Party Like Porn Stars

It is Mrs. BBs birthday next month and I am planning this year’s celebration.

I immediately attend to the guest list:

• Family
• Best friends and their partners
• Work chums
• Fashion designers
• Sports stars
• Captains of industry
• Actors
• Foreign dignitaries
• Musicians.

I hit the wall at work chums. I consider inviting Al Qaeda. I wish to break the global ice and promote a bit of mutual understanding through celebration. A reliable source tells me they have a habit of crashing parties. I scrap the idea and keep a low profile.

I turn my attention to the theme. I want something new, something fresh, something moist, something almost now but not then:

• White party... soooo last year
• Opera theme... too pretentious
• School discos... too much Abba, all night
• Nautical theme... too much rum, sodomy and lash
• Hot dogs & sex toys... too girly, no fun for the boys
• Vicars and tarts... too many tarts, not enough vicars
• Dominatrix... just isn’t Mrs. BB’s thing
• Circus circus... This is it. Fantastic!

Guests must come as circus performers and entertain each other taking turns in 1 of 3 rings. Brilliant! I will be the ring master, of course.

I phone Siegfried & Roy to source a big cat. There are a few heads I am keen to place in the beast’s mouth. They tell me to fuck off. They are busy grooming their pussies for a new show. Once finished, they will start grooming the cats.

Dwarf Tossing could be the thing, it is not illegal here. I am excited at the prospect of my guests tossing the little people. Instead of Velcro suits on sticky targets, we will chuck them in the fjord. They will be fished out like big game with dwarf bait. Cool!

Stumped again. There are few dwarfs in Norway and they are all booked. I consider using children but quickly scrap this idea. Children are a national treasure in Norway and I do not wish to attract the attention of the tabloids.

In desperation, I phone Guy Laliberté to beg for some last minute assistance. I ask if it is possible to borrow Cirque de Soleil for an evening. He is graceful in his apology. It will not be possible. They are doing another birthday that evening. He offers to send a few masks, some makeup, a hand puppet named Lucien, and a copy of the Dummies Guide to Contortion.

I don’t have the freakin time for this. Back to the drawing board.

Whatever the theme, one thing is for sure. We will party like porn stars.

Beaverboosh

Upset Patron

I have been in London on serious business for the past ten days. I denote serious as my liver is communicating to me in various ways, most too shocking to mention in a blog that is read by children. Suffice to say my liver has gone to defcon 7.

Mrs. BB rocks up for the weekend. We are flying under the radar as it is our anniversary and we do not wish to see friends. Rather, we cherish the time we get to spend together, especially when it is alone! This happens all too infrequently!

I have booked a table at an excellent fish restaurant. We are persuaded to change the booking by a good friend’s new man who is in the know. Scott’s is THE place NOW for fish. It is a newly refurbished restaurant with a long heritage in the fish trade.

I attend to the re-booking with my usual and healthy level of scepticism though I am happy to get a table on a Saturday night at such short notice. Years of working away and client entertaining have turned me into a hardened critic of transportation, accommodation, and eating establishments. Ditto for Mrs BB.

You do not want to be on the end of a poor service proposition if we are flying in team formation.

We arrive. The signals from the outset are disturbing. The Maitre De, waiting staff and bus mooches have stiff postures indicating that most have something large stuck up their arses. The restaurant is heaving and the wait borders on tedium.

As we tuck into lifeless starters, the table next to us are complaining for the Nth time. One of theirs has not received his main. Desert has been served to the rest of his party. Shocking!

My main course is a road accident. I am keen to draw this to the attention of anyone on staff. Hailing a NY cab in a blizzard is easier. In the end, I am uninterested and enjoy the Montrachet, the best thing on the table, next to Mrs BB.

We laugh. We are having a wonderful evening in each other’s company despite the food. The deco ambiance is hypnotic. It is 1939 in black and white. We are too tired pick a fight. Life is too short. We enjoy more of the wine and each other’s company.

Removing an almost uneaten plate 30 minutes after I have downed cutlery, the waiter says nothing. I ask for the bill. I have nothing else to say. There is nothing else to say. I will never be back. I will rubbish the restaurant at every opportunity. C’est la vie.

It will not survive London unless it ups its game. Once the weekend sub-urbanites (bridge and tunnel people) move on, they are fucked. This is a sign of the Michelin Dog in its ascendency. A laudable ambition but with a pretention devoid of professional talent that has already been blinded by an early false success.

Dogs don’t shine.

Beaverboosh

Pass The Mayo

Mrs. BB and I spent the weekend visiting very good friends in deepest darkest Ireland. The minute the plane lands, I am speaking like a leprechaun. She shakes her head in despair at my rubbish Irish accent knowing I will be an embarrassment until we depart. I innocently claim it is the O’Beaverboosh lineage that is to blame, to be sure.

How do I love thee Irish? Let me count the ways...

1. The Irish are in a different time zone - When stopping to ask for directions, the response is unexpected, ‘well get yourself a pint and we’ll talk about it.’ If you think you will get all of the information you require over a pint, you are mistaken. You will arrive at your destination many hours later than planned, and singing folk songs, but with a wealth of local information to hold you in good stead.

2. Nobody walks in rural Ireland, it’s too far to the pub – When leaving the pub at the end of a late night Guinness sesh, the Garda is often waiting for you. This is daunting to foreigners, expecting a jail sentence is about to be dispensed. Instead the Garda helps you into the car and makes sure you are heading in the right direction to get home.

