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Corona quarantine diary
Autor de la hebra: Mervyn Henderson

Chris S  Identity Verified
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Cyclists :x Dec 15, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:
Just nip round to Tom's, and I'm sure he'll be delighted to lend you his Silver Shadow. Or his Lamborghini. Or his Ferrari.


I can definitely picture TiL knocking about in an asthmatic old Aston Martin, or perhaps an old Lancia. But I suspect he just has a pushbike in reality. London's like that these days, I hear. Chock-full of cyclists running red lights and riding two abreast and not paying road tax.


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The Santa Claus Files – File 6B Dec 16, 2020



I waited nervously to see if the Irish card would sway them. It was a tense moment. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. I looked at Davis. Then at Boris. Then at Barnier. Then at all of them again, but in reverse order. Then at Boris, then Barnier, and then Davis. And then just at the eyes, one set of eyes after the other, like the eyes of the Man With No Name, Tuco, and Angel-Eyes in the cemetery at the end of the film. I could almost hear the Morricone orchestra clanging and
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I waited nervously to see if the Irish card would sway them. It was a tense moment. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. I looked at Davis. Then at Boris. Then at Barnier. Then at all of them again, but in reverse order. Then at Boris, then Barnier, and then Davis. And then just at the eyes, one set of eyes after the other, like the eyes of the Man With No Name, Tuco, and Angel-Eyes in the cemetery at the end of the film. I could almost hear the Morricone orchestra clanging and whistling dangerously in the background, louder and louder, with my eyes following their eyes, suspicious, treacherous, villainous, murderous eyes flickering to right and left, faster and faster, and whirling round and round, and suddenly …

I saw two or three people walking into the conference room carrying packets of stuff behind Merkel. Mutti slapped the three men on the back, and said gleefully: “Ein voller Magen trifft die besten Entscheidungen”.*

And it was lunch break. So we all put our interpreting headphones on for an EU working lunch:

Barnier opened his packet and stared at it. Then he stared at Merkel and said he’d ordered a croque-monsieur, and what the hell was this? Mutti told him the woman in the Berlaymont canteen had refused to do a croque-monsieur because it was blatantly sexist and so typical of a man, and in an EU diversity environment, too, and when Mutti said what about a croque-madame instead, the woman said that was even worse, what with that suggestive hole in the middle of the toastie and a soft greasy egg with yolk oozing out all around it. Then Mutti said what about a croque-personne, and the woman said “What does that even mean?”, and so she’d given him sauerkraut with potatoes and wurst instead. Then Barnier stuttered, if she thought he was going to eat this square-head rubbish, she had another bloody think coming, and Merkel said “Don’t you start on me, kiddo, do you know who I am?”, and asked him if he knew where the real business was, the ECB, yes, in Frankfurt, Germany, that’s right, not Frankreich, mate.

Boris jumped in to say, “That’s right, just you leave her alone, remember the war, mate, how the Yanks and us had to bail you lot out yet again, and then that long, miserable drink of water, the General Who Never Smiled, lording it over everyone in his daft peaked cap everywhere, but not one bit grateful for the help, either, oh no, in fact, first chance he gets after the war, what does he do, he blocks the UK from joining the Common Market, that’s what he does.”

Boris looked at his, said he’d ordered fish and chips in newspaper, and Barnier was still smarting, and he said so what, it was against EU hygiene rules to wrap it in newspaper, and that even the very concept of “fish and chips” was shaky under Brussels regulations, and then Boris said the British people hadn’t signed up for this kind of treatment, whereupon Merkel wagged a finger at him and said Mr Johnson should remember why they were all there, precisely because the British people wanted to ditch that kind of treatment, and all because of him, too, but then their hearts had never really been in it anyway, with their precious bloody pound sterling and their British cheque and the rest of it, and then Davis muttered “Who won the sodding war anyway?”, and then they all looked over at me.

Me, I was listening with half an ear to all this, tucking into the steaming plate Mrs Claws had put on a tray in front of my PC:

“What’s that Santa’s eating?” said Boris.

I looked up. “This?” I said, tipping the plate up a little towards the PC. I could see those angry faces all becoming much calmer. “This is elk stew. Very popular around these parts. Yes, with pancetta, mushrooms, and a red wine reduction. You know, I can give you …”

I stopped, watching them all licking their lips as they stared at it. It was the perfect negotiation-clincher moment, with the enemy divided. It was now or never. I put down my knife and fork:

“The elk stew recipe,” I said. “I’ll give you this, Mrs Claus’s elk stew recipe, and a Welsh joke. And I’ll even throw in a North Korean joke as a sign of goodwill. That’s my final offer. Cards on the table, lady and gentlemen. Take it or leave it.”

