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Most amateur history buffs will appreciate the significance of written correspondence. Take for example the correspondence of the 19th century amongst people in high social positions. Reading through a selection of letters, I am struck by the importance of the medium. It is often the way in which one expressed one’s heartfelt and honest thoughts and emotions to others, whether on life, war, peace, love, money or relationships, in a way that was socially inappropriate, in many instances, to speak of at the time. Often the cathartic nature of such messages leaves one concluding that this expunging was a key part of the delicate balance of existence for the individual of that era.
In our own era of verbal diarrhoea, confrontation, spin and expletives, such social barriers appear not to exist, and most anything goes. However, in many western societies a veil of political correctness is pervasive in our day to day communications. Equally, it is still socially impermissible to "bear your soul" to anyone other than your close ones after a jar of social lubrication and then, we still often conceal our real feelings on a particular topic, even in our deepest and most honest relationships. If you have ever written a letter to a loved one, you probably comprehend how much more expressive you are in the medium, often, to the surprise of the object of you affection.
Blogging, as I have discovered, is the new surrogate for yesteryear's correspondence, albeit anonymously (I know, I am a bit slow sometimes).
As a Virgin Blogger, I have learned much about my fellow man (gender inspecific) and am struck by the emotional pathways that have been opened for me reading other’s blogs. As with any medium there is a lot of rubbish, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I am taken by the quality of the communication delivered through blogs.
In all honesty, I never read a blog before I started my own last month. I started as a way to communicate with Girl while she was globetrotting, at her suggestion. I embarked on my own cathartic journey for a loved one but soon found it self indulgent, my new therapy! I was not of importance to me that anyone read my blog, it just felt good to spill out the recess of mind brimming with rubbish, and it got my endorphins buzzing.
Now the contagion has infected me and spread. My weekly therapy is a key part of my current life but as importantly, reading other’s blogs has become compulsive. My own narrowly defined remit has focused on expats as this theme has been central to my existence, and it has taken me to many new places.
Whether it is Mimi’s volcanic roller coaster existence and desire to put media scum and vankers in their place, Jonny's insights into social inequities and life in South Africa and how it affects him and his family, Pomgirl’s emotional integrity and northern humour, Englishman in Osaka's homemade origami, Karla’s Texan humorous adventures in Oslo, Gay Banker’s comments on the International Wanking Crisis, or Petite Anglaise's frog bashing, the connection has become compulsive. (I big Canadian apology to all of the other blogs I read weekly that I have not mentioned).
It is my birthday today and as I write this I remind myself this is the one time of the year I allow myself to indulge in such reflective sentimental drivel. I also remind myself that I have a very rich and fulfilling life and am loved more by Girl and our families and friends than a man could ask for. I try to return this at every opportunity.
There is something deeply human about making connections. It is a part of all of our primordial DNA. There is something even more fundamentally human about honest connections. Blogs can offer these new connections. You do not have to know someone in the flesh to admire, empathise, laugh, cry, get angry, agree or disagree (with), or be inspired (by) them.
There is a great integrity and courage in laying one’s life out openly for all to see and interact with, regardless of your own spin on it, or anonymity. You cannot get more human that this!
Therapy session terminated, 15:50, 24 November 2007. Beaverboosh
I have just been reunited with Girl in London. She has returned from a month of globetrotting. A well needed respite and shopping. A weekend in LA at the Marmont with SF Girl was clearly a highlight. She mentioned rubbing shoulders with Francesco Clementi, Racheal Zoe, Alice Evans, Charlotte Tilbury and Erin Wasson. I have idea who these people are. Girl as always is understanding.
Last year Girl took me to NYC for my birthday for a well needed respite of my own at the Mercer. We dined quietly down the street at a small bistro sitting next to Bowie and Iman. I am a huge Bowie fan. I would drink his bathwater. He is cool, gorgeous and emanates greatness! What a birthday present, I relay this to my mother! She has no idea who I am talking about. I should have known better.
