Ayatoner of Leek

If he was the one flying the planes, we’d have to get pre-flight beery,

14-photos-of-ryanair-ceo-michael-oleary-looking-utterly-bizarre

It’s scarey leery aero-capitalist Michael “FitzTrump”O’Leary

Micky O’Lah hasn’t been in the news lately but he might have been on our tube. He sat with a vigour that Meg and I felt three seats down the line. A vigour that suggested, “I am an entitled arsehole who has planes.” Then he charged us €20 for what he called “a mid-trip rump-massage.” Boom!

Oh yeah, a Ryanair joke, because in my head it’s 2006.

So this past week I was high on the transport hog and was spread across several countries. It didn’t do a lot for my normally youthful visage (at one point I was able to pinch the bags under my eyes and waggle them around like tiny grey face-scrotes) but it did allow me to renew my love affair with the tiny pellets of honeyed pastry called baklava. That stuff would make you spend a night with Jabba himself.

So Iran, Iran so far away… better not be gay. Because along with an exposed female noggin and going twenty minutes without delicious cakes it’s bally-well illegal in Iran.

Which is where I am as I write this.

“Why am I here?” you’re probably asking, especially those with an existentially curious bent. As with many of the strange and wonderful places I’ve been to over the past two years, this is a work venture. But of course.

gorgeous-fantasy-worldWhere I work, in your mind (probably)

I got the all clear for this trip only on the previous Tuesday as my Visa still hung in the ether until the crucial final step of getting it daubed into my increasingly ragged passport got sorted by some tremendous fellows in a non-descript house in Kensington. I decided to just rock up to the consulate, emailing people as I went, trying to sort it out with the only thing I knew for sure being they decidedly DID NOT process Visas the day I was there.

Incidentally, why are they called Visas? Why doesn’t Mastercard get any love? That’s not a 2006 joke. Just a bad one.

I was instructed to chill my gills in the waiting room under the withering glower power of the Ayatollah whose portrait makes him look a bit like Sean Connery but after he accepted he was bald and really started owning it.

God he’s magnificent. Connery. And maybe the Ayatollah too.

After some Irish charm (and a lot more effectively a phone call from the European Commission) they sent me on my way, utterly credentialed but now admittedly wondering how my irreverant (and irrelevant) humor would go down with the real-world cast of Argo.

argo-006

Not to be seen by anyone under 15. Or anyone. I’m glad he’s not allowed do movies now.

Just Affleck, John Goodman get’s a free pass on everything after The Big Lebowski.  And not Casey Affleck. He’s a dote.

Last Sunday afternoon I trundled off to Heathrow airport with the ringing endorsements of “be careful,””don’t do anything fucking stupid” and “I’m not going over there to dig you out of the shit” from my various family members.

I also studiously avoided any intoxicating beverages in the airport as I didn’t want there to be any reason for the Iranian Revolutionary guard (great bunch of lads) to decide my blood required some inspection and would be more conveniently located for this purpose outside my body.

The flight was a bit grim being as it was Iran Air. The Iranians can sure do a hell of a foil pouch of unseasoned chicken and rice, but their passengers would be mucho obliged if they soaked up some of the sloshy piddle that made the toilets a one and done occurrance.

thorn_tree_sossusvlei_namib_desert_namibia_luca_galuzzi_2004a

The rest of the flight was spent imagining the above scene and arranging my napkins into a rudimentary adult diaper.

I landed in Tehran Ayatollah Khomeni airport in the wee (so much wee) small hours of the morning, with a terrible desire to see someone holding my name mispelled on an A4 piece of white paper. There was no such someone.

After walking up and down a bit some harried looking chap started flaking it towards me and held out some crumpled text. I have always felt more of a Martin Cole if I’m honest and never have I been happier to be recognised as such. We wandered around the car park for twenty minutes, as he jabbed at the button in his hand listening for a beep that wasn’t forthcoming. Parking lines in Iran as well as traffic signals are really more suggestions than anything to be taken seriously. Which brings me to… Shambling to and fro around through the chaotic car salad, the thought occurred to me that maybe he’ll bring me somewhere that isn’t my hotel. Maybe I’ll be… Taken!?

