took the entire biscuit tin, dipped all the biscuits in everyone's tea and then lifted twenty quid from granny's purse on the way out the door for good measure.

Natalie's mum, Valerie, is visiting and we took her to Széchenyi. We had just got changed and were walking out when I noticed a rogue testicle. I just assumed that the fragile old fella it belonged to was being a little casual. Then I got closer and realised several things simultaneously.

1. His briefs were two sizes too big for him.
2. They were see-through.
3. There was a huge rip in back, rather like the flap on a pair of wild west longjohns that had been left unhinged.

All this conspired to give a perfect view of his meat and two veg from behind as he strolled to the changing rooms.

Welcome to Hungary, Valerie.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

The Hungarian Sea

This may seem like blasphemy to many Hungarians, but I went to Lake Balaton for the first time at the weekend after almost two years in Hungary.

In my defence, I didn't go because people kept telling me it wasn't worth it. I heard stories of muscle-bound buffoons in the world's tightest speedos parading their overwhelming muscles and underwhelming chipolatas up and down the strand, noisy kids running about and contributing their nasty toxic wee to the already mucky water, and lots of geriatric Germans putting their towels out on the waterfront (oooh, stereoptyping) in order to book a place to indulge in their penchant for public scatalogical sex - you know, drinking each other's wee and pressing their faces eagerly against the underside of a glass coffee table as their partner squeezes out a big log.

OK, so I made the last one up.

Anyway, I have to say that I was very pleasantly surprised by Balaton. It wasn't too busy, the water was lovely - I even enjoyed Zsolt kicking my arse at water polo - and I had a lovely greasy Lángos for lunch. It wasn't at all like Butlins or the caravan parks in Arbroath where my mum took me on holiday as a kid and made me swim in the freezing cold outdoor swimming pool and pick whelks until my fingers bled.

The worst thing about my childhood holidays wasn't picking the whelks, though, it was having to eat the slimy mess all boiled up at the end of the day.

So, Balaton in summary: no whelks, no sexually-perverted German pensioners and no nasty muscle boys with willies no bigger than whelks.

I think that should be Balaton's slogan for the next tourism campaign.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

The new face of P-Mate unveiled


Michelle, my lovely sister-in-law will be selling the P-Mate( at this year's T in the Park in Glasgow.

Please support her by buying as many as possible. Even if you are a bloke it could be useful, for example if you only have a chippolata and wish to preserve your modesty in public places.

Perhaps she can also bring some of them over to Sziget and make a few bob.

Anyway, here she is (pictured left) demonstrating both the new product and attempting to make a standing-up-like-a-man-and-having-a-piss face. It needs a bit of work, but I think she's almost there.

Genetically gay

Interesting article on the BBC:

This scientist is claiming that male homosexuality is genetic, and this caught my attention because of a picture I saw of the Gay Pride march in Budapest at the weekend: two men holding up a placard proclaiming "We were born this way".

To me, that seemed almost like an apology to the straight community for being gay - "I'm sorry, but I was born like this and there is nothing I can do to change it". It shouldn't matter whether somebody came out the womb gay, became gay due to upbringing or simply made a lifestyle choice. Straight people should just accept that people can do what they want with their own sexual organs, and I don't think that gay people should have to justify their choices or existence by proving they were genetically set up that way.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Bush and his dodgy comparisons

Normally I try to keep this blog as peurile as possible as I suspect the few people who read it don't really care about my opinions on politics, etc, but I went along to cover Dubya's speech in Budapest yesterday and a few things struck me.

The first was that his comparison of the 1956 revolution and Hungary's eventual transition to democracy with the situation in Iraq didn't stand up. The US left Hungary to its own devices in 1956, allowing the Soviets to roll in and crush the revolution without lifting a finger. Bush held Hungary up as an example for Iraq, but Iraq's "revolution" came about after the US invaded. If Bush really wanted Iraq to follow Hungary's example, shouldn't he just have left them alone and allowed them to get rid of the dictator themselves? The whole event smacked of an excuse to justify Iraq and the soundbite speech was liberally peppered with the usual references to liberty, freedom and God.

