The Exile Files

Raging Against the Outrageous. Laughter and Insanity Abound.

Archive for the ‘Rant’ Category

The End is Nigh.. Or Not.. Who Knows?

Posted by Exile on February 27, 2009

I met an anti smoker today while I was out with the dogs. I meet them, I suppose, every day, but this one gave me some astonishing news.
"That will kill you." she said.
"What?" I replied.
"Smoking. It will kill you." I drew on my pipe, hard and long, and blew smoke at her.
"How?" I asked.
"It will kill you. It shortens your life."
"I see." I said. "So if I didn’t smoke, I would live for ever?"
"No. But you won’t live as long as you should."
"And how long should I live? I asked. "Tell me, when am I going to die?"
"I don’t know."
"Then how can you state that I am going to live longer, or shorter, than something that you know nothing of?" I was getting ready for the usual tirade. "Do you know how I am going to die?"
"No" She said.
"Then how can you be sure that smoking my pipe will shorten my life? Will the bus that is destined to run me over be early that day because I smoke? See, I’d love to know when and how I will die. Then I can make some real plans as to how I am going to spend the rest of my time here. Until then, I’ll just enjoy what I can, while I can. Which includes smoking my pipe."
"But it’s bad for you."
"Really? Then explain to me why pipe smokers appear to live longer than their non smoking contemporaries. Why is the percentage higher among non smokers than smokers where Alzheimers is concerned? Why are pipe smokers generally less troubled by these so called stress related diseases? And while we’re about it, show me one death certificate that states cause of death as being "Smoking". There isn’t one. People do not die from smoking. They die of diseases that may be aggravated by it, but the disease itself is the killer. Or was none of that mentioned in the last piece of so called hard evidence that you read and draw your conclusions from? My thanks for your concern Madame, but it really is wasted here."

I called the dogs to me and walked off leaving her to consider my argument. If we were all given a set number of days to live then I could understand any math involved. But we aren’t. We are not guaranteed a certain length of life. So how can anybody be sure that anything we do will lengthen or shorten our time on this earth? We do not all die of old age. Some of us die in traffic, accidents at work, war, natural disasters. So even the manner of our demise is not guaranteed and is unknown to us. To assume then, that my life will be shortened or not by any activity I choose to indulge in is purely hypothetical as there is no end point to measure backwards from. Mountaineering is equally as potentially dangerous. So is hang gliding. Driving. Or even just going to work and back each day. Working for fifty years will damage your health. You don’t see any feckin’ government health warnings there though, do you?

Life is ultimately only terminable. I will die one day. That is inevitable. I am not worried about it, because once it is done with, I will know nothing about it. Unfortunately, I do not have a "Due by" date stamped on my arse. On the other hand, if I was to spend the rest of my days worrying about it, it would be a pretty miserable life anyway.

I want quality while I can get it. Not quantity at any price.

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Postal Disservice

Posted by Exile on January 31, 2009

images I am not very well pleased with the Danish Post. There was once a time when we had a Post Office, with real people trained by the Post Office, to handle our post. That closed. It was a large building. It was replaced by a prefabricated hut which was parked in the corner of a parking lot near one of the local shopping malls. The queues were phenomenal. The waiting time was endless. I stopped going there. That closed too.

Now our Post Office is a little kiosk like affair hidden in the corner of a supermarket. No longer a separate entity in the street portrait, it is reduced to a second place counter beside the weekly magazines, sweets and cigarettes. The service has suffered badly too. Large parcels used to be delivered by a postman in a dedicated post van. Now it’s a local transport entrepreneur. The post is no longer protected by the contract we once had with the postal service. It used to be a trustworthy organisation. Now it is a bandit society. Poorly led, poorly run and untrustworthy.

For example, I had a little exchange with our postman (actually, that should be postlady) today when she pushed a little notice into my post box stating that there was a package waiting for me to be collected at the post office/supermarket.

