Celebrity Litigation

I've been wanting to start a gimmicky new blog for a while.

Today I did it. It's going to be a themed blog where I take posts written by those of repute and showcase them (cough!). You'll also have a chance to ask the blogger in question some things via the comments box.

It's called People Who Don't Blog But Should, and my aim is for it be be based on suggestions from my readers on whose blogs they'd like to read. My other hope is that it won't die a death within a week like an ill-conceived new business start up company.

I'm also thinking that I could include a chance for my beloved regular readers to guest post as the person they'd most like to see blogging, from time to time. If you are interested in becoming a guest author send me your email address and a message saying who you are, and who you'd like to post as. I'll then add you as an author so that you can post away! Lovely!

Some are already onboard:

Joseph
Groanin' Jock
Mr Farty
Scotsman
Bob (He won Big Blogger, you know...)
Cat (And she came third in Big Blogger, you know...)

and there's been posts from politicians, film stars, deities, royalty and bogey men. Blimey! What a week!

Email address is: gillian@spontaneousproduction.co.uk if you have an idea for a post or would like to join permanent-like.

So pop over and start making suggestions. There's a starter for ten post from some bloke I think might be the Prime Minister....but I'm not sure. Difficult to tell.

Oh, and there's a poll thingy..and lovely wallpaper and prizes.

OK I lied about the prizes.

Give the new blog some support and I won't cry.

Exciting!

P.S: Obviously, the Misssives are Business as Usual.

Thousand yard stare

About aged 22 I noticed something.

I was finding it difficult to see things in the distance. I couldn’t see the number of the bus approaching (in fact, I would be lucky to see the actual bus), I would walk past folk on the street that I knew, prompting much embarrassment, I was giving the eye to monsters that thought looked like Nick Cave, when in fact they looked like Captain Caveman.

I would regularly drive down to Glasgow to visit Uni friends and I knew that I had to do something about my eyesight when for the second time I missed the turn off to the Glasgow road after the Perth bridgey/flyovery thing and was on the road to Edinburgh instead. (By the way, have you ever tried to get back on the road to Glasgow after making that mistake. It’s a flipping nightmare! You have to cut across fields and go through rivers, and everything! No wonder the Romans couldn't conquer us, they probably took a wrong turn.)

Not only that, I would be in a cold sweat everytime I went behind the wheel, because I couldn’t see what I was doing, especially at night. I was a myopic nervous wreck.

And so it passed that I had to get glasses. *Sigh*

For about 4 years I got away with only wearing them to watch telly, edit and drive. I hated being a glasses wearer, as I’m too vain.

I thought of Velma from Scooby Doo, I thought of Edna Everage, I thought of Nan Mouskouri everytime I put them on. I would never wear them out and about, even though I would be in a bad mood when I got home because I couldn’t see what was going on at concerts, at the bar, across the table from me. In fact I would like to apologise to everyone who thought I was blanking them. I wasn't; I was just like Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman", but without the scent.

One day whilst driving home from work, a white works van blocked the entrance into the right hand side street I was indicating to turn into. I wound my window down and said to the beast driving, “What’s the score? You’re blocking me.”

The Sun reading, pie eating, Irn-Bru swilling cretin turned to me and simply said, “Get tae fuck, you specky bitch!”

I nearly burst into tears. “Get tae fuck!” I can take. “Specky Bitch”, I couldn’t.

The time had come to get contact lenses, and these days I cannot do without them. I hate the fact that I cannot exist without the little expensive blighters. I hate the fact that I forgot to take them when I went to Finland and had to go four days with glasses before my package from home arrived with the lenses.

So I have been looking into the cut-your-eyeball-open-with-a-laser-surgery.

There’s only one thing stopping me: I am crapping myself.

Mr Blessington of Blessville

This is not an Athena Poster.

This is the newest addition to the Flying Martinis.

We collect him in two weeks. I am beyond excited.

The Gift

Today we went to a wedding.

As usual, we’re running late. So late that I’m wrapping the wedding present in the car and writing the card in between gear changes.

I’ve just read that back, it sounds like I am also driving. I wasn’t. Don’t call the police on me. The worst I’ve ever done is get dressed whilst driving.