Secondly, I can't help but feel Bush is as much a victim of the climate of fear the US stokes up around terrorism as the ordinary punter. The security around the event was as tight as a gnat's chuff - although I have to admit the US secret service guys were very friendly and professional, unlike some of the jobsworth Hungarian police. I missed the first event after a local copper refused to let me cross the chain bridge - even with all my valid accreditation - and forced me to take a 40-minute detour. It was no surprise that the secret service (I'll refrain from shortening it to SS, as that would be unfair) wouldn't let me in because I was late. Bush probably can't take a dump without someone having to shine a torch up his cavity to check for suicide bombers. I don't think I would want to live that way. And even with all the security, there were glitches: most noteably two old drunks swigging from a bottle in an area of the Gellert Hill that was allegedly secured.

It was interesting how jumpy the crowd was, though. At one point, as Bush was speaking at the top of the hill, a plane flew overhead through the clouds. The engines were very loud, and a lot of Hungarian dignitaries (and journalists such as myself) glanced up, half-expecting to see a plane dive-bombing straight at the podium.

Some of the bowing and scraping from Hungarian politicians was pretty impressive as well. One prominent MSZP figure grabbed Bush's hand with two of his own and almost bent double as he greeted him. He looked like a leper thanking Jesus for curing him.

All in all, Bush had a bit of an easy ride the whole day. The next time he wants a nice PR opportunity with no grief, I'm sure he will know where to come.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Got to admire their balls

You have to admire the ambition of these two guys and their make a million plan, although I'm a little unconvinced about their chances of selling:

However, I hope they do sell it, if just to remove 1 million dollars from some large corporation's sweaty paws.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Death metal band

As I type there is a death metal band playing in the car park outside my office. I shit you not. They have cleared the cars and set up a stage, and there are many bearded, spotty and black-clad youths moshing in the rain. And that's just the girls (boom-boom). One of the blokes was wearing a t-shirt with the slogan "Smoke crack and worship satan", which might give you an idea of where the bands are coming from.

So far they have played two songs. As far as I can tell, the first one was called "Blllooooaarrrghhh, blaaaaaaaghhhhh, Saaaaaataaaannnn!" and the second one was called "Grooooooowwwwl, Blooooooarrrgggh, Bloargh!!!"

The windows are vibrating. I can only hope for an electrical fault and a mass-electrocution brought on by the rain , which could well be taken as divine intervention against the satanists.

Actually, the third song has begun. It's called "Bo-wahhh, bo-wahhhh, bo-waaaaaaaaaarrrrggGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!". I quite like this one.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Plant plucking neighbour from hell

Loathe as I am to seem as though I am obsessed with nénis (the second largest plague and threat to civilisation as we know it next to zombies) I still can't believe what the old woman next door has done.

We came back from Paris to find that several of our plants had been plucked out and callously left to die, withered and unloved, beside the pot on the balcony. At first I thought that somebody just didn't like us, but then as I was leaving for work yesterday morning, I bumped into my next door neighbour.

She started off by saying how well my plants were doing, but then pointed out that some of them were weeds. She then plunged her gnarled old fingers into one of the plantpots and whipped out a plant in front of my eyes, proclaiming it be a weed. Now, I have to admit that I'm no plant expert, and maybe it was a weed, but the point is it was my weed. For all she knows, I'm trying to grow weeds. As I started trying to fend her busy hands off the other plants, the other nosy neighbour joined in and pointed out that around half of the other plants were surplus to requirements.

Personally, I'd rather wait and see how they turn out, as some of them look like they could be nice weeds. Am I going to have to carry out my threat of building an electric fence around the plant pots? Find something to do apart from playing cheesy songs on the organ at full volume and killing my plants, you old BAG!

