Head Rambles

Grandad March 17th, 2009

Do you live in Tver?

Never heard of it?  Nor had I until today.

It is a city in Russia with a population of around half a million.

I am interested in Tver, because there is a street in it called Sovetskaya.  And the reason I am interested in Sovetskaya is because there is a sneaky fucking bollix by the name of Alexander Goganov living there.

Alexander Goganov is dead meat.  He has about thirty nine minutes left to live before a 28 Megaton eBay special eradicates him, and all who live around him.

I am sorry for the other people of Tver.  I mean them no harm but as the old cliché goes: you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

You see, I have just wasted that last twenty four hours repairing a few of my sites.  That little fucker managed to hack a little file on my server that caused Google to think it was spidering my site, when it was in fact spidering that little fuckers site.  And his site is full of warez and shit like that, so Google now thinks my site is full of warez and shit like that.

I had plans for today.

I was going to celebrate the official opening of the Tourist Season by going on a little rampage with the lads, and then end up in the pub and get hammered.  They have gone off without me now because I was too busy to go.  I can hear the sound of distant gunfire, and I really resent being stuck here undoing all Alexander Goganov’s handywork.

You now have around thirty two minutes left, Alexander.  Say your prayers to try to redeem your sad little life.

I’m off to the pub now.

At least all the day won’t be wasted.

I will raise a glass to the other 499,999 people of Tver and say a silent apology.

But shit happens.

• Tourists , spam , work
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Grandad November 15th, 2008

Guinea pigs are strange animals.

They have this inscrutable expression all the time, like Japanese, so you never know whether they are happy or not.

I have learned quite a bit about them since MinniePig came into our lives. 

For a start, our Minnie’s favourite items are Romaine lettuce and the Irish Times.  She is very fussy about her reading matter and it’s a race to get the Irish Times read before she has eaten it.

Having devoured Roisín Ingle, she will happily sit there producing loads of poo.

Guinea pig poo is strange stuff.  It always seems to be fairly dry and hard, and it is always exactly the same size.  The size looked vaguely familiar, so I measured it. 

I was right.

Minnie produces .177 calibre shit every time.

I have an old air rifle that I am very fond of.  It was my first gun, and I got it for my fifth birthday.  I still remember the joy of my first kill.

I haven’t used the rifle much lately, but I dug it out of the attic and tried out Minnie’s poo for size.  It was perfect.

Last week, I brought it out to do some hunting.  I had forgotten how good an air rifle can be as there is no sound to scare any other tourists in the area.  I racked up a good score.

I would be very interested to see the pathologists report.

“Cause of death unknown, but guinea pig excrement was found in the heart”

I think Minnie and I have a long and fruitful symbiotic career ahead of us.

• The Family , Tourists
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Grandad September 29th, 2008

I went for a couple or three pints last night.

It was a pleasant evening.

At closing time, I was finishing my pint, and Pullit was going around collecting glasses when he found a bag under the bench in the corner.

We examined it, and found that some tourist from Canada had left it.  We knew they were Canadian, because all their stuff was there.  There were passports and other documents, money and their return tickets.  They had even left their credit cards.  Some people are very careless.

We pondered this for a while, over another pint.  Normally, we would divide the spoils and leave it at that, but we both agreed that Canadians as a species are harmless enough, so we decided over another pint to do the decent thing.

This morning, I nipped down to the post office and posted the whole lot back to their home address.  I took enough of their cash to pay for it, so I wasn’t out of pocket.

I’m proud of myself.  I felt good.  I had done a Very Good Deed.

I just had a phone call from Pullit.

The Canadians have just turned up and are furious that the bag has gone back to Canada.

I can’t get over the ingratitude of it.

You wonder why we shoot tourists here?

• Tourists
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Grandad July 4th, 2008

I have just realised that this is the Fourth of July.

A big day for Americans.

So I think I’ll spend the afternoon in the village.

If I find any Americans, I’ll buy them a creamy pint in honour of the day that’s in it.

And then………………

Oh, come on now! You don’t think I’d let ‘em away, do you?

• America , Around the village , Tourists
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Grandad May 21st, 2008

We are coming up to the 200th birthday of Jefferson Davis.  It’s on June the 2nd.

Jefferson Davis was the Confederate President over there in America.  A lot of Americans didn’t like him for that.

After the Civil War, they told him he could never run for president again.

In a strange twist of humanity, they removed that ban thirty years ago, so even though he is dead for 119 years, he can now stand for the presidency again.

He came to visit me yesterday.

We had coffee in the village.  It was a bit crowded as we had most of the Irish Army there too.  I’m not sure whether they were there to protect him, or to keep an eye on him.

For a bloke who is nearly 200 years old, he is remarkably well preserved.  We had long chats, and then I fed him full of Guinness.  We entertained him at Head Rambles Manor and allowed him watch Dustin being thrown out of the Eurovision.  It was a great honour for him and for Dustin.

Afterwards, our K8 brought him for a drive up to the bogs, and she left him there.

He’s a nice bloke, but he’s American.

And even though he’s a president, we can’t make exceptions.

• America , Tourists
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Grandad April 21st, 2008

It was a funny old day yesterday.

The first thing I noticed when I got up was the beautiful sound of Spring.

I opened the windows to listen to the blackbirds, the finches, the doves and the gunfire.

The gunfire sounded interesting, so I went down to the village to get the paper.  Sure enough, the villagers had caught themselves a tourist bus, and the tourists had tried to take refuge in the church.  That was foolish, because everyone knows our church is closed on a Sunday.

So I racked up my score a bit, and went home.

Last night, Herself got a bit stroppy because I was cursing at the Interweb  and saying rude things about servers that blow up, so I locked her in the coal hole and went for a pint.

Pullit served me my pint and we got chatting.

“What was that all about this morning?” I asked.  “It’s a little early in the year for large tourist buses?”

“Did you not hear?” said Pullit.  “Some feckin’ eejit has put out a brochure advertising this village as a tourist attraction.”

“Who would do that?” I said, though I knew it was just the kind of stunt Pullit would pull.

He looked all innocent.  “I haven’t a clue.  But we’re in for an interesting summer.”

“What does the brochure say?”

He went off to get me another pint and when he came back he slapped a brochure on the counter.

It was beautifully printed.  There were lovely photographs of the village which had been nicely enhanced to make the place look quite attractive.  There was a fancy little map showing how to get here.  Of course, the pub had a nice little feature spot of its own.

“It’s going to be a good summer,” I said.

“Aye,” Pullit replied.  “Plenty of sport.”

Printed across the front in nice Celtic lettering was the title.

• Tourists
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