A Really Awful Day

Absolutely the saddest story. Spare a tear for Badger and BadgerBoy.

http://badbadbadger.blogspot.com/

Omdurman Market, Khartoum

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Hotel Ovum Splendide, Khartoum

That's the Blue Nile, stage right.

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Dispatches II

That was the week from hell. If I wasn’t able to laugh, I would have dissected someone with a spoon. You remember my luggage was delayed? Yes, well it finally arrived 40 hours later. But, and all power to them, my colleagues from the office in Khartoum rallied round and organized me some kit. ‘M’ lent me some socks and a pair of underpants. The latter were a cause for grave disquiet. Sort of boxers, but eye-wateringly tight and made of that odd semi-perforated material, the kind of thing your granddad used to wear. Or come to thing of it, the pants that they wear on cowboy movies; the scene were Eastwood experiences coitus interruptus when the Duke comes looking for his boy. ‘M’ and I are roughly the same size in most respects, but maybe my, um, rear is a bit bigger than his, (let’s go with that for the time being) and these puppies were a tad snug. Organising oneself to take a leak fell midway between an exercise in civil engineering and a surgical procedure. But never fear, the voice has recovered.
Being rather on the warm side, I also asked if the chaps could organize me some deodorant. It duly arrived. Come the hour, I opened the said can and prepared to spritz. But the universe, bless it, alerted me. The can just didn’t have the look and feel of deodorant. Not a word of English in sight, just German and French, and the name on the can said ‘Glanz’. Hmm.
Glow? Shine? Gleam? Funny name for a deo. A phrase in French; ‘Irritant pour le peau.’ Ah-ha! A deo that’s not to be sprayed on skin?
No, it was …aerosol wood polish. I might have smelled a bit peculiar, but I’m sure I would have buffed up to a lovely shine. Good for Pinocchio, not so good for me.

The following evening, I ordered some room service—there’s nothing quite as pathetic as eating alone in a restaurant. Simple order; some pasta, ice cream and tea. Twenty minutes later the order arrived, brought with due subservience by a peon whose name—Siddig—shall live eternally in my memory. No problem with the pasta. Ice cream? Spendid! But no tea! Horrors! Let me point out that an Englishman with out tea in darkest Africa is not unlike a ship without a rudder. I’ll drink Ethiopian coffee by the gallon at home, but abroad? Never. Tea it must be. There are certain standards to maintain, are there not?
After I pointed out the shortfall with something brusque and to the point, like ‘Where’s my bloody tea?’ Siddig scuttled off, duly apologetic, to return within minutes. He placed the remains of the order on the table with a triumphant grin and a fairly dramatic flourish. He mumbled something in Arabic, which presumably translated to ‘Sorted!’
One tiny problem. He had not brought tea, but three small, bright-yellow, fully-ripe…
bananas.
No, I’ve no idea either. Which just goes to show; truth can indeed be stranger than fiction. And yes, I did eventually get my tea. The rightful order of the universe was restored.

Dispatches from Afar

Khartoum, Republic of the Sudan.

The Grand Holiday Villa. Sounds nifty, huh? Perhaps a little cheesy. Well, I suppose so; but Winston Churchill stayed here. So did Queen Elizabeth, and Thomas Cook, the explorer. And now me. But I suppose the housekeeping of the day didn’t lift his pipe. Or her toothbrush. The buggers helped themselves to mine. To add insult to injury, Kenya Airways lost my luggage between Jo’burg and here; so I’ve spent the day in 40 degree heat in yesterday’s (insert item of clothing here) so I probably have all the allure of a Turkish wrestler’s jock-strap. One tiny compensation; the Airways woman who took my details was a dead-ringer for Imam. Hey, it’s not much, but given a choice…
Sudan has numerous, challenges, but Big Oil is here so parts of the city are booming; plenty of brand spanking-new office monstrosities and an under-construction hotel for the expats and government visitors. Take a look. What does that remind you of? The word ‘ovum’ springs to mind, but then I’m funny that way. And it’s being funded by? Yes, your friend and mine, Mohamar Gadaffi.
I’m a few hundred yards from the confluence of the White Nile, flowing from Uganda and the Blue Nile from Ethiopia; I’ll take a look tomorrow.
Concrete and dust. Heat and flies. Soldiers from all over the world; Rapid Reaction Force from Norway, troopies from Britain, officers from the US, Belgians, and Lt Geldenhuys from—wait for it—South Africa. What are THEY doing here, I wonder? One bloke in camouflage sounded suspiciously like a Canadian, and we all know how game they are for a punch-up. Ask the Danes. (Seems there’s a tiff over an uninhabited chuck of rock and ice near Baffin Island. Run for the hills oh, ye citizens of Copenhagen.) No doubt it’s great practice for, er, ‘peacekeeping’ in Darfur.
Khartoum airport is infested with serious heavy-lift flying machines and even more significantly serious-looking Sudanese soldiery who mount some intimidating vehicles with big guns. Say after me; ‘So-ma-li-a.’
It’s dark now; still hot as Hades. Very ‘Away from the Sun.’
I forgot to take my anti-malarials. Bugger.

For T-boz; the aspirant Queen?

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Oh, stop groaning.....

...I can hear it from here. It's a testosterone thing. We don't do shoes, after all. But really, if I must be middle aged, (pass on the other stuff) can I please drive one of these?
The Aston-Martin Vanquish V12 ...

