A Canadian in Norway

Back Soon

2010-06-18T18:28:00.001+02:00

Beaverboosh

Summer Fest

2010-06-11T20:15:00.007+02:00

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

2010-06-04T17:36:00.006+02:00

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

2010-05-28T16:23:00.008+02:00

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

2010-05-21T09:18:00.005+02:00

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

2010-05-14T08:58:00.002+02:00

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

2010-05-07T08:51:00.009+02:00

“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

2010-04-30T23:56:00.005+02:00

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

2010-04-23T09:03:00.007+02:00

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

2010-04-16T06:41:00.005+02:00

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

2010-04-09T08:06:00.005+02:00

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

2010-04-02T07:20:00.001+02:00

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?

2010-03-26T14:18:00.002+01:00

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

2010-03-19T06:49:00.010+01:00

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

2010-03-12T05:27:00.003+01:00

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

2010-03-05T05:00:00.004+01:00

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

2010-02-26T09:29:00.003+01:00

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

2010-02-19T08:53:00.004+01:00

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

2010-02-12T09:02:00.004+01:00

“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

2010-02-05T06:30:00.000+01:00

Comedy In Store

2010-01-29T10:25:00.005+01:00

I am on a fresh campaign in the big smoke, blitzing though a number of meetings and dinners. I have Goldenbollocks, my young Norwegian colleague with me. Needless to say, our livers are taking a battering.

We have a cancellation. No dinner meeting Thursday evening. Thank You. A night off. We need a break. We need a change of scenery. We usually hang around in my favourite Soho haunts getting pissed til the wee hours of the morning. Not tonight! We’ll do something different.

Besides, I need to get Goldenbollocks home early. We have an important meeting the next morning. I often leave him in Soho at the end of the evening, and he surfaces 10 minutes before our morning meetings usually with no or little sleep but thankfully freshly showered. I think he’s Lestat incarnate.

He’s a babe magnet. Women throw themselves at him. I have had to stop introducing him to single girls that are friends of mine and the mrs. They inevitably avail themselves of his services with a rapidity that is well, rapid.

I surf the entertainment directories: musicals, theatre, concerts, films… Unbelievable, thousands of things going on in London and I cannot find one of interest. London is dull in January. Well, to be fair, most places in the Northern Hemisphere are dull in January.

Aha, the Comedy Store. That’s the ticket. A good dose of politically incorrect verbally abusive stand up! In the queue on the way it, a little fawn standing in front of us starts talking to Goldenbollocks. Here we go. Thankfully, she is waiting for her boyfriend. I rein his leash in.

There is a four comic line-up compered by Roger Monkhouse! We are second front row and are convulsing with laughter. It is base, racial, political, violent and hilarious. Some of the best comedy surfaces through human tragedy. The multi-ethnic crowd is howling.

This is just what the doctor ordered! I love comedy. Nothing beats live standup.

It’s 2 am and we are in my Soho club with the fawn and her boyfriend. Don’t ask. Golenbollocks and I are a comedy of errors. Thank the lords we have not yet found the other set of twins.

Beaverboosh

Experts are Boring

2010-01-22T14:17:00.006+01:00

A quorum of the coalition of the willing met up last night to discuss the Oslo Blog Gathering scheduled for August 2010, organised by our spiritual blogging leader Renny.

Unfortunately, not all of the bitches could make it… absent bitches, I miss you, please come next time!

The event was hosted by the First Hotel Millenniun in central Oslo, and what a hosting! An intimate tour of the facilities accompanied by wine, tapas and great conversation! Guests from everywhere on the planet will certainly enjoy this facility and the down to earth friendliness and helpfulness of the team! It has become our base of operations!

Before dinner, Anne from Visit Oslo gave us as a comprehensive briefing! The Oslo Pass is an integrated transportation and attraction pass that once procured, offers you the use of the city’s resources for free. It’s pretty cool but I don’t think it includes waxing or teeth whitening, I’ll check. Clearly organ transplants and elective cosmetic surgery are on a pay as you go basis.

I digress.

Anne is a legend. Her enthusiasm is infectous! During the briefing, she explained that the best way to compere visitors around town is to post an event, time and meeting place, and if anyone shows up, just do it, adding that people don’t want to see experts, they are boring. How right she is, I could not agree more.

The last time I compered foreigners around Norway was in Bergen the day after Mrs. BB and I married. Replete in my Norwegian National Dress and with umbrella in hand, I guided visitors around Bergen, a city which I really knew nothing about.

Pointing out statues and associating any famous Norewgian name I could bring to mind eventually got me busted. Faking an Olav Bull for a Greig, I was politely corrected by a local, in a most graciously knowing way. Telling my guests that over 1,000 trolls were displaced and had to be relocated to the North of Norway to make way for the new tunnel to the airport drew howls of derision from locals in the pub.

Experts may be boring, but I am not exactly sure laypersons are exciting, most certainly grossly inexperienced for the task at hand. I shall try my best, I don’t want to let Renny down. He has done an excellent job to get the city behind this event – I mean, the mayor is kicking off the first evening of the Gathering with a champagne reception… whoa!

I am not sure even my best behavior will keep me out of trouble this time!

Omg, maybe she said "Expats are boring"!

Beaverboosh

Mama Mia

2010-01-15T09:48:00.010+01:00

In a fit of romanticism, I ask Mrs. BB out on a date. It’s just the thing needed to break through the bleakness of a January weekday.