As I wrap, Meeester reminds me of our bad reputation present wise. There are at least four people at this wedding who will remember our previous wedding present faux pas. We take bets on how long it will be before one of these people brings it up today.

This is the story of the wedding present faux pas that will haunt Misssy and Meeester for as long as they both shall live.

It is ten years ago and Meeester and Misssy are yet to have the pleasure of Indy and Junior Missy’s company. They have been married for about a year.

Meeester’s band are supposed to be playing a wedding. They never normally do weddings but a friend of a friend of a friend has asked a bunch of Aberdeen bands to play a small set at his wedding reception, and for some other reason Meeester’s band agree, despite not really knowing the bride or groom.

The band WAGS are also invited to the wedding. Misssy has made it clear that she is not going to a wedding of people she has never met before.

The day of the wedding arrives and Meeester gets a call from the groom to say that his band needn’t play, he has over invited bands and he’d rather that they just come along as guests instead. Meeester and Misssy decide they won’t go. Not knowing them, and such.

On the evening of the reception, friends who ARE going to the wedding despite not knowing the bride and groom, arrive at the Flat of the Flying Martinis with booze, and the agenda of persuading them to come along to the wedding after all.

After much to-ing and fro-ing Misssy relents and agrees to go along.

“But I am not going to a wedding without a present”

“The only shop that is open is the all night BP garage”

“Well I can hardly turn up with some Calor Gas, a bag of kindling and a pack of Magic Trees, can I?”

“Nobody will know we’ve not brought a present. Forget it”

Misssy counters, “But I’LL know. We have to take a present.”

Then it dawns on her that in the attic there is a small mountain of semi-opened wedding presents from their own wedding. You know, unwrapped enough to know who sent you it, but put in stasis still in its box for a time where you decide you either need it, or it’s time to put it to a car boot sale.

Or…. use it as a wedding present for somebody else.

Misssy grabs a couple of boxes and decides a set of matching mugs on a wooden tree are just the ticket. The party can now go to the wedding. In fact the party have all added their names to the label.

“To Couple we Barely Know,

Here’s some token of our embarrassment that we’re at your flipping wedding but we can barely remember your names. Have these mugs to remember us by as we are sure to never meet again. Sorry.

Love

Misssy, Meeester, Friend X and Friend Y”

In fact, whilst at the wedding a couple of other people ask if they can stick their names on the card as well. Fine by us. We sheepishly place it on the table crammed with presents from other people who actually love and KNOW the happy couple.

But, oh for the love of God, why didn’t anyone check out the inside of the box containing the mugs properly?

The couple are opening their presents the next morning and are moderately delighted with the present from the gang of people they barely know, but who came to their wedding anyway. But oh, what’s this card inside the box? A further greeting from the merrie band of people whose faces we woudn’t be able to point out in a line up?

“To Misssy and Meeester M

Wishing you our warmest congratulations on your wedding day,

Bill and Anne Neighboursofyourmum XXXX”

Luckily, the couple thought it was hilarious. They vowed to pass it on to the next wedding they went to, with the original label, our label and their future label all intact and enclosed.

So, if you get wed and get a gift that has a succession of labels/cards attached, then you are in receipt of the “Gift of Shame”.

Pass it on.

Update: On my myspace (where I also post the Misssives) the girl who was best man (I know!) at the wedding has been in touch. The couple in question have now split and she is hoping that she will receive the mug tree as a gift in her own upcoming nuptials. Ha! Lovely!

Further Update: This post was published in the book, "You're not he Only One" available from www.lulu.com

The Dutch Sign Compendium

This evening we leave these flat shores and head back to the Kingdom of Rain.

At the beginning of our time in Holland I stupidly promised those who read my nonsense that I would further nonsensify it by providing a Dutch sign that was either rude, or sniggerworthy. It has been surprisingly easy but has turned me into a bit of an idiot.

For example I got all excited when I saw a neon sign that I thought said "Jism Shop" and started shrieking at Meeester to stop the car. It had the letter i missing, and realising this, I was crestfallen and feeling a little stupid about yelling "Stop! Look! A Jism shop!" in front of my family.