OK, I didn't say that to her, as she is generally nice and has been bringing over pálinka, wine and food. Still, that doesn't give her the right to murder my plants.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

I am a big shitbag

I realise that what I'm about to say makes me sound like a big shitbag - which I guess is OK because that's what I am - but I really don't like flying. I could claim that it's the crying babies, the elbow wrestling for that single skinny armrest between the two seats or the horrible artificial atmosphere, but in reality I'm afraid of plunging screaming to my death in a huge fireball.

We had some fairly nasty turbulence on the way from Paris to Budapest on Sunday, and I have to admit I shat not just a brick, but an entire building site replete with hairy-arsed builders shouting sexual abuse at women, illegal immigrants working on dodgy scaffolding and many a wheelbarrow.

Frankly, I can do without being reminded that I am in metal bullet tearing through the sky and very much pinning my hopes on the mechanics not having forgotten to tighten that all-important bolt. I am considering starting a petition to ban turbulence, or at least to have heavy-duty sedatives available at the airplane entrance instead of newspapers.

Considering this background, imagine how I feel about having to fly Tajik airlines in September this year. I'm very much looking forward to the Habitat for Humanity house build in Tajikistan, but I suspect the building site I plopped out may well be dwarfed by the pants-kakking I will be doing on an ancient Soviet aircraft.

Not as evil as I thought

Believe it or not, I went to church on Sunday (not by personal choice and not as a means of worship), and I wasn't repelled at the front door by a large flash of lightning. I'm rather disappointed, as this means I'm not being evil enough. I'll need to start hatching plans to up my evil quotient. Maybe I should get an upside-down cross tattooed on my forehead. Mind you, the only problem with that is if I stand on my head it won't be satanic any more. I wonder if this is a probable for satanic gymnasts, or for Christian gymnasts for that matter? Tumbles could be very confusing: evil, good, evil, good, evil, good.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Farewell to Arthur Daley

And so, farewell to Stephen (name changed to protect the identity in case the coppers are in tow), Budapest's answer to Arthur Daley. He is finally, for the last time, honest governor, leaving town to go back to London, where he will probably be exchanging large dollops of filthy lucre with shady-looking characters up back alleys for a living.

Stephen is the man whose various enterprises have included flying to Switzerland to fill his suitcase up with duty-free fags to sell on in the UK, driving a Rolls Royce across Europe to flog it in Budapest (still looking for a buyer) and various other slightly-dubious-but-probably-not-worth-a-year-in-jail-locked-up-with-a-serial-killer type transactions.

If Budapest wasn't so hot, he would have been wearing a sheepskin jacket.

Thanks for the farewell barbecue, Stefan, I mean Stephen, and I look forward to seeing you in handcuffs on TV being taking to jail after defrauding some rich middle-class old lady out of her nest egg.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Prepare...before they strike

I received possibly the greatest present known to humankind at the weekend. I'm not talking about the gift of love, or friendship, or any of that namby-pamby nonsense. I'm talking about a practical book that could one day save my life: The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.

I would urge everyone who cares about ensuring the future safety of themselves and their family to rush out and buy this book now. It is eye-opening. Zombies are OUT THERE! And they are ready to STRIKE AT ANY MINUTE! I can't believe there has been so much media hysteria over Bird Flu, Iran and Bin Laden when the largest threat to the world as we know it is being overlooked. Don't delay. Invest in your future and buy this book today (even though it doesn't have a section on Zombie Cows).

Nats is now possibly in for Wife of the Year award, as long as my other three don't do anything outstanding before the ceremony.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Grin and bear it

They have found a really rare type of bear up in Canada; it's the first grizzly polar crossbreed to have occcurred in the wild. How did they find it? Because somebody shot it dead. For fun. Way to go, redneck!

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Attention all Hungarians!!!

Concrete is not a plant. If you water the pavement outside of your shop, it will not grow. The same goes for the stairs at metro stations. The only effect this has is to wet the shoes of passers-by, which do not grow either. Please stop before I take the hosepipe off you, shove it up your bum and let it run until you swell up to the size of Jo Brand.