We shall see a film.

Not particularly spoiled for choice, I review the options:

Sherlock Holmes – Guy Ritchie’s return, more of a boys film, a bit of grit, not enough romance
A Serious Man – Love the Cohen Brothers and Clooney, comedy but dark, not light and fluffy enough
Avatar – Hate Cameron films (bar Terminator), not Mrs. BB’s thing, people who have seen the film are depressed they will never get to another world like Pandora… Get A Grip People!

I settle on a DVD she received for Xmas, Mama Mia. It has been out for a while, but should do the trick. I hate musicals but with a Scandinavian wife, I have learned to love Abba! Scando girls are genetically wired to love Abba.

Our date will be in front of the television at home. After all, it is too cold to venture out. I assemble a hot take away meal and queue the film.

Well, I laughed so much I was crying!

Definitely a fluffy chick flick, but loads in it for the boys in addition to all of the hot girls in swim suits!

Most will find something to like about this film, except Pierce Brosnan’s terrible singing! It is a real feelgood film!

In the end, we both had huge smiles on our faces and wiped away the January blues! It was a hot date.

Mama Mia, I am concerned about the effect this cold weather is having on my testicles, I am becoming a big girl’s blouse!

Beaverboosh

The Big Chill

2010-01-08T07:51:00.004+01:00

It’s colder than a witch’s tit.

It's colder than a nun's cunt on a ski slope.

It's colder than a whore's heart.

It’s colder than a mother in law’s love.

It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

It’s so cold my balls have become ovaries.

It’s so cold only people like "Ed" have enough time to piss their names in the snow.

It's so cold all women appear happy to see me.

It’s so cold that nipples can cut glass.

It’s so cold that it’s become an inconvenient truth for Al Gore and pals.

It’s so cold that Beaverboosh can’t ski. It is my personal hell and it has frozen over.

Beaverboosh

Naughty Tweenies

2010-01-01T09:27:00.005+01:00

Having been very naughty through the noughties, I expect to keep it up in the tweenies!

To 2010 and beyond, and hopes and wishes for your best years yet!

Beaverboosh

Seasons's Greetings

2009-12-25T08:04:00.001+01:00

All of the best to you and yours!

Beaverboosh

Tiger Tips

2009-12-18T08:17:00.004+01:00

This Tiger thing is taking on a whole new dimension thanks to Golf Digest’s January issue.

It appears now Obama is seeking top tips from Tiger.

The issue contains some key additional features:

How to outsmart you buddies – curious to see if it contains any tips on how to outsmart your wife

Power – Load it and let it go – uhuh, we know about this one

Ranking – America’s best new courses – surely a euphemism…

I cannot wait to get my hands on this issue.

Beaverboosh

Clone A Willy

2009-12-11T06:46:00.006+01:00

This time of year can be difficult for us boys. Shopping at the best of times is a ball breaker, unless its cars, boats, watches, or other cool guy stash! But Xmas gifts, well, double ball breaker.

I am lucky. Mrs. BB is an efficient shopper when it comes to Xmas in our family and she usually has most gifts procured well in advance of the big day. Thankfully and to her delight she found her desired Xmas gift from me in London on the weekend. Phew, well done me!

I am, however, left to my own devices with gifts for work colleagues. This is normally less of a challenge because I like giving books, as inspirational as possible, and relevant to the context of the situation. A pithy quote on the inside cover adds a nice touch.

The problem is, I have made so many enemies this year, I cannot seem to find books that suitably convey my sentiment. I don’t like making enemies, I am lover not a fighter, but you know, life in the jungle is often dog eat dog!

Fellow blogging chum Dorothy has offered the perfect Xmas gift suggestion for those I wish to say something special to. It’s called ‘Clone A Willy’.

It is quite simple you see, a kit that allows you to make a rubber clone of your willy. I plan to clone my willy and send it to all the colleagues on my shit list. I have ordered a baker’s dozen in proportion to the top tier of the 2009 list.

Though bountifully proportioned myself, I shall chose a dark toned rubber colour to add a sense of the exotic. Along with the rubber reproduction I will provide a small tub of Maximumbumlubricous. I have a soft spot for avoiding undue pain.

Of course, this yuletide endowment will contain specific instructions for use:

Find a quiet spot in the office with a chair
Drop undergarments to ankles
Apply lashings of Maximumbumlubricous to your aureola annulus
Stand BB Xmas Willy erect on chair
Sit down, slowly, but assuredly on BB Xmas Willy
Enjoy.

It will probably be a bit less painful than working with me, at times, but a fitting tribute to how I feel about those on my shit list this year. I like to share my feelings. Sharing is caring.

We all have our crosses to bear, and next to Easter, Xmas if a fitting time to bear them.

Beaverboosh

Day With A Legend

2009-12-04T08:32:00.008+01:00

Many moons ago I backpacked around the South Pacific. Emerging from weeks of debauchery on the happy islands of Oceania, I arrived in New Zealand and headed for the mountains.

One of the most memorable events was ice climbing Ball Glacier on the South Island. We rocked up, secured a guide, equipment, and we were off for the day.

Our guide Russell, was an icon of a Kiwi: friendly, rugged, knowledgeable, confident, and a great sense of dark humour.

Not much of a mountaineer, but a keen mountain walker, I relished the instruction and greatly improved my technique. We cramponed, axed, pitoned and belayed our way up to a plateau enjoying a small hot lunch, and shared humourous stories.