“You haven’t got it?” I enquired. “No”, she said. “Someone tried to deliver it yesterday and couldn’t, which is why I have this notice for you.”

Strange. See, I met our postman yesterday. I waited for him because I know the package is on it’s way. He didn’t have it.

“Well, we do come more than once some days.” said the post lady. “Maybe someone tried later.”

Oh well. The package is at the post office. Ready to be collected. It says so on the notice. Ready for collection from 31/1 between 10:00 and 14:00 and will be there until 7/2 where it will be returned to sender if not picked up.

I had an hour to go and get my package. The Post Office/supermarket is only five minutes away by car. I drove.

Arriving at the Post Office/supermarket I produced my notice and my identification and demanded my package.

“We haven’t got it.” I was told by a spotty fourteen year old girl with big teeth.

“Yes you have.” I said. “I have a notice here saying that the package is here, ready for collection today between the hours of 10 and 14.”

“Yes, but we haven’t received it yet.” she said.

What the f…??

“Excuse me, but how you can send me a notice claiming that your postman tried to deliver it yesterday, and that it is here now to be collected and then have the gall to tell me you haven’t received it? If you haven’t received it, how the bloody hell can you try to deliver it? Successfully or not. Give me my package.”

“It’s not here.”
“It must be. I have your notice to prove it.”

Clearly, someone is lying to me. They have my property and they are lying to me.

I left. Empty handed and extremely annoyed. So it would appear I will have to wait until they do have it and ring me to tell me, yet again, that my package is ready for collection so that I can make the trip again.

We pay for this.

And it’s disgraceful.

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Cold Comfort

Posted by Exile on November 9, 2008

I took another turn in the woodpile today, despite the drizzling rain and the cold wind that blows incessantly across the piece of mossy grass that I call our garden. I worked hard at it today, mainly trying to keep warm whilst reducing the pile of tinder that will bring warmth and comfort to our living room in the coming months. After a while, I was hungry. Lunch.

Trudging over the swamp that our lawn becomes in the winter, I was looking forward to some real sustenance. Meat and bread. Cheese maybe. And a beer to brighten my day. Kicking off my wet shoes and dumping my wet jacket, I headed for the fridge. I flung open the door with a certain sense of impending satisfaction but, to my horror, I was met by a wall of green stuff. Salads, broccoli, ruccola, avacados, a cucumber, pepper fruits, carrots, tomatoes. That sort of stuff. Coca cola, white wine, milk and bottles marked “Aqua D’or”. Potatoes wrapped in kitchen foil. Cold boiled fish, which is for the dogs, not me; jars of marmalade and jam. There is something seriously wrong here. Where’s the ham? Where’s the cheese? No beer? What is going on here?

Attracted by the noise and my grumbling, my good lady appeared. “What are you doing?” She asked. “Looking for something to eat.” I replied. “There isn’t anything. Why is there no food in the fridge?”
We then had a quick discussion about the contents of the fridge and the lack of male foodstuffs. My contention is, that there is no place in a fridge for green things. They don’t belong there. Men don’t want them anyway. Men eat meat. Not grass and the like. My wife’s position is, that the fridge is full of food. I disagree. A lettuce leaf is not going to appease my hunger.

And then I had “the revelation”.

See, I have always thought that there is something pathetic about a man drooling over a salad bar. He is not well. He is mentally incapacitated and not truly up to scratch on the male hormone stakes. Women eat salads. Men don’t. At least, not when they are just looking for that quick food hit in the middle of the day. I haven’t heard any of my mates say anything along the lines of “I could go for a quick salad…” Neither would I. We say things like, “I could kill a burger…” or, “A steak sandwich would hit the spot..” Salads? Not for real men! Sorry ladies, it’s the truth. Accept it. Ruccola is Italian for dandelion. And it isn’t in our vocabulary nor is it on our “must have” food list. You buy it – you eat it. We men don’t. The solution to this, is obvious.

We need separate fridges. Like we have separate toilets in restaurants and bars.

