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Beaverboosh

Summer Fest

Ah, the long sunny evenings and endless social diary of June. Summer Fest season is here.

Caught Jamie Cullum at Oslo Sentrum Scene last Saturday night with a mob of pals. Outstanding! He was electric, bobbing, weaving and bouncing around the stage. His young band dudes are wholly accomplished. The young sweeties standing behind me sang the words to all of his songs. Jamie loves Norway and Norway loves him back. I caught sight of Sophie at the side of the stage jumping around smiling and supporting her man. I wonder if he requires a foot stool to kiss her.

On the flight to London Monday morning I meet a good friend. I apologise we did not make it to his wife’s big birthday party Saturday night, Jamie was running very late and we did not dare show up after 1 am, we were shattered. Working lunch followed by drinks with friends at my Soho haunt. We haven’t seen each other for yonks and still joke about how much we hated the firm we both used to work for... we tried everything to get whacked including running up 10s of thousands of pounds of client entertainment expenses at sporting events and lap dancing bars... think I got an outstanding performance rating that year!

Important biz goes well Tuesday. Get pissed with Goldenbollocks on the flight home. We solve many of the world’s problems, but unfortunately create many more than we have solved.

Off to Nodee for Mrs BBs birthday dinner Wednesday evening, her favourite restaurant in Oslo. It is an Asian affair and is always packed, lunch or dinner. It is a family dinner and the ambiance is comforting as we catch up over the din. Everyone is busy and we have not seen each other for weeks. One of our extended family friends has moved back to Oslo from London... it is great to have her home. While out with my MiL for a cheeky Marly, I hear my name being called, it is Renny, the spiritual leader of Norwegian bloggers with his pal Tor – we are planning to meet the following night. Renny is like the bus, wait for months to see him and then catch him twice in two days!

Thursday evening at the First Millennium in the city centre with Renny and the gang. Renny has invited the world to Oslo for a Blog Gathering 19 – 21 August and we are helping him finalise plans. The Mayor of Oslo is opening the event with a champagne reception on the evening of the 19th. There are loads of local activities on offer for the posse of visitors rocking up. We are finalising the plans for a grand finale piss up for all visitors and expat blogger on Saturday the 21st. Make sure you have the date(s) in your diary!

It is late Friday evening as I pen this at the summer house. It is peaceful but unfortunately raining buckets. I glance out the window at the fleet of sail boats on the fjord going nowhere quickly. It is the annual race, Ferderseilasen, and to add insult to the injury of rain, there is no wind. I could swim faster than they are moving. They have taken hours to get 30 kilometres down the fjord! I would be beating myself with the tiller in these conditions, but then I am a fair-weather everything, except for friend of course!

The next couple of weeks delivers a raft of work dos, birthday parties, the theatre, golf competitions, and family visitors. It is Summer Fest season. I am slightly exhausted already, but it is a very nice problem to have.

Beaverboosh

Dangling Carrots

I am having to dangle alot of carrots theses days to get the sausage factory to increase its production.

You see, customers keep asking for more sausages.

To get more sausages from the same factory team, I need to dangle more carrots.

Of course I can increase production by bringing on new team members, but soon, they require more carrots as well.

All in all, it is a good problem, rather than a bad problem to have, but it is getting out of hand.

Firstly, to dangle more carrots, I need to source the carrots, and carrots don't grow on trees you know.

I must buy more land. The land needs to be tilled and the carrots planted and tended to.

After a few months the carrots must be harvested. Once harvested, they must be tied to sticks by specialists before I can use them.

The carrots on sticks must then be fastened to the sausage factory employees. Their eyes widen at the prospect and some even start drooling.

My tank is almost empty farming the carrots to dangle.

Many in the sausage factory run themselves into the ground chasing the dangling carrots and never get to see the fruit, or in this case the vegetable, of their labour.

Unfortunately, there are many weak links.

It really is a viscious old sausage ring.

Quality of Wife

This week Mercer's 2010 Quality of Living Global Survey was published giving me an opportunity to collect and benchmark facts from you, my adorable blog chums.

It also provides an opportunity for me to complain about the cost of living in Oslo, which jockeys annually for the most expensive city in the world (the Economist).