I may have no Dutch blogs left in me but bizarrely I have a range of signs that didn't quite make it into the blogs. Anyone reading the Misssives for the first time may get the impression that I am, infact, an adolescent boy. Sadly, I am a 38 year old woman. *Sigh*

Anyway here they all are for you all to access your inner idiot:


Zit Stof: A shop entirely dedicated to all things acne




The Winkel Passage: I'd rather not go in there, to be honest.



Trompet Boom: The reason I like this is
because Trumpet Bum was apparently
my dad's nickname for me as
a baby as I was prone to loud bum trumpeting.



The Slaap Studio: I got so excited
when I thought this was a beauty salon. (It wasn't)



De Quack: I'll just wait til I go home and go to the NHS, thanks



De OpSlag Box: Lady of Ill repute in a box.
The perfect Christmas gift for that unmarried uncle?




The Homo Monument: My most childish effort.
There was no actual monument. Answers as to what it could be
on a postcard please cos I'm not even going there...


The "Te Huur" Numberplate: For Sale after a misguided bloke
bought this for his (now ex) girlfriend for a joke

The Dam Busters

Misssy Anne Frank: Holland's most popular lady, and for good reason.

What do you call a woman that goes to Amsterdam twice in her life and manages to see NOTHING?

You call her Misssy M.

The first time I went I was sixteen. Here’s a checklist of what I saw back in 1985.

>Rijksmuseum- Nope

>Red Light District- Nope

>Van Gogh Museum- Nope

>Ann Frank’s House- Nope

>Rembrandt’s House- Nope

>Inside of a Brown Café- Nope. The very thought!

>Sex Museum- Nope. The very thought!

For the life of me I don’t know what the hell me and my two mates did when we were there. I did put on a stone in weight that holiday so I can only suggest that we went to Amsterdam and ate our way through it.

Yesterday I returned to the Dam but with the Flying Martinis in tow. We left the campsite a little late (as is our wont) and arrived in the Dam proper at 2.30pm. Here’s our exciting itinerary. You may want to cut and paste it into your travel plans so that you can avoid repeating our Amsterdisaster:

2pm: Arrive in Transferium- Amsterdam’s Park and Ride. So far, so good. We've not ended up in Germany by mistake. Bit later than planned though.

2.30pm: Arrive via Metro in the Dam proper. Misssy’s realises she’s not eaten anything all day and that’s why she’s been shouting at Meeester for asking for directions when Misssy has a perfectly good map in front of her. (I, like my father before me, never ask for directions or use the printed instructions in any piece of equipment or flat pack furniture. It’s a matter of principle)

3.30pm: We’ve eaten and Misssy is now behaving in a vaguely human manner. Off to the Canal Bus, the hop on/hop off canal boat that takes you to 12 stops around the Dam’s many canals, allowing one to see all attractions. 60 Euros, you say? Well for 60 Euros I’d like to….no, I’m not going there again….

3.45pm: We board the Green Line Canal Bus with the smiling battered faced driver who welcomes us and several Italians onto his vessel. We wait on the stationary boat.

3.55pm: Smiling battered faced driver says, “This service is finished!” and ushers us all off the boat. His would-be passengers look at each other as if to say, “WTF?” and disembark.

4pm: Meeester reads the leaflet for the Canal Bus, “Misssy M, do you realise that the Canal Bus service stops running about 6.30pm?”

“60 Euros? For 60 Euros I want a Canal Bus day pass to not be sold to me by a woman who clearly knew it would only be of use for 3 hours!” Misssy means to say but her swear filters are not engaged, and what comes out is not suitable for a family blog.

4.05pm: We decide our best course of action is to get to the Anne Frank Huis, Misssy will need to see the Van Gogh and Rijks Museums another time, if she ever makes it back. Misssy blubs. Misssy likes museums more than whiskers on kittens. And warm woollen mittens, come to that.

4.15pm: We board the new Greenline Canal Bus.

4.30pm: We realise the Greenline Canal Bus doesn’t go past Anne Frank’s Huis.

4.35pm: We get off at the Amstel stop and wait for the Red Line Canal Bus. We drink expensive drinks in a café nearby whilst we wait. Junior Misssy is having a carry on and upends the table sending all drinks over Meeester. Misssy manages to rescue her own beer from spillage. Dancer! Meeester now looks like he’s pissed himself.