(I always wondered why we have separate toilets in restaurants and bars. I mean, we all do the same stuff in them…and you can lock the door while you do it. Sorry. Back to the subject matter.)

My fridge would be full of the stuff of men’s food needs. Cold meat. Cheese. Butter. Eggs, sausages, bacon. Anything that can be fried in a pan. And beer. You know, real food.

Her fridge would be filled with all that green stuff that the female apparently has a greater need for than cattle or rabbits do. Fruit and such. Ruccola. Those unbearable tasteless ava-bloody-cados that have always seemed pointless to me and yet attract the females like moths to a flame. Root vegetables and the like thereof. There would probably not be any beer, but who cares? I wouldn’t go into her fridge anyway.

So there we have it. The difference of the sexes exposed at last. I realise that not everyone has the room for two fridges in their homes. I also realise the expense involved in running two of these machines. So here’s a thought for the ladies, as you seem to be the ones that do the buying for the family: Print this following paragraph and keep it with you.

Keep a shelf clear in the fridge for the man of the house. Fill it with meat products and cheese. Keep it simple. It has to be instantly available food, ready cooked and not something one has to prepare with a knife or a grater or any other kitchen equipment. It should be grab and eat. No salad. Man is a hunter, not a peel, slice, dice and mixer. Slicing cold meat is all he is capable of at times such as these. He’s hungry now and that’s all he knows and he doesn’t have the time to wash, peel, chop or dice and prepare. He is in a primal state, like a bull on heat, so don’t confuse him with complicated things like kitchen tools.

Do him a big favour. Put a beer or two in there as well, preferably in tins. No time for bottle openers.

He’ll love you for it. He may even reward you with flowers. But you don’t have to eat them even though they are vegetable by definition.

Fill the rest of the fridge with all the green stuff you want. Don’t worry. He isn’t going to eat it. And if you ever hear him ask, “Have we got any ruccola?” around lunch time, then either send him to the doctor or get a divorce, because something is seriously wrong with him!

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The Shopping Maul

Posted by Exile on December 9, 2007

December is always expensive for me. Not only is it Christmas, which means I have to buy all sorts of Christmas presents for the family, but both my wife and my daughter celebrate their bithdays in the middle of the month.

I live close to the largest shopping mall in Scandinavia. Thinking, perhaps somewhat naively, that not many people would be out doing their shopping on a sunday, I invited my wife to come with me to choose her birthday present. That was my first mistake of the day. The parking facilities were full to overflowing. It took an age to park the car.

My dear wife is easily pleased as a rule. Gold or shoes. Or jewelry or shoes. Or both. This year, it was a watch. She had seen it in a brochure from one of the shops at the mall. So off we went to get it.

On seeing the watch, we decided it really wasn’t the one for her, but one of the others on show was a little more attractive. She tried it on. The wristband was too big, but being a kind of chain, we could remove links. It fitted after the necesary adjustment. Right. Done deal. Happy birthday Darling.

The only other thing to do now, was to pick up a DVD recording thingy that we have had repaired, under guarantee, from one of the larger chain stores. It was her Christmas present from last year. We knew it was ready for collection as the store had telephoned us two days ago. No problem there then, but my wife decided that she would look around some shops before collecting the big and heavy electronic magic box. She led me into one of the larger department stores.

I hate these places. As I have written before, I am not the worlds smallest man. In fact, I’m quite large. Big, both up and around. Unfortunately, the stores build their aisles smaller around Christmas because they need every available inch of floor space for their displays. This generally causes me to creep around, because if you break it, you buy it. Add to that the masses of fat, impolite, gotta get there now, grab it because it’s the last one on the shelf people and my patience is very soon worn thin. It should be called the “shopping maul”, not shopping mall. Because mauling is what goes on. One should be wearing body armour. Being shoved, bumped and mugged by shopping carts and push chairs and inconsiderate people wearing tents with heavy plastic and wire baskets and a chorus of ten screaming children in tow, I tend to get a tad annoyed. So I stand still in protest, refusing to move. Which effectively blocks one aisle and then people need to take a detour round me. Standing my ground, I scowl at anyone approaching my space.
My wife, on the other hand, loves to shop. She goes willingly into this fray, moving like a cat in a forest and has an eye for a bargain and generally gets one or two. This time it was expensive porcelain designer Christmas tree decorations at less than half price, a thing for whipping milk to a froth for coffee and something she wanted for her mother as a Christmas present.

