Futile attempts at wordly wisdom

Everyday when I look at the news, I see the same stories over and over again. "5 Dead In Iraq: Total Deaths= 50 Gazillion," "Gun Deaths in Manchester," "Terrorists apprehended in Bag-ahag-astan."

So it was with relief that I focused my gaze on an article in Google News today, stating that a second million-strong protest has gripped Turkey, in defence of it's secular Attaturkian heritage.

At last, something that actually conjured an emotion in me.

Is it just me, or is this news fantastic? Hardline Islamic governments forcibly keeping their country's in the Dark Ages all around the world, and yet here is a country with a huge Islamic population, protesting against it's government's slight sympathy towards Sharia law.

And...

The army is on the secularist's side!

Since Attaturk, there have been 3 military-led coups in Turkey in favour of secularism.

No country that I can name in the West defends democracy to THAT extent.

Forget human rights infringements, this country should have been let into the EU a long time ago!

Normally I am embarrassed by my fellow countrymen's small-minded views concerning Eastern European immigrants.

Normally.

But I just wandered into a Subway looking for a nice VEGGIE patty 6 " sub, only to be told by a sour-faced Polish (presumably) woman that I would just have to make do with a salad sandwich.

Em, no.

See the problem is Eastern European customer service. The main problem is that it doesn't exist. Now, I've travelled extensively through Hungary, Czech Rep., Slovak Rep. and Romania, and found that people are unable to serve you in these countries with a smile.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!?!

No problem, come to my country, but for Christsakes please learn to be an arselicker. I LIKE to feel like the most important person in the world when I'm being served.

And, most importantly, I'm proud that my country has some of the best customer service in the world. (Although there's not much else to be proud about...)

ANOTHER EPIC STORY by Keith Marin.

This is not the greatest story in the world, no, this is just a tribute.

Aunty Mary does not exist. Nor will she ever, as my grandaprents have well and truly passed the reproductive stage in life. Thank God.

Aunty Mary is an imaginary character (oh gosh, I hear you say, Keith does not write fictitious stories!). She lives in a little detached cottage just 10 millimetres to the right of my medula oblangata. She is small and incredibly hairy. In fact, she beat Cousin It in last year's World Armpit Hair Championships. Unfortunately, she was beaten in this year's contest by the entire population of France.

One day, I was sitting at home, minding my own business (watching Bargain Hunt) when a voice began to emanate from my left nostril.

"Keith, Keith," it said.

"What, what?" I said.

"Can you stop picking your nose, I can't see the TV! it fumed.

"But you're imaginary," I retorted.

"So?"

"Well, why would you want to watch TV?"

"Well.....why would YOU?"

"Ooh that's deep Aunty Mary."

"I know, I watch a lot of the Jeremy Kyle show."

"oh," I said.

"Do you think I'm fat?" she said.

"Oh, no of course not Aunty Mary, what makes you say that?"

It turns out that Aunty Mary had visited the county fair (located in my larynx) and eaten some candy floss, She had gone home, high on sugar and decided that pink was no longer a good colour for candy floss and she was going to change the world by altering it from pink to blue.

She found retarded smurf (not seen in the TV series, as he was locked in Papa Smurf's basement) and smushed him up in a blender, along with lots of sugar. Then, placing him in one of those swirly candy floss machines, she made blue candy floss! Yay!

But then she ate too much and got fat.

Moral of the story: squishing retarded smurfs is not politically correct.

OK, serious blog. I know, I know, I'm sorry. But it has to be done from time to time.

Edinburgh. My home city.

This is where I live, work, and drink.

Let me tell you a little about it.

There is an old town and a new town. Both are extraordinarily old. In 300 AD (more or less) an ancient Pict king named Mynydogg stood on the hill of Din-Eityn (Castle Rock) and charged with 300 men against an army of several thousand. He won. Technically. You see, only one man stood after the battle.

That is the start of Edinburgh's history.

The next few thousand years involves bloodshed and copious amounts of alcohol. As do Saturday nights in the modern day.

Since then, Edinburgh has had a huge effect on world affairs. Penicillin, capitalism, modern medicinal practices, macintosh raincoats, the double barrel shotgun and the television were all invented hre. Not to mention the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson, Arthur Conan Doyle and Sir Walter Scott.

In fact, my school was the inspiration for Hogwarts! Isn't that amazing (shithole).

Edinburgh has been described by several travel publications as one of the most talked about cities in Europe, and the fastest growing city in Britain (as if it needs to grow any more. 500,000 is enough people for me.)