Interestingly enough, but no surprise to BB, Canadian cities top the list for Quality of Life in the Americas, Australian cities for Asia Pacific, and German cities for Europe.

There are few changes to the top cities in the in the Eco-City category. Nordic cities emerge in the Europe category, including Oslo, which comes in at 9th in this overall global category.

Well done Oslo! The Eurovision Song contestants, in town this weekend for the big sing off, will be able to fill their lungs with clean air. Hoofuckingray!

This year’s items for comparison are a bit idiosyncratic, unfortunately bear little relationship to 'Eco', and have more to do with what is available to hand, but here it goes:

• My favourite baker’s scone - $5.40
• Dry Cleaning of my 2 piece suit - $55.25
• Hot Dogs (580 grams/1.23 pounds) - $8.00
• Lindeman’s Chardonnay (any year, it’s all rubbish) - $53.90
• My Haircut (my hairdresser has great tits) - $85.94

If you have the time, check out these similar costs in your neck of the woods and blog them into me.

I shouldn’t really complain too much, my quality of life in Norway is quite excellent, Eco or not, and often in life, you get what you pay for.

More importantly for me my quality of wife is outstanding and Norwegian. She is priceless!

Beaverboosh

Table Talk

We are sitting around the lunch table at one of my favy venture projects. Ah, the ubiquitous Norwegian office lunch: bread, cheese, ham, pate, sardines, toms, red pepper and cuces... oh yes, and the tubes of mayo. It is pretty much the same as Norwegian breakfast and all day snacks, every day, day after day...

...I digress.

The lunch table is jammed with a dozen 25+ year old Compsci and Math grads and phds, some still dissertating. It is all guys in jeans, black t-shirts with all manner of body hair, bar 2 girls, islands of beauty in this hairfest. One of the girls is new. I make a note to myself to instruct management to hire more girls, asap.

The table talk is gripping.

Minion1: My mate is 24 and he just had a heart valve replaced, like he almost died. The doctor told him he had to be careful with alcohol and go slowly. He like asked the doctor if it was ok to like top up his IV drip with like beer for a starter...

The table collectively chortles. It’s like Beavis and Butthead X 6.

Minion2: Ya well my friend told me his boss was introducing mandatory drug testing and my friend was like, ‘ya, like if you fail the test we’re gonna like fire you...

The table is snorting in unison. Bread crumbs are being blown from nose and mouth.

Minion3: Ya well, my mate took home this like older lady on the weekend, I think she was like 40 or something, and he like shagged her senseless. He was woken up in the morning when her son walked in the room. My friend was like, “weren’t we in the same class at school?"....

The table erupts in ape like howls. I could swear I was in the fucking monkey cage at the zoo.

Girl2 gets up from her chair, clears her dishes, and quietly leaves the room.

Girl1: You know Girl2 is a Muslim and does not drink alcohol or approve of drugs... and I think she may be a virgin.

The table is in a heightened alpha state of pre-secretion frenzy. I am concerned an imminent discharge from one of these loaded pistols may spoil my lunch.

BB: You better show her the ropes Girl1 or she’s not going to last here for long.

Girl1: I warned her you guys are always talking about boozing, shagging and your penises, and that she ought not to be offended. After all, it is a secular company, and you guys do a great job of offending all creeds equally.

Girl1 is a top girl. She actually gives much worse than she ever gets from the guys, especially at table talk.

RESPECT.

Beaverboosh

Another Woman

I have secretly fallen for another woman.

I never expected anything like this to happen, it just happened.

She is an older woman, never been married, no kids. She is a career woman.

I have always been attracted to strong ‘power’ women.

She is very tough. Most think she is a bitch. She is fair and good. She always acts out of her instinct for doing the right thing.

She drinks too much whisky and should give up the cigarettes, but she enjoys a drink and a cheeky tab.

She’s electric.

Her name is Jane Tennison and she is a police detective superintendent.

I have just spent the last couple of weeks with her and cannot get her off my mind.

I suspect Mrs. BB knows.

Beaverboosh

Vote For Yourself

“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,” declared Churchill in a Commons speech in 1947.