We were close to the top of the world. The views were outstanding.

Glaciers can be dangerous places and Russell always had an eagle eye on us, the glacier, and the weather. Especially the weather, it can change in a flash, and often violently in the mountains.

At the end of a thoroughly satisfying day, he invited us back to his house, where his girlfriend was cooking dinner. Very hospitable, very New Zealander, very Canadian!

Following one of the best properly cooked dinners I had in months, his girlfriend suggested he show us THE video.

“What video,” asks me?

“Oh it’s nothing,” says Russell.

"Oh go on Russell,” says his girlfriend.

Reluctantly Russell loaded up the video. A most amazing story began to unfold. It was a documentary of a climb of Everest. Russell and his climbing mate were the first to successfully climb the Pinnacles on Everest's Northeast Ridge.

Russell Brice was a world class mountaineer and a leader of Himalayan expeditions, and still is, not that he would have ever mentioned this to anyone.

Last Monday evening, I was doing some late night channel surfing and stumbled upon Everest: Beyond the Limit, a Discovery documentary of Everest Climbers filmed in 2006/7. To my surprise and delight, it was led by Russell Brice.

Since my chance meeting with Russell, he has summited Everest twice, and numerous other mountains in the Himalayas.

Following our dinner and the preview of the video, I asked Russell how he got into mountain climbing.

“As a youngster, I hated my parents so much that I would run out the front door of the house, and the mountains were there in front of me,” he answered wryly cracking a smile.

Never underestimate the role your parents can have in motivating you in life.

Russell Brice is a living legend.

I am privileged to have spent a day with this humble, talented and endearing man.

Beaverboosh

Drunk And Orderly

2009-11-27T06:59:00.004+01:00

I was out with the English lads on a pub crawl last Friday evening. It is always good fun and a reasonable bet that the language being spoken is by people from the country that invented it.

The format is simple, good beer, sleazy pubs, no food, loads of piss taking, gaggles of laughter, and the occasional outburst of frenzied smoking.

By mid-evening, I have a half dozen Guinness down my gullet. Good things come to those that wait, and I have been waiting freakin weeks for this night!

I particularly enjoy seeing a mate that I have not caught up with for a couple of years. It is great to see him. In between the schoolboy humour and the serious piss taking, we are engaged in a discussion of the Norwegian v Anglo Saxon cultural cum social anthropology variety, as you do.

We have both lived in Norway for a number of years. Just comparing notes really! You know, how they do things compared to how we do things, blah, blah, blah.

At 23:30, my pal and I are in the middle of an engaging discussion as we head to the entrance of our next honky tonk when I am stopped by the bouncer at the entrance.

“You can’t come, you are too drunk,” says he to me.

“Surely you are kidding,” says me.

He looks at me shaking his head.

“Well, what if I come back in 5 minutes,” asks me?

“I don’t think so,” he responds.

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to let me in for fear of boring the fuck out of your patrons but really,” says me.

He is still shaking his head.

I have had enough. I say farewell to my pal and jump in a taxi.

I have to admit, being refused entry to a bar in Oslo in the middle of a perfectly rational conversation with a friend about Norwegian v Anglo Saxon social anthropology makes a better point than I ever could.

Beaverboosh

A Dark Time

2009-11-20T09:25:00.005+01:00

It is a struggle to stay awake.

I am in a constant state of drowsy powsy. My eyelids hang, heavily, suspended by sheer will power and forced concentration.

It is like a permanent early morning. This is not good. I am grumpiest in the early morning.

It is autumn here in the Northern Hemisphere, a dark time.

The summer solstice in June delivers 20 hours of daylight in Oslo. We are now heading for the winter solstice in December which delivers 6.

The 6 or so hours of light are obfuscated by the grayness of the autumn sky.

We are fortunate. The poor buggers in Tromsø are now in a total darkness known as mørketid, polar night, or dark time literally translated. They will not see the sun until the middle of January.

For a sun worshipper like me, it is a huge struggle.

I was in the habit of popping to the loo for a quick afternoon nap at the office. I don’t bother now. I simply clear my desk, make a pillow with my scarf and get horizontal.

No one bothers with me, I am too grumpy.

Thank goodness Christmas is coming. Xmas in Norway is magical. It is like being in Whoville but without the Grinch.

The run up to xmas is filled by many dinners and revelry with colleagues and friends in preparation for the big family holiday. The ambiance of the town centre, the pagan symbolism, and the good nature of my fellow Norwegians lights my soul.

We spend our xmas in the mountains, and the ski conditions look to be good this year! I am moist with anticipation.

A special time to look forward to, and help get me through this dark period.

Following xmas, it is a short run to March and the spring equinox which delivers and equal 12 hours of sunlight and darkness.

My tan will be back by Easter. Thank the sun gods for that.

Beaverboosh

Hearing Voices

2009-11-13T08:30:00.006+01:00

I am standing on the airport train platform at Oslo airport.

I hear a woman whispering. I cannot clearly make out what she is saying.

She is speaking softly, in a slow, articulate, deliberate and monotone cadence.

“SOME PEOPLE TRAVEL ALONE…”

I look around. I appear to be the only person on the train platform. A chill tingles down my spine.

It has finally happened. I have been waiting for this day for years, anxiously, but knowing it would arrive.

I have finally gone fucking bonkers.

