Tag Archives: funny blog

In which Tony demonstrates the visual power of language.

The Admiral told me when he was younger he and his friends used to write the word 'why' vertically and it would look like a woman in a bikini. You know, like this:

This would be hugely tittilating for a 10-year-old but it turns out he was 25 at the time. I was relieved when Junior took a shine to him and explained (in sign language of course, as Junior is verbally challenged. And when I say sign language, not real sign language which The Admiral wouldn't understand, but a series of whistles and gestures that she produced for his benefit alone) a few things about women.

I too remember being shown this little W-H-Y trick as a pre-teen by an over-excitable friend with a penchant for fire-raising. The conversation went something like this:

"Look at this," he said.

"What?"

"Not what. Why."

"What?"

"Why."

"Why what?"

"Why. A woman in a bikini."

"I give up. Why a woman in a bikini?"

By this time he'd set fire to it and I was left none the wiser. Anyway, it seemed pretty large for a bikini and the effect was totally ruined once you added the question mark.

The Word ‘Why’

September 16, 2011

In which Tony demonstrates the visual power of language. The Admiral told me when he was younger he and his friends used to write the word 'why' vertically and it would look like a woman in a bikini. You know, like this: This would be hugely tittilating for a 10-year-old but it turns out … Continue reading →

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In which Tony continues to be challenged by the coffee shop environment.

Judging by the vast number of laptops in the shop, there appeared to be many authors present. I wasn’t sure why it was essential for writers to escape the quiet of their home-offices and find inspiration in noisy environments with multitudinous distractions, but what do I know about writing.

From time to time the staff would chase the writers with a broom, but little by little they’d sneak back in, look for a moment as if they were going to buy something, then start tip-tappying on their notebooks. There was virtually no place to sit when I arrived, but after a vigorous sweeping of the authors by an irate employee I found a table and sat down. My legs crashed into something soft below. There was a writer cowering underneath, typing away like fury.

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” said the employee, dragging the writer from below the table and sending him on his way. “You know better than that.” The writer scurried away. “It’s good for them,” the employee said to me afterwards. “Makes them feel tortured. They need that.”

“Tough love,” I agreed. I watched them huddle together outside the shop, bracing themselves against the cold and waiting for their moment to slip back in undetected. I wondered how many of these characters were published authors and how many just liked the lifestyle and the thrill of the chase.

Tough Love

September 9, 2011

In which Tony continues to be challenged by the coffee shop environment. Judging by the vast number of laptops in the shop, there appeared to be many authors present. I wasn’t sure why it was essential for writers to escape the quiet of their home-offices and find inspiration in noisy environments with multitudinous distractions, … Continue reading →

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In which Tony has difficulty ordering a cup of coffee.

LaFlamme asked to meet me in a well-known coffee house uptown, an unusual choice of venue in that it wasn’t dark, dingy or catering to a lowbrow clientele. I would generally steer clear of chain stores like this, not because I'm concerned about creeping globalisation or the imperialism of large international corporations, but because I find their menus intimidating. I usually have no idea what I’m ordering. If the waitress confused my order with another, I’d never know.

“I’d like a Caffe Misto, I think,” I said to the girl at the counter.

“You think?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“No, I’m not,” I replied, “but life is short and I don’t want to waste any more of it reading coffee descriptions from Madison Avenue.”

“Medium or large?” said the girl.

“Medium or large?” I replied. “Whatever happened to small?”

“We don’t do small,” she said.

“Then how do you know what medium is?”

“Because of large.”

“Why don’t you just call it small and large?”

“We don’t do small,” she said. Life may be short but this little episode appeared to be infinite.

“Ok,” I said. “I’ll have the small-est size available. But put it in a big cup.”

“To stay or to go?”

“Should I?” I said.

“Should you what?”

“Stay or should I go?”

“It’s your choice, buddy.” She was probably too young to know the song. I ran through it in my head wondering if the band had come to any conclusion that might give me an idea of how to respond to the question, but nothing rang any bells.

“Better make it to stay,” I said. “I’m not sure what I’d do with a large cup of Caffe Misto in the street.” She seemed non-plussed by my dilemma and went about fulfilling the order. I paid and she returned my change.

“Should I put this change in the tip jar,” I asked, “or should I keep it for myself?”

“It’s always tease, tease, tease,” she said.

Medium Or Large?

