The brand of toilet paper at work is called "Happy End". FACT

For reasons that shall remain undisclosed, I have discovered the German word for whorehouse: “puff”. Amusingly, it’s pronounced “poof”. I derived much pleasure from informing the people around me the English meaning of that word. Can something be read into the fact that the German word for brothel sounds the same as the English word for homosexual? Hmmm, probably not. But I insinuated for all I was worth.

Actually, having just read that last bit again, I feel I should attempt explain myself somewhat and reveal exactly how I discovered the German word for whorehouse was “puff”. We had just come off the soccer field from a glorious 0-0 draw, and everyone was in high spirits. And as Germans sometimes do when they are in high spirits, they started singing. I asked what they were singing, and what follows is a rough translation (I think you’ll agree it is a lyrical masterpiece):

Ole! We’re off to a whorehouse in Barcelona!
Pa-loom pa-loom, Pa-loom pa-loom!
Ole! We’re off to a whorehouse in Barcelona!
Lesbians, Lesbians, a little bit of gay.
Lesbians, Lesbians, a little bit of gay.
A little bit of fucking here,
A little bit of fucking there,
A little bit of fucking here,
A little bit of fucking there,
Ole! We’re off to a whorehouse in Barcelona!

And so that, your Honour, is how I found out the German word for whorehouse.

A couple of weeks ago I went to Innsbruck, Austria, to see Arsenal play a pre-season friendly against 1860 München. Innsbruck is nestled in the Alps and although the city itself is okay, the scenery around the city is fantastic. Innsbruck is roughly 574m above sea level, and the surrounding mountains are all above 2500m. And these mountains are close. Real close. Kinda like having the Doman, Mt. Nelson, Mt Wellington etc all towering over you at 2000m. And these are just the pissy small Alps! Innsbruck has been host to two Winter Olympics, and while I was walking to the stadium to see the game, I looked up at the rather impressive ski-jumping facility, standing proud on the side of one of the mountains. And it struck me that someone went to a lot of effort and spent a lot of money just for a sport that I’m sure the majority of people find incredibly dull.

Speaking of Olympics, Stuttgart are apparently making a bid to host the 2012 Olympics. Ha! As if! I think they’ll have to follow the lead of Manchester – bid for the Olympics, fail dismally, and then bid for the Commonwealth Games. They’ve got more chance of winning the right to host the Commonwealth Games than the Olympic Games! So expect to see Australia topping the medal tally at the 2014 Commonwealth Games in Stuttgart. No, wait . . . hang on . . .

Anyway, back to the glorious Arsenal, and the almost as glorious Alps . . . when I rocked up to my hostel, I discovered I was sharing it with a bunch of Americans, and some Asian bloke who later revealed himself to be a snorer of some distinction. Two of the yanks had nothing better to do, so we all went to the game together. We got good seats, and with a couple of beers each enjoyed the show. Although it was good to finally see the team you support playing in the flesh rather than on telly, Arsenal really couldn’t give a toss about the game, and didn’t try at all. Henry still got a hat trick though, and I saw the two new signings: Cygan and Silva, and the “is-he isn’t-he an Arsenal man” Carini (he sort of was, but now isn’t) as well as all the stars (Bergkamp, Vieira, Seaman, Campbell etc . . .) and even Paul Agostinho got a consolation goal, so it was all good.

While I was at the match, I was sitting next to a bloke (obviously), and it turned out he was an Innsbruck local who was a massive Arsenal fan. (See? Even in Austria they recognise a damn good soccer team when they see one.) Over the course of our conversation, he told me a tale of woe involving the local side FC Tirol Innsbruck.

Innsbruck had a good soccer team. A very good soccer team. So good, in fact, that last year they were the best in Austria. Yep, Austrian champions. And what happens to the champions of each country in Europe? They qualify for the lucrative Champions League. Hooray for Innsbruck! But, somehow the Austrian champs had managed to get themselves 20 million pounds in debt. They were in serious strife. So much so, that the Austrian powers that be decreed that Innsbruck should be demoted to the third division. All their good players left (and probably some of the crap ones as well), except for two - one a 35 washed-up has-been, and the other a 36 year old washed-up has-been. They were kicked out of the Champions League, deducted five points for the start of their next campaign in div 3, and I think fined some money to boot. Not good eh? Imagine that happening to Liverpool, Man U or Tottenham (I can dream can’t I?)

So when you see the big guns of European soccer, such as Arsenal, Real Madrid and Bayern München, crushing the minor teams, such as Liverpool and Manchester United, spare a thought for good ol’ FC Tirol Innsbruck – who would have been amongst the giants, crushing the likes of Liverpool and Manchester United. But, someone fucked up big time, so it’s division three for the boys from ’bruck. Oh well, serves you right if you can’t count eh? (And in news just to hand, apparently they no longer have a team at all. Innsbruck has Austria’s best and most modern stadium – and no one to play there. Strange world innit?)

Speaking of cars, I went to Porsche Weissach again (that’s the major testing and development facility for Porsche), and this time I got to drive the Porsche there! Nice one brudda! It’s all good! Sweet mate! (etc). Corners like a dream, accelerates even better, but is actually slightly more difficult to park than you would think. I can now add “driven a Porsche” to my list of life achievements, along with “scaring the shit out of my boss”.