Thank you.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Bird flu scandal rocks 8th district

Bird flu is here amongst us, right in the middle of the city, and the government are doing nothing. I just walked past a dead pigeon, lying right in the middle of the street, with no obvious signs of death by car or mauling by cats. Therefore, it must be BIRD FLU. AAAHHHHHHHH!!! FUCKING HELL! SOMEBODY SAVE US!

There is not one man in a white suit with a large stick to collect it, or a space-age like tent cordoning off the dead bird. I'm not waiting: I'm going to start culling, from my window, with a large blunderbuss that I found in the cellar (which will make a satisfyingly colourful splat of the pigeons, kind of like a firework, only with entrails). I'm also considering culling the dog-owners that let their pooches push out plentiful poop onto the streets.

I never used to kill anything. I used to take ants and cockroaches outside on pieces of paper, but ever since having a moth and cockroach infestation I've gone a bit P-S-Y-C-H-O. I conservatively estimate that I've killed about 200 moths in the last month, and maybe a few less cockroaches.

The moths go into the hoover, which seems to be the best way to get them. Actually, the same principle would probably apply to the pigeons, if I could get a big enough hoover. Not sure about the dog-owners, though.

Anyway, how do we assign value to a life (he says, stroking his beard thoughtfully, before taking off his sandals, lighting an incense stick and settling down to some erotic eastern massage)?

Obviously, MY life is worth more than everyone else's, because I am ginger and therefore genetically superior to everyone, but why should people be able to kill a moth without guilt or consequence, but go to jail for choking someone to death with a particularly large and slippery dog turd. Is that fair? Is it about size? If that's the case, is it OK to shoot someone when they're really far away, because they look small?

I'm now off to my weekly Sociopaths' currant bun social evening.

Friday, April 28, 2006

How I broke my glasses

Kat wants to know how I broke my glasses, so here is the absolutely 100%-true version of how it happened:

Bobbing for lobsters is a popular hobby in Hungary and since the arrival of democracy in 1990 exuberant Hungarians have used it to celebrate a successful election. This year a huge lobster-bobbing pot - containing around 1000 lobsters - was set up in Heroes' Square after the Socialists came to power and bobbers had to launch themselves into the pot from the top of a bungee crane. The person who pulled out the most lobsters after 10 attempts won a threesome with top celebrity couple Viktória Swinger (Hungary's top porn actress) and reality TV-show star and love rat Győzike.

The contest was tense and I was one lobster off victory, with eight out of nine. However, there was only one left: a vicious specimen called "Big Red". I poised at the edge of the precipice and fixed my sights on the lobster. The crowd fell silent and flashbulbs popped as I leapt from the crane. As soon as I left the platform I knew my aim was perfect. Unfortunately, Big Red saw me coming. As soon as my head entered the water, he lashed out with his massive claws, snicking off my specs with one and Bobbiting me with the other.

As I was fished out of the bloody pool to be rushed to hospital to have my love truncheon sewn back on, I saw Viktor Orbán - Hungary's long time lobster-bobbing champion and leader of the right-of-centre Fidesz party - dance up and down in triumph. He scooped a very commendable nine lobsters. To be honest, I didn't feel too bad, as he had to win something this week, and at least we avoided having to go through the whole charade of Orbán claiming bobbing-fraud and demanding a recount.

Luckily, I only got a local anaesthetic as they re-attached the little chap, and I got to watch the threesome being beamed out live on M1. Viktor put in a lot of energy, but I couldn't help but feel he was a bit of spare prick as the other two seemed more interested in the camera than him.

Big Red still has my glasses and has got a job as a political commentator as now looks far more intelligent; I received a larger nob by mistake; Viktor's popularity soared and he is now certain to win the next elections in 4 years; Győzike realised that going out with a porn star wasn't necessarily a good idea if it meant having to cross swords with middle-aged politicians and went back to his family; and Swinger...well, she just keeps on swinging. Plus, I've ordered a rather funky-looking new pair of specs.