We stood in the inevitable line and paid the bill and then, finally, off to the electrical store to pick up our recorder. That was the easy bit.
Getting out was as unpleasant as getting in. Cars everywhere and chaos as drivers fought to get in the right lanes, get in queue to use the ticket which is necessary to escape from the overfilled parking lot, only to add to the confusion outside the parking lot because the cross traffic is relentless and the idiot on the main road won’t give an inch to you as he blocks the exit. This, despite the fact, that he can’t move forward because the traffic lights are against him anyway, and there is a huge line of traffic in front of him that isn’t going anywhere just yet. Just how inconsiderate, or stupid, are people allowed to be before you get out of your car and punch them?

My wife tells me that next year, she won’t shop with me. She says that every year. But foolishly, I never seem to remember that after a year has gone by. I do this every year. I hate it. I love Christmas, but detest the mass hysteria that I have to throw myself into just to buy a damn gift for my loved ones.

There has to be a better solution. I just haven’t found it yet.

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Getting With the Programme

Posted by Exile on November 3, 2007

Both my better half and I work wierd hours, including weekends. Often, I am just getting up as she is going out, or the other way round and, most nights, I get home after she has gone to sleep. This means that we get little time together, which makes us appreciate it whenever we do.

One result of this life apart is, that we get pretty egoistic about what TV we see. Being alone with the TV remote means you can pick and choose to your hearts content and never have to discuss what is good or not. I like the programmes about tanks, aircraft, natural history, fast cars and action movies. My wife likes documentaries, emo-stuff, chick flicks and pointless entertainment. Neither of us watches Oprah. Or Dr. bloody Phil.

Today is saturday. We are both home for a change. My wife has decided that it is time for her to hog the TV. She wants to see a show where well known personalities, such as sports folk, politicians, actors and the like, are forced into a competition where they need to dance with a professional ball room dancer, either to excell or flop at the whim of public opinion. The competition goes on for weeks. My good lady is an avid fan. Watches it almost religiously, week after awful week.

I try to exude some enthusiasm. I ask questions about who the punters are, what they do. What is this dance called? How do we judge it? Who’s that guy on the panel, the one that sounds like a homosexual Simon Cowell? Not that I have anything against homosexuals. Or Simon Cowell. The guy just appears that way.
All this only seems to provoke my wife in some strange way. “Shut up”, is the usual response. Or, “Now you’re being stupid.” “Go away and let me see the show”, or “You’ll never understand anyway”, is about all I get out of her.

Let’s be honest here. My ballroom dancing accomplishment is zero. I have never excelled at it, never really tried to get to grips with it and my physical size and stature is working against me. On a dance floor, I am as graceful as a wounded elephant in a china shop is careful. In both cases, the result is usually catastrophic and often ends in injury to someone or untold destruction within my near vicinity. This is not something which I wish to be reminded of or confronted with. I am not exactly what one would call “elegant”. My middle age figure is hardly comparable to an Elgin marble statue of David. More Schrek than sylph.

Leaving my wife in peace in front of the talking box is all I can do for now. Her turn to have it. I’ll be watching “Great Military Commanders” this evening. Then it’ll be her turn to ask the stupid questions.

I can’t just leave it there though. I mean, why can’t they make the dance programme more acceptable to people like me? I have put some thought into this and realise now, that it is the content that is boring, not the activity. I mean, women wearing half a dress and swinging their asses about on screen shouldn’t be all bad, should it?
I can hear all the red blooded males out there saying “No”, and agreeing with me. So what’s to be done? Well, I think I have it. We need to change, or add to, the categories of dance.