Churchill, a giant in BB’s pantheon, made this comment after losing the election following leading Britain to victory in the Second World War.

His profound comment is worthy of consideration by the average man. Unfortunately most are uninterested in the perpetuity of prosperity for future generations and are only interested in their own lot.

'Pay me now' to the detriment of future generations who will have to pay later for ours and previous generations’ demands for social benefits is the hallmark of the modern western democracy. This creates debt, and mountains of it.

This week the Greeks, the architects of democracy, took to the streets in their thousands to protest the cutbacks in social benefits required by the government to secure IMF funding to avoid bankruptcy. Unfortunately, these occasions bring out the anarchists and the protests have led to violence and the deaths of innocent people, something very un-democratic.

Great Britain, the architect of parliamentary democracy after hundreds of years of serfdom, is still counting the ballots today in an election that will likely result in a hung parliament with no clear majority. This will just exacerbate the real problem – a public debt issue not too dissimilar to Greece’s and an inability for politicians to palate the level of public expenditure cutbacks required.

This situation arises as a result of successive governments promising voters a greater share of the public coffers in order to secure office and a mandate but not raising taxes accordingly to pay for it, most often resulting in huge debts. Like a pyramid scheme, it eventually collapses.

This is democracy in action. Turkeys don't vote for Christmas.

There is no free lunch. The maths simply do not work that way. Demanding greater government services and expecting that the government will take care of you is naive. You are the one that will have to pay for it in the end, one way or another, and most certainly at the expense of your children and grandchildren.

The next time you are complaining about your government and the benefits you are getting underpin it with some facts:

• Calculate the gross annual tax you pay, including VAT
• Compare this with what you take home, in your pocket
• Compare this with your rent or your mortgage payment
• Compare this with your car payment
• Compare this with how much money you spend on your children
• Compare this with how much money you spend on your holidays

Ask yourself, ”what am I getting back for my tax contribution, what value am I getting?”

If you work out a sensible and rational answer, please comment on this post because I would love to know.

Beaverboosh

P.S. Anarchists, the chronically unemployed and champagne socialists need not comment.

Apology Forthwith

A pleasant dinner on Thursday evening at Brasserie Max, my bolthole in the Covent Garden Hotel, with two very close friends.

I have been in meetings all afternoon at my Soho club. It was a revolving door, one after another. I started drinking at 14:30, a bit late for me, but I am practicing restraint.

By the time dinner hits the table at 21:00, I am through half a bottle of Montrachet. The nectar is topping off the 8 bottles of Bitburger I consumed during the afternoon sesh followed by the 4 Bloody Marys at the bar before dinner, rather nicely.

I am fucking toasted.

The discussion moves to a mutual friend. For some reason I am a bit rantish. Must be high blood sugar.

“There was a time she wasn’t happy unless she was getting fucked by 10 large black cocks a week”, blurts out me.

I hear the sound of cutlery drop. There is an eerie silence at the table next to us. Two elderly ladies are looking up at me, shocked.

I am horrified. My pals are pissing themselves laughing. I hate it when I do this. My facade of an Edwardian gentleman has transmogrified into an Edwardian street urchin.

On my way out for a cheeky Marly I stop by the old girls’ table.

“I am so sorry, please accept my apology, I am horrified... can I buy you both a drink,” asks me?

One of the old girls responds in a lovely Scottish accent, “Now it is nothing we have not heard before,” cracking a wry smile, “we’ve been around you knooow.”

She went on to tell me how sweet it was that I offered an apology, and gracefully declined my offer of a drink.

The atmosphere was warming up. I thought they were going to ask me to pull up a chair and tell them more stories of fucking and big black cocks.

A little apology goes along way, even when it is an apology for fucking large black cocks.

Beaverboosh

Russ’ed

I was rudely awoken at 3 this morning during my perfectly deep and well needed beauty slumber.

It is Russ (roos) season in Oslo.

Russ is a month of revelry for high school graduates in Norway. They are granted carte blanche on partying through the town for the week, a sort of right of passage for completing an important life mile stone.