3. The Irish never lose their sense of humour, even in death - My friend’s parents unfortunately had to attend the funeral of very good friend. They phoned to see how we were getting on. I couldn’t hear for the laughing and music in the background, it sounded more like a wedding. When I sensitively asked if all had gone well, my friend’s father replied, ‘oh, it’s a right good crack, we’re givin’ him a good send off, it’s just the way he wanted it,’ and abruptly hung up to go and dance. The wake started at ten in the morning and went on well after midnight.

I could go on go on and go on.

As a proponent of progressive and constructive change, I am really a traditionalist at heart. It is easy to love the Irish truly, fondly and deeply! And it is pleasure.

If you have not had the privilege, go soon. If you have, I hope you get back regularly. If you don’t know anyone in Ireland, don’t worry, you will make many new friends. If you are in Mayo and your new friends are male, they will be named Seamus, Paraic or Micheál.

Your liver won’t forgive you but the warmth, hospitality and excessive laughing will add years to your life.

Beaverboosh

Help Yourself

The team at Beaverboosh Publishing have sent me a pack containing some of this quarter’s priority titles for my perusal. I look forward to these reviews which I find illuminating and help to keep me abreast of the literary trends.

This pack contains titles from one of the biggest categories in publishing, Adult Self Help. It has become an explosive growth area as we become more obsessed with improving ourselves.

I am delighted to share with you an advance preview of three of what I believe will be very successful titles.

Enjoy.

Beaverboosh

Masturbate Your Way to Happiness and Wealth – ‘Masturbate your way to the happiness and wealth that your deserve. Masturbation can help lift that feeling of self worthlessness and doom and help you to become a better person. By channelling positive mental energy on the goals you wish to achieve while masturbating, you will emerge with a new and refreshed sense of focus and achievement. Masturbation has been used by entrepreneurs, entertainers and sports personalities to breakthrough to happiness and success. Even Opra is frequent masturbator! ’

A Dummy’s Guide to Masturbation – ‘Masturbate to world class standards. This guide will teach you:

• Simple and effective masturbation techniques
• Advanced masturbation techniques and the G Spot
• Professional masturbation techniques as used in ‘The Industry’
• Masturbating with devices, household utensils and vegetables
• Discreetly masturbating in public areas (restaurants, cinemas, gyms, shopping malls, parks, concerts, sporting events...)
• Everyday masturbation (at home, at the office, in the car...)
• Masturbation injury prevention
• Masturbating your friends, family and pets.’

Blogging, A New Cure for Habitual Masturbation – ‘Cure your habitual masturbation addiction by learning to blog. It is easy, fun, and can help beat your reliance on physical masturbation by substituting it with mental masturbation. Over time, blogging can help you cure or temper your masturbation habits while focusing your tension into this somewhat benign, harmless if not useless form of self expression. This technique has been used successfully by less fortunate writers, journalists, actors and musicians to overcome compulsive masturbation afflictions.’

Copyright © Beaverboosh Publishing 2008. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Paradise Taxed

‘In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.’ It is difficult to disagree with Benjamin Franklin on this point though I would add masturbation.

It is that time of year. I wrestle with my tax return at the last minute attempting to make the deadline.

If you have never prepared a tax return, tax bores the tits off you, or you are fed up reading my blogs, take this quick exit link now, http://www.buyimage.co.uk/norway/norway/norway.html.

Norwegians boast of the best country, the best social system and the best quality of life in the world. Good for them.

It comes at a price. Norway is a socialist country. You are not allowed to be better than anyone else and must follow the rules. You are reminded of this if you step out of line by your fellow citizen, usually a 60ish year old woman in a fur coat driving a Mercedes.

With a population of 4.5 million people Norway is one of the wealthiest countries in the world. This is in part because of North Sea oil discovered in the 1960s. It is like Kuwait on the North Sea. The US would have to harvest the oil resources of the Milky Way to achieve a similar result.

Many Norwegians including members of parliament have hard held socialist cum communist beliefs. Shortly after the election of the Labour party two years ago the Finance Minister’s second in command suggested that private real estate be made illegal and expropriated by the state.

Excessive wealth and socialism make strange bedfellows. Socialists are renowned for their economic inefficiency. It’s champagne socialism at its worst.

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

As I stumble my way through my tax return a veil of depression cloaks me. My personal tax rate is 52% which means I have to work until July before the money is mine. From the remaining 48% I must pay 25% of that on sales tax on ALL consumer goods extending this period to mid August.

With my remaining spondooly’s, I pay a King’s ransom for my provisions. According to the Economist’s Big Mac Index it costs $8.10 in Norway compared to $3.50 in the US or Canada to sample two all beef patties in a special sauce. Thank goodness I do not eat McDonald’s food.

You can log on to the internet to view any of your fellow animal’s tax contribution, thus establishing their income and net worth. Look at mine and you will see a mountain of debt.

Norway is a lovely country. It is the most expensive country I have experienced.

Power to the people, even if they chose to hand most of it to back the state. That’s democracy for you. The government and the King seem to do well from it.

Norway has the feeling of an exclusive members club to which I am privileged to have been admitted but unsure I can afford.

It is certain I will die. It is certain I will be taxed. It is certain I will masturbate in order to try to take my mind of this depressing topic.

Beaverboosh