Stories: Overseas Experience
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I'm always bemused how people can travel half way around the world and then still end up with a Kiwi
You misunderstand. This was a permanent reunion, with roots way back.
If it helps, I had previously been having loads of sex with a Scottish bird.
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If it helps, I had previously been having loads of sex with a Scottish bird.
She must have been grouse.
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If it helps, I had previously been having loads of sex with a Scottish bird
None of this was ever captured on film ? - just checking mind
on the other hand you should be aware...
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So 81stcolumn, did you manage to take advantage of the Love bomb before things got ugly? I mean, how 'far' do they go with the 'love'? I've always wondered.
<chuckle> NI- I'm afraid you are just going to have to keep wondering. I didn't sign so all I got was my hand held. I saw a German guy get lead up stairs, he was almost dribbling with anticipation - but they could have chopped him into pieces for all I knew. Thanks for the ref though.
I'm not sure if the "Love Bomb" would have worked if they had sat me with brunettes rather than blondes, I was picky even then.
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She must have been grouse.
Oh, very good. (applause)
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...the owners of Wellington's Café Verona, Janis and Sue
Or Caffe Astoria even. Thanks for reminding me Russ. I need to contact the fearsome pair.
BTW, we always presumed Janice felt nicely at home in such a flat. With her Nazi book collection and dim view of the world. Sort of like a culinary Jimmy Page in his Aleister Crowley mansion.
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Or Caffe Astoria even. Thanks for reminding me Russ. I need to contact the fearsome pair.
Duh. I was a bit dsitracted when I wrote that. Astoria it is, of course.
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I found that shouting and singing stopped me smelling it.
You could work for Investigate!
You've been in that hotel for two hours now. Is the coffee kicking in yet?
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You could work for Investigate!
Or 'How clean is your house?'. Surely the most despicable piece of reality TV yet.
My kids love it...
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Actually, on the subject of the OE, I'd like to note my resignation, anger, and sheer admiration at those who through fate or (no) choice find themselves in that most invidious of professions, the rip-off artist.
Those who devise a thousand different ways to match their wits against suspecting and unsuspecting tourists/travellers (is there a difference?) and relieve them ever so smoothly of their pesos, quetzals, rupiahs, baht, roubles, etc etc.
If it can be done with a smile, a flash of wit, and most importantly, a lack of threat or violence, then one can only admire their skill and chutzpah. The difference between rip-off artist and artisan.
To the men in Calcutta who devised such a complicated scam to separate us from our travellers cheques, salut.
To the myriad tuk tuk drivers who specialised in being able to find whatever you wanted, like Radar O'Reilly, salut.
To the woman in Guatemala city passing off old magazines and newspapers as the latest issue, salut.
To the guys who mugged us in Belize City, I hope your peckers drop off.
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The following story is all true. It's another tale from my sojourn in Japan in the days I was working with horses and journalism wasn't even a remote consideration. The mists of memory, and the necessity to protect the reputations of others means some of the names have been changed.
Evey summer the showjumping team, with which I worked, would go all around the country as a part of the national championship circuit. The team I was working with was pretty decent. The boss's son was one of the most naturally talented riders I have ever seen and has subsequently represented Japan at the Olympics. Anyway there was a lot of money and prestige involved which is why the boss hired foreign workers, such as myself, to provide the expertise that the locals simply couldn't match. Our set up was two Japanese riders, one foreign rider (who was also coach to the two Japanese riders), myself , and two stable hands. Generally when we were at a show we'd have upwards of a dozen horses competing so it made for a lot of hard work. With competition running from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon I'd be starting my work day at four AM and finishing sometime around ten at night ..... as you can imagine it was pretty intense stuff.
The thing was that the foreign staff, like myself and our French riding instructor Andre, only got to get together with our other gaijin colleagues at these events, and when we did we made the most of it socially. So by the time you've worked a 16 hour day and then spent upwards of 16 hours of socialising it didn't leave a lot of time for sleep. This conundrum was fixed courtesy of some wonderful little pills which kept the motor running during the day and enabled us to do what had to be done to keep things running smoothly. Unfortunately after three or four days of competition, little or no sleep, and a headful of these little pills our collective judgement tended to be a bit wanting. Which probably explains the really dumb things we got up to.