Russ in Oslo follows a similar format in the part of town I live in:

• Teenagers are dressed in red or blue overalls with all sorts of badges sewn into them
• They form small clans
• The rent specially recycled Russ busses (tour coaches), and paint and decorate the busses with their clan’s colours
• The busses are fitted with high end club-like audio systems
• They drive around town all week playing very loud music, getting pissed and stoned, dancing and fucking
• It goes on 24/7 in many neighbourhoods, one being mine

Russ is an annual tradition and a Norwegian cultural phenomenon with roots in medieval carnival traditions.

In all, I am bit envious. We had nothing like this in Canada, though during high school, we spent many weekends achieving the same result.

As annoying as it is to be woken from a perfectly good sleep, I am not bothered, the kids deserve it.

I am more tempted to throw my clothes on and join the party.

Beaverboosh

N.B. Thanks for the corrections Sunflower!

Eruption Ruined My Weekend

Bukkake ruined my carpet, now an eruption of another type has ruined my weekend.

Haven’t those bastards in Iceland done enough by leaving thousands of European savers stranded by not honouring their deposits when the country’s banks went tits up?

A volcano on the island erupted yesterday leaving a large plume of volcanic dust over northern Europe and grounding ALL flights in many countries for the first time in history. I know the Icelanders weren’t keen on the terms of the IMF loan but really, this is going to some length.

Ironically, the prevailing North-Westerly means the UK and Norway get the worst of it while the Icleanders are taking off in their planes, well, by the plane load. Buggers!

Due to flight cancellations, my long awaited boys golf weekend is now OFF. Double buggers!

I have received comms from many friends in similar situations:

• Two mates cannot make it back to Norway and are stuck in NYC for the weekend – total effin bummer there pals, I mean, will you be able to find anything to do?
• A friend stuck in London for the weekend – how will he cope with the onslaught of the weekend suburban chavs; The list goes on.

Not sure what I'll get up to now, probably have the boys over.

Good thing I haven’t had the carpet replaced yet.

Beaverboosh

Runner’s Bulge

I took up running many moons ago after a colleague suggested I was a lazy fucker for not making it to the gym. Not quite his words but his sentiment.

“You see, the problem is,” argued me, “I work so late most nights I cannot seem to find the time or energy.”

“Rubbish,” exploded he, “do it first thing in the morning, up from bed and out the door, paratrooper style, don’t even think about it, hit the deck and go, run, run, run.”

It was not the first time I had taken advice about doing something paratrooper style, and from an ex-para. Damn good advice as well. Front end load the pain and misery, get it over with early in the day, that’s the ticket.

I have previously suffered runner’s nipple: The chaffing of nipples due to prolonged friction with shirt. To be fair, I don’t even have to be running, I can get it from drinking in the pub. Well, drinking, and frequently massaging my own moobs in large circular motions in public spaces.

I digress.

This week I am cantering the final stretch of my regular London jaunt across the Millennium Bridge to Embankment. Like a salmon spawning upstream I am caught in a tidal onslaught, of the office worker variety.

Head steady, eyes forward fixed, I am blankly staring into the eyes of the oncoming hoards. I notice a pattern emerging in those of the fairer sex. Many engage in eye contact on approach, and then drop their eyes to my groin before I pass.

I mean really, shocking. It’s not like you catch me gaping at the vital parts of the fairer se…well anyway, that’s not at issue here.

Mr. Happy and the lads aren’t on parade. It is a cold morning. They’re stuffed into my tight fighting Nike running pants. The poor fellas have already done 5K and are exhausted, though I am feeling the pain of last evening’s martinis and have been known to go titanium in a jiff, often without noticing.

What’s more shocking is the occasional trouser pilot snatching a glance, and smirking.

I must immediately review the annals of Runner’s World to seek a remedy for this.

Beaverboosh

Nuclear Family Road Trip

We are on our way to the mountains for a few days. We are stuck in back to back holiday traffic.

Mrs. BB has her head down, eyes fixed on her smartphone, surfing, networking and whatever.

I peer into the vehicle in front of me. Man is driving, woman has head down, eyes fixed on her smartphone.

I peer into the vehicle behind me. Man is driving, woman has head down, eyes fixed on her smartphone.