Barnier said “Peut-être, mais …” but Merkel cried “Halt’s Maul, Barnier!” She raised her hands and said, “Ja, ja, jawohl, Herr Klaus.”

And so I’d brought it off, but now I had to deliver the Welsh card:

“An Englishman goes to a conference in Cardiff,” I began, “but it’s such a big event that he can’t find accommodation in the city and has go to a hotel out in a small village in the sticks about fifty miles away. The conference begins on Thursday afternoon and finishes mid-afternoon on Friday, and he’s decided to stay on until Saturday instead of rushing back to London on Friday evening. Plus, he’s looking to score with a Welsh wench, so by six o’clock he’s showered and shaved, and he’s stepping into the Dog and Leek.”

“He orders a pint and looks around, and it’s all old men with flat caps. He sits in the pub for half an hour and no women appear, so he goes for a refill and asks the barman as he pours the second pint, “So … when do the women arrive?”

The barman gasps, and says, in that way the Welsh have of taking a run up to the end of every sentence and raising their voice on the last couple of words so that every utterance sounds like a question? – yes, a bit like that, actually. Much like Australians do, and Americans from certain parts of the US – “Ain’t been no women in this bar the last thirty years, boyo? No, women don’t come in eeah? You can try the Taff and Daff down the road, look you?”

So he quaffs his pint, and heads down to the Taff and Daff. Same story, just old men around the bar. And he asks the barman the same question, and the barman’s horrified: “Women in a pub? This is Wales, man, the church would never allow it?”

The Englishman thinks for a bit. “So, what do you do around here for, you know …?” And the barman looks around and says quietly, “Well, there aren’t any women, but there’s plenty of sheep round about?”

And the Englishman’s disgusted, of course. “That’s vile, that’s awful, how could you …?” But the evening wears on, he has another few pints, only old men coming in and going out, and after the seventh pint he’s a bit woozy, so he gives up and says, “OK, so where are all these sheep, then?”

And the barman takes him out the back to a field with a flock of sheep grazing in it, and lets him get on with it. Half an hour later he comes back, with all bloody scrapes and gashes on his face.

The barman is horrified. “What the hell happened you, boyo?” he says.

The Englishman is pretty annoyed. “Well,” he says, “what do you expect from sheep?”

“No, no,” says the other guy. “I’ll come with you this time, show you what you’re doing wrong?”

So out they go, and the Englishman says, “There, see that one over there, the one with the black face? OK, then, right.” And off he goes, and he grabs the sheep, and tries again, but the sheep’s having none of it, of course, and rakes his head and face desperately with its front trotters, and he gives up again and comes back, with even more marks all over him.

“No, no, me boyo?” says the barman. “That’s not the way to do it? What you want to do is, go in from behind, not from the front, you stick its rear trotters in your wellington boots, and Bob’s your uncle?”

“What?” cries the Englishman. “From behind? Are you kidding? And miss out on all the kissing?”



Tense moments ensued as the hard-nosed EU negotiators considered the deal:

“Well,” said Boris finally. “It was effective. A little crude, perhaps, but our man, the Englishman, comes off just as badly as the Welsh in that one, so it’s a kind of English/Welsh joke, really.”

“Look,” I said, “you’ve had two jokes completely at the expense of other peoples, plus maybe half a joke here, plus the elk stew recipe, and a North Korean joke coming up too. What else do you want from me? Blood? Like I said. Final offer.”

Davis broke in. “OK, OK, you’ve got us, Santa. But the North Korean one will have to be pretty good, that’s all I can say.”



TO BE CONTINUED


*ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Many thanks to Matthias Brombach again for the German “A full stomach produces the best decisions”.

I’m hoping this one won’t get PLFPersioed, especially since I’ve been reliably informed that I’ve screwed up in the past with things Italian as well. Management accepts no liability for anything whatsoever. No animals were harmed, mistreated or humiliated during this production.


[Edited at 2020-12-16 10:25 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-16 10:27 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-16 10:30 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-16 10:41 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-16 11:34 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-16 12:21 GMT]
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Sheepnanigans Dec 16, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

The Santa Claus Files - File 6B



I just had a furious argument with my puritanical side about File 6B.