Instead of just the Passo-doublé, the Waltz, Latin, Samba and all that jazz, they have to branch out.
I would suggest the following categories be included; Lap dancing, Pole-dancing, Strip-tease dancing, the Dance of the Seven Veils and, finally, when all else is played out, The Dance Macabre.

Now that’s what I call entertaining TV! I might not understand it, but it’s easy to watch.

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Brussels. Public Transport – Private Nightmare

Posted by Exile on September 13, 2007

One would think that the capital city of Europe has a great public transport service. It doesn’t. It resembles something that the DDR bequeathed them when it finally expired.

The misery started at the airport, which was designed by a chap who had otherwise concentrated on designing bowling alleys. I have never had to walk so far to get from the aircraft to my baggage in my life. The airport is built on several levels all equally long. And I mean long. All connected by stairs and lifts which work or not depending on how they feel. The lower level is arrivals, the upper level is departures and your baggage is two miles away from where you got off the aircraft. The arrival lounge (I’m being large by calling it a lounge) is bereft of human warmth and comfort. The bar is at one end of a three hundred meter long bowling alley, the toilets are at the other. You can’t leave your luggage if you have to get from the bar to the toilets, so you have to drag it along with you. There is no bar on the upper level. On the way to and from the toilets you have to pass all the car rentals, which is actually OK, because you can hire a car to drive back to the bar where you left your beer half an hour ago. Having quenched your thirst and retrieved your luggage you step out into a concrete wind tunnel, where the heavily polluted air, caused by the exhaust from taxis and busses is exchanged for more heavily polluted air from all the taxis and busses every two minutes. You may smoke here. I decided to have a quick cigarette before going off to find the train connection to Brussels proper.

Down more stairs and following misleading signs that point you off into glass partitions and concrete walls, you have to constantly double back to find out which sign misled you. Finally, you are on the station platform. I bought a ticket to Brussels Grand Central. I got on the train. It was, to say it nicely, decrepit. Graffitti, torn seats and not too clean, foam rubber on a bench, covered by tattered upholstery. The ticket collector, who was dressed in a uniform reminiscent of something like a cross between the foreign legion and the gestapo, looked at my ticket and told me I was in the first class carriage and my ticket was for second. I looked around me and asked him if he thought I was sufficiently well armed enough to venture into second class if this was first? I moved. Second class was identical to first. I couldn’t see any difference. Perhaps there were more holes in the upholstery. I didn’t bother counting.

Twenty bone jarring minutes later I was in Grand Central. There is nothing grand about it. Concrete tunnels, cracked walls which are painted in a sickly pale yellow and bare concrete ceiling, escalators that didn’t work, cracked tiles and paving stones, neon lights hung on string, to which bare electrical wiring hung on strategically placed nails provide the power. It looked like something the Wehrmacht had abandoned only yesterday. Even Al-queda could do no more damage here. They could only improve the standard. But Ok, I was now in Brussels. Time to get out into the fresh air, forget my worries for the moment, have a cigarette and get my bearings. I thought my worst problems were over.


My hotel was in Drogenbos, Brussels South. Returning to the ticket office of Grand Central I bought my ticket and asked for directions. “It’s complicated. Take tram number 4 and ask the driver.” I was told. And was then sent off to a platform deep in the concrete bowels of Grand Central. I found tram number 4. You can’t speak to the driver of tram number 4, he is in a glass cabinet, probably for his own protection, incommunicado. Desperately, I sought local knowledge. A man told me not to worry. Get off at Gare du Midi, and ask there. I did. I found another member of the uniformed foreign legion/gestapo types and asked him. Take tram number 87 and go all the way to the end, he said. Finding the right platform was not easy and I waited for ages for tram number 87. It arrived, I got on and we shuddered off southward on the oldest tram Brussels has to offer. Half an hour later we were at the end of the line. I was the only one left on board. I got off and tram number 87 disappeared back up the track it came on. I was alone. So where was my hotel? Not here, wherever I was. It began to rain. No bus, no taxi and no, no bloody tram either. The streets were bare and I was about fed up. Looking around, I spotted a pub in the middle distance and made a bee-line for it. Find a pub and you will always find good christian people who will help you. The golden rule. And it never fails.