I peer in to more vehicle windows. Unfuckingbelievable! This is contagious.

It is only matched by the vehicles containing children. Bar a small number of encounters, most are watching dvds in the back seat. Likely keeps the little shits quiet!

I stick to a single media format. After all, I am driving. Music! Apparently it makes the people come together.

Before long, Mrs BB and I are singing together at the top of our lungs, “Freeeeeeeeeeee Free Fallin.”

It’s the only smartphone killer in the car!

Beaverboosh

Is There A Roger?

On the eve of the resurrection, the most important religious event in the Christian calendar, the Pope is under pressure to account for his actions in response to ‘looking the other way’ while his men of the clergy were accused of molesting children.

As a man of science, and a devotee of history, I have a difficult time reconciling the actions of the church with the teachings of Jesus.

Frankly, I believe the most righteous of dudes would be horrified at what has been carried out in His name, and as importantly, what has been carried out by His servants on innocent and sometimes handicapped children who believed they were in the care of adults they could trust.

During my own morning prayers, the daily digestion of global digital media, I stumbled across the most inappropriately named journalist to ever cover this shocking story for The Times.

The Headline “Vienna Boys’ Choir caught up in sex abuse scandals” penned by Roger Boyes, had me spewing my coffee across the monitor. I mean really, what were you folks at The Times thinking!

As the man on the planet closest to God, the Pope may need to call in a favour to resurrect himself following an impending crucifixion. Fitting really.

Beaverboosh

Floor Stalker

I am at a multi-day forum cum conference in London on Tuesday with an associate. I cannot stand these things and avoid them at all costs: the networking is amateur, the knowledge is poor, and the quality of the speakers is frankly rubbish.

In this era, who the fuck has days to swan around like this anyway?

The losers manning the booths avoid eye contact with me. They detect I am a predator and are confused as to why I am swimming in such shallow waters.

Wait. There is a very pretty petite blond in jeans and a white cashmere top with the most glorious breasts. Is she following me? I stop and turn. She looks away. I carry on. She carries on. I stop to speak to a booth loser. I make polite conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. She has stopped at the booth next to me and is perusing a brochure.

The hunter becomes the hunted. I am being stalked on the conference floor. My associate rocks up to my side.

“Check her out man,” whispers me, titling my head to the side.

“Good lord,” says he staring at her chest, “that’s got to be the 8th natural wonder of the world… and the 9th."

Slowly she looks up at us, smiles and approaches. We’re like stunned animals in the headlights. Dumb and dumber. I see a small bead of saliva drool out of the corner of my associate’s mouth.

“Hi guys,” she quips, “want to come to Afters with me?”

My associate is stammering a repetitive nonsense of monosyllabic gasps trying to extricate a response. I pick up the baton.

“Where are Afters,” I ask, my voice crackling like a pre-pubescent schoolboy whose balls haven’t dropped?

“Stringfellows,” she says smiling.

My associate and I look at each other and smile, chuckling.

Brilliant!. She is from the lap dancing bar and is doing a booming trade giving out passes to a free VIP Afters at the club. This is more like Vegas than London. She has the only proposition on the floor that most people understand relative to the collective heap of rabble.

We take our free VIP passes, thank her and leave. I am still hungover from a client dinner on Monday. Monday is a brutal night for a client dinner. I head to my hotel to bed. No Afters for this boy tonight.

Besides, it is Tuesday. Thursday is lap dancing night and not Stringfellows. I prefer the other place.

Beaverboosh

Dog Dreaming

I don’t dream often during sleep other than to carry on working out problems of great logical importance, the solutions to which seem to slip through my fingers like the sands of time when I hazily emerge from my nightly coma.

Once or twice a year, I have an unbridled sex dream. It usually involves the same jet black haired Italian goddess with piercing blue eyes riding me like a prize stallion to the finish line of the Palio. I always wake up abruptly next to the gorgeous Mrs. BB, my sleeping beauty, worried I may have woken her with all of the commotion, and feeling pangs of guilt.

Once every few years I have a nightmare. Avalanches seem to be a common theme, maybe because I spend so much time in the mountains skiing. I get caught in a huge avalanche and wake up just before suffocating feeling almost paralysed for a minute. Terrifying and feels close to the real accounts of survivors I have read.