"What filth is this!", she yelled, screeching like a whole bunch of demented banshees. "Down with this sort of things!"

"Then stop hanging around all day long in the Forum section. You know you're going to read something with which you don't agree, i.e. virtually everything. Actually, I think you do like it, and you get quite a kick out of it. The filthier, the better, am I right?"

Mervyn, this one's even better than File 6A. Thank you so very, very much!


Matthias Brombach
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@Chairwoman of the Committee for Cultural Uniformity & Literary Omissions Surveyors Dec 16, 2020

... Phew! Thanks a lot. Not that there was a lot of culture or literary matter in there ...

Don't worry about your puritanical side. She'll get over it.

[Edited at 2020-12-16 12:09 GMT]


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Just in from Irked of Eglwyswrw Dec 16, 2020

Henderson, you daft paddy bastard, that’s no way to treat a sheep.

First you need to treat her to a wash, cut and blow-dry. Basic good manners.

Then take her out to dinner, maybe a show. Buy her flowers if she’s still hungry.

Dim the lights, put on some music (Frosty would probably recommend the 12-baa blues), crack open a bottle of wine and try not to slip in something uncomfortable.

Oh, and always use protection. You really don’t want t
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Henderson, you daft paddy bastard, that’s no way to treat a sheep.

First you need to treat her to a wash, cut and blow-dry. Basic good manners.

Then take her out to dinner, maybe a show. Buy her flowers if she’s still hungry.

Dim the lights, put on some music (Frosty would probably recommend the 12-baa blues), crack open a bottle of wine and try not to slip in something uncomfortable.

Oh, and always use protection. You really don’t want to get orf when you get off.
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"Try not to slip in something uncomfortable" Dec 16, 2020

Luvvit! And "daft paddy" might be applicable here, because just for a second or two I had read "Irked of Eglwyswrw" as the entire name of somewhere in Wales. Must get my bleating eyes tested.

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Bugger orf! Dec 16, 2020

True story from my days as a smallholder (which might explain something in my previous post):

Me: The ram's got these horrid scabs on its mouth.
Farmer: It's orf.
Me: No, it's standing just over there.
Farmer: No, it's orf!
Me: Oh, I see... No, there's no pus. It just smells sheepy.
Farmer: No, not orf, I mean it's orf!
Me: No, it's definitely not off.
Farmer: No, not orf, it's fuckin' ORF!
Me: No, it's not fucking off, it's still stan
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True story from my days as a smallholder (which might explain something in my previous post):

Me: The ram's got these horrid scabs on its mouth.
Farmer: It's orf.
Me: No, it's standing just over there.
Farmer: No, it's orf!
Me: Oh, I see... No, there's no pus. It just smells sheepy.
Farmer: No, not orf, I mean it's orf!
Me: No, it's definitely not off.
Farmer: No, not orf, it's fuckin' ORF!
Me: No, it's not fucking off, it's still standing just over there.

And so it went on until we both gave up.

A week later I'm at the doctor's with the most intensely painful swelling on one of my fingers.

Doctor: It's orf.
Me: Oh FFS, don't you start. Look, there's no pus and it smells fine.
Doctor: No, you muppet, it's orf. O.R.F. A viral infection caused by contact with sheep. Just be thankful you only put your finger in its mouth.
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Orf Dec 16, 2020

Yes, I'd been wondering about that, but I thought I'd have something to eat first, and then look at it again, but then I saw your explanation. Then I Googled the effects of the disease itself, and felt the need to wash my hands two or three times!

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Orf topic Dec 16, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:
... and felt the need to wash my hands two or three times!

I hope this isn't going to be the next pandemic, with a virus emerging from sheep, but spreading via a forum this time.


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Nocturnal strolls Dec 18, 2020

We had the opportunity, if you can call it that, to take a stroll after curfew time this week. It must have been about 11 pm by the time we were walking back from the Old Town. We had good reason to be out after curfew, and we could prove it too, but the police didn't question us. In fact, we didn't see any police around, or anyone else really, only two other people in the course of a 20-minute walk.

Things do seem to be looking up here. Not great, and still one of the most infected
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We had the opportunity, if you can call it that, to take a stroll after curfew time this week. It must have been about 11 pm by the time we were walking back from the Old Town. We had good reason to be out after curfew, and we could prove it too, but the police didn't question us. In fact, we didn't see any police around, or anyone else really, only two other people in the course of a 20-minute walk.