So, I guess it all worked out OK in the end.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

They're lying to us!

Specs in under an hour. My fucking arse.

I must have gone into at least five opticians that advertised new glasses in under an hour, but not one of them could deliver. Apparently I have a strange prescription, which means it will take take them TEN DAYS to make the lenses. It's not as if I have Marty Feldman eyes or an extra one growing out of the middle of my forehead.

I suspect the "glasses in under one hour" promise only applies to the non-prescription sunglasses section, and even then - given the average level of service in Hungary - they would probably struggle to meet this deadline.

"I'd like to buy that pair of sunglasses, please."

"Certainly. Please wait around for 30 mins while I smoke a fag, talk to my boyfriend on the phone, idly pick my nose, randomly move some empty boxes around for while and then inspect my plucked eyebrows in the mirror. Maybe then I'll serve you, but only if I can be bothered. Even then I'll probably sigh as if you've just asked me to make the glasses myself, thus endangering my precariously long - not to mention vicious - nails."

"That would be fine, thank you. I'll just stand in the corner and bang my head to a bloody pulp on the wall."

The upshot of this is that I am having to walk around the city, blindly groping in front of me. Actually, that last bit isn't really necessary. I'm just trying to cop a feel.

Top tip for skint drug-addled teenagers

Kids! Do you want to feel like you've been on a five-day crack and heavy-duty liquor binge but find yourself lacking the necessary funds? Simply break your glasses just before you're due to go out and then wear someone else's contact lenses. I did it last night, and it worked a treat.

So, apologies to anyone I didn't say hello to in the Bardroom. I was having enough trouble finding my seat, never mind spotting familiar faces.

It actually worked out OK, though, as it added a much-needed new dimension to seeing Benjamin Zeppaniah. Although he was still funny, his material - including all of the build up anecdotes to his poems - was almost identical to the last time I saw him two years ago in Banja Luka. The fact that I saw him with two heads - one out of focus and the other in - made all the difference. I think the blurry head was marginally more amusing.

Bizarrely, I met someone who quite clearly had been taking crack: a very nice Scottish man, who seemed incapable of putting two coherent thoughts together. Within two minutes of meeting we were talking about the possiblity of trading in egg futures and putting wheels on the nut-dispensing machine so that we could stand on it, roll across the room at high speed, and dispense salted and unsalted nuts to everyone. Top marks for randomness, although I think he does perhaps have to cut down on the herbal cigarettes.

Kalman also deserves respect for possibly the best introduction for a poet that I've ever heard. It was a just a shame that Zeppaniah had decided to go on earlier.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Slogan required

I just had my professional website redesigned, and I'm not entirely happy with the slogan that Tony came up with (sorry, Tony).

He had "One finger on the pulse of Europe" but this raises the question of what I'm doing with the other nine.

So, suggestions welcome.

Brainstorming so far has produced:

Ten fingers and some toes on the pulse of Europe
All of my appendages on the pulse of Europe
To Central Europe...and Beyond!
News, Reviews and stuff for all youse (for Glaswegians only)
From Istanbul to ma hoose, I write stuff
Give me some work or I'll starve
Crap articles from the areshole of Europe (Graham's suggestion)
Who gives a fuck about Hungary anyway?
"Hungary? No, I've already eaten." - plus a 100 other things people think they're the 1st to say (Graham again)
Monitoring the pulse of Europe (sounds too much like I think I'm George Clooney)
Have fingers, will type
It's coming out of both ends (Graham again)
Quality Journalism from Central Europe (this is a fairly serious suggestion - don't laugh)
Objective Journalism from Central Europe
I am a cock monkey - spank me!

I think that's enough.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Zombie cow cover art

These pictures are all entries from various drunken scribblers, all hoping to provide the cover art for my zombie cow novel (which will no doubt become a blockbusting move starring Tom Cruise, Benny Hill, Angelina Jolie and that cow from the Magic Roundabout).

I omitted my own effort, for the simple reason that I draw like a serial-killer after a heavy lobotomy session.