Last week I had a dream that caught me off guard, one out of my regular pattern.

My dog, an Irish Setter was speaking to me. Now this is strange as I don’t have a dog, though I did have an Irish Setter when I was growing up. Oddly, it did not occur out of the ordinary at the time that the dog was speaking to me, in a rather posh English accent.

“Beaverboosh, may I have an iPhone,” asked the dog?

My initial reaction was one of surprise. I mean, why would a dog need an iPhone, or any phone for that matter. Understandably I said no.

The subsequent lucid clarity of the dog’s rather comprehensive and well thought out requirements were compelling. Though I cannot recall the argument, which was lost in the mists of dreamland, I remember being impressed and thinking the dog must have read classics at university or at minimum be a fan of Cicero.

“You make a number of excellent points, and a very good case,” says me, “sure, I’ll pick up a 3Gs for you this afternoon.”

“Super,” said the dog, “and thank you, I greatly appreciate it.”

Some believe dreamland is a ‘rubbish bin’ for the conscious mind to discard un-required information.

I have a lot or rubbish on my conscious mind most days.

I just hope I don’t dream of being talked into having sex with a posh dog and the Italian babe, while I am trying to solve some great problem of logic, before being struck by an avalanche.

Beaverboosh

We Are The Champions

We are the champions my friends

And we'll keep on fighting til' the end

We are the champions

We are the champions

No time for losers

'Cause we are the champions of the world

Beaverboosh

Post Script of BB's Notables (Chrono)

Alexander Bilideau – you are a beautiful human being

Petra Majdic – you are outstanding girl, get well soon, we want to see you back at the top

Marit Bjorgen – you truly are the queen of Nordic skiing

Aksel Lund Svindal – you are THE man for the BIG occasions

Canadian Gold Medal Skaters – well done team (who could have known?)

Norwegian Men’s Curling Team – you’ve turned a sleepy obscure sport into a bad fashion statement, and got the world’s attention, and the Silver medal… well done boys

Petter Northug – you may the best sprint finisher on the planet… but you're still at total cunt

Canadian Men’s Hockey Team – you are No. 1, you ROCK!

Sidney Crosby – congratulations to my home province hero… well done pal… more baby boys will be named Sidney in 2010 than in any other year of Canadian history!

William Shatner - patriotic closing ceremony speech Captain, to we the proud and free. And thanks for letting the rest of the world know 'we know how to make love in a canoe and have a health system in case anything goes wrong!'

Vancouver & Whistler - What a spirit and ambiance! Ya done us proud kid! Probably one of the friendliest (and most beautiful) places in Canada, on the planet whether the Olympics or just plain everyday life. Especially great for visitors to Canada. You are always the first place I recommend to foreigners keen to see Canada!

Canadian Olympic Team - WOW! World record breaking 14 gold medals pipping Norway's record of 13 set at Lillehammer! Oustanding job team! You went for Gold and you got it!

Going for Gold

Part 2 of the games as the second and final week draws to a close! I have not been able to pry Mrs. BB from the television for the duration. She is a winter Olympic junkie.

Norway and Canada are neck and neck in the medal race.

Canada is going for gold. Canadians say they are really only interested in the (ice) hockey, the national sport, and maybe curling. This is a thinly veiled disguise. It is the first time in history we have won gold on home turf and all of the athletes are going for gold.

Norway has the largest total winter Olympic medal haul in history. Outstanding achievement and a more than worthy opponent: wholly understandable if you live here!. They say Norwegians are born with skis on their feet which goes some way to explaining their domination in the Alpine and Nordic events!

It can get a bit heated on the home sofa in front of the television with Mrs. BB, for reasons of the sporting variety. To be fair, we both cheer each other’s side in less-competitive situations (she cheers the Canadian hockey team, I cheer the Norwegian Nordic event competitors, and we meet at the curling).

Canada and Norway face each other in the curling men’s final. A somewhat obscure and sleepy sport has been transformed by the Norwegian team wearing Loudmouth trousers, and the Canadian curling fans behaving more like they were attending a UK soccer match!