I am hearing crazy chick voices in my head. They have come back to haunt me.

“SOME PEOPLE ARE IN A HURRY AND PAY NO ATTENTION TO OTHERS…”

The voice is picking on me. It is right out of a scary horror flick. I cannot even watch scary horror flicks. They, well, scare the bejesus out of me!

The whispering starts again, this time in Norwegian. I crack a smile. I am relieved. I may be going bonkers but my brain is not clever enough to scare me in a foreign language. Hehehe, gotchya!

I look up. There is a proximity sensor inside a small dome with a speaker. I am standing directly under the dome and have activated the sensor. It is art. It is pretty fucking freaky art.

4 young beauties arrive and stand in front of me. They are giggling and enjoying their own company.

The whispering starts. Each of them looks around, and looks at me. I am deadpan. They look confused.

One of them walks a bit closer, inspecting me as if I was the source of whispering. I curse myself for not having paid more attention in Ventriloquy class in high school, this is a great spoof.

She looks up, sees the apparatus, looks at me and smiles.

“Freaky eh, I thought I was hearing voices in my head,” says me.

She looks at me sympathetically as if this is wholly plausible. We laugh.

The scary art has transformed to funny art.

Nice. An inspiration.

I make plans to digitally sample spooky voices on my phone. I will scare the shit out of my godchildren. By gods life can be fun at times.

Beaverboosh

Recharge

2009-11-06T10:10:00.005+01:00

The bush is listless and perfectly silent. It is deafening, but for the ring in my ears. I inhale the crisp moist coniferous autumnal air deeply into my lungs. I love the boreal forest. It has a magical healing quality. The Northern hemisphere is part of my dna. I am decompressing at a fast rate.

Last weekend Goldenbollocks and I caught Muse in Oslo. They blew me away, again. They arrived in typical grand style, as if they had just landed from another planet. They are from another musical planet. The dedicated army of tweenies in the mosh pit was peaking. They rock.

When Hunterboy picked me up on Friday afternoon, there was no one in the world I was happier to see. I am on the phone for the whole 5 hour trip to Sweden, ranting. I apologise. I take one final call, I am silent and say nothing on the call. I hang up. He turns to me and asks me how my wife is doing, smiling.

There are not many birds this year. A cold spring and a low stock of alternative species for predators has hit the bird population hard. The morning sesh is done and we make camp and the fire. We eat, drink and fire up a couple of Habanos. We are lying on our backs with the dog snuggled between us looking up at sky blue. The sun is blazing. We laugh like school boys falling dizzily into the arms of a boreal nap.

I met Renny and the Bitches last week for a beer in Oslo to discuss the blogfest next August. Renny and I are impressed the Bitches rock up, a couple are from a different city. Cool. Renny is a beautiful human being. The bitches are absolutely lovely, and quite tasty. The animated discussion is infectious. Everyone will contribute to making the blogfest a great success. I make a note to name my new band Renny and the Bitches.

Hunter's dinner consists of pork filet in juice, fresh veg and 2 bottles of excellent claret followed by whisky for desert. The dead soldier count of the day’s pils consumption is high. The half bottle of aquavit was medicinal. I am horizontal at 7:00. I am fucking exhausted. I am sawing major timber by 7:01. I am woken 12 hours later by the sound of the dog slurping his balls. By gods that’s a great design feature.

I have taken so many flights in the past two weeks I am thinking my next property purchase will be an airport. The purchase of a tour plane, of course, must follow.

We saw 12 birds and got 4 shots away between us. There is nothing in the bag. It is the worst season on record. We are ready to depart the boreal forest. We have a long drive ahead of us. I promise not to use my phone. Anyway, my phone battery is dead. Thankfully my mojo battery has started to recharge, but I think it will take a couple of months to get it fully charged again.

Beaverboosh

In The Bush

2009-10-30T11:03:00.001+01:00

Beaverboosh is in the bush.

Think BIig

2009-10-23T07:51:00.007+02:00

A few months back, I dropped blogger chum Renny (RennyBAs Terella) a note suggesting we stage an Oslo blogfest. Nothing elaborate, a Thursday evening in the pub, a meet and greet over a few beers.

I suggested Renny compere the event. I have anointed him the spiritual leader of the Norwegian blogging community. He is a prolific networker, connector, and blogger of global proportions. Though I have never met him personally, his optimistic zeal in communicating all things Norway to the world endears him to me as a kindred pedestrian of the universe.

And hey, face it. Any Norwegian that (still) leaves cheery comments on my blogs after epic rants about Norway and Norwegians is pretty cool in my books. I think he really knows I love it here, though I am unreliably informed, there is a death squad of Norwegian socialist xenophobes out to exterminate my blog.

I digress.

So, how delighted was I to find a comment on my blog last week from Renny apologising for not being around lately. He has been attending to the details of an Oslo blogfest. Pregnant with excitement I linked to his blog to survey the details.

Well, no wonder he was busy. The global alert has gone out. Renny is hosting the Oslo Blog Gathering 2010, the 18th to 22nd of August. This 5 day extravaganza is a passport to Oslo and includes tours, dinner, and a chance to meet other bloggers. Check it out.

RennyBA’s Terella

Official Program Site

What ambition, what vision, what scale, what inspiration. I like the cut of Renny’s gib.

Of course, I have pledged my humble services to Renny, and the humble services of the local blogging bitches I have blogging crushes on. We are on duty and ready to serve.