Speaking of London, I just spent a week in London, and it was excellent.

Good things about London:
There are people everywhere
There is no way you could sit at home on your own and be really bored and lonely (unless that’s actually what you wanted to do)
Everyone speaks English (mostly!)
My sister lives there

Bad things about London:
There are people everywhere
It’s very polluted
Tourists

Okay, a brief rundown of what I did, in no particular order:
Had lots of curries (you can’t get a decent curry in Germany)
Got an Arsenal shirt with “BITCHOS, 12” on the back – awesome!!!
Saw the first half of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre – that was cool.
Went to Reading and got pissed
Saw the sights such as London Tower, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, St Paul’s etc etc.
Went to a few museums and displays.
Travelled the tube a lot
Didn’t get pickpocketed
Bought a few crappy soft serve icecreams
Spent too much money. Bloody exchange rate!
Imitated McGyver, by opening beer bottles using only a train rubbish bin (WARNING: may cause minor lacerations to palm of hand)
Did a Jack the Ripper walking tour of east London – the FBI were right when they profiled him and described him as “not squeamish”.
Watched crappy English telly (Five Go Dating springs to mind)

But the highlight (and main purpose) of my visit was definitely V2002 – a rather large (90 000 people) music festival held in Essex. The first day was pretty good – there was a bunch of about 8 of us, mostly Aussies with a couple a Kiwis chucked in (actually, there were a helluva lot of Kiwis there. I’ve never heard so many Kiwi accents before). My main aim for the first day was to avoid listening to Nickelback and Alannis Morisette, which I did quite successfully by just wandering around to other stages. After checking out Turin Breaks’ acoustic set (which was very good), I headed back to the main stage to listen to the Chemical Brothers. Although their set was awesome, it just failed to top the Crystal Method and the Tea Party who currently sit equal top of my “Best Concert” list. So, dear Chem Bros, you must console yourself with third. Or perhaps fourth, to Powderfinger. Or maybe fifth . . . anyway, whilst in the mosh pit listening to a bit of It Began in Afrikaaakaaakaaaa, I stumbled upon a group of people that I knew, so I sorta stayed with them (coupla blokes, coupla chicks). They had staked out a piece if pit to call their own, and so I settled down there as well.

However, some moron and his moronic mate decided to crash our little party – they came barging through, and positioned themselves right in the middle of our little group. They were both topless – which I hate, cos the last thing I want to do is to be rubbing up against some sweaty, topless bloke. A chick, okay fine – I think I can put up with that. But a bloke – no fucking thanks. Then, one of the imbeciles tried to scull the rest of his beer, failed miserably and just ended up pouring half of it over me. And then, like so many other dickheads are wont to do, chucked his cup (and beer) over the audience. Now this I just don’t get – I hate the stupid pricks that chuck beer/water bottles in random directions. Having been clocked on the head a few times, and drenched in beer a few more, I think it’s fucking stupid.

So these two rabbits have only been there a matter of seconds, and I think I have already labeled them as fuckwits. But, to top it all off, fuckwit number one decides to “dance” by getting very close to me (waaaaaaaaaaaay closer than was necessary) and rubbing his groin into my backside.

Maybe it was caused by flashbacks to my school days, and the various butt-fucking that goes on in an all boys school (joke – didn’t really happen to me, honest!), but I snapped. I don’t normally get mouthy with people, for the obvious reason I can’t really back it up with anything physical, but this time I’d had enough of this fuckwit. My opening gambit of “Are ya right are ya buddy?” clearly confused him, because all he could muster in reply was “Wot?”. I tried again: “Are ya right are ya buddy? Can you give me a bit of space, and stop trying to butt fuck me?”

I don’t think he took my candour that well, because he spent the next couple of mins just standing there glowering at me. I was a little bit worried that they were hatching some dastardly plot to avenge the wounding of their pride, and I was right. It had taken them several minutes, but they had come up with “a cunning plan”. They offered to beat the shit out of me. I declined, and realising that the people I was with were too stoned to be of much use, sneakily shifted out of range, and five minutes later got the fuck out of there. They were bigger than me after all, which I should have perhaps taken note of before I accused one of them of trying to butt-fuck me.

That was Saturday.

Sunday saw an awful, awful performance from someone I am determined to never have the misfortune to listen to again – Beverly Knight. Superb followed shit, with a great set from Kosheen, good sets Counting Crows, Lamb and Starsailor, and fantastic sets from Gomez and Doves. (for all you oldies out there who don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, these are all BANDS, and a SET is a performace, and not tits or part of a tennis match). Basement Jaxx ended the night, and just as we were leaving (to beat the rush, and get back to London at a half decent hour) Where’s Your Head At (Oldies: that’s a SONG played by the BAND called BASEMENT JAXX) started, so we simply had to delay departure by another 10 minutes or so. And it WENT OFF.

Speaking of Kazahkstan, it seems that the Kazahkstanian bloke got fired. Maybe they discovered he was moonlighting as a reporter for Kazahkstanian tv.

And moving ever so nicely onto soccer I played my first competitive game of the new soccer season, and scored a wonder goal to cap a marvelous debut. Never mind that it was for the reserves, and that it only went in cos the goalie was old and fat and slow - it still went in, and I still had a glorious, goal-scoring debut. Super!