Sunday, 20 May 2012

Continuing guide to the imploding European situation

Every once in a while I take issue with serious matters. Albeit with a typical sarcastic point of view. Anything less would just not be normal. Or someone else's writing.
So, given the on-going and (seemingly) never-ending European crisis, I thought an update to my previous extremely insightful and thoroughly well-researched and totally unbiased post was well overdue.

Let's see. Where to start?

Okay, so, there was once a little man who wore platform shoes to augment his status. He made a great effort to befriend a powerful lady - not so he could marry her, as another slapper had already bagged her place at his side, and that's a whole other story in itself - in order to establish order in the chaotic melĂ©e that was is the Grande Soup de l'Onion d'Europe.

There were a few hiccups in the master plan.

1. A pesky chef had overcooked the moussaka and none of his friends would chip in and bring more food to the party. What's more, they all decided they actually did not want moussaka in the first place, and a big juicy t-bone steak, with all the trimmings, was far more palatable. And they would possibly pay for it (quarterly, in arrears, and with no hidden charges) once they had tasted it, but then only if everyone agreed it was worth the expense and that they would not be punished for leaving food on their plates. Even the threats of the aforementioned powerful lady were not sufficient to sway their minds. These politicians children were very, very disobedient. A big, huge, naughty corner was pointed out to them by the little man with stack heels: it was called 'Out of Euro'.

2. In the meantime, the big paella that everyone was also looking forward to (along with sun, sand, sangria, and stashes of spare cash) got overcooked due to all the distractions with the moussaka debacle. The rice was mushy, the prawns were off colour, and the chicken had decidedly seen better days. Not even the chilli was sufficiently spicy to mask the dish's failure. Furthermore, the beach house turned out to be a mud hut, the wine was coloured water, and the banks had their knickers pulled down and more runs on their money than Usain Bolt. It was messy.

3. Back in the land of clogs and tulips, a hissy fit by a man with very bad hair - and attitude - meant that the country that was off most people's radar (insofar as instability goes, that is), momentarily looked like it might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. However, given that the good citizens of this nation are, true to form, reliable, resilient, and, above all, conservative in approach, this blip barely registered before being conveniently forgotten once more. Until...

Sacre bleu! The midget with a height complex was voted out of office!

No more cosy chit-chats with his best female friend pseudo wife fellow European peer (apparently in English when they were all loved up, then back to their respective native languages when arguing, with interpreters called in to translate - a true marriage made in heaven, in other words).

No more finger-wagging at the fallen descendants of the cradle of democracy.

No more sneering at the former Napoleanic ally.

Indeed, no more nothing as his replacement - conveniently named Hollande (and thus ensuring his namesake would not be entirely forgotten, hence note no.3 above) - not only stood a good five centimeters taller, he also immediately did away with the glitz and schmaltz and celebrity-supermodel-wannabe popstar wife add-ons that preceded him.

As a reward he was summarily drenched by a downpour during his inaugural parade, received news that his own country's debt and unemployment were at record levels, caught a plane mere hours in to the new job to meet the German Chancellor to discuss the European crisis, only for it to be struck by lightning.

A sign from the Greek gods, undoubtedly.

Or maybe just a parting shot over his bows from the little man he ousted.

To be continued.

Watch those heels, baby


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Sunday, 6 May 2012

Sugar me up

I am over here today, my other abode. Pretending to be Lord Sugar. Why be an apprentice when you can be the boss?

But more because time is short and even with the minis rugby season over for another year, the first triathlon around the corner, and the cherubs to ferry to and fro, there is still a ton of laundry to catch up on.

And work, of course. There's always the 'real' job.


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