Sigh, let me explain…

Pet hates.  I guess we all have them.

  • Telling Irish, Scots and Welsh that they are English, it’s the same thing really.
  • Squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle.
  • Manspreading on public transport.

I have two pet hates – among many others.

  1. Having to explain what the film we are watching is all about.
  2. Having to explain a joke.

“Billy” is a repeat offender.  You could be watching a film or DVD with tanks firing their guns, German men in uniform shouting, “Achtung!  Achtung!  Englischer Schweinhund!”  across a battlefield, with Spitfires flying across the air.  Thirty minutes into the film, and Billy will ask in all seriousness:

So, er, is this a war film?

(No, it’s Pride and Prejudice with PMT…)

To illustrate point 2, let me tell you a possibly sexist joke.

A successful gynaecologist decides to fulfil his life’s dream: give up medical practice and become a motorcycle mechanic.  So he gets out of the medical business and enrolls at a mechanic’s seminar with Harley Davidson.

After many weeks of training comes the final examination, taking apart and then re-assembling a randomly chosen Harley engine, he grabs his tools and sets to work, but soon he gets worried: while he is still working on the valve-covers, everybody else is already busy with removing the cylinder heads.
He falls more and more behind, and as he is just starting to put it all back together, everybody else is already finished.  He manages to put the engine back together, barely in time before the exam ends.

Because it took him so much longer than everybody else, he goes straight to the teacher to ask how he performed.  “Well,” the teacher says, “out of one hundred possible points you scored 150.” “But how is that possible?” the ex-gynecologist asks.

“Well, it breaks down to this: You get fifty points for correctly taking the engine apart. And you get another fifty points for putting it back together perfectly.” “And what did I get those additional fifty points for?”

“For doing it all through the exhaust.”

Billy’s reaction:

But why would a doctor want to take such a huge drop in salary?  I don’t understand.  Why was his job satisfaction so poor?  Did he work in the British NHS?  Did he speak to his line manager?

Billy wants to come with me to next week’s English Language Comedy Night in the Altstadt.

You must be joking…

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Have an explanatory day, won’t you!

 

 

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It just occurred to me…

This morning I was at my GP’s for a routine appointment.  Nothing spectacular.

The waiting room was full.  Most of the people were using their smartphones.

  • WhatsApp
  • YouTube
  • Texting
  • Emails

etc…

Nobody was reading any of the magazines in the waiting room.  That can only mean one thing.  Men’s knowledge of woman’s health issues will soon be zero.  Zilch.  Nada.  We men used to gain 90% of our knowledge of women’s health from sitting for hours in doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms, reading the problem pages in Women’s Own, Cosmopolitan, etc.  There will be a serious knowledge gap.  Beware!

Have a knowledgeable day, won’t you!

Pads Brat Life

42 signs you were a Pads Brat … fellow Brats leave the number of the one which made you smile the most. 😃