August 31, 2011

In which Tony has difficulty ordering a cup of coffee. LaFlamme asked to meet me in a well-known coffee house uptown, an unusual choice of venue in that it wasn’t dark, dingy or catering to a lowbrow clientele. I would generally steer clear of chain stores like this, not because I'm concerned about creeping … Continue reading →

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In which Tony is encouraged by a review of an excerpt from his journal.

Recently I allowed a small section of my journal to escape the confines of its page and be read by arbiters of good taste at an online short story symposium. The resulting assessment was that it was ‘engaging in a somewhat pointless fashion’, a glowing review if ever I’ve heard one. Such a resounding endorsement of my fledgling scribery confirms what I have suspected for some time – that I have the makings of an author of distinction. I intend to stop washing and up my alcohol consumption henceforth.

I showed the piece to The Admiral. He said I was ‘damned with faint praise,’ and I agreed that they must have really liked it. The Admiral also harbours a desire to be an author and has often said he wishes to write a ‘classic of 20^th Century literature’. Despite my misgivings about the timing of such an effort, he remains undeterred and continues to pound at his keyboard regularly, if only in frustration.

Once he showed me an example of his writing. It appeared to be in javascript. I didn’t wish to be discouraging because there are many classics of 20^th Century literature written in code. Ulysses for example, a doorstopper of some girth, requires an even bigger tome on hand for deciphering purposes. However, if it was The Admiral’s intention to compose something equally obscure, Ms-Dos might have been more appropriate, given the period.

Anyway I believe there’s only room for one great author in our circle and I should think this testament to my long-dormant genius puts me some way ahead of the fold. Soon I’ll be joining the author of the Maltese Falcon - Dan Brown I think it was - in the pantheon of literary greats, drunk, refusing to wash and asking the others what pantheon means.

Engaging In A Somewhat Pointless Fashion

August 24, 2011

In which Tony is encouraged by a review of an excerpt from his journal. Recently I allowed a small section of my journal to escape the confines of its page and be read by arbiters of good taste at an online short story symposium. The resulting assessment was that it was ‘engaging in a … Continue reading →

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In which Tony breaks the news of his impending journey to LaFlamme.

I called LaFlamme and told her I was being sent on a narrowboat expedition.

“Like a canoe?” she said.

“Bigger than a canoe,” I replied.

“Like a liner?”

“Well, no, smaller than a liner. You don’t see too many of those on the canal.”

“Like a yacht?” I could hear her having difficulties visualising such a fantastical vessel so I explained as best as I could that a narrowboat was a kind of houseboat favoured by Cary Grant types who have the ennui with modern life.

“When do we leave?” she said.

Bigger Than A Canoe

August 14, 2011

In which Tony breaks the news of his impending journey to LaFlamme. I called LaFlamme and told her I was being sent on a narrowboat expedition. “Like a canoe?” she said. “Bigger than a canoe,” I replied. “Like a liner?” “Well, no, smaller than a liner. You don’t see too many of those on … Continue reading →

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In which Tony's alleged cure for the common hangover continues to intrigue bon viveur and inebriate Suave Gav.

“I think you would agree," said Suave Gav, "that passion must be the key ingredient in the creation of a quality Bavarian liqueur.” Having tasted Blutwurz, I thought a ship-load of alcohol was the key ingredient but I'd already upset this fruitcake so I wasn’t about to contradict him. “However,” he continued, “I confess my associates and I also tend to imbibe with a passion. And as the after effects are known to grow steadily worse with age, it’s fair to say we have more than a passing interest in a positive solution to the problem.”

I fell silent and Suave Gav most wisely decided to spell this little verbal enigma out. “If you were not simply pulling my leg with your mention of gastronomic wizardry resulting in a cure for over-indulgence,” he said, “I should very much like to compare notes.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, The Admiral’s your man.”

“Admiral, you say? Sea-faring sort?”

“Not really. He just grew sideburns once.”

“We all make mistakes,” he replied. “Can I suggest a kitchen confab with this chap? Purely in the interests of science, of course. Ingredients discussed, recipes exchanged, vol-au-vents optional?”

“Well, as long as we’re expanding the boundaries of scientific knowledge,” I said, “I don’t see why not.” He was delusional, but at least for a change he wasn’t a design client.

The Passion Of Suave Gav

August 7, 2011

In which Tony's alleged cure for the common hangover continues to intrigue bon viveur and inebriate Suave Gav. “I think you would agree," said Suave Gav, "that passion must be the key ingredient in the creation of a quality Bavarian liqueur.” Having tasted Blutwurz, I thought a ship-load of alcohol was the key ingredient … Continue reading →

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In which Suave Gav explains his aversion to meat whilst Tony continues to walk on eggshells.