It was the end of a spring show in Sapporo, we'd done well, and had got well and truly trashed at the formal event afterwards. But because we were well and truly buzzing all the gaijin decided to carry on. Anton, the French riding instructor, was in his element as he'd come across a couple of fellow countrymen and he finally had people he could talk to with no language barriers (he spoke no English or Japanese and no-one could speak any French .... which left him in a very solitary predicament). Anyway Anton was in his element and in the mood to party, so he and his two French friends (Jean-Paul and Jacques), along with myself, an Aussie called Craig, and an Irish girl (Melanie) decided to hit the town. To be honest we sort of had to leave the official celebrations as Jacques had just had an amorous encounter with his boss's wife in a toilet somewhere and all sorts of suspicions had been raised by those that had heard the noise of passion emanating from the aforementioned cubicle. So in the true French tradition Jacques decided a hasty retreat was called for and we all just sort of got dragged along.
We ended up at a little bar somewhere in the city. I don't recall what it was called, just that it was dark and had stunningly attractive bargirls (as most Japanese city bars do). It very soon became obvious to those of us of non-gallic persuasion that there are certain dangers in socialising with Frenchmen when they're in a pack. Now I'm no angel, and upon occasion my behavior has been somewhat wanting, but I have never witnessed such a scene as I did that night. Their treatment of the bargirls was outrageous, demeaning, and despicable. Then their personal habits hit new lows. Instead of getting of their backsides to go to the toilet the trio decided they'd just flip out their willies and piss under the table. We discovered this when one of the bargirls discovered it wasn't a drink that had spilled, but it was Jean-Paul pissing on her leg. Needless to say we were unceremoniously kicked out.
So after a few casual car vandalisms and the occasional sidewalk urination later, it was back to the show venue and the accommodation that had been set aside for us. The night was still far from over. Anton and Jacques amused themselves by spitroasting some poor female Japanese groom while the rest of us continued drinking. it was about this stage the real trouble began. Fresh from his tag team episode with Anton and the Japanese groom Jacques decided he now had a fancy for Irish Melanie. A fancy he declared had to satisfied through mutual passion. Needless to say Melanie told him where to go in the way only an Irish girl can which left our Froggie friend in a very miffed state. The problem was Melanie had decided if she was going to bonk anyone it was going to be Jean-Paul, who she'd taken a fancy to (me and Craig were left right out .... Antipodean accents just don't work that well on foreign women). As it turned out it was not a wise move on her part as, while she was briefly out of the room, the spurned Jacques cooked up a nasty revenge plan with Jean-Paul. Their strategy was that Jean-Paul would go along with Melanie's advances, get her in a state of undress, and then take a heap of revealing photos of her which then could be used to humiliate her.
The plan was put into effect and off to a secluded room went Melanie, Jean-Paul, and the camera. The moment the door closed Jacques told the rest of us what was going on and we waited for the flash of the camera and the expected squeals of female rage.
Sometimes fate takes some funny twists.
On cue the camera flashed ..... silence. Then it flashed again ...... more silence. No angry feminine outcry whatsoever! There was a collective exchange of puzzled glances in the living room, then out strode a fully clothed and happily triumphant Melanie. We made a rush for the bedroom to see what possibly could have happened and were greeted by the sight of a naked Frenchman bent double, whimpering in pain, and clutching his genitalia. It turned out Melanie had been onto their game from the start and made plans of her own. She got Jean-Paul into a state of arousal, using methods I'm almost positive aren't approved of by the Catholic faith, and when he was almost in a state of bliss she bit down hard on his fundamentals, grabbed the camera and had a Kodak moment or three.
French pride was battered, and Irish eyes were definitely smiling. Meanwhile two young Antipodean lads were left wondering if this was what people when people went on about the sophistication of European culture.
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pretty difficult to top that story, felix...
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Hows about landing in London the same day Diana died. Strange way to be introduced to a new city / country.
I originaly intended to stay for 18 months work in a few pubs aroubnd London then see a bit of Europe. Well I'm still here 10 years later. Married with a mortgage and a bubba on the way just to complete the picture. About to finally go for my British citizenship (£655 and a rather odd citizenship test later) I should be a bonafide Pomgolian.
Will move back to NZ in the near future....... just ensure those pesky Nats aren't running the country. -
Actually chucking up in a future Springbok's kitchen sink back in 1998 at a party in Sth Kensington - complete with dishes (nice) - is my crowning moment. The player in question will remain nameless of course. One of those beautiful moments that makes me proud to be a Kiwi.
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Back in '73, I lived in Leeds and worked in a theatrical costume shop. Whenever Leeds United was playing at home, the shop would be swamped with fans coming to buy blood capsules and stage knives so that they could add to the media frenzy about football hooliganism. Subversive little buggers!
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