67704373_a3915c836f

Even Liam Neeson couldn’t get into a decent car chase if he was stuck in what I was soon to learn was the “famous” Tehran all-day gridlock.

Apparently there isn’t a great black market for the out of shape, pasty brillo-pad body type that is now my category should I ever have to classify myself in some grim human brochure.

If you haven’t seen me lately, don’t worry I’m probably still in the back of some lads car on Axis of Evil boulevard. The traffic was easily the worst thing about Tehran, in fact it was the only substantive negative I encountered in my time there.

Food was delicious, people are sound out and most everyone was perfectly happy to ignore any stupidity or insensitvity I might have expressed. Assuming I acted like myself at any point over the two days.

A choice bit of Iranian trivia: to piss off the British, they renamed the street that fronts on to the British Embassy as….

Bobby Sands Street.

snip20161025_1

Beeeeeoootiful

Top level mischief I hope you agree. Some more from the Islamic Republic next week.

In other news, Meg has been taken down with a bad case of sore chompers and can’t sleep lying down without her gum swelling up and throbbing like rude emergency dinghy. Downside is she is only able to eat about a half a cup of porridge before quietly weeping.

Other downside is as she is having to sleep on the couch to keep upright, I have started sleeping in a blanket fort like nature definitely never intended.

There are no upsides.

Ayatoner of Leek

Belly Buttoner Of Leek

He’s doing it voluntarily he’s not getting paid,

the_adventures_of_pluto_nash-creepy-robot
It’s Goggle-eyed robot maniac Randy “on Dennis’s couch” Quaid
So I almost welched on this weeks blog, but you know I had a long look in the mirror, took a gaze at the guy on the other side. Kissed him on the mouth. Took a nap.
After all my troubling tribulations  (one for the Star Trek fans there) I decided in the end, YOU the reader deserve a new dollop of creamy nonsense, dribbling over the edge of the bowl because you overfilled it you greedy galoot. You deserve it
You might have a bit of buyers remorse at this stage. That’d be fair.
The past week has been busy but fairly regulation. Meg and I are bighting the biker (I drafted this on my phone and autocorrect chose the image for me, highly appropriate) and finally decided to buy a car. Over the past two years Meg has been getting to work in a rickshaw pulled by a man who’s actual name is Richard Shaw.
No word of a lie, but read together as a sentence…
pinocchio-970x545
“I never killed your daughter. The rebels turned themselves into the military re-education council. A salad would be just as good.” Pinocchio = lying bollocks.
So we went to the local car buying house (I’m a total natural as you can tell) and blitzed about 8 different dealerships including somewhat foolishly some swish German ones. “No we will not accept a baggy full of belly button lint and a horsechestnut for this S-Class. Acorn or better Sir, otherwise you waste both our time!”
Considering how we’re so obviously a pair of rubes, it was hard to believe how resolutely ignored by everyone we were in the dealerships, like the shy little girl at the prom sitting on her own, eating oily, stinking mackerel from the tin that she brought from her home in the sulfur mine.
Sidebar, my girlfriend at the prom (called a debs in Ireland) didn’t eat mackerel from the tin however she did lock herself in the toilet, possibly because it was such a magical night (more likely because I went with someone else). Almost entirely her idea.
We were so desperately trying to get attention out of these car jerks, I was one frustrated moment away from taking my top off and bouncing around a little. Like they like.
burning_man_2015_galen_oakes_people20-203120of2063
And I thought I had the whole attention-seeking thing down pat.
Eventually after I had alienated the staff at the second to last dealership pointing at a mahogany jeep (actual quote) “who chose shit-brown for the for the floor model eh?” we got serious. Had to, my charm wasn’t really winning them over. Surprisingly.
“We don’t arrange the colors sir. Now here is a picture of a wreck in another dealership filled with garbage, richer than Christmas pudding and smaller than a seahorses danglers. You don’t want it. Leave.”
Larks. Eventually we sat down with a chap in Toyota and after entertaining buying a different car that one could accidentally inhale should one gasp with surprise next to it we eventually settled on a hoor-red Yaris with enough space for a talented blogger to have a tantrum in and still not break any windows. Before deciding to purchase we had a bit of a testdrive to make sure we weren’t purchasing a puce lemon. It was my first time driving automatic and indeed my first time driving since finally driving safely for 25 consecutive minutes and passing my test 6 or so months ago.
There’s no way for you to know I didn’t pass my test by just teaching Herman my tester how to kiss properly. Lots of teeth, that’s the key.
hqdefault
Okay Herman, you and I are about to break down some boundaries.
Joking aside I am still haunted (not to mention Meg loves bringing it up) how my first instructor Zsolt would in a panic grab my hands and swerve us away from traffic and after the emergency subsided he would lean back over to his side of the car and mutter “…sorry to…touch you.” Yeesh.
I hopped into the business end of the first automatic car I was ever to drive and as it was a new-fangled button-start car to boot (the boot was regular-fangled mind), I was instructed to just put my foot on the brake and press the button to start.
Then I planked my hoof squarely on top of the accelerator and kept prodding the button until the salesman’s embarassment was outweighed by his desire to get going and the error was pointed out to me. As I struggled further he had to advise me to take my left foot off the brake as it’s apparently not the done thing. More bloody rules and etiquette than a hot-tub party with the Queen of England!
Rule 1 – there are no rules
Rule 2 – Prince Philip gets to watch.
b47a2b952427adf9456e23d3dbb567b2
Okay Prince Philip is all done. Send in the corgis…
Ever the canny businessboys, we decided to head home to pretend-think about the purchase in case he threw in a punnet of goose-eggs extra to sweeten the deal. Meg’s Canadian. She thinks all eggs are goose eggs.
As the salesman stewed like a bag of sweaty giblets in a roast chicken (it’s called foreshadowing) Meg and I got to prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving as we do most every year.
Regular readers will know Meg was recently flummoxed into some purchases by a wandering meat man (apparently she produces the readies to any stranger willing to give her a flash of beef) and most went straight into the freezer. Among these items was an organic chicken we decided would be the flagship meat pile of this year’s calorie-drive.
After struggling to defrost the sucker in time I was gratified to see it good and floppy as I banged it into the oven. Oh and should you have missed it, there was an opportunity for a crude intercourse joke there, but I dunno, Trump has kinda ruined genitals for me for the foreseeable. Yours. Mine. Burn it all down and start over.
Anyway, I assumed the extra blood and general oily gore was down to the organic-ness of the chicken. Indeed it was because I had left a plastic bag of frozen guts inside the offending fowl and had roasted that bird all the same. I’d be lying if I said the next morning wasn’t a bit touch and go belly-wise but that’s why they put windows in toilets.
In other news I have recently been told I am going to Iran. On Sunday.
I have nothing controversial to say on that issue and I for one am welcoming this opporuntity to shut my dirty mouth.
Silencio!
Belly Buttoner Of Leek