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Give Me Ambiguity or Give Me Something Else

President G.W. Bush, (note the respect, please) seems to be a little tetchy these days, doesn't he? So now Iran is getting uppity. How DARE they! Naughty, NAUGHTY people.

Came across this one by Himself, which is a screamer. Maybe it's old to you...
'More and more of our imports are coming from overseas.'
Yes, well...

On the radio this morning--a report from the UK that BMW drivers are rated the third sexiest, Ferrari drivers the second, and top..
Aston Martin! (a la James Bond, 'til he wimped out)

Ms Blue '..unless of course they're middle-aged, balding, with a huge gut and halitosis...'
BlueGirl '...and a dick like a pencil.'
Blue & BlueBoy '...guggg.'

Insanity Continues

The President of Niger denies famine in 'his' country.
There is famine in Niger. Trust me, I know these things. It's not just there either. A goodly chunk of western Africa is in trouble.
Meantime the GDP of Zimbabwe has fallen below that of 1953.
Yes, 1953.
52 years ago.
And in the midst of all this, our new and illustrious Vice-Pres. thinks Zimbabwe has, er, 'skills' in land re-distribution from which South Africa could learn.
I think not.
This is not an auspicious start, Madame Vice President. I'm sure you were mis-quoted, right?
Right?

World Food Program
Save The Children
Plan International

Blue's Saturday Meme

Come on, you know you want to. Besides, it's Saturday.


Dogs or cats?
Your most creative—but plausible—excuse for NOT spending Christmas With Glennie?
______deserves to be dipped head-down in a bucket of warm spit.
London or Istanbul?
My favourite invasive procedure.
Your significant other gives you a thousand bucks to spend as you wish. What goes in the cart?
I would really rather be…
Chicken or beef?
Why Istanbul, for the sake of the Flying Spaghetti Monster?
It was hopeless because….
I wish she/he…
---------deserves the Victoria Cross/Congressional Medal of Honor.
You really should know more about_____
Who’s ‘they’?
_______is vastly over-rated.
Why three?
Where did I leave my keys?

There'll Always be an England....

Wonderful game of cricket ended today at Edgebaston ground in Birmingham. The second of the Ashes Series; perhaps the most famous of all cricket series. First game to Australia, when they beat England by a huge margin.
But today, England beat Australia by 2 runs, the smallest ever winning margin in the series (since 18.. something)
Here's Shane Warne, the Australian player that all right-thinking people love to hate, getting sorted by Freddie Flintoff. Warne played brilliantly, as did all the Aussie batsmen today--even Casper, who may have struggled on with a broken bone in his hand. Just not quite enough. I hate to say it, but these Aussies are damn good.
Superb photo!

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Poor, deluded boy..

I thought it was just one of Wheezus' creative episodes. I really did.

But no.
On a plane last week (where else, I hear you yawn) I goggled--as opposed to Googled--at an article on the latest diet insanity.

It was entitled 'What would Jesus Eat?'

I kid you not. Apparently there's a diet called the Mediterranean. Full of whole grain bread, olives and one hopes, gallons of grappa. Sounds good, right?
Presumably the Jesus Diet is the same--but kosher. This travesty has been 'designed' or 'researched' by some greasy, image-consulted West Coast shit-kicker.
The again, perhaps he had a cosy chat with God. Or not.
I'm appalled at my own naivete, and staggered at the breath-taking lack of scruples.
(You got me there, Wheezus.)
But wait! If you were touched by His Noodly Appendage, what diet would YOU be on?
He told me Black Forest Gateau, brandy and Dr Pepper. Well, someone's got to do it.
Until next time...

Spring Sail

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Son of Nightjar

Vastly improved...
*waves to Talia*


Nightjar

Listen. There’s the rustle of the freeway traffic. A nightjar squeaks resentment or alarm. The gentle tap-tap of another inhabitant trying to find somebody--or something--on IM. The fridge hums and the night flights to London come and go. The mongrel Labrador next door is rowdy; the neighbours let her obsess at the dark and imagined foes until about 11, then lock her up. In her absence the night hugs still closer to the brown drydrab earth. Someone has birds in a cage who complain through the night. Perhaps a gunshot will bounce over the valley, or the yelp of rubber on tarmac as ever-vigilant vultures await a cowboy or a teenager or a shredded businessman taking his guilt home from the beautiful lover to the pyja-mad wife, his mortgage and BMW his bank will own until just before it starts blowing blue smoke.

Taste. Four cigarettes left. Perhaps they will last until the unease congeals into a thought. No one approves of smoking; not her, not the Surgeon General. Hemmed in on every side, no breezes disturb the pall. Smell the carcinogens hanging sullen below the ceiling, idle and indolent.

See. It’s always a brittle sky in this winter of discontent. The stars coruscate more; how can that be?

Touch. They’re no hotter; they’re still far away. Almost as far as the green-eyed girl, who sits alone at work on a Friday night, tired and frustrated with numbers that don’t add up, puzzling over promises she needs to believe. She wonders why it's so hard to earn the simplicities of life most take for granted.

Venus hangs serene as she does most nights, cold and mocking, waiting for them all to see an answer hanging in front of them easily, as she does.

Cocktail Hour

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