The maths are exciting. We shall see!

Good luck to all of the Canadian and Norwegian competitors in the final days.

And good luck to your fellow countrymen Mrs. BB, but you will understand, this is one bet I do not wish to lose! Stor klem! x

Beaverboosh

Critisism of Olympic Proportions

The Winter Olympics are now at the half way point and not without controversy. The games are being held in Vancouver, Canada, not my home town, but a nice part of the country.

Everyone prior to the event expected one of the best Olympics ever. I mean Canada: modern, progressive, efficient, and friendly. Unfortunately these Olympics will be mired in controversy due to poor judgment and a lot of bad luck!

The games started with a dark cloud over them when the day before the opening, a young Georgian hopeful crashed his luge in a practice run. He left the side of the luge run hitting a metal girder and died later in hospital.

Experts had been warning about this part of the track in advance citing its dangers. What is more startling is that when you look at the pictures, there is no webbing or fencing to prevent competitors that leave the track hitting any of the steel girders beside the track.

I mean really, does it take an expert or a death to point these most obvious dangers out before they are remedied? If it had of been a death on a Vancouver building site, it would have been shut down until the accident had been fully investigated! The organisers have continued with the use of the track relatively unmodified; let us hope there are no further fatalities.

Unfortunately, this was only the start.

Though weather is a force of nature, the incompetence of holding the snow park events at Cypress Mountain, 1000m, in West Vancouver has to be one of the monumental errors in judgment in Winter Olympic history. I mean really, it rains in Vancouver during the winter and the resulting mess and chaos to both participants and spectators is just unnecessary.

And then there is Petra Madjic who fell on a cross country ski run, off the side of the run down into what looked like a crevasse. Has no heard of fences or barriers to prevent this sort of thing from happening? After clawing her way out, she went on to win a Bronze medal in the final, with four broken ribs from the fall. What a star! Her Olympics and season are now over.

A wall at an Olympic concert crashed injuring onlookers, the buses keep breaking down or not showing, the weather even at Whistler is ‘uncharacteristically warm’ so the snow conditions are not great, the ice on the speed skating track is some of the worst ever experienced and even Joe Biden got into the action by crashing his car.

The opening ceremony was unfortunate in that one of the 4 mechanical pillars of ice that came protruding out of the ground for the lighting of the flame failed to surface. Thank goodness no one was paying too much attention to Bryan Adams failing to lip sync the opening song and looking surprised to hear himself singing to thousands of people.

Nothing is going to run perfectly to plan at any Olympics, and often events like this are easy targets for criticism, but in this case, my fellow countrymen should take note. The world will always view the Vancouver games as tarnished. Bad luck is understandable, incompetence unacceptable.

Beaverboosh

Turn Off The TV

“Turn off the TV, dinner is on the table and it is getting cold,” says Mrs. BB for the second time.

This is the familiar cry of parents in households around the world trying to get their children to the dinner table.

Unfortunately in Mrs. BB’s case, this is the familiar cry of children trying to get their parents to the dinner table.

We spend many weekends together as a family in Norway. At this time of year we are in the mountains. There is often a family crowd, but last weekend there was just the four of us.

Mrs. BB’s parents are coming to retirement age and have ‘put in their time’. As such, we undertake most of the domestic duties, providing them with a bit of relief. Cooking dinner is my job, getting them to the table is hers.

They arrive at the table. They are both fidgety and eat fast. Grand Prix, the Norwegian finals of the Eurovision Song Contest is on television in 15 minutes (if you are not from a small country in Europe, you’ll have no idea of the enormity of this event).

They ask to be excused from the table and run back to the television.

Mrs. BB and I sit at the dinner table finish our wine, musing at how they are getting older in front of our very eyes.

We are interrupted by shouts demanding we come and see the band on TV. It is a Norwegian heavy metal band.

My mother-in-law is standing in front of the TV jumping up and down, headbanging and playing air guitar. My father-in-law has a cheeky smile on his face and is shaking his head.

Mrs. BB and I retire back to the table to carry on our adult conversation. It is going to be a busy year with all of the activities we have planned for them.

Life has come almost full circle.

Beaverboosh

Sentimental Piracy