I am going to meet Renny next Tuesday night at the pub for a beer. I am excited. I am already brainstorming how I can contribute. I have a few initial ideas:

A walking tour of my favourite Norwegian honey babe shopkeepers, barmaids and waitresses
A lecture on the history and importance of cod to the Norwegian economy, 1700s to the present day
A guided tour of Oslo’s suburban mall sex toy shops followed by an evening walk of the red light district.

More of a brainsquall that a brainstorm really. I’ll do a bit more thinking before I meet him Tuesday!

Anyway, I hope that all of you can make it or participate in some capacity. You are all welcome.

If you can’t make it, I’ll see if we can run a webcam on the school disco night.

Beaverboosh

Mirror Mirror

2009-10-16T10:15:00.006+02:00

I am not the most observant person in the world, as Mrs. BB will attest, but I have become painfully aware of something disturbing about myself this week. It is my vanity you see.

I am vain.

Well, more accurately I am becoming (more) vain. Many of my male friends are very vain though they would never admit to it. I know men who are just as vain as the women they claim are vanity queens.

I have made a point of rejecting this unsavoury behavior, as much as humanly possible, not just because of my contrarian nature, but because its, well, unsavoury behavior for a gentleman.

There is a mirror in the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot bear to look at myself. It is a hideous site. The blotches, lines, gouges, blood shot eyes, and then there is the hair… I mean wtf… my hair has always had a mind of its own but every strand is reaching out diagonally in different directions attempting to connect to another hair universe. I think I can see little horns growing atop my head. I am Lucifer incarnate, I am repulsed.

There is mirror just outside of the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot take my eyes off myself. Good lords, I am tall, dark and handsome, and looking v dapper and tastily proportioned. My skin is olive tanned, my eyes have a deep penetrating gaze, and my coiffe says ‘hey girls, I am your stud muffin… sex on a stick darling'. Man I look really royally buffed, my blood must be blue. I am a prince, I am getting aroused.

I had a fine bottle of wine at dinner last night with a colleague before polishing off a dirty dozen of wifebeater in a club. I am well hung again and my mind is playing very cruel tricks on me.

Or the gods are trying to tell me something.

Beaverboosh

Exam Celebration

2009-10-09T08:32:00.005+02:00

I had the pleasure of taking my hunting course instructor Crocodile Lars for a celebration dinner at Lofoten in Aker Brygge last night.

Crocodile Lars is a class act. There is no question that without his most excellent guidance, I would have struggled with the Norwegian language in the state administered exam.

We were joined by my young brother in law, a keen hunter himself, and his girlfriend, with whom I did the course. There is no question that without their most excellent support, I would have struggled.

I am grateful! There was plenty of Montrachet, excellent fish, and lively discussion.

Through his course lectures, Crocodile Lars demonstrated to me in many ways he was a world class instructor. Though I had difficulty understanding his Sworsk, his acting out of hunting vignettes was theatre on a grand scale.

The man is an outstanding communicator, and a passionate one.

One of my favourite lectures was his instruction of how to gut and de-bowel an elk after shooting. Using his own body, he simulated hanging the elk by its front legs to a tree branch. Sitting on the edge of a table, feet dangling, with hands in a diagonal crucifixion pose, he began.

Directing his imaginary knife to a spot just under the neck, he made a careful incision, slowly unzipping his fleece to just over the groin area. Meticulously peeling back his fleece, he proceeded with an elk biology lesson pointing out major organs, and how to best use gravity to complete the job. Truly magnificent!

Dinner conversation revealed that he is a classically trained pianist and a world class yachtsman, in addition to training the prime minister and other dignitaries in matters of hunting. This from a man in his 60s who looks like Woody Allen with a 5 o’clock shadow, and dresses as if he has just walked out of the bush! Never judge a book by its cover.

When I sent him the invitation email, I made a point of communicating my appreciation for his support and the enjoyment of receiving world class hunting instruction. World class is not a term I use often in Norway for reasons I will not bore you with. It is good to know I can still pick them having lived here for almost 4 years.

While Crocodile Lars and I discussed being in the zone, peak performance, the importance of teamwork, social anthropology, and standard deviation, my young brother and law and his girlfriend became bored. They like Crocodile Lars but think he is a bit weird. I have found a new friend with whom I can share life experiences.

You just cannot explain a lot of things to some kids in their 20s, they either get it or they don’t.

It is like passion. You either have it or you don’t.

I thank the gods for being genetically endowed with passion and love to meet others as infected. I am not sure I'd cope well without it!

Beaverboosh

Aristocratic Wedding

2009-10-02T07:00:00.008+02:00

We are deep in the hedgerows of South-West West England for an aristocratic wedding. Mrs. BB’s dear childhood friend is marrying a toff.

It is a big event and many years in the making. A whirlwind romance 7 years ago resulted in a false start after a wedding in Tuscany was postponed. His track record was 0 for 3 and it was decided to take a bit more time.

It is a story with a long first chapter but a fairy tale ending.

We assemble at the noble ancestral pile for the big event. Mrs. BB and I are accommodated in a room that is larger than our flat. The views of the estate grounds are spectacular. The tiny chapel in which they are to be married is 50 meters up the hill set in an idyllic country setting.

I wake and head to the kitchen to fetch coffee and breakfast. I return to find a strange semi-naked man sitting on our bed chatting to Mrs. BB. They apparently know each other quite well and are giggling. He is eying my dapper Hugh Heffner pyjamas and the coffee.