Things do seem to be looking up here. Not great, and still one of the most infected communities, along with Madrid and I forget where now, but if Wednesday evening was anything to go by, everyone's hunkered down at home.

That's all. All shagged out, frankly, up with early-morning blaargh until now. Yawn. Might take siesta ahead of time today.

Back with more Santa some time soon. Introducing a fearsome personality, too. I can say no more ...

[Edited at 2020-12-18 12:47 GMT]
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The Santa Claus Files – File 6C Dec 19, 2020

Due to the unpleasantness last time, after the Welsh joke Mutti decided to take a break and reconvene a few hours later. So I sat there waiting with Mrs Claws and Rudolf for the final round with the Berlaymont Bunch, nervous at the prospect of the Final Deliverable. “North Korea could make you or break you, Claus,” I told myself.

The meeting came up on screen, and I saw Merkel walking up to the others with a woman I’d never seen before. A blonde, attractive still, at what, may
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Due to the unpleasantness last time, after the Welsh joke Mutti decided to take a break and reconvene a few hours later. So I sat there waiting with Mrs Claws and Rudolf for the final round with the Berlaymont Bunch, nervous at the prospect of the Final Deliverable. “North Korea could make you or break you, Claus,” I told myself.

The meeting came up on screen, and I saw Merkel walking up to the others with a woman I’d never seen before. A blonde, attractive still, at what, maybe late fifties, sixty, tops. She glanced lazily and rather haughtily around the room. Very sure of herself, this one:

“Gentlemen and Mrs Claus,” said Mutti, “we have a new and most important observer today, who has expressed an interest in Herr Claus’s final contribution. This is a lady who has not only been a member of our Bundestag, but has also held many ministerial positions in my own cabinets, including six years as the Federal Minister of Defence, and more recently she … ?” - at this Angela put her head on one side, with a questioning gesture to the lady, who nodded with a gracious smile – “… she has disclosed that she would like a crack at the Presidency of the European Commission. Before all this she even found time to have seven children! And so, without further ado, I am honoured to introduce Mrs Ursula von der Leyen.”

Well, we clapped politely at our end, and so did Angela and the three blokes sitting there. Boris, ever the dick, clapped facetiously above his head, though, rolling his eyes too, and then he giggled and leaned over to whisper something to David Davis, but he’d forgotten about the open mike right in front of them on the desk, so we heard those posh, fruity tones of his loud and clear:

“I say, Dave, seven kids! Von der Leyen? Fond of layin’, more like, what?”, and the two of them sniggered.

Well, it was obvious Mutti was outraged, and she opened her mouth angrily to reprimand Boris, but the other lady held up one index finger, said very firmly “Nein, Angela, nein, danke sehr,” set her jaw, clenched her fist, and jerked her thumb at her own chest.

She walked casually over to where Boris was sitting, bent down beside him, and stared at him only inches from his face. Boris was smirking and clicking his pen point in and out on the desk, but he shrank back a little in surprise when he became aware of her presence. Her English was perfect, and her tone rather sinister:

“Boris …” she smiled, and then checked herself, “… because it is Boris, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Boris airily, still clicking his pen. “Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, actually,” he said, grandly.

Von der Leyen moved her face a tad closer. “Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson … what?” she asked.

Boris shook his head uncomprehendingly, and sniffed in irritation. “What do you mean, what? I just told you, Ursula. Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson,” he retorted.

Believe me when I tell you that nobody was prepared for what came next. As we watched, this woman suddenly grasped a tuft of Boris’s sideboard hair and began to pull slowly upwards on it, forcing him right up out of his chair and on to his feet. She was smaller than him, but she continued to pull on his hair until he was yelling in pain on his tiptoes. I remember certain teachers used to do this one back in the day, and it hurts like hell, doesn’t it? I’m assuming it wasn’t just my teachers … Von der Leyen smiled nastily and said:

“What you meant to say was, “My name is Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, … Mrs Von der Leyen” – she jerked her hand upwards – “didn’t you, Johnson? … Mrs Von der Leyen.” With that hand still holding his hair, she cupped her ear theatrically with the other, and turned it towards him. “So what’s my name?” she said, very softly.

“Ow, ow, owww! Von der Leyen! Mrs Von der Leyen! Mrs Von der Leyen!” shrieked Boris.