1. People ask you where you’re from and you don’t even try to explain as your not entirely sure!
2. Your Doctor, Dentist and Chaplain wore combat boots.
3. You’ve taken a few flights that involved sitting in jump seats, wearing your winter jacket the entire flight and taken off and landing at military airports.
4. You’ve eaten more than one really posh Christmas meal in the “mess” and been told to be on your best behaviour to then watch the adults get hopelessly drunk and misbehave.
5. You always have emergency ration packs around the house and can make a meal out of anything tinned.
6. You’ve never had to explain to your Military friends that you just found out you’re moving … again!
7. You’re the most efficient packer you know and actually enjoy it.
8. You’ve known from a young age Life is not always easy or fair but your job is to make the most of it and smile regardless.
9. You are tough, adaptable and good at making friends.
10. You wouldn’t trade your childhood and upbringing for anything in the world.
11. You know you shouldn’t but you judge people who don’t know the phonetic alphabet.
12. Turning up 10 minutes early for an appointment means you’re late.
13. You were soooo proud you had a British military ID.
14. Anyone older than you is Sir or Ma’am, “No exceptions.”
15. Your chores were mandatory and were always inspected military style.
16. You are born with a immediate respect for anyone in uniform.
17. Santa always turned up in a military helicopter to the Mess and wore combat boots and DPM trousers underneath his red jacket.
18. You were never alone, and even when you were, you were always pretty content and happy.
19. You’ve stood for the National Anthem in a cinema.
20. You have an instant connection with other brats no matter what sex or age.
21. You have friends all over the world.
22. You can “go with the flow” better than your civilian counterpart, even if you’re not comfy, you always fit in and hold yourself well in any group.
23. No one or nothing was more scary than your father’s commanding officer.
24. You’ve not got the toys you grew up with and can’t remember where they went.
25. You never ever questioned your lifestyle, things were just as they were and it was accepted, now you look back in affectionate amazement.
26. You know it’s really 17:00 not 5pm.
27. You get excited when you meet someone who has been to the same base or country as you and have an instant bond and shed loads to talk about.
28. Going back to your own country was a complete cultural shock.
29. You never thought it was weird that you grew up inside a armed guarded cage, you just knew you were safe.
30. Your only source of communication with your Dad when he was away were “blueys”.
31. In school, you had fire drills but you also had nuclear war drill and prepared for terrorist attacks.
32. You put German curry sauce on everything and love trying new foods and flavours.
33. You feel somewhat sorry for civilian children and feel like they have missed out.
34. Having the amount of different schools attended as you did is a kind of badge of honour but you cant remember more than two teachers names, what school they taught you in or what year!
35. You’ve worn military green thermal socks that doubled up every Christmas as your Christmas stocking.
36. You’ve looked under your car for bombs or devices, also had your school bus searched twice a day by armed soldiers considered normal.
37. You never bothered to memorize your home telephone number, it changed too frequently.
38. You refer to non-school clothes as “civvies.”
39. It wasn’t alarming or nothing new to see guys jump out of airplanes or dangle from speeding helicopters.
40. You can’t keep track of how many houses you’ve lived in but can remember the view from your bedroom windows.
41. You are probably one of a few people that have actually fully read this whole post and liked and shared it.
42. You can’t stop finding reasons why being a Military brat is great.

Have a padded day, won’t you!

Michael, they have taken you away

Michael K was buried yesterday morning.  He was 50 years old.  Three of his children attended his funeral, together with about fifteen other people who knew him, including his first wife.  I’m not sure if he had other children, but that was all that turned up to a spartan chapel in a local cemetery.

I would like to be glib and say, “It was a nice funeral.”

In a way it was.  The flowers on and around his coffin were beautiful.  The mourners, especially the British – for he had many British friends – were warm and supportive towards the members of his family, saying kind words and offering sympathy and hugs.  We sang one of his favourite hymns well: There Is A Hope.

But it wasn’t a nice “he had a good innings” funeral.  He died too early, alone and lonely and lacking love and hope.  His partner had died slowly and painfully three years ago.  He had been in and out of jobs since then.  When he was working, he was doing shift work and could not get to church to be with his church family.  As for his “blood family” to quote the Prince of Wales’ brother, I think his relationship with them over the years had been strained.

Michael was what we Brits call “a bit Marmite.”  You either loved him or hated him.  I myself enjoyed his company, as long it did not involve endless hours spent on a summer afternoon in an Altstadt Irish pub.  Michael, a German, knew the words to a vast array of Irish rebel songs.  Sometimes he’d tweak the lyrics.  Sean South of Garryowen became Sean South of Gerresheim.  He and I used to sing these songs every now and again together…  All his years working in IT in Scotland and Eire had not gone to waste.  I guess his local pub in Scotland must have been full of Celtic fans, judging by his repertoire.  Oh yes, he also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of East Germany jokes.

We got on well.

We often used to sing Fields of Athenry while strolling through the local park.

Michael, they have taken you away.  May you rest in peace.