Morroconer of Leek

Being married to the man is apparently not “the shit”

6fpdnb

It’s admittedly gar-geous but probs a ‘mare Brad “The Sweaty Arm” Pitt.

So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog a bit lately, but I’ve actually been really busy mainly with work.

The memoir will be called “Fur-tive Glances” if I ever move into a less controversial industry. Actually I might save that for my soul album. I’ll be holding a sax with a grapefruit on the end of it. No reason.

This weekend just past, Meg and I went on a mini-holiday to Windsor. The town where the Queen keeps all her ceremonial knickers and residents live in fear of being savaged by ferocious over-sized corgis.

We had been talking about going there for so long, my dear Mater got sick of hearing us yak about it so she got Meg a Christmas present of a night in a Windsor hotel. And guess who tagged along, ruining the luxury getaway vibe with trivia about the British Navy’s embarassing (but oh so invigorating) hazing rituals and constant references to the Queen Mother’s gusset?

This putz.

snip20161002_1

This is the kind of classic crotch gag you can enjoy by following my Instagram feed. There’s also the odd photo of stuff I eat. Mainly pencaps and Tictacs. I understand trendy things.  

So a bunch of little incidents to report from this.

On the way into Windsor, I looked up something on my phone. On a bit of a whim I had liked Cliff Richard’s Facebook page (also liked Daniel O’Donnell’s in the same session but Daniel has decided that his fanbase are a bit more analog than digital) but hadn’t really  delved into his depths. Now the first photo I saw set me laughing, but as I kept swiping through it unveiled a whole series of bizzare mini-dramas that left me panting, weeping and indeed dribbling as Meg apologised to the others on the train for ruining the library in a vacuum ambience of the quiet-car. A big deal for the limeys.