Von der Leyen looked at him as if he were a nasty sticky mess she’d just discovered on the sole of her shoe. “Oh dear,” she purred. “There’s always one, isn’t there? Yes, there’s always a clown in the group. Someone always wants to play the clown. Always a clown. And you’re the clown, are you, Johnson?”

She jerked him up a couple more times as he grimaced in pain. “Mrs Von der Leyen. And don’t you bloody well forget it,” she said as she released him and turned away. Boris sat back down in his chair, holding a hand to his temple. Von der Leyen turned to look at him …

Now, there are ways of turning to look at people. When you turn to look at someone, you usually turn your upper body, don’t you, or at least your shoulders. But not this woman. Her entire body remained in position, and only her head turned, and very, very slowly too. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the same time during the whole movement, kind of robot-like. Very unnerving when you see it happen. Ursula von der Leyen’s lip curled as her hand shot out, grabbed the same sideboard, and up came Boris again:

“Did I say you could sit down, Johnson? Did I say I was finished with you?”

“Oww, oww, no, but I …”

“No? No … what, Johnson?” she rapped, her eyes glittering.

“I mean, no, Mrs Von der Leyen, no, Mrs … Von der Leyen,” squeaked Boris, on tiptoes again, quivering like a leaf.

She looked him up and down, her hand still with a firm grasp. “So you think my name is funny, Johnson, do you? You think it’s funny that I have seven children? And do you find ME funny too, Johnson? Do you think Mrs Von der Leyen is funny?”

“Oh no, no, not … I mean, no, Mrs Von der Leyen, not funny at all,” stammered Boris, in what was now a very small voice.

“Well, I think you’re funny, Johnson. Because you’re a clown, aren’t you? And clowns are funny, right? So let’s all see how funny this clown really is. Take down your trousers … NOW, Johnson!!” she snarled, seeing his shocked hesitation, jerking the sideboard again. He gingerly unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned himself, and the trousers fell to the floor. The Von der Leyen pointed at him. “Calvin Klein, eh? I see. How pretty. Those too.”

“But, I can’t, I mean, I can’t, Mrs Von der Leyen, I …”

Von der Leyen jerked violently upwards yet again. “DO IT!” she shrieked. And so the British PM pulled down the briefs, covering himself with his hands. “Take those hands away, Johnson!! And tuck the shirt up too.” Breathing hard, Boris did as he was told, his head still straining upwards as she pulled relentlessly on the tuft. Suddenly Von der Leyen’s other hand shot out between his legs, grabbed his balls and began to twist and squeeze them violently, grinning as Boris gasped and shrieked. She looked round at the others, who were gasping too. “Now, let’s all take a good look at Johnson the Clown. Let’s see how funny he really is.”

She released his balls, but still had a firm hand on his hair. She put her head on one side, finger on cheek, studying the wretched Boris as he stood there half-naked: “Do you know what I think, Johnson? I think that looks like a penis. Only smaller. A lot smaller. Much, much smaller. So, have you learned your lesson, Johnson?” she asked. “What is my name again?”

“Von der Leyen!! Mrs Von der Leyen!!”, yelled Boris. We could all see the tears that had been brought to his eyes by all the ball-twisting. And then she let go of him, threw back her head, and guffawed with laughter. And Merkel began to laugh, and Barnier, especially Barnier, and even his mate Davis giggled a bit too. And Mrs Claws and I were in fits.

“Good,” she snapped. “Get dressed, then, and sit down. And, Johnson … don’t you ever fuck with the next President of the European Commission again.” Von der Leyen looked around a bit as Boris sheepishly pulled up his briefs and trousers again, wincing in pain. She picked up his bottle of water from the desk in front of him, opened it and poured water all over her gonad-grabbing hand – and all over his chair in the process - rubbed both hands together, and calmly dried them off with the jacket he’d left on the back of the chair. Then she threw his jacket on the floor.

She sat down with the rest of them amid a stunned silence. “Now,” she beamed, turning her gaze to me, “I gather Mr Claus has something to tell us?”

And so I was up. I hoped she hadn’t seen me gulp! And I wasn’t even in the room with her.

“OK,” I began, “Fatboy Kim wakes up one morning in Pyongyang, gets out of bed, throws open the window of his bedroom, and looks out at the Sun. He shouts “Good morning, Sun!”, and the Sun cries, “No, good morning to YOU, Wise One and Supreme Leader, a wonderful, joy-filled morning to YOU!”