Have a peaceful day, wont you!

“Hör auf zu meckern!”

Hello, everybody.

For those who don’t speak German, the title translates loosely into colloquial English as:

Stop your bl00dy moaning!

In the past month I’ve been doing pastoral work for the local church.  Anyone can wear the label.  Anyone can talk the talk.  Can they walk the walk?  For sure it’s rewarding, helping people to sort their problems, whether that be depression, loneliness, falling out with friends, etc.

But…………

Fast-forward to the last 24 hours.

Last night I went to the local ELCN (English Language Comedy Night) in DUS Altstadt.  It was excellent as ever, including seeing the world’s shortest comedian.  (But some other time, please.)

I get home just after 01:30, pretty much still on a high after enjoying two hours’ live stand-up comedy including the world’s shortest comedian bantering with a bald man who was a hair brush salesman.  (But some other time, please.)

A quick check on my emails and Facebook.  I’m still a bit “hyper” from the ELCN.

G, my old classmate from pads brat days nearly 40 years ago, is online.  Night owl.

Then comes the bombshell.

G, a policeman, tells me matter-of-factly,  his wife had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which had spread to the lungs.  (British understatement: Not very good news at all.)

I immediately submit a prayer to York Minster Prayer Box.  I say kind words to G… which probably all his friends had told him earlier on in the day.

It’s now 02:00.  Bedtime and BBC Radio Five.

Fast forward about 10 hours.  I’m at church, using one of the meeting rooms as a study to read one of my IT text books.

A member of congregation happens to walk in.

MoC:

Hello German Ginge.  How are you?  Bleat bleat bleat moan moan moan grumble grumble grumble…  The local kiosk had run out of bread rolls, or some similar catastrophe.

G in G:

MoC, let me tell you something.  I really enjoyed the comedy evening last night.  But something spoilt it, I’m afraid.  You see, in the wee small hours this morning, I found out that a friend of mine has been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Now, do you still want to tell me about what a morning you have just had?

MoC – exit stage left.  Bis später.

Have a grateful day, won’t you!

 

 

“Meet me halfway…”

Let me prepare you with a bit of context for this article.

A friend of mine told me this joke the other day.

A man prays:

Heavenly Father, I am always skint.  Please please please, let me win at least a tenner on the National Lottery.  Amen.

A week later our man is lying in bed, when a voice calls out to him:

Hey, at least meet me halfway.  Please please please, go and buy yourself a ticket!

Now and again, I do a bit of pastoral work for my local church.  (Think of Matthew 7:16.  Anyone can talk the talk, but do they walk the walk?)  It’s rewarding, but also frustrating, especially when you are dealing with someone who perceives God as a “magician.”  Pray for a bike for Christmas and God waves his magic wand to ensure the desired bike appears at the foot of the Christmas tree on the morning of 25th December.  Ach nein, das geht nicht…

Prayer alone is not enough.  Prayer is good, but not enough.  I have a headache.  I will pray about it.  Fine, but better if you also take an Ibuprofen or lie in a darkened room. By the same token, liebe Leute, if Uncle Ginge in Germany gets you a social security form for you, please pray about the paperwork, but…

  1. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE fill the blessed form in.
  2. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take the form to the office.
  3. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE just allow the nice, kind, friendly civil servant to process your claim in due course, even if it does take 3-4 weeks.  That’s just the way it is.

Have a prayerful day, won’t you!

The West Brits?

I’m sure this piece from the Belfast Telegraph will have you either shouting in fuuuuuuuuuuuurious anger or smirking with amusement.

I’m just waiting for Varadkar asking London if Eire can become part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland again.  Doubtless he will ride into Downing Street on Shergar with Elvis Presley providing the welcoming music.

Oh, and happy birthday to Gerry Adams, who happens to share the same birthday (today) as me.  I’m sure his birthday cake is not the only thing he’s ever been responsible for blowing up/out…

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Have a united day, won’t you!