Suave Gav called, ostensibly to offer an apology for fainting when I mis-pronounced ‘blutwurz.’ I had been feeling rather sheepish about my faux-pas but I could never have expected even the most rabid vegan would be prone to passing out at the mention of blood sausage.

“I should think my parents had a sadistic streak,” said Gavin. “No animal was sacred in the Armstrong household and no animal part was off the menu. The beasts of the field would cower if we passed. Not that anything we ate ever resembled animal flesh - which was a blessing, for had my nine brothers and I known the origins of the various delicacies dished up, we would surely have mastered the art of hurling from an early age.

“The main justification seemed to be that it was ‘economical.’ That is, once the rich had done with the finer cuts of an animal, the remains would go to waste were it not for the Armstrongs. ‘I see,’ I said to my father. ‘But if they hadn’t slaughtered the beast in the first place, that particular problem wouldn’t have arisen.’ I thought this was an excellent observation for a five-year-old, but it landed me a clip around the ear.

“I don’t blame my parents. They did an otherwise excellent job of rearing my multitudinous siblings and I. In fact, anyone who knows me will confirm that I am a near-perfect physical specimen, despite the early gastronomic torture. But I hope what I have said goes some way towards explaining my sensitive disposition in this field.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be careful not to mention.. that word again.”

“The thing is,” said Gavin, “all of this is neither here nor there when there is a matter of far greater consequence for you and I to discuss.” I wondered what else I had said to offend him but this didn’t appear to be the issue. “Since our meeting at the Herbaceous Perennials, I’ve done some considerable research and even conducted a few preliminary experiments.”

“A new chutney?” I said.

Meat – The Parents

July 31, 2011

In which Suave Gav explains his aversion to meat whilst Tony continues to walk on eggshells. Suave Gav called, ostensibly to offer an apology for fainting when I mis-pronounced ‘blutwurz.’ I had been feeling rather sheepish about my faux-pas but I could never have expected even the most rabid vegan would be prone to … Continue reading →

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In which Capt. Pantling explains the difference between an advocate and a graphic designer, and has an unusual assignment for Tony.

“As you know," said Capt. Pantling, the advocates' clerk, "members of the legal fraternity are paragons of virtue; abstemious, pious and diligent. They work only for the betterment of mankind. The public at large see their extravagant fees as justified given their vast contribution to society. When one of our fraternity therefore has a lapse of judgement and abandons his socks and shoes in a public place, the whole fabric of that society risks collapse.

“You on the other hand, being an exponent of the arts, lack two brass farthings to rub together and have, I imagine, a strong interest in extorting a living wage from other more profitable sectors of society. Rather than discarding your socks and shoes it’s more likely they would walk off on their own accord, due to the fortifying effects of several years’ ingrained dirt. Should you have met with a similar fate to the Advocate General, society would not mourn your sanity’s passing because it was so utterly predictable.”

“My life sucks, yes,” I said. “But if you had a point there, I must have missed it.”

“From LeSnide’s diary I note two meetings with a ‘design interfacer,’ which include your number and the word ‘lackey’ next to it.”

“That’s me,” I sighed.

“I believe your interest in being renumerated for your work with LeSnide to be sufficiently strong for you to want to track him down. In a nutshell, Mr. Boaks, we want LeSnide returned to civilisation."

Apocalypse Later

July 23, 2011

In which Capt. Pantling explains the difference between an advocate and a graphic designer, and has an unusual assignment for Tony. “As you know," said Capt. Pantling, the advocates' clerk, "members of the legal fraternity are paragons of virtue; abstemious, pious and diligent. They work only for the betterment of mankind. The public at … Continue reading →

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In which Tony inadvertently upsets vegetarian food scientist and fruitcake Suave Gav.

It had been an interesting evening of experimental vegetarian cuisine and our hosts had proven to be formidable food scientists. But as Suave Gav continued to discuss the positive health effects of the bizarre beverage Blutwurz I felt nobody was acknowledging the more obvious teeth-blackening effects and began to feel quite uncomfortable. I nudged LaFlamme and she snorted awake.

“I think it’s time we were going,” I said. LaFlamme pointed to my teeth in a befuddled way but decided not to raise the point. “Thanks for the Blutwurst.”