Reaching the pub, I walked into Belgian culture at its best. They do know how to make beer and consume it with a passion. Explaining my predicament to the bar-keep, he grinned. “You’re not the first”, he said, “I can get you a taxi, it will take about fifteen minutes.” Suits me fine, I said, and ordered the local brew. A big one. And hey, bonus here, you can smoke in Belgian pubs. The bar was nicely decorated with football paraphanelia and nicotine. I felt at home right away. After twenty minutes and two beers, my taxi arrived.

We drove off northward and it soon became clear that the taxi driver didn’t know where my hotel was. “Mozartlaan”, I told him. He took me somewhere else. Lost, he contacted his dispatcher on the VHF radio. Finally getting instructions we set off again. He drove past my hotel. I saw it and had to tell him to stop and turn round. A bit difficult as we were on the dual carriageway but he managed it anyway, simply by swinging round over the middle. Twice. Belgians are not reknowned for observing the rules of the road. He charged me ten euros but hell, I was finally at my hotel. The trip from landing at the airport to this place had taken me nearly four hours. Total distance? Probably not more than fiften kilometers as the crow flies. Never have I been so glad to see a hotel bar.

Who says Europe’s “going places”?

Not on public transport in Brussels.

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Bite Me!

Posted by Exile on August 23, 2007

I have few natural enemies. This is because I live in a country where there are no major predators or poisonous animals that can harm me. I don’t need to worry about being eaten by lions or tigers or the like, and you don’t see many large wild animals roaming the streets of Copenhagen these days. I am not likely to be attacked by some hungry animal. Or am I?

Hungry animals come in all shapes and sizes. One I have a great deal of dislike for is a vampirical animal which is hard to spot and even harder to avoid. The mosquito. The veritable blood sucking demon curse of our time. They love me. If you put me on a desert island in the middle of a vast ocean, some mozzie from a far away country will put its nose into the wind and catch my scent somehow. It will then fly half way around the world to come and bite me. It will fly past everybody else. It is me it is interested in biting. I am the number one favourite food for all the mosquitoes of the world. No one is as tasty as I, as far as mosquitoes are concerned. If I ever met the genie with the three wishes, the first wish would be that all the mosquitoes in the world had never been born or even existed. That is how much I hate them. They plague me. I am bitten on a regular basis, and it isn’t just the itching that gets me. It’s the swelling up of the bitten appendage. I have a real bad reaction to being bitten by mosquitoes.

myg.jpgRight now I am suffering from a mosqito bite on my right buttock. Yes, laugh if you will, my wife thinks it’s funny too. Not only does it itch, it is badly enflamed and swollen and just sitting down is, frankly, uncomfortable. The damn mozzie got me last night while I was asleep. I must have kicked off the duvet and bared my behind for the little blood sucking creature. The result really is a pain in the ass. I asked my dear wife to suck out the poison but for some strange reason, she declined. I told her that I would gladly bite her in the butt and suck like a leech if she so asked but that didn’t really have any effect on her, nor did it change her stance on the matter.

Luckily we don’t have to worry about malaria here, or other insect borne diseases that are spread by the female mosquito, for it is she that bites. Male mosquitoes live off plant juice. Females, on the other hand, will just suck the blood out of you.

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Cancel my Last… It’s the Tour de Farce.

Posted by Exile on July 26, 2007

Well, well. Now there’s a surprise. Michael “chicken” Rasmussen has been fired by his team, Rabobank, and is leaving the tour. Two or three others have been caught in doping tests and two or three teams have now left the tour. Not much point in carrying on then, is there?