Nats, Victoria and Esther are responsible for the doodles.

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Monday, April 10, 2006

More strange néni action

My tree-measuring next-door néni is having her house painted, but instead of moving her furniture from room to room she has transferred it all out onto the balcony, which is now stuffed with 1950's floral armchairs and other brick-a-brack. It's like living next door to a jumble sale.

Moreover, another neighbour - who we'll call Washing Néni - has called summer open season and started hanging up her laundry outside my window (this spot provides the most sun). Yes, that means big old néni knickers will be fluttering gently in the summer breeze beside my house. If I leave my window open, dry gusset flakes will probably get blown in. Ah well, at least I won't have to put sprinkles on my cappuccino.

Mind you, this all raises the issue of what Circuit Néni will do for her daily exercise. She isn't limber enough to climb over the pile of furniture and dodge the big knickers. Although, this does raise an interesting idea: The Néni Olympics. First néni to circumnavigate the obstacles with her zimmer frame and complete one balcony circuit (preferrably in under one hour) wins the gold! Imagine the excitement.

With any luck there might even be a few casualties. These women are competive, and I could easily see one of them putting spikes on the side of her zimmer frame a la Ben Hur and attempting to push her competitors off the balcony. You can't beat a bit of néni blood sport.

How much could I charge for tickets for ringside seats at my window?

Teapot tadger

I am officially a fuckwit after accidentally glueing a teapot lid to the floor of the flat as I tried to put it back together.

I thought about leaving it there and claiming it as an intentional "installation piece" that would somehow signify the permanence of tea to humanity (I don't have a tea obsession, honestly). This would also have served the dual purpose of showing Nats the consequences of getting me to do anything remotely DIY-related around the house.

However, I needed a lid for my teapot.

Friday, April 07, 2006

The Onion rules the known universe

The Onion is possibly the best publication in existence, and this article, sent to me by Nats, shows exactly why:

Girls Gone Wild Released Back Into Civilization

To all you tongue rollers

This message is directed at all the tongue-rollers in the bar last night, and in fact to every self-satisfied tongue-roller out there: STOP BEING SO SMUG!

What is it that makes people so insufferably happy about being able to roll their tongues? Let's face it: it's an absolutely useless skill. OK, I could see the point if you became quadraplegic and had to hold a pen with your curly little appendage, or if you had to cling onto a twig to prevent yourself from falling off a cliff, but it just isn't a skill to get too proud about.

I am a flat-tongue and I can do everything you can: lick stamps, talk (which is considered by many to be a bad thing) and make faces at small children.

So why did the nurse at school feel it necessary to come into class and make everybody see if they could do it? Couldn't she have perhaps done it in a private room? She didn't have to suffer the indignity of being taunted for her inability to curl. She didn't have to sit quietly in the corner at playtime while all the other kids ran merrily around with their curly little tongues in the air. She didn't have her tongue stapled to the desk when teacher wasn't looking.

If you are reading this Nurse Twaddle, I hope you feel very, very ashamed of yourself.

I only hope the day will come when flat and curlies can live in harmony together without this elitist hierachy. Until then, I'm keeping my mouth shut.

If only I worked at a tabloid

Today I have the perfect opportunity to get in a great headline.. Four party leaders debated on TV last night, so I thought we could go with "Party leaders mass debate"

Unfortunately my nasty editor won't let me do it.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Tree envy

My little néni next-door neighbour was admiring our new plants the other day (we planted new ones after leaving two dead trees to rot outside for several months), when she told me that she had measured our trees.

Apparently ours are 80cm and her single specimen is only 40. I know our neighbours have a bit of a plant war going on, but I was a bit surprised by this. I've heard of penis envy, but never tree envy.

I'm now worried that she is going to sabotage our efforts, either by hoiking up her otthonka and spraying the plants with paprika-laced old-lady pee, or by swapping them when we aren't looking. I'm wondering if we should set up some kind of guard system: man-traps or some such device to catch her. She has thick ankles, so it shouldn't cause any permanent damage.