In London last week I have a meeting with an agent of Mordor. My Norwegian colleague blurts out how he loves being in London with me because I take him to great bars. The agent is curious, I wish my colleague had said nothing. I add, “It’s just a silly media club is Soho where B List celebrities congregate… Johnny Vegas, Kathy Burke, Jonathon Pryce, Christian Slater (when he is town).” The agent looks at me with disdain, he knows not of whom I speak. Agents of Mordor do not frequent this sort of establishment. I move the conversation quickly along to the East India Club. Typical.
When we lived in London, Simon Le Bon lived around the corner from us in Putney. Only 40 plus year old sagging breasted women and love rats who still wear puffy shirts and think that’s cool know who he is. Thank effin god!
Amazongirl took me to see Muse a couple of weeks ago in Oslo! We were in the mosh pit. Muse shook my world for two hours. Outstanding! I am recounting the experience the next morning around the wet pod in the office. No one has any idea of who Muse is. I despair.
Singerboy, one of my best soul mates drops a mail from LA. He has been at one his many not so famous friend’s houses jamming when Bruce arrives. Bruce is Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden. I like Singerboy’s mails better when he is having lunch with Jack and Peter trying to move his wife Artchick’s work. I have never listened to Iron Maiden and have no idea of who Bruce is. He wailed for a half an hour entertaining the room. Lucky them.
I had a very important London client who insisted on regularly being taken to fine restaurants and had a penchant for the Ivy. One particularly exceptional night, we were seated next to Nigella Lawson. Simon Callow and Noel Gallagher were across the room. I ran into Helena Bonham Carter on the way to the boy’s room. Salman Rushdie stood next to us chatting to Nigella for ages. My client had no idea who any of the people were. Except Rushdie whom he asked where the toilets were. Audacious and very funny.
A couple of years ago, Girl and I were sitting next to Donald Sutherland in the restaurant at the Russie in Rome, a handsome and spell binding man. Six months later in NYC we run into Keefer at the Hudson. I tell him I ran into his old boy just a few months ago, he says “what… like I effin care!” Predictable.
We see the Norwegian Royal family frequently in airports, skiing, and in Oslo. I was recently on a flight with the King. I let slip the old boy is a republican but MiL, Girl and the rest of the family are staunch royalists. He laughs and is impressed I am learning Norwegian. He is a lovely man. No one outside of Norway has an idea of who these people are. Except in Germany where they are obsessed with the Princess and her drug and sex addicted past. Obscure.
My own namesake, St. Beaverboosh, is the patron saint of cooks and wine makers. In the first century he was roasted on a spit for surrendering the poor and infirmed to the Romans who had demanded the church’s treasures adding “these are the treasures of the church”. Halfway through the grilling he is alleged to have asked to be turned over as his one side was done enough. I better understand my rebellious nature and bon viveur tendencies. I politely quiz a colleague with the name of a saint why his namesake was sainted. He has no idea he has the name of a saint! Why do I bother.
No one cares about such dross, certainly not moi!Beaverboosh
I spent 5 days last week in Spain with Girl’s old boy to undertake the pre-inspection of a recently procured property before closing the deal. We were joined by Silvertongue, a family friend. Well more of a family pet. He is gifted in the ways of the tongue and is ‘in the trade’.
The property is the old boy’s retirement project and he has done well. We are far from the dense Eurotrash hoards on the Costa del Chav and in deepest and darkest Spain. This is real Spain! White villages on hill tops with few who speak English. We are in a part of the world lost in time. A sign on the motorway entrance prohibits horses and carriages!
Silvertongue is in good form. Both hands are off the wheel and he is fiddling with his Blackberry, barreling at 200K in our shabby rental, bellowing into his hands free on what is clearly important business.
My anus is sweating. I have the feeling I am about to become a Spanish traffic fatality. The old boy looks pale. Only a few cans of San Miguel calm the sphincter. We arrive. I sleep soundly but at great speed.
The snagging itself is scheduled for an hour but takes two and half. Margarita and Jock, the developer’s representatives, take the ‘if you can’t beat em join em’ attitude and assist in finding all manner of things to add to the list. It was a real team effort though I felt their contribution was largely to expedite our departure.
70 items on the snagging list, we broke the record! Another hour and we could get it to 100.
