Trekkin’ Abroad: More France

I went to France again, this time for two actual weeks. I made a number of important discoveries to supplement the important knowledge I gained on my last visit.

France has almost no vegetables. Eating green things is considered suspicious and even ordering a “salad” in a restaurant will cause you to be served with a steak, a large portion of chips, a thick peppercorn sauce and a single leaf of curly lettuce. This is not a bad thing in itself, but I am concerned that the majority of the French population may be permanently constipated.
My skin, especially the skin on the top of my head which has only really been able to see daylight for the last year or two, is liable to burn even when protected by a hat and a layer of factor 30 suncream thick enough to dip crisps in.
I am suffering pastry withdrawal symptoms.
French kitties who live in flowerbeds in the street do not want to be your friend.
Forgetting to post to the Beans while away will cause you to lose one bean on the Bean Counter. The Bean Counter is unforgiving of holiday time.

I was hoping to gather more information over a two week period, but the French are a crafty people, and ensured I was plied with excellent beers, wines and artisanal ciders, so to be honest I don’t really remember much of it and the four points above are all I came away with.

Northwards

We all knew it would happen one day, and now it has. I am moving to the North.

Not the North of England, of course. No. Don’t be silly. The commute would be interminable. No, “the North” clearly means “North London”, as anyone safely cushioned within London’s self-obsessed bubble will tell you.

This important change will bring a number of new and exciting features to my life.

I will be commuting to work on a London Tubular Train (described previously on the Beans here, in case you are not familiar with this novel mode of transport).
I will be living in a district of London known as “Ruislip”, which is a complete mystery to me apart from being the setting of every single domestic sitcom of the 1970s. I will therefore be mostly wearing beige flares and a pudding bowl haircut upon moving, and will likely make borderline racist double entendres towards my neighbours to a soundtrack of slide whistles and canned laughter.
I will be closer to the actual North of England than before and reaching me from the outside world will involve significantly less time hacking through the impenetrable jungle of London.
I will no longer have a toilet in every room. (This will be inconvenient but I will have to get used to it.)

I await your warm congratulations on this momentous news, but am realistic about the fact that the state of the Beans lately means I’m basically talking to myself here.

Trekkin’ Abroad – Spain

“Da da de something something da,” as the song goes, “viva España!” Well, I am in Spaiñ now and it certainly seems to still be viving tolerably well.

This is a flying visit to a far-off land, so in many ways my assessment of the country and its people may be hasty or perhaps based on an incomplete assessment of the facts. But I see no reason why that should stop me passing judgement on the place.

So far, the main thing I have noticed are the number of English people here. English people appear to be not only visiting, but also living here and running almost all the businesses. I am growing concerned for the safety and welfare of the 46 million people who are native to Spain because as far as I can tell they are not here and I find myself wondering where they are.

Aside from that, the weather here seems nice and it is easier to procure bacon sandwiches, beefburgers and a decent curry than in the UK, so on the whole this place has its upsides. The downside appears to be that, if we leave the European Union, we will also leave behind most of the population of England.

Trekkin’ Abroad – Italy

I have arrived in Italy, land of many very ancient histories, of pasta, of scooters, and of Europe’s most cheerfully remembered fascist dictatorship.

My surroundings here are extremely pleasant but I have to admit to being a little bit disappointed by the food in what is supposed to be the home of one of the world’s most popular cuisines.

It turns out that all food here comes from a shop called Gonad. I have to say that I am not altogether comfortable eating anything that has come out of a Gonad.

If that makes me narrow minded then so be it. If that makes me seem closed to the wider world and the glorious differences between our nations and our cultures then that is fine. I am simply not happy here knowing that every sip of juice is Gonad juice and every mouthful of tender, juicy meat is Gonad meat.

Slut-Dropping in the USA

I am the master of the slut drop.

This is not one of those X Factor “I can sing and I’m going to show the world just how good I am only to fail miserably as it turns out I’m not very good at singing in the slightest and I’ve just shown sixty million people how stupid I am” moments. This is one of those “I am so good” moments.

For those who are not in the know, a slut drop, as defined by the urban dictionary, is, “a move in “dirty dancing” involving standing with legs bending the knees, squatting until the buttocks almost reach the floor and standing back up with a body roll.” I have unwittingly been doing this most of my modern life and it wasn’t until recently that I learned that it was an actual thing with an actual name. It’s a little like Stop, Drop and Roll but with less roll.

Having conquered the world of fixing washing machines (erm…), it was only a matter of time before I moved on to the next thing. It had occurred to me that the list of things I am excellent at is so vast I wasn’t sure how I was going to narrow it down. Whatever I needed to do to work it out, it was certainly going to be an all-nighter. And just so you know, it’s very difficult being this accomplished because it opens you up to an awful lot of criticism and jealousy.

So, what does one do when one possesses talents such as these? Sit on them and hope to get famous anyway? Hide in a cupboard? No. I have to take this out on the road and head direct to the heart of the action. The World Slut Drop Championships are held in Kansas City, Missouri each year. Without a shadow of a doubt I am convinced that I can win it. So, with the financial help of the beans massive, I will be flying out in the next couple of weeks to face the creme de la creme of the slut-dropping community.