“Would you like a coffee,” I ask putting the tray down before scuttling back to the kitchen to fetch more?

He is an old school friend of Mrs.BB and the bride and the Master of Ceremonies. He is grateful for the coffee. Only in an English manor house do such things happen, he is accommodated in the adjoining room. I had to wee badly in the middle of the night and almost mistook his room for the bathroom.

Thank the gods, I can only image introducing myself, “Hi, we haven’t met, I’m the chap that urinated on you in the middle of the night, so sorry.”

The service is heartwarming, as are the dinner speeches. I have never experienced such an expressive and welcoming bunch of loved up toffs. It is quite extraordinary. English toffs are usually, well, more toffish.

I love the English upper-class though I couldn’t eat a whole one. A more eccentric and emotionally repressed group it is difficult to find. Often they are a dichotomy. On one had you have horse riding, shooting, and opera, and the other, school expulsions, drink driving, and sodomy. I mean, really.

They are certainly sporty drinkers, keen storytellers, and rampant smokers, so they make good company for me, though the plum accents and potty behaviors remind me of Tim Nice-But-Dim.

Mrs. BB’s friend is radiant. She is a beautiful and outstanding woman. I have to think that before she arrived, the old house was a colder place.

I watch her gracefully weave amongst a community of old and new acquaintances. She is always exciting, smiling and full of life. She makes others feel comfortable and happy.

It is she who has thawed the hearts of this family and community and brought warmth to this old house.

It is an occasion of great joy.

My new toff friend, you are one lucky man.

Beaverboosh

Acceptance Blog

2009-09-25T06:15:00.006+02:00

TDR
Congratulations! Your readers have submitted and voted for your blog at The Daily Reviewer. We compiled an exclusive list of the Top 100 Norway Blogs, and we are glad to let you know that your blog was included!

BB
Thank you! Oh! Thank you! I can hardly conjugate verbs! I feel so horny! And this award - it's so suspiciously phallic! Oh, thank you again! I just want everyone to bow down before me and accept that even in my wildest hallucinations, I never would have fantasized that this could ever validate my mediocrity.

And to the other brilliant bloggers, I want each of you to know how totally mega-pumped your plastic surgery makes me feel right now! You know when they first told me I was not the father, I just had to take a Xanax and laugh about how freakish my thighs have been. I guess it all just makes me feel kinda numb.

You know, there are so many blood-sucking two-faced harpies to thank! First off though, I want to bitch slap the self-congratulatory circle jerks of the The Daily Reviewer, who looked deep within their cold, black hearts before giving me this fantastic award! Also, I want to thank my guru, for being such a powerful force in my kitchen. And to the People Under the Stairs, who taught me to take life by the fifth of bourbon.

And finally, to all the personal assistants I fired - I couldn't have done it without you!

Thank you. Thank you.

A Shoeshine and Belly Dance

2009-09-18T07:00:00.001+02:00

I'm in the big smoke on biz.

I usually stop at the shoeshine boy at Burlington Arcade. He is a master. My wingtips pine for a buff anytime I am in the vicinity of Piccadilly.

“The Deluxe thanks Johnny, so what’s new”, asks me?

“Just back from 2 weeks of holidays in the land of the rising sun Mr. BB, gosh those japs are friendly, and the food”, says he, “the geisha tea ceremony in Kyoto, now was just breathtaking!”

Johnny is clearly no ordinary shoe shine boy. What a class act.

“Johnny, I have an open short position on Global Acme, is my best hedge a long Ardvark Galactica futures contract”, asks me?

“Well Mr. BB. Ardvark has posted strong Q2 earnings and looks like they are cleaning up in the global widget space, but you might also wish to consider… ”, advises Johnny.

He finishes. I can see my reflection in my shoes. I tip him generously.

It is a whirlwind trip. I am preoccupied with matters of grave importance. I am getting on the wrong tubes in the wrong direction to go to the wrong places at the wrong times. This happens occasionally.

I curse the invention of integrated mobile technology, it can be so distracting.

I especially hate it when my favy online shop is sold out of the thing I want to buy, and when my golf portal is down and I cannot book a weekend tee time, and… oh, double curse.

I am late for dinner. I meet the team at Kenza, a Moroccan Lebanese restaurant in an unsuspecting downstairs vault in the city. We are engaged in serious business conversation when 180 decibels of “habibi trance” explodes from the loudspeakers. It is deafening. I see my colleague’s lips move but I cannot hear what she is saying!

Out of nowhere, a convulsion of belly dancing erupts around our table. Two luscious olive skinned love goddesses with bodacious ta ta’s are shaking their bellies, booties, and, well, their ta ta’s.

The ta ta gesticulations and gyrations are hypnotizing. Almost pressed to my face, I am staring down a long cavern of pinched pert cleavage. It is heaving under my gaze. I detect a subtle scent of jasmine as I inhale the warmth and humidity. I am dizzy. I think I can see skin cells. It is getting biological.

I am reliably informed, the dancer was signaling my female colleague to get up and dance with her. It certainly sent a strong signal to the part of my body due south of my cerebral cortex and just west of my anus.

A shoe shine and belly dance, what a town! Just like the old days. Bogart would be pleased.