There are quite a few old women with nothing to do in our building. When Pollock was visiting last year, he came out the shower in his boxer shorts to find the ancient old woman that does balcony circuits on her zimmer frame cupping her hands and peering in the window.

Lucky for her she's very short-sighted, or the sight of Pollock's beer-belly overhanging his skiddies might have caused her frail wee heart to burst (with sexual excitement, obviously).

I'm hoping that when I get to that age I have something a bit more interesting to do with my time - perhaps smelling of piss on public transport or holding up post office queues by refusing point-blank to understand the new stamp system.

Sometimes I think Logan's Run was onto something, but then I've already passed the cut-off point and would have been bumped off five years ago.

F%!*$n elections

Aaargggh! I want nothing more than to get on with my book, but instead I'm stuck writing about bloody politics all day long because of this election. Bring back communism.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Camp as a row of tents

I'm sure most people who live in Hungary have noticed the election campaign recently; it's been kind of hard to miss.

Millions of words have been written about the dirty tactics, etc, but nobody seems to have mentioned the fact that several of the Socialist's younger candidates appear to be wearing far too much make-up in their posters.

I've noticed at least three different candidates who look as if they're auditioning for a part in a panto. Yesterday I saw a poster of a man who was definitely wearing bright red lipstick. On top of that, you can see the foundation, blusher, eyeliner and plucked eyebrows.

My favourite has to be one young gent who appears to have modelled his poster on old portraits of the England's most-famous camp writer - Oscar Wilde. He is blatantly caked in make-up and is sporting an arch, come-and-get-it-boys expression. I haven't seen his campaign promises, but they probably involve compulsory cravates, more men-only days at the baths and cross-dressing days for government employees. Definitely as camp as row of tents.

Still, at least he's making an effort, which is more than can be said for some of the others. One of the older Socialist candidates initially appeared with a shock of uncombed white hair and a big smile full of the yellowest teeth I have ever seen in my life. This quickly got pulled down and replaced with a closed mouth smile. And then there is Mr Soos, my local Democratic Forum candidate. They had to make the poster extra wide to fit in his enormous ears and giant NHS-style specs. He looks like his blind mother cuts his hair.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Alpha Cow comes excusively to Blogspot

OK, you asked for it, so you're going to get it. Actually, you didn't ask for it, but you're going to get it anyway.

I've just realised that I am very bored with the fiction I have been trying to write, and I have been grasped with enthusiasm for Forget the Cud, We Want Blood.

As a result, I have begun work on the first chapter of a work I truly believe will come to rival such masterpieces as War and Peace, The Old Man and the Sea, and Crime and Punishment.

This magnificent novella will be exclusively serialised on this website, and will be the first work to deal with not only the human condition, but the bovine condition.

Marvel as the cows strike back and develop a taste for human flesh!

Tremble as civilisation as we know it bends to the will of bloodthirsty cattle!

Dare to hope as a small band of unwashed, sandal-wearing hippy throwbacks grapple with their consciences and attempt to secure the future of mankind by throwing off their love of tofu, quorn and other tasteless meat substitutes!

All of this will be yours for free, starting as soon as I finish the first chapter.

Azerbaijan to monitor Hungarian elections

In a great piece of news for Hungarian democracy, Azerbaijan is to monitor the upcoming elections.

Now, are they coming to check that the elections will be fair (since ODIHR said it was too busy to come), or are they coming to learn how to hold elections?

Either way its a bit of a worry.

How to solve Danube flooding problem with teabags

I was walking along the Danube this morning, watching as tons of sweaty men and woman hauled sandbags to bolster up the flood defences. The Danube is at a record high, and already many roads are under water, which at least has the benefit of reducing congestion on those roads.

It struck me that this seemed to be a terribly labour intensive way of fighting the floods, and it doesn't address the fundamental problem: the level of water.

Fortunately, there is another way. Instead of sand bags, use tea bags.

