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