Firstly Cliff has apparently bought shares in a vineyard in Portugal and is lacadaisically flogging his very orange brew to elderly women via his photo feed. In one amazingly restrictive promotional event, he was turning up for a tight two hours, where if you bought three bottles of his grog (€20, a total shteal) he’d write his name on a piece of card. Also a lot of the people who were commenting on Cliff’s inane updates had profile pictures commemorating the man himself and urging him NEVER to retire. And there’s a hell of a lot of saucy promotional images of Clifford himself for his albums (Just… Terrific Rock and Roll is on pre-order now) and his calendars.

article-2739272-20e67a4c00000578-527_634x766

Mister February 2015 here. His page is full of horrifying dream-invaders like this image. No way to know he’s wearing underpants here guys. No. Way. To. Know.

Just an idea for anyone looking for Christmas ideas for me, those calendars are in shops NOW.

As Meg and I walked down the main street of Windsor, we could see what in the distance and poor light looked like a group of men spread out across the otherwise deserted high street. Owing perhaps to our days in Manchester where stuff like this can go sideways fast and our own upbringings proximal to Limerick and Detroit we have a sensitivity to diceyness. Probably a good thing.

As it turned out, the large group of men was two small separate groups. One was a group of rotund midgets drunk off their arses and crammed to their tiny gills with Windsor fudge (probably a metaphor) and the other was waiters clearing the tables at an establishment called Madame Posh. Not the first or last time since moving down to the Thames Valley that we were the scum to be viewed suspiciously.

There was this flabby 7 year old lad in the station sucking on a Bounty bar (coconut is a fruit) and eyeballing all the other candybars in the vending machine in what could only have been a threat.

Our hotel in Windsor was lovely, but there was obviously something going on at breakfast as the staff were disorganised like 4 year olds at a birthday party. At one point a lady in denims stormed up to our table and dropped a bunch of brown bread toast on our table and quickly before she ran off I blurted “This isn’t ours <no response> um I don’t want this toast.” The penny dropped and she realied it wasn’t ours and her eyes darted around the room.

“Good morning. <no response from the guests>… GOOD MORNING!!!”

Some people actually awkwardly chorused “good… morning?” and one guy got his toast. A tale as old as time.

There was a lady on the train wearing shorts in 15 degrees to show off her varicose veins the size of tiny knuckles poking out of her calf and brown curled toenails like she had been trying to use her feet to find a penny in a pile of her own fecality.

girl-train-posterWhat I did trying to avoid looking at those uncharitably uncovered hooves

Other tidbits from the weekend, I stole 11 soaps from the housecleaner’s cart, the hotel totally nailed the angle of the toilet mirror (100% view of the TV while sitting on the toilet) and Meg and I got smashed on Moroccan wine.

Also apparently there is such a thing as Moroccan wine.

We watched a TV show where obese people were literally publically weighed in front of their peers which included such gems as “I had a tough childhood, my sister was hit by a truck” and “your husband lost twice as much weight as you did and HE’S not even following my program!”

It was a rich full weekend.

In other news Meg called me excitedly with news from her work-at-home day. There had been one of those door to door meat salesman that we’ve all heard of arrive onto our road like a bacony Willie Lomond and Meg obliged him by signed us up to an £80 a month meat club.

When I heard that some travelling flesh-peddler had been taking the fancy of the local women with his fantastic line of thick juicy sausage, I was about fit to round up the village men and hang him from a tree like Mussolini. Then bang on time we got a box of admittedly high quality meat (the % of which orginating from the local morgue being undeclared) which has meant the whole thing has turned into a draw, but we decided to cancel anyway as we can’t have the neighbours knowing we have meat notions.

Still think I’d rather this cuckhold squadron didn’t know our address. I won’t be able to get to work in the morning with shady spivs plying me with pockets full of ground beef and their drawers full of tripe.

“Hallow me owld Choina salt, whadoowehav heeyah then, a lovely bit of kidnay foh da misses.”

Gotta go, I hear someone’s at the door.

Morroconer of Leek