Can I beat Sophie ‘Um Chuka Chuka’ Candice? Will I be able to defeat the two times winner Bish Bush Cacklewonker? Will I have the strength to take on the Qwindle Twins?

With your money in my pocket, I’m sure I will.

The Timps Chea Party

It was a small gathering, but it was enough to garner interest from the highest rungs of society’s ladder. That was always the case for the Timps Chea (pronounced “Chi”) Party.

Bolderville sniffed at the contents of his cup and scoffed; a little noise emanating from the back of his throat, “Is this what counts as an acceptable blend these days?” Emmental peered up from the book she was sifting through, mid-sip of her own drink, and shot a daring, lacklustre look in his direction. This was not the first time Bolderville had interrupted her book, her story, her line of thought. His opinions could be heard from the other side of the room, even through the most heated of debates. Once something upset his tastebuds, or his stomach, he was first to announce it and always at the top of his voice.

“If you don’t want it you are more than welcome to try to find something more to your tastes in the back of Nanny’s cupboard. I think she still has some Oakenfold Harbinger from her trips to the Ivory Coast. It goes remarkably well with civilised company,” she quipped, hoping to dismount his verbal attack before he even had a chance to regroup his efforts. Bolderville didn’t even bother to acknowledge her remark; he was too preoccupied with the flavour rolling around his mouth. Usually he had ripped the drink to pieces by now.

Could it be that he had changed his mind and the chea was growing on him?

“I’ve tasted better down the crack of even the most slimiest, more repugnant shops in the sweatiest districts of Backgammon. In fact, the last time I threw up I’m almost entirely sure it had the texture of this!” That was more like him. Those were the words of a blunderbuss, a person botherer, an unpleasant, parsnip-twitching, egotistical hammock of a man.

Emmental sighed. Her own chea, a blend she had cultivated herself after long afternoons in the portland stiles, was as light and bewitching as the eyes of the black kitten Nanny had given her just the other day for her twilight birthday. Between the two of them they had enchanted just about every member of the Tripod Dynasty, even burned out Haggard McPondPoodle. The chea reflected her personality. It gave good lips and a savage grace. There was no point wasting any on Bolderville though; he would not understand the subtle nuances, and fake a gagging noise to attract attention from the clot of Susan beasts in the courtyard.

No, today was her book and her chea. Let him with his he and his ho waddle in the puddle of his own discontent. Let him dampen the air with foul language and disharmony. Crash away, my good man, Emmental thought, for you have no business here.

Only one problem but remained; nobody knew what a Timp was.

Spread the Word

From the recent statistical analysis, and customer satisfaction questionnaire, carried out earlier on this year it is quite clear that the average number of visitors to the Beans on a weekly basis has reached it’s highest numbers since the ‘zorse years’. It is estimated that approximately six people, including Kev, come to read and sometimes share their thoughts with the Beans collective. Now I’ve never been known to shunt a positive acumen up the ajax but with winter fast approaching and nobody having suggested any zany ideas for a while I feel we need to double or possibly triple those numbers in order to justify the size of Chris’ dance studio and Kevin’s virtual poodle bar.

Having briefly glanced through a list of possible ideas with which to boost the visitors to the site, it has been decided that I should venture forth to the small village of Ivalo in Finland in the hope to gaining their sponsorship and their patronage.

Ivalo is a village in dense region of Inari, Lapland. It currently has a population of just less than four thousand and, as of 2003, includes the benefit of a small airport. It is this very airport I am hoping to fly to in order to encourage the mayor of Ivalo to seal a deal in a wigwam and have hundreds of Finnish tourists knock knock knocking at the doors of the Beans. All I will need is a small contribution from the kitty and I’ll be on my way.

I’ll meet you in the first class lounge on C deck.

Trekkin’ Abroad: Futuristic Edition

Tomorrow morning I set sail for Greece. But what do we know of this far-off land of mystery? Until recently, perhaps only that everyone there was a god and they eat a lot of yogurt. But now it’s all over the news. Just look at some of these recent headlines:

Greece Is In A Right Old State (The Telegraph, 28 June 2015)
No Money Left In Greece At All (The Mirror, 30 June 2015)
Official Greek Currency Now Yogurt (Financial Times, 2 July 2015)

With this in mind, I have taken the latest Foreign Office advice and will be taking all the money I will need in the form of cold, hard cash, in a range of denominations and currencies. In the event that the Euro is scrapped and Greece returns to the Drachma, I have spent several evenings drawing my own Drachma notes and will be taking those with me. I am also taking a considerable amount of yogurt in the hopes that I can use it to barter for basic goods and services.

I’m not sure whether this approach will be enough to see me through a holiday or even if I will actually survive the trip, but I will attempt to keep you updated when I return as to whether I am still alive or whether I have been confiscated by the Bank of Greece as a hostage due to the deteriorating state of negotiations with the European Union.

Pouring
Beans

Category: Foreign