5.30pm: We make our way to Anne Frank’s Huis. We have an hour until the last Canal Bus. We aim to run round the Secret Annex in 50 mins , teaching our kids about racial and religious tolerance and learning big lessons from history in double quick time.

5.35pm: We arrive at Anne Frank’s Huis to see this human conga line:

And… Swear Filter Engage!

___________________________________________________________________

Oh! I nearly forgot about the Slightly Rude Sign of the Day! Let's face it, that's why everyone is popping over to the Misssives these days, isn't it? (Can I also just say, please don't expect the same kind of treat when I'm back home. Much more difficult. Although I have seen a road sign in Cornwall with the place name "Cocks" on it.)

Anyway, this one comes from the "Does what it says on the tin" school of branding. Now everyone knows what bathroom "furniture" is for, but wouldn't "Bathroom World" have been a bit nicer?

It's the Little Differences...

I have to say I am loving it here in Holland. There is so much that appeals to me about the Dutch way of life. On several occasions I have found myself thinking, “If I could get a Babelfish inserted into my ear, I could give living in Holland a go”.

In Hellevoetsluis there is a beautiful marina and it seems that everyone has a boat. Not that I want one, I’d be a liability on a boat. However, I would like to look out of my window every morning to see a vista of beautiful yachts. I’d feel like I was in an F Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Oh, yes the weather is changeable but after a heavy shower or two it always seems to brighten up and you are able to have your dinner outside or squeeze in an hour or so on the beach.

Best of all is the cycling culture. As I said in a previous post, we’ve hired bikes and before the week is out I am going to have thighs of steel. I spent today with Junior Misssy on the bike. I felt so Dutch with my headscarved wee lady on her bike seat behind me as we trundled round the town eating ice-cream and looking for rude signs.

I am also loving the houses. There seems to be a very common style of house that has three floors with big airy rooms and exteriors painted the colour of ice cream. Why can’t we have them at home? They are beautiful.

Annoyingly though, every time I say something along the lines of, “God I love the houses here,” Meeester says, “They remind me of the type of houses in East Kilbride.” (Meeester is from EK). NO! THEY DO NOT! For the love of Pete, East Kilbride is a bum hole of a place polluted by roundabouts and housing estates. And if any of Meeester’s EK dwelling family is reading you can take a shot at me at the Christmas dinner table for what I’ve just said. I’ll stand my ground.

In fact, up until today, I guessed that Meeester is not that impressed by Holland. He said after the whole Arsenaal Pirate theme park debacle,

“That just sums up Holland for me. After this trip I won’t be back”

The Arsenaal was execrable, but to completely dismiss the rest of Holland because of one slip up is unfair. It would be like dissing the whole of the UK because of Grangemouth.

Oh dear….and I’m really liking it here. I was hoping to come back for a weekend to Amsterdam one time. I have a kidless weekend in lieu with my sister in law who is offering to take both beasts. I wanted to do the City Break thing with Meeester to Amsterdam maybe to do the whole Amsterdam Hilton John and Yoko thing. I guess I’m going to have to squeeze in a trip to the ‘Dam whilst we are here, then. Since apparently we’re not coming back.

Then today, Meeester, does a three point turn on his opinion of the Netherlands. He and Indy have been to see the new Harry Potter film in the local cinema and when they return he is beaming.

“The cinema was amazing. You could have a beer whilst watching the film! A beer! You had a little shelf for it on the seat and everything!”, he gushes, “Holland is ACE!”.

Cue conversation with Meeester sounding like Travolta’s Vincent Vega doing the whole Royale with Cheese monologue.

Anyway, now that I’ve finished mocking my other half I must bring you today’s Slightly Rude or Funny Sign That Is In No Way Disrespectful to the Wonderful People of The Netherlands.

Now, we reckon that if you are going to open a lingerie shop then you can opt to accurately describe the sensation you wish to provoke in your desired partner in the naming of that shop. Laydeees and Gennnelmen I give you:

Caught by De Fuzz

On our first day in the Netherlands something a tad bizarre happened. We are still trying to figure it out. In an attempt to do so I am going to write this post on Top Blog Magazine’s theme of the week, “There Are Two Sides to Every Story”.