ANyway, I work as a hotel concierge in a four star hotel here. It is a deceptively appealing job. Minimum Wage. But not bad.

Moral of the story: If you ever see any strange stories appearing on this blog site, put it down to drink, boredom, or the inspiration of my hometown.

shit, i just ate a mince pie!

Being a vegetarian is not hard. I have been one for four days. I am alive. Good.

But.

There is a but.

A big one.

My poo smells different. In a bad way. I mean, sure, it technically smells sweeter and perhaps more pleasing to other people. But to me, the old familiar smell of dead goat and festering geriatric bunions was familiar and homely.

Now, when I go to the toilet, I take a sniff and think there must be someone else in the next cubicle.

But I am all alone...

In the beginning, God and his zebra sidekick Phandolfo created the world. In those days, the world was very different from the one we live in now. Unrecognizable. For a start, everyone was Asian and wore purple houndstooth pimp jackets (which, as it happens, were attached to the skin.)

In the year 45000002302300 BBBC (Before British Broadcasting Corporation) God and Phandolfo invented the spikey stick. The Asian Pimps (or Pasians) found these spikey sticks useful for spiking people with. In the end, everyone had killed each other and all that was left was God, Phandolfo, the sea, the sky, the ground and a lone tapir named Mumph-e-Globin.

Now it just so happened that one Asian Pimp had hidden underneath the sea in a place nowadays known as the Bermuda Triangle (it must be noted that in these days, humans had gills and could therefore breath underwater for several hours). Here he found the last spikey stick on Earth and decided to store it under the sand for safekeeping.

Along came God and Phandolfo one day, deciding what monstrous life forms to create next, when suddenly the lone Asian Pimp jumped out and stabbed the zebra with the spikey stick. The zebra collapsed and died of unknown reasons (sources close to the incident suggest that a strike with a spikey stick may have been the cause.) Anyhoo, God became furious, understandably, and broke the stick upon a rock. A splinter from the rock cracked away and rammed itself right through the stick. God realised that he had just created the world's first writing utensil.

With this new "pencil" he wrote obscene comments on the ocean floor about the Asian Pimp, which led to depression and later, suicide.

This thus explains the origins of the pencil and also the reason why so many ships get lost near the Bermuda triangle: the sailors are too busy being distracted by the graffiti on the sea bed beneath.

Another break at work, another blog.

Let me tell you about Romania.

I went there. Yes. 10 days ago. Why? Who knows? When I used to think about Romania, the usual stereotypes would surface in the back of my mind. Dracula, morbid castles, forests, wolves, and - for the more intellectually inclined persons among us - Ceacescu.

Well, the forests and the wolves are alive and kicking. Ceacescu is dead and certainly not kicking. But Dracula? The only thing that sucks away your vitals in Romania are taxi drivers, and even in this instance we are talking about money as opposed to blood.

Let me be the first to say it. Or at least the first person I know to say it. Romania is beautiful. The Carpathians take on a life of their own in Romania, dramatically different from other mountains I have seen in Scotland, Vermont, France and Asia. The wildlife is flourishing - Europe's biggest populations of bears and wolves live there. History is diverse, Romania being a major crossing-point between the Turks and the Europeans, not to mention a stopping off point for Magyars and Huns.

In Brasov, the south-westerly gateway to Transylvania, we discovered a pearl in the heart of a medieval oyster: Kismet Dao Hostel. Basically, a hippy-commune-like hostel in the old town (Schei), we met several interesting characters, namely Chris & Craig from Guildford, Andy from Yankeedoodah Country, and Bob, the cute (female!) Romanian receptionist.

Cut it short: fantastic time drinking and strummin geetar'. We ended up following the Englishers to Budapest and drinking violently there. We TAUGHT them how to drink, muthafuka!!!

Anyway, Romania good, work bad.

Boredom.

Boredom is caused by contrast. Example: Before two week holiday, I like work. After two week holiday, I hate work. Do i blame the holiday? Hell no, I'd do it all over again if I had the chance (which, due to Paramount corporate regulations, is unlikely.) I blame the contrast between the freedom of travel and the restriction, no matter which field of work involved, which a job entails. Basically, it sucks monkey penis.

So, I am standing at my concierge desk in the Edinburgh hotel which shall remain nameless (there are probably stringent privacy laws that I am unaware of) writing my first blog. I have yet to decide whether I like it or not. It certainly passes the time.

Then again, so does drinking.

Time: 08.40.

Have just entered the world of "The Blog." Looks odd. Smells strange.

Fear for my life.