“Later on that day, after his nap,” I went on, “Fatboy Kim opens the bedroom window again, and shouts “Good afternoon, Sun!”, and the Sun shouts back “May our Fearless Warrior and Tireless Hero enjoy the delightful afternoon he so richly deserves!”

“Later that evening Kim has just had dinner, and he throws open the window again and shouts “Good evening, Sun!”, but this time there’s no reply. This is a bit puzzling, so he shouts again, “Good evening, Sun!” Still no reply. He just can’t understand it, so he shouts for the third time, “Good evening, Sun!” And the Sun says “Blow it out your ass, you fat wanker. I’m in the west now!”

I chuckled a little myself, pour encourager les autres, as it were, and scanned the scene over at the Berlaymont. Not much laughter there. I could see Von der Leyen staring grimly at the screen and drumming her fingers on the desk. Merkel shrugged. Davis shook his head. Boris looked a little glum, but then that probably had nothing to do with the joke. I had to think of something fast. I stared at Boris, and I stole a glance at Von der Leyen. A plan was forming in my head …

“Erm … I haven’t finished, you know, that was, er, just the first part,” I explained, hurriedly. “By way of a kind of introduction. A simple mise en scène, if you will. Yes, it’s a two-part joke, this one. … So, er, the next day Fatboy Kim dismisses his bodyguards, sends a servant out to buy a wig, and goes off to a house of ill repute. The madame is sitting in reception, filing her nails, and Fatboy says, “I need a very special woman, because I have some very special tastes.”

The woman yawns, but of course she doesn’t recognise the Supreme Leader with the wig. “Don’t worry about that, blondie. Our girls have seen it all before. So what’s your pleasure? Whips? Nappies? Golden showers? Strap-ons? And what’s your name, sonny?”

Fatboy says, “My name is Boris.” – Von der Leyen looked up in amused surprise – “No, my needs are stranger still. Needs my wife cannot satisfy. So I need a woman specialising in very strange stuff indeed.”

Well, Von der Leyen was grinning broadly at that one. She leered over at Boris, still rubbing his temple and his nether regions below the desk. And it was Von der Leyen I was targeting. If I could keep her happy, the rest would be easy:

The madame says “Well, OK, but it’s going to cost you”, gets up and nips round the thick red curtain behind her. After a moment she comes back with a woman. “Here you are, then. Nothing shocks this girl. Need any special equipment?”

“No,” says Fatboy, and goes off with the girl.

“So, Mr Boris, what’s all this strangeness?” says the girl when they get to the room. “I have a few uniforms in the closet if you want. Nurse, nun, policewoman with cap, handcuffs, truncheon, the works. Or do you want to do a role play? Has Boris been a naughty boy? Did Boris pee his pants? Does Boris need to be punished?”

I could see Von der Leyen was beginning to giggle now, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk, and all the rest of them looked at her nervously, and began to giggle too, except Boris. Plan B was working ...

“No,” says Fatboy. “Just lie on the bed.” She does so, and then Fatboy goes over and pulls down the blinds and switches off the light, so the room is in total darkness. The girl waits, but nothing happens. She can hear him moving around and grunting a bit. After a few minutes he switches on the light again, and there he is in his blonde wig, leaving a wad of notes on the bedside table.

Puzzled, the girl says, “You’re leaving, Boris? But you haven’t done anything!”

“Yes, I have,” says Fatboy, putting on his coat. “I’ve just crapped in your handbag.”

Did Von der Leyen laugh? I’ll say she did. She laughed like a drain. And all the rest of them started in, too, a huge crescendo of laughter. Boris, of course, wasn’t laughing. She stopped laughing and looked over at him. One of those robot looks again. “Not … laughing, Johnson …?” she said, in a terrible voice.

And Boris looked down at his lap, lips quivering. “I’m very sorry, Mrs Von der Leyen … ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha,” said Boris.

I’d done it. I’d call Jeff Bezos later with the good news. But this time I was going to reverse the call charges.




[Edited at 2020-12-19 07:58 GMT]

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Zibow Retailleau
Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 

Matthias Brombach  Identity Verified
Alemania
Local time: 19:46
Miembro 2007
neerlandés a alemán
+ ...
First reactions Dec 19, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote: “Calvin Klein, eh? I see. How pretty. Those too.”