Beaverboosh

Total Incompetence

2009-09-11T07:48:00.005+02:00

1. Qualified / Competent – This is someone who is qualified to do the job they are in, and competent at it.

2. Unqualified / Competent – This is someone who is not qualified to do the job they are in, but competent enough to do it.

3. Qualified / Incompetent – This is someone who is qualified to do the job they are in, but is not competent at the job.

4. Unqualified / Incompetent – This is someone who is not qualified to do the job they are in, and is not competent at the job.

I like 1’s and seek them out in life.

I like 2’s and often admire their enthusiasm and ambition.

I loathe 3’s, they are often the cause of great emotional pain and human suffering.

I avoid 4’s, they are often charlatans and can be very dangerous.

I have sniffed out a 4 in my camp. I am taking counsel. I make ready to execute.

This person presented as a 1. After a bit of human due diligence was rated a 2. After working together, went directly to 4.

It has been a waste of many people’s time. I have been hoodwinked. I do not like making errors in judgement of this nature, it occasionally happens. I am human.

I will pull the trigger today.

Beaverboosh

Mile High Club

2009-09-04T08:02:00.005+02:00

I can be found at 30,000 feet often, even when my feet are at sea level. It seems I am regularly on a flight popping here or there for work or pleasure.

Though getting to and from on both ends and dealing with the general chaos in many airports can be soul destroying, I still find something romantic about air travel. It is the result of watching many black and white movies as a child; beautiful characters with highly stylized lives jetting off to exotic destinations.

Many people find flying subtly erotic: the aerodynamic design of the plane, the evocative olfactory stimulation of aircraft scents, the crisp uniforms, the handsome crew, the power of the take off thrust as it vibrates through your body…

Often making eye contact with strangers on flights can be provocative. Where are they from? Where are they going? What is their story? Why are they looking at me like that?

I have had a few opportunities in my travels to join the mile high club. Mostly on long-haul overseas flights involving alcoholically charged flirting. I have always been in serious relationships and have politely declined.

I am assured by others that are in the know the club is going stronger than ever, especially with the design of modern aircraft and the general decline of public morality. It is a badge of honour.

Though the intrigue of this activity is fascinating, I am really quite uninterested. I have my own mile high club. I am the only member.

My travel these days is mostly short flights during the day. At 30,000 feet, the sun is always shining. The sky is always angel blue, like in Botticelli paintings.

In the voluminous clouds, I especially like the cotton candy variety; I am transported to a deep meditative space. I read, write, create, plan, meditate, nap, and dream.

On night flights, it is straight to business. Cashmere socks and eye mask and I’m off with the angels. I rarely speak to anyone.

It is both a productive and reflective down time with myself. I am at peace. It is the calm between the cacophonies. I can think clearly. It is often energizing.

It puts a smile on my face.

I do have my moments of human weakness though, especially on early morning flights when I am hungover and on my own. I arrive in my seat, shut my eyes and start fantasizing about Mrs. BB prior to the stewardess’s passenger seat belt check.

It puts a bulge in my trousers, and a smile on my face.

Beaverboosh

Crocodile Lars

2009-08-28T08:50:00.005+02:00

I love birds. I love hunting birds. I have since I were a lad.

Once I had Mrs. BB in my sight, it took a good 6 months of patient tracking and stalking before I nailed my target. She was very sporty.

When she (surprisingly) agreed to marry me, I limited my bird hunting to the boreal forest. 1 in the bag is better than 2 in the bush.

In Norway, hunting requires a government proficiency exam. This is a good measure as a course that teaches safety must be taken. It trains newbies to not accidently blow each other’s heads off.

Having hunted, been on shoots, and capably handled my weapon for many years I assumed I would not require this proficiency exam. I was wrong. They don’t call this country NOWAY for no reason.

As the course and exam are in Norwegian I have avoided it to date. I speak social Norwegian, but this level of Norwegian language is a big challenge for me.

Never one to let rules get in the way, in past years I chose to hunt using my UK license, albeit illegally. I would claim ignorance in the event of an altercation. Members of my family-in-law are very law abiding, as are most Norwegians. My criminal activity was clearly no longer acceptable.

I started the course this week. Our instructor is Crocodile Lars. He has an impressive track record as a hunter and fisherman. He has spent months alone in the Canadian outback surviving on his bounty. He is really cool. He looks like Woody Allen and has many of Woody’s mannerisms. A bit surreal really.

Crocodile Lars is Swedish and speaks Svorsk, as sort of Swedish Norwegian. I can barely understand a word he says but with his acting out of great hunting vignettes using arm and hand gesticulations I think I get the message.

His English is excellent and he loves sharing his stories with me, particularly his Canadian ones. He is good value!

Thankfully, he has informed me he will be able to sit the final exam by my side, in a room separate room, and translate to English where required. Of course, being linguistically incompetent, I will get more time to complete the exam.

I am both relieved and grateful. This is where NOWAY makes up for its initial high barriers. It often caves into practical compromise.

I am exhilarated at the thought of bird hunting this year and the subsequent repast. I always eat the birds I catch.

Beaverboosh

Back To The Salt Mines

2009-08-21T09:37:00.004+02:00

My first week back at work after a month of summer holiday travel, family, friends and partying. I have a huge holiday hangover. I am slightly jet lagged.

My brain is in a different time zone. No, it’s tenuously connected to my body, floating in another space in the ether.

I look at my ToDo list. It morphs into a sea of random letters and numbers. I feel sea sick.