Let’s face it. Every one of the top riders in this sport are doing, or have done, the doping thing. Steroids, EPO, performance enhancing drugs or just testosterone injections are everyday tools of the trade in all sports these days where big money comes with everything to do with advertising and sponsorship. You need to have a winner to get your advertising money back.

I’m prepared to bet, that whoever wins the Tour de Farce is doing, or has done, dope.

It’s just that some get away with it, and others don’t.

The biggest dopes around, are the ones who don’t believe that.

Funny to see the way the press handles it here. Until yesterday, the news people were all calling him “Michael”. Now he’s just “Rasmussen”.


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Tour d’irritation.

Posted by Exile on July 23, 2007

Having the time to sit and watch the Tour de France, I decided to see one of the great stages of this phenomenal race. The T.V. coverage we get here is from France. Typical french protectionism, and not very good T.V. at that. If there is any chance of seeing a frenchie doing something, even remotely attractive or outstanding, then blow the rest, he’s the main attraction. No matter how exciting the rest of the race may be. Or where the leaders are.

A couple of other things are irritating too. In any other sport where the spectators get on the field of play or even dare to approach the competing athletes, the game is stopped immediately. So how can the organisers of this race allow the people lining the route to jump out onto the asphalt, shoving flags and cardboard cutouts and God knows what else into the faces of the speeding cyclists? Or running beside them with flags flapping round their legs and dangerously close to spinning front wheels of cycles? This is madness. Extremely dangerous. It could even mean the end of a brilliant career in cycle sports. This should be stopped.

Another really irritating thing is the yellow jersey. It is worn by only one rider. The tour leader. It singles him out as the reigning personality and should make him easy to spot in the group. See this then:


How many bloody yellow jerseys are there? There should be one. There are about twenty here. This should be forbidden. No yellow in team colours. It can’t be that hard to make so simple a rule. This is, by the way, the Saunier Duval Prodir team. They don’t figure anywhere but apparently have visions of grandeur and feel they need to be in yellow jerseys too. HEEJITS! All they do is confuse the picture.

There is only one yellow jersey that counts. And this guy is wearing it at present.

rasmussen.jpgMichael Rasmussen!

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Here Comes the Summer Sun

Posted by Exile on July 7, 2007

But we can’t see it because of the 2,ooo foot high rain clouds that cover the land. Damn, this is depressing. The aftermath of my Greek holiday is getting to me too. My skin is falling off me in great flakes. I look like a leper. I take my shirt off and it snows for about ten minutes. My wife follows me round with a dust-buster.

homer_naked.jpgIn Greece we were whining about the 43 degrees in the shade and wow, wasn’t it hot. Yep. It was. In fact it was so hot that I spent the most of a day sitting in the Ionian sea with only my head above water. I looked like a match when I finally got out. White body and a bright red head. My wife thought it was amusing. The following day I tried to compensate and burnt the rest of my body to a crisp. Which took about thirty minutes. Then I looked like a lobster, fresh out of the pot, but with a broad white strip around my nether regions. There is no justice. People greeted me with a friendly “Hi Red”.

Denmark hasn’t had much of a summer. May wasn’t bad and it looked promising enough, but then June set in and the rain started. We have had record rainfall. July doesn’t look like being any better. Now the farmers are beginning to whine too. No harvest this year. No wheat, no barley. That’s terrible. No malt means no beer. Tragic.

The garden is overgrown now. Warm and wet seems to suit the plants. My garden has the appearance of a mini rainforest. I’m almost afraid to go beyond the path. I don’t know what is living between the house and the woodshed. Probably wild, vicious, maneating animals. They could easily be lying in wait in the long grass or lurking behind the bushes. We hear strange noises at night.

I have convinced my wife that we need a week of sunshine before I can mow the bloody lawn again. By then I’ll probably need a scythe to get through it and an armed escort to ensure my survival.

Global warming? My ass. Global pouring it down seems to be the order of the day.

I wish I was in Greece.

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