Quite early after your last post my phone rang and rang and rang and it still doesn´t stop ringing, with the display showing dial codes from Brussels, Berlin (and an odd one, perhaps Cairo?) and some known one I once stored from my direct clients, among others a well-known car manufacturer from Korea (South). I didn´t take off the phone because I knew that one day I had to take the consequences for agreeing with your posts and for translating the Mutti phrases. Okay, I can live with that, translators don´t have many friends anyway, and who cares, when the German manual of the next car model still reads "the hot gases excite the exhaust pipe", because my successor translator does not dare (or isn´t able) to doubt the source. But what made me surprised most today was my neighbour from ground-floor knocking at my door. You know, the one with the semi-permeable grey curtains behind the windows and with the sparkling clean stairwell, who regularly uses to report me at the tax authorities and the public order office, because I work at home and don't cause trouble. I didn´t expect to see him in person without his 2 m tall thug son and I wondered, why I could hear music coming from his flat, strange music, I never heard from that neighbour, I think, it was Carl Orff, but I cannot imagine, why he ever switched from Schlager music to classical tunes. Was it because of the strange name the compositor has got? Orff? What the hell ... I know that he knows who goes in and out of my flat and when, what we are doing (or not), and what we talk, yes, I know that he and the entire neighbourhood here knows every little detail from me, but how would they know anything about Carl Orff? It must be the orf mentioned several posts earlier, and it attracted him because I know that behind the grey curtained windows does a pair of eyes with a very bad taste look after me. And they even know what posts in the internet I read and contribute to! And there he was, in front of my door, with a print out of your post, yelling to me in his usual barking tone: "Übersetzen! Sofort!" He smashed the paper towards me and left before I could call the police (who usually doesn´t come anymore). I did not pick up the pages, but I could see all the words he highlighted and that seemed to attract him very much and that I am not allowed to repeat here because of the site rules. Enough, I thought and took my bicycle to have a ride to burn the usual 10.000 calories by crossing the bridges over the Kiel Canal, hoping to see good old vessel "Vikstraum" again, with the Swedish sailors wearing Lederhosen. Sometimes, when they pass Kiel on their route between Leningrad and Port Said, I smash some Haribos from the bridge, to make them yodle ("Haa-rriii-boo!") and they have made some good success since I first met them ("Holleridudödeldu!") at the locks of Kiel, where they were laughed at loudly by the lock operators because of the strange name their vessel has. But today it was different: when I pedalled the first 100 m, I could sense without turning my head around, that somebody is following me very closely with a car. Okay, the neighbours again, but they just wanna play, won't they? When I turned around, I could see a huge pimpmobile with a licence plate beginning with HH, which usually stands for "Hansestadt Hamburg", when these letters stand at the beginning of the code. I stopped and the car also stopped, and guess who it was, when the side window was cranked down and a pair of sunglasses appeared? Kalle Schwensen, from the Reeperbahn district of Hamburg! He showed me a print out of your 6C post and smashed it in front of my feet, now off from the pedals: "Übersetzen! Sofort! I will pay you in advance by check and I expect the translation together with the residue this night in my boxing cellar!". Before he sped off with his car, he explained to me that he has switched over from procuration to pulp fiction and he needs some new stuff for all the tourists from Scandinavia and the Netherlands visiting Hamburg and the Reeperbahn. Okay, now I´m here with his check and I think I will better spend my Christmas in a safer place this year. Perhaps in Cairo.

[Bearbeitet am 2020-12-19 11:43 GMT]


Mervyn Henderson
Chris S
Lingua 5B
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
España
Local time: 19:46
español a inglés
+ ...
PERSONA QUE INICIÓ LA HEBRA
@Matthias Dec 19, 2020

Wow, Kiel is such a lively place! Everything's going on there. Swedish sailors in Lederhosen!!! The sinister neighbours with swastikas tattoed on their foreheads. But most of all, it's great to know that German mafiosi are taking an interest in the thread, too. I'm expecting a few phone calls myself ...

Matthias Brombach
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 

Dan Lucas  Identity Verified
Reino Unido
Local time: 18:46
Miembro 2014
japonés a inglés
Good old Irked Dec 19, 2020

Chris S wrote:
Just in from Irked of Eglwyswrw

He lives just up the road from me.


Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 

Lingua 5B  Identity Verified
Bosnia y Herzegovina
Local time: 19:46
inglés a croata
+ ...
"the hot gases excite the exhaust pipe" Dec 19, 2020

At least something exciting in these challenging times...

Matthias Brombach
Mervyn Henderson
P.L.F.Persio
expressisverbis
 
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