There is a small sticking point. The villa is the last in a row on the 9th fairway of a the golf course 180 metres away from the tee. This is within bombing distance for the dreaded hacking slicer, 99% of most amateur golfers. When the discussion moves to this issue and solutions are mooted, Margarita, offers practical advice suggesting we can wear helmets when sunbathing.
I am imagining the call I place to Girl. “Darling, it is absolutely fantastic, a few minor snags but all cosmetic. Oh, there is one little thing. You and your mother are going to have to wear helmets when you sunbathe. It’s ok though because Margarita says that they have a great selection of colourful helmets and El Corte Inglese that will go with your designer bikinis.”
That Margarita! She is sooooo funny!
A bit of local shopping, Silvertongue procures an Iberian jamon, and we are back at the club, sitting on the terrace and enjoying a light repast and the afternoon sun. The jamon, the cured hind leg of an acorn fed pig, is 15 kilos and I wonder how Silvertongue will get the beast home. He is unconcerned with this detail and is busy with the Bushnells, binoculars that provide your distance to the green. They are trained on a pair of healthy girly breasts adding, “the target is 4.3 metres away.” The comment is both banal and embarrassing. He moves to a petite girly ass, “5.6…” When not driving, doing business, golfing or using the Bushnells, Silvertongue is on the phone with one of his shagging bitches talking dirty.
There is a god. The next day during our round of golf Silvertongue steps on the club face of my pitching wedge lying next to the green. The shaft of the club bolts upright and is erected into his tackle. They swell to the size of the jamon. He retreats in the evening licking his wounds.
After 5 days of much beer, wine, jamon, Carlos Primera, school boy humour, and golf, the old boy takes the cup by a commanding 7 strokes. Well done! A great time was had by all. On the way back to the airport we stop at El Corte Inglese to check out the helmet selection. I really did not know that helmets came in so many different colours and styles. The girls will be pleased.
Beaverboosh
Beaverboosh is always being asked about his views on current events that impact all of our lives. Many of you will have spent the last few months on the edge of your seats wondering whether the global wanking crisis will affect you. I believe this most excellent article from this month’s issue of the highly respected publication The Wanker gets a firm grasp on global wanking issues that could be a blow to many.
Beaverboosh
Global Wanking Crisis Continues
Wankers all around the world are still reeling from this summer’s big squeeze which resulted in a severe liquidity shortage. This week saw further resignations from high profile wankers in the US because of poor performance. The problem started in the sub-prime wanking sector in America and quickly spread across the world. America is home to the world’s largest number of wankers.
A leading global wanker believes we are only beginning to see the outcome of the crisis, “The past 5 years has seen the market awash with liquidity for which global wankers can take responsibility for having created both the huge appetite and the subsequent mess. This appears to have dried up overnight as a result of the squeeze.”
The squeeze has been at the top of central wanker’s agendas for months. In the summer, the US and European central wanks pumped liquidity into the market to ease the strain on wanks. Central wankers in the UK appeared to have “egg on their faces” as their failure to pump liquidity into the market backfired, leaving a high street wank in danger. The central wank pointed the finger at the wanking regulator and European wanking legislation for the cock-up. An industry watchdog said “it is a simple case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing”, and is demanding a parliamentary enquiry.
In some countries like Canada, wankers are less exposed to the crisis as they have been historically more cautious of many American wanking practices, particularly those using instruments to achieve a high degree of leverage and illiquidity. A leading Norwegian wanker went on record last week stating that there is no serious threat to liquidity in Norway and that wanking is safe, “it is unlikely we will see the same panic as in the UK where people were queuing at wanks creating further strains on deposits.”
The crisis is not likely to impact China as wanking is in its infancy, though it has grown rapidly as a result of industrial stimulation and a tight central wank policy. The World Wank believes that wanking is about to explode in China which is forecasting the largest wanking population on the planet by 2010, overtaking America.
No one really knows what the future of wanking holds as a result of the pressure. A US Fed governor put it with admirable honesty, “In formal terms, we don’t know where wanking has been, where it is now, or where it is going!”
Copyright © The Wanker 2007. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