Side One: The Flying Martinis are in their car trying to find a supermarket in Hellvoetsluis, Zeeland, Holland

Misssy M: No you’ve gone right past it. You’ll need to turn around, we’re heading back to Rotterdam. Again.

Meeester (Sees opening to some facility): Here’ll do. Oh look kids, Dutch bin men. Oh look a lady bin man!

Misssy M: God you’re right! I’ve never seen a she-scaffie before!

Meester: Right, so back that way…. Oh look kids, a police car!

Misssy M: Look.... they’re checking us out….Bet they follow us.

The Flying Martinis drive off in the planned direction and right enough, the cops are have reappeared... and are behind them.

Meeester: Oh, for goodness sake!

Misssy: They’re going to stop you! Oh my God, I can’t believe it! What for?

Police car shows flashing LED sign that says, “Stop!”

Misssy (starts to laugh): This is unbelievable. We’ve not done nuthin’, copper!

Meeester: Better get my papers. Have you got the fake ones that Donald Pleasance made for us?

Misssy hands him his drivers’ licence: This should be good.

Meeester gets out of the car and goes over to the Muscley Dutch Policeman. Still in earshot, the whole conversation is heard by Misssy and the kids.

Muscley Dutch Copper: Your licence please.

(Inspects licence– both sides)

So why are you in Holland?

Misssy (to herself): We’re taking delivery of a massive bale of hash. With our two small children, caravan and holiday clothes. We may also leave a nail bomb somewhere, for a laugh. Muppet.

Meeester: We’re on holiday. Just came over from Scotland yesterday. (Winningly) Lovely place. Flat.

Muscley Dutch Copper: Where are you staying?

Misssy(to herself): In a drug den. Off our mashes on ecstacy pipes. Tis bangin'!

Meeester(smiling broadly): We’re in the T’ Weergoos Camping Site. We’ve a caravan.

Muscley Dutch Policeman: Are you having a good time?

Misssy (to herself): If we say “no” will you nick us?

Meeester: Yes, although the thunder storm last night was a bit much! (Fake laughs, winningly)

Muscley Dutch Policeman(looks over to colleague in car and nods): OK sir. You can go.

Meeester (gets back in car and looks at Misssy): What the blazes was THAT about?

__________________________________________________________________

Side Two: The Dutch Muscely Policemen.

Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: I've been working out, can you tell? *Sigh*

I want a transfer. Hellevoetsluis is dull, dull, dull. I want to wrestle people to the ground, I want to catch bad guys, I want to do a sting. Like on telly.

Dutch Muscley Policeman2: I hear you, brother. I didn’t sign up for this either. Hey! Hey! Hey! ....Engels! Check them out! Want to fuck with their heads?

Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: Hell, yes! Can I do the siren?

Dutch Muscley Policeman2: OK, but I get to pull him over…

Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: (with heavy heart): Ohhhh Kaaaay then….

And in the words of Kurt Vonnegut...."and so it goes...."

Sea Shanties and Shat Island

Oh, the Dutch do everything better than us. As a visitor, it’s hard not to feel inferior.

>They have a good football team (Apparently. I couldn’t give a shit, to be honest),

>They have the best attitude towards drug use OFFICIALLY. You want to smoke a leaf other than the tobacco one, then please yourself. I couldn’t give two hoots, and neither could the Dutch;

>They do good photogenic cheese;

>Their women are hardy, thick calfed, big breasted Amazonian specimens;

>Their (young) men are blonde foxes;

>They have no NEDS (none that I would class as such, anyway) This point alone makes me want to move to Holland. Permanent-like;

>Their cycle paths are to be envied in the extreme. It’s SAFER to be on a bike than it is on foot or in a car. We hired bikes to avoid being killed. And I’m NOT joking about that;

>The sheer engineering of the dyke/polder/dam system makes the Forth Bridge look like a pile of crap;

>The streets are as clean as a nun’s knickers;

>No-one learns or understands their language, so they can talk rudely about foreigners in front of their very faces with no fear of being punched. Every word they utter sounds like a swear word anyway, so you quickly get fooled into thinking, “He didn’t just call me a fucker, he’s just speaking Dutch.”;

All good stuff, I’m sure you’d agree. So it was with great disappointment that we discovered a chink in their otherwise superb armour (other than the condiment mania, but that’s subjective).