Now, the immediate advantage of the tea bags is that they are lighter, thus reducing back sprains, etc, but the real beauty comes in the method of reducing the water level.

If the Danube is stocked with lots of tea bags, it will immediately become not a murky, polluted river, but a giant source of tastiness, and let's face it: the 'Blue' Danube is already brown, so a few tea bags won't make a big difference.

All the government has to do is equip every citizen with a teapot and let them fill up from the river. The water level will drop very quickly, and sales of biscuits will shoot up, boosting the local economy.

I will kick off this process by symbolically dropping a box of PG Tips off the Chain Bridge at 5pm this evening. I urge you to join me and save our historic city.


I own up. I have an ulterior motive for this blog.

I read last week that many bloggers have had their blogs turned into books, so I am going to use this site to shamelessly plug my screenplays.

So, for all you Hollywood producers out there, here is my first outline of a potential rip-roaring blockbuster.

Forget the cud, we want blood

There have been many zombie movies made down the years, with most revolving around the few remaining humans fighting off the hordes. Never, though, has anyone made a film revolving around an already sinister and zombie-like animal: the cow.

Picture this: The film starts in an abbatoir, with a huge line of cows waiting to be stunned. One cow is particularly feisty, snarling (can cows snarl? - they can in this film) at the apron-wearing, bloody-knife wielding workers. The cow makes a lunge for a worker, grabs his arm in its mouth and masticates on it for a while. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but the bizarre disease infecting the cow (probably from some kind of meteor shower or some such trumped-up idea) has turned its saliva to ACID! OH NO! The unfortunate man finds his arm dissolving into a bloody stump.

The other workers rush to his aid and hack the cow to death. Blood sprays everywhere, and the other cows standing in line become infected. Soon there is mayhem, with lowing zombie-cows shambling everywhere. Even the bone saw isn't enough to stave off the hordes, and they finish off the employees.

The cows break out onto the street, setting off a chain-reaction that sees the whole of humanity pitted against the once-docile animals that it has so happily-slaughtered. The army gets involved, but the cows brains are so small that it is hard to take them down with the normal zombie-head shot.

Soon only a few hardy survivors remain: vegans who have been living in a commune eating only tofu, grain and parsnips. Can these survivors overcome their love for the doe-eyed zombies and cut a bloody swathe through the herds wandering the empty London streets, or will the cow's suppressed bloodlust prove too much for them?

Find out in the stunning new film from the brain of one of Budapest's VII district's finest Scottish-born, ginger-haired, bespectacled writers.

Should any producers or directors wish to purchase this script, I will accept payment in jelly babies or mars bars.

I should also give some credit for this film to Wayne and Esther, but frankly I'm far too selfish and plan to claim all of the profit and credit for myself.

Tourist attraction or terrorist deterrent?

I was hanging around outside Luton Airport on Monday on the way back from visiting Perry, Marguerita (Prakatan!) and Mathew, smoking a ciggie, when I was treated to a fine display of airport security.

Two coppers touting large machine pistols were standing outside, presumably guarding the entrance, when a tourist came up and asked if he could have his picture taken with them.

For the next five minutes the police were fully engaged in posing with their guns as the tourist's pal attempted to work out how to operate the camera.

I tried my best to look suspicious - reaching ominously into my inside jacket pocket for a potentially hidden gun (all right, it was a lighter) - to see if they would break off from their jolly little chat, but to no avail.

Osama Bin Laden could have wheeled in a nuclear bomb on a shopping trolley for all the attention they were paying to the airport entrance.

Now, I'm not a fan of a huge armed police presence, but if they're going to be there they should perhaps at least do their jobs.

I believe we should replace all our cops with machine gun posts, set to fire at any kind of movement. Clearly this might cut down on airport traffic somwehat, but at least they wouldn't be inclined toward grinning inanely at tourists' cameras.

The first of (not so) many entries

I'm initiating this blog due to popular demand (well, if you can count my wife as popular demand).

Content will be variable, ranging from nonsense to...err...nonsense.

Brace yourselves.