Almonder of Leek

His kebab of preference would be described as donner-y,


It’s unbridleable sexpot, Sean “Leap-onner-me” Connery

Thank god he agreed to wear at least that little amount in that photo-shoot. Or we’d all be dead from crotch rays right now.

You could fry an egg on that thing-sling, but I probably wouldn’t eat it. Probably.

Last week I came to you from a plane over central Europe, fishing through a baglet of dessicated high-calorie snacks trying to avoid the ever-present almonds. The prick of the nut world, they always turn up when you are at your weakest and in need of caloric sustenance, take a million gallons of water to produce and are erroneuosly considered to be a dessert food by jerks who would I am sure vote for a child-murderer to be President given half a chance. And not the respectable, even lovable George Dubbla/Tony Bear kind of child murderer.

The nasty kind.

This week, I am sitting cross legged in a Kerry jersey on the outskirts of downtown Copenhagen. Not an almond in sight, though in lieu of tea or coffee my room has both black salt and black sweet liquorice. I’m sure it’s a local delicacy or some guff but it’s about appealing as eating small squares of roof tiling.


The Royal Grinkle knows what I’m talkin’ bout! Am I right?!

Tough room.

This is maybe my 7th or so time in Copenhagen and I still pretty much have zero experiences of the place to speak of. Haven’t seen the little mermaid, haven’t designed a futuristic glass and steel bank that is cooled by organic carrots growing in the walls and I haven’t had a grenade thrown at me by Hells Angels trying to prise away my control of the open-air drug mart. All stock Copenhagen experiences.

My representative experience for my many trips has been wandering around, under a gun-metal grey sky, shod in leather footbags with luggage. Often alone. Often to eat in the KFC. Though I’ve been lucky enough to travel a lot for work and see some absolutely bananas places, Copenhagen has been a bit less James Bond and a bit more Willy Lomond.

Turkey on the other hand was a lot more glamourous. Istanbul, the little I saw of it was notable for cross cultural architecture (churches and mosques and synagogues oh my!), huge slabs of succulently cooked meat on spikes (as if it were suffering a medieval punishment for climbing into Buckingham Palace and stealing the jewels right off the Royal Grinkle’s… wherever) and massive horse-dong-sized rolls of baklava, (buttered honey-pastry, flaked with pistachio and the tears of angels).


Everything that isn’t this, is crap. Sorry, small-pox eradication, Amnesty International & puppies. You are crap.

It hasn’t helped that the weather here is much like being caught in a nuclear blast, flesh being torn from your bones and flung around like so much errant herring. As it’s turned out, the crapola weather discouraged me from accomplishing the few unticked bulletypointys on my very short Denmark bucket list. And at this stage it is very unlikely as I am not wearing much bar a Greenlandic sealskin bracelet. It’s not a normal life, but it’s my one.

Weather has been a common issue in my business-guy life on the road as I have had an approximate 80+ decree centigrade spread on my assignments, from the Arctic to an African desert. Drinking litres of water and never peeing incidentally is a damn sight more agreeable than crystals forming in your lungs and one’s shmekel retreating into the recesses like Cornwallis.

My evening was spent at a fashion gala, with a considerable chunk of the Danish cabinet. The governmental top nobs, not some kind of elm furniture unit that you might use for storing bacon. As usual, the fashion style was totally bewildering but at least impressive to someone who doesn’t put a huge amount of stock in making sure my socks match. Nibbles were thin on the ground though (there was a nut selection… always at my weakest hour, the bloody almond) and I have retained my diet purity on a second work trip. Now I can marry the Sheikh!

That’s not what I call Meg… though I’ll admit, you may have just witnessed the birth of a nickname. I can draw on a beard. Relationships are all about making it work.

I am such a good boy indeed, I managed to hawl on my Kerry top and pottered down to the gym in the basement to grease up their machines and raise the odd titter by struggling to climb inside some of the infernal apparati. Have never loved the gym, but I love making noises when I run, particularly a nice loud “Woo!” as I speed up towards the end. Have scared the odd pedestrian and Meg thinks it’s more hilarious than that time I thought I had number 2’d myself on a bus, but in actual fact my nether regions had gone numb underneath me from an overly long journey and I had mistaken the unidentified mass as something alien in origin. Actually she didn’t really like that story.

Especially when I told her mother. Who reads this. Hello Janette!

In other news, me ole mukka, me ole China salt Colin is popping down from the gritty Nawf (say it like Ned Stark) this week from Manchester with tales of “nuttin’ wankahs” and “bacon bahm butties.” And the relentless crime. The locals who hate Scousers, Yorkshire and regard the entire south of the country as a place best ignored lest it attempt to feed them a vegetable. The woman we found in a bush one day at work. The small army of hookers who you’d find wandering around of a morning. The queue of jumpers (not clothing) from the multi-story car park outside our apartment. The three jobs that everyone in the city shared between them one day a year just so they could renew their dole. And the one in ten that STILL dresses like Liam Gallagher. Jesus.

We’re not going back Meg. I don’t care how you miss Bovril.

Almonder of Leek


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