Buoyed up by the splendid Blijdorp Zoo experience we decide to spend a rainy day in “Arsenaal” in the sea town of Vlissingen, in most Zuid part of Holland. Billed as a fun park with a pirate/maritime theme and an aquarium we are naively expecting excellence.

You know how in Britain how you expect all theme parks to be poorly conceived, under-funded, urine-soaked, emporiums of mediocrity? Well Het Arsenaal was just that.

Imagine pirated up mannequins on pulleys. Imagine some fish tanks of a calibre that you’d maybe see round your mate’s house. Imagine an exhibition about pirates where your Dad has video-ed himself against a blue screen dressed up as a makeshift Captain Jack Sparrow, and then two model boats emit some dry ice and have flashing LEDs signifying cannon fire and someone switches the lights on and off a bit to make the whole thing look exciting.

But worst of all, imagine a tinny sea shanty of about 1min 30 secs duration played on a loop in every part of the theme park EVEN IN THE LIFTS with the sole lyrics of:

“ Yo Ho Ho! A pirate’s life for me!

Yo, Ho, Ho! A pirate’s life for me!” (Repeat until psychotic)

It was bad enough being a visitor, but those employees could sue under Human Rights violations.

And we also saw a couple of neds outside…..

______________________________000000_____________________________

And so onto today’s rude sounding sign pic which comes from Arsenaal itself. The explanation for this belongs to Meeester.

He describes this as, "Fantasy Island but after a spell of food poisoning..."

Slurry

Anyone who knows me will know my phobia of the bottled condiment. My chief loathings are:

Ketchup

Salad Cream

Branston Pickle

Mustard

The hatred is completely out of control. In fact hate doesn’t cover it really. I am afraid of the aforementioned items to the point of hysteria.

More than this, I hate any establishment where the default setting is to cover otherwise palatable food in condiment slurry, without asking the patron if this is acceptable. In any given country the first sentence I learn is something along the lines of “No crap on my burger please”.

In Brazil it is “Sem nada” (which is actually a double negative, but let’s not get snippy), in Germany it is “Ohne (insert condiment slurry term here)”, in Spain it is “Sin (insert condiment slurry in here) etc etc.

Yesterday in Holland, home of slurry, I slipped up…I hadn’t learned the key sentence and had to shriek, “Nooooo! I don’t want that stuff!” as a mountain sized dollop of mayo was ladled onto my chips and a lake of yellow goo was smeared onto my sandwich bread. The startled operative looked incredulously at me as if I’d asked for a bike with no wheels.

I explained, “I don’t like mustard”.

“But this is not mustard, it is something else” he said as if this would make everything OK.

“You see, ” I say as I hop up on imaginary psychiatrist couch, “I don’t like any of that stuff”

He looks at me with undisguised pity.

“I wouldn’t be able to eat it if it had anything like that on it,” I whimper, as if apologising for disrespecting his national culture.

The operative shrugs and looks over at colleague in a way that negates the need for a whirly finger at the side of the head to suggest madness.

I have yet to discover the phrase I need for “No condiment slurry, please” in Dutch, but I suspect it doesn’t exist.

_______________________________________________________________________

And so onto today’s sign or product with an iffy name, but is in no way disrespectful to the country I am visiting. We think this might be a phrase denoting a special room dedicated to return visitors at the clap clinic:

Zooropa

It’s day three and we (I) decide we’re going to the town of Delft because it will be nice (Misssy’s read "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and wants to see Vermeer’s house).

However, en route we see a sign with an elephant on it and the word “Blijdop”. A quick scan through the guide book reveals nothing so we decide to investigate. I am also having pangs of guilt at dragging my kids round medieval Delft which will make me as bad as my folks who used to drag me round historical places of interest that had no swing parks. If Blijdop is a zoo, then to the zoo we will go. (Don't judge me!)

It is. We pay to get in. It is 65 Euros for the four of us. Eeek!

And so it begins.
Meeester: For 65 Euros there better be animals shagging.

Misssy: For 65 Euros I want to take a free monkey home.