There was a gasp of shock from the quartet as if I’d said something inappropriate to the host’s wife. “Tony,” said the demure Jane, “it’s pronounced bloot-voortz.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “What did I say?”

“You said bloot-voorst,” said Ethel, under her breath.

“Bloot-voorst?” I said again, to even more horror.

“Please,” said Ethel.

“Steady on, old man,” said Dick, removing his pipe. Suave Gav fainted away into an armchair.

“Darling, are you alright?” said Ethel, racing to mop his brow. Jane began to loosen his collar.

“I’m.. sorry,” I said again.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Ethel. “Gavin’s terribly sensitive to that word.”

“Which word?” I said. “Bloot-voorst or the other one?” Gavin broke into a sob and Dick ushered us amicably to the hall as if my next utterance might break a fragile shell.

“Easy mistake to make, Boaks,” said Dick. “He won’t blame you personally.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” he assured me. “Are you sure you have to leave? We’ll probably play Twister shortly.”

Saturday

This morning I consulted my Bavarian dictionary and discovered Blutwurz, meaning ‘blood-root,’ is a traditional liqueur from the Alsace region. Blutwurst, on the other hand, meaning ‘blood-sausage,’ is a foul affront to vegetarians everywhere. I might as well have offered him some Foie Gras.

My Faux Pas

July 17, 2011

In which Tony inadvertently upsets vegetarian food scientist and fruitcake Suave Gav. It had been an interesting evening of experimental vegetarian cuisine and our hosts had proven to be formidable food scientists. But as Suave Gav continued to discuss the positive health effects of the bizarre beverage Blutwurz I felt nobody was acknowledging the … Continue reading →

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Dick split the silence. “Did you say hangover cure?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Suave Gav from the bar.

“And your friend,” said Dick, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “You have an address for him?”

“Now, Dick,” said Gavin, “there’s plenty time for that. Let our guests enjoy a little Alsatian hospitality for the moment. Lights please, Ethel.” Ethel rose and cut the main lights, leaving us in the glow of candlelight. Gavin emerged from the bar, underlit by a ghostly blue haze. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “I give you - Blutwurz A La Flamme.”

We all clapped, although LaFlamme and I weren’t sure why. My mind was perhaps not at its sharpest after a few hours working with a succession of experimental martinis. All I could think was that it was tremendous somebody had named a drink after her.

Suave Gav laid a tray of oddly-shaped serving dishes on the table; a cross between miniature soup bowls and saucepans, with small protruding stumps for handles. Each contained a deep murky substance with a soft blue flame rising from the surface. It gave off a strong medicinal odour, sweet with strong hints of menthol and herbs. I began to feel quite woozy and my sinuses cleared instantly.

“Do you have any marshmallows?” said LaFlamme. The others laughed, but I think it was a serious question.

“Flambé can of course be an important part of the Blutwurz process,” said Gavin. “It both improves the flavour and reduces the alcohol content.”

“Aren’t you concerned about reducing the alcohol content?” I said, like a true lush.

“Ordinarily I might be,” he replied, “but as its original content is around 60% and burning for five minutes reduces it to only around 45, it’s not something we get too concerned about.” No wonder these guys were interested in a hangover cure. I gulped nervously. I was already intoxicated by the Blutwurz odour, I wasn’t sure I actually needed to drink it.

But drink it I did. It was warm, with a bitter taste of unripe citrus fruit and Italian herbs, rosemary, marjoram, bay, a nutty kind of Edam and just the faintest hint of vanilla. Not that my palate was sharp enough to detect these flavours, I just overheard the gastronomes at the table as they savoured it.

I felt distinctly giddy when the drink was finished but giddiness turned to alarm once Ethel turned up the house lights. I was surrounded by a sea of black teeth. I turned to LaFlamme. Her lips were dark. She had drifted off and was lightly snoring, the empty miniature soup bowl still clutched in her hands. This wasn’t a comment on the evening, merely something LaFlamme did when light was low. It was a good thing to remember for times when she was obstreperous. A bit like having a budgie hood.

Blutwurz A La Flamme

July 12, 2011

Dick split the silence. “Did you say hangover cure?” “Yes, he did,” replied Suave Gav from the bar. “And your friend,” said Dick, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “You have an address for him?” “Now, Dick,” said Gavin, “there’s plenty time for that. Let our guests enjoy a little Alsatian hospitality … Continue reading →

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