Meeester: Bugger that, for 65 Euros I want the choice of any animal to be cooked for me.

Misssy: For 65 Euros I want to be allowed to do an Attenborough with the Gorillas.

Meeester: For 65 Euros I want the entire Circle of Life opening sequence of the Lion King re-enacted with real lion cubs and monkeys.

Indy: For 65 Euros there better be freak animals like in the Mighty Boosh’s Zooniverse (too cool for school that one)

Misssy: For 65 Euros I want to waterski using two dolphins as skis and then ride on the back of a tiger

Meeester: For 65 Euros I want to be driving away in the car and then see the gaping jaws of an approaching Tyranasaurus Rex in my side mirror

Indy: For 65 Euros I want to see a dodo.

Junior Misssy: I want chips!

Turns out, this is the best zoo in the world. Realistic large environments, very educational, and many of the animals given free rein. Puts any other zoo I’ve ever visited to shame. Most zoos make me feel sad. This one doesn’t*. We have a great day.



And they re-enact the entire opening sequence of the Lion King after all.

Which was lovely!


Oh and Meeester got today's rude sign:



* Note to Gorilla Bananas. I did feel quite sad when I saw a family of gorillas. They were relocated to an area shared by monkeys whilst their new Gorilla World was being built. Mum, Dad, kid and new baby were kind of in a small council flat whilst they were waiting for Wimpey to finish their four bedroom semi. I thought of you back in the Congo with all that space...

Double Dutch from A Real Double Dutchess

Whenever I go to any country, I try to find the product that has the best unknowing swear word/funny word as its name. It’s very childish, very Graham Norton, but I can’t help it and I don’t apologise for it.

In Finland it was the “Mega Pussi” giant bag of crisps. You could also get a "Mini Pussi" if you were less than starving/greedy. That’s going to take some beating.

I reckon that Holland is going to pay out in spades. It is the country that has the words “U kunt!” for “ I can!” It’s a flipping gold mine; it just must be!

So, my bloggie chums, I am going to make it a feature of every Dutch Blog that I include one unknowing naughty sign or product at the end.

To get us started I give you this:

Forget the apostrophe. It's a bag of teddy poo!

The Flying Martinis are crap.

We’re here; we’re in Holland. It’s not exactly gone without a hitch. Some of the reasons for this may be my fault but rest assured I’m currently working on a revisionist history where they are all Meeester’s fault.

Things we forgot:

1. Waterproofs for Misssy and Meeester. Kids are fine as usual.

This is normal practice for me. Two months after giving birth to Indy I went down to Edinburgh to show him off to friends. Indy had every thing a new newborn could possibly need, I had NOTHING. I forgot to pack anything for myself. Had to go to Marks’s to buy undies. Had to go to Boots to buy toothbrush. Proof your brain goes mushy when you pop one out.

So since the thunder and lightning storms are frequent here in otherwise warm and lovely Zuid Holland, there’s not much we can do. It’s either buy new waterproofs or go naked. Had a torrential storm about an hour ago. Meeester had to go out to sort caravan awning as it was needing re-pegged (guess who half arsed-ly did the pegging…) and he went out in swimming trunks.

It would have been hilarious if he wasn’t threatening to divorce me through the plastic windows. Maybe I should have put my wine down and helped him. Do you think so?

2. Sleeping bags. Oh we’re so crap.
3. Sheets for the double bed. See above.
4. Worst of all. As bad as all of above put together and put to the power of ten. I forgot my makeup. I don’t do au naturelle. And frankly I am disdainful of people who do. There’s no need.

Let’s just say that the ferry on-board beauty shop did some brisk business.

5. Oh and we also forgot that Hull is in bloody South Yorkshire and not “just below Newcastle”.

We missed the ferry.

The Misssy M Career casebook: Case No 1- Jurgen the German Maniac

With all this career madness I have been thinking about the jobs I have had over the years, both good and bad. In fact, I can see this little theme becoming a bit of a series. The series can be in no way chronological, as I’m far too random for that. Also, a primo memory popped into my head that I haven’t thought about in ages, and it queue jumped to be first. You’ll see why.

When I was twenty I came back from a year’s study in Germany to stay with my parents for the summer. I was hoping for a doss, but I was informed immediately after alighting the train in Aberdeen that my Mum had found me a job. My folks’ next door neighbour Willi, a German bloke, needed a secretary to tide him over whilst his permanent secretary had extended leave for some reason. Damn!

I spoke reasonably fluent German and that seemed to be the clincher for him, as he often had German business contacts calling. The fact that I had no secretarial experience didn’t seem to bother him. Either that, or my Mum had lied about my credentials.

I was totally and utterly incompetent. I would routinely wipe the ansaphone messages without even listening to them, I couldn’t send a fax, he had a telex machine that to this day I don’t know what it was for, and I pretty much could be responsible for untold damage to his business. Ahh well…

Oddly, he ran his entire multinational empire from home- which was the house next to my parents’. His family used to live there, but had long since moved back to Germany (I think there were marital issues). He would go back and forth between Scotland and Germany, but more often than not I would be on my own. I honestly didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. And as a result I was bored. A bored Misssy M is not a good thing. I don’t stay bored for long…

So once I had messed about in his house, snooping and minesweeping to capacity, I had pretty much nothing else to do. I worked out that his cordless phone would work from my mum’s living room, so when he wasn’t around I would get out of my bed at 9, hop across the fence in my jammies, pick up the phone, inadvertently wipe the answering machine messages and pop myself back home to watch shite on telly. Sometimes I even went back to sleep with the phone by my bed.

My life of sloth, overlooked incompetence and deceit soon came to an end when Willi phoned from Germany one day to announce the impending arrival of his mate, Jurgen. Jurgen would be working from the office alongside me. I should expect him on Wednesday. I was assured that I would like Jurgen. Over night my best mate and I speculated on how fit Jurgen might be. Hey, you never know….

Wednesday came and there was no sign of Jurgen.

Willi called, “Has Jurgen arrived?”

Cue much confusion on the part of Willi when I said I hadn’t seen him. Jurgen had apparently left the day before and should have arrived late on Tuesday night.

Thursday: still no sign.

Then an hour into Thursday’s shift I go to the fridge to get some milk for my first cup of tea of the day and I see evidence of someone. There’s a half salami with a human bite out of it! I look around me; there are quite a few empties strewn about the place. Jurgen war hier!

Later that day I begin to hear small grunting noises coming from upstairs. I sheepishly call up the stairs, “Hallo Jurgen? Bist’s Du?”

Nothing. Complete silence again.

I work my shift (ha!) and go home.

The next day I go back. I’m a couple of hours in when I hear swearing, grunting and general mayhem coming from upstairs. I call my mate Helen and she comes over within two minutes. We stand at the bottom of the stairs stifling nervous laughter. He is going mental. All of a sudden there is a loud crash. And then nothing.

After about five minutes worth of debate, we sneak up the stairs and open the door to the room from where we heard the mayhem.

Oh My God! The image I’m about to describe is burned on my brain.

There is a forty something little blonde moustachioed naked fat man on the floor. The room is overturned and HE IS COVERED IN HIS OWN CRAP.

Bizarrely there are also mountains of porno magazines strewn everywhere. And I mean hundreds. The room smells like Hell.

We hastily shut the door and phone Willi. It appears that Jurgen has split up from his girlfriend and this is the reason he has fled to Schottland. But Willi has no suggestions as to what I should do. I can’t even work a fax machine, how am I supposed to deal with a heartbroken, shit-covered, Teutonic, porn-obsessed dipsomaniac?

Willi suggests we leave him be and see how he is the next day. The next day he is worse. And he is now lying on his back and THAT bloody image is also now burned on my brain, thank you very much. So what to do?

“Hello Mum? We have a problem”

Upshot is that on Ma’s advice we phone an ambulance. Jurgen is led away and put into local Psychiatric Hospital for a wee holiday.

When he discharges himself a week later, there is no mention of anything, certainly no apology and infact the bastard even starts to order me about. He is really quite rude. The cheek of him!

“I’ve seen your wee shrivelled poo covered winkie, you ungrateful bastard!” I want to shout, but don’t (and not just because I can’t translate it into German fast enough).

I quit and get a job in the bar of the local hotel. At least the drunks there are shit and porn free and relatively civilised, I figure.