My phone is constantly ringing. It makes me dizzy. I do not take calls. I put it on silent and hide it in a desk drawer.

My email inbox is electronically bulging, page after page after page after page. I cannot bear to look at it. I chose to surf instead. Mindless but painless. I am quickly bored. I stare off into nowhere.

I attend an important meeting. I am so bored. It is more boring than watching the hair grow on my testicles.

I constantly yawn. My eyes are struggling to stay open. My head occasionally snaps backwards jolting me back to this living torment.

People speak but I do not hear what they are saying. I open my mouth in response and emit gurgled croak noises.

I want to lie down on the floor. I want to die. Now.

I excuse myself. I crawl to the men’s room. I select a cubicle. I lock the door. I sit.

It is quiet.

I nap.

At last, peace.

Beaverboosh

Vive La Famille

2009-08-14T07:00:00.003+02:00

Having spent my life dissing the French, I have unveiled a deep and dark secret about our family ancestry.

We are French.

This is the case for many Canadians as the country was first settled by the French. It wasn’t until the English lost the US colonies and Napoleon was mildly distracted in Europe with bigger issues that a more ‘progressive’ Anglicization of Canada began.

Our family starts its Canadian journey in the late 1700’s. My great great great grandfather was known as ‘The Frenchman’. His birthplace records have not been located but it is believed he was from St. Pierre and Miquelon (FR), two tiny islands south of Newfoundland, by way of Southern France.

He married an English woman, known as the ‘Mother’ of our Canadian family. She must have ruled the roost as the family was raised Anglican, with a very strong Anglo-Saxon bias. There is a remote possibility that he was a Huguenot, but this is highly unlikely.

Together, they started what I believe is one of the largest families to come out of Newfoundland. 300 years later and there is a legacy of 850 descendants. That’s a lot of fucking.

Though I am subtly distraught at having French heritage, I am quickly coming to terms with it. I am attempting to reconcile it with some of my experiences. Our family is dark haired and dark eyed, and we tan like Adonis. I love wine, food, seduction, and love making, and I am often spoken to in local tongue in the Med. It’s a good start.

With my new found heritage, I shall take license and become even more arrogant and rude. After all, I am French.

Vive la famille.

Beaverboosh

Blood

2009-08-07T04:17:00.004+02:00

I am back in the land of my birth. I have traveled to the coast of Cape Breton Island in eastern Canada. I am here with my mother. We are visiting her family. We have been discussing this trip for a decade and I am happy we can finally unite.

I am mostly a stranger here other than to close family. Though I was born and spent the first 4 years of my life here, I grew up a thousand miles away in Ontario. It could have been a million miles away. It could have been another planet.

The reality is I have spent half of my life outside of Canada so I greet return visits with a comfortable but curious disposition. In any case, I have not been back here for many many years, far too long to leave matters of family.

We are in the largest Gaelic speaking community outside of Ireland and the UK. Most of the population is of Celtic or Anglo Saxon heritage. I am profoundly struck by the cultural connections. This is an anthropological Petri dish. It is land that harks back to another time.

The pace of small town life is unmeasured. Houses have large gardens and picket fences. Traffic moves at a snail’s pace and politely gives way to pedestrians. Strangers regularly greet you on the street and bode you well. Shopkeepers are polite and ask after your family. Modern urban dwellers do not appreciate that places like this exist.

Most of my mother’s family live 5 minutes from each other. My Aunt’s house is the centre of the universe. The volume of traffic through the door in a day is most impressive. Brothers, sisters, cousins, children, grand children, neighbours, friends; it does not abate. Everyone is welcome.

The tea is steeped for what seems hours in advance of lengthy storytelling and discourse, engaged in by all generations. The laughing is often contagious. The branch of my family we are close to look after each other and are charitable with their actions both at home and in the community. They are good people.

I am fortunate for many things in life not least of which is a lovely family and friends and to have travelled and lived around the world. The older I get the more curious I become about why peoples from wherever they are, are the way that they are.

Though I only spent the formative years of my life here it is patently clear to me how important these years are in a child’s development. My indelible memory is that of being loved to near death by my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and well looked after by my cousins.

I am grateful. It explains a lot.

Blood is thicker than water.

Beaverboosh

Life’s A Beach

2009-07-31T07:21:00.005+02:00

The summer monsoons have come to Norway. It is like being in South-East Asia except it is 16 C, there are no street food vendors, and there are few Asians. Aside from that, there’s not much in it. It has been pissing, blowing, cracking and flashing in biblical proportions.

I have evacuated Mrs. BB to the casa in Spain. We are south of Seville on the plains between the mountains and the coast in La Frontera country, pueblo blanco land. This was the last frontier between the Christians and the Moors, the former drove the latter out of Spain in the 15th century.

It is scorchio, scorchio, scorchio. The standing temperature is 40 C. We are in Spain’s oven. I gladly surrender my offerings to the sun god. My soul is warmed.

We lunch in Jerez, or Sherry as the English call it, adopted from its old Moorish name. Jerez is the heart of sherry country, horse breeding and the Flamenco. A rambling ride through the byzantine streets of the old town and there is barely room for our small car to maneuver the casa encroached cobblestones.

As if by magic, we pop out at the bustling market. We feast on the local tapas: fresh fried choko, tortilla de camorones - a local specialty, manzanilla olives and cold cerveza. Some light shopping on the promenade and we are off to the beach.

We are spoiled for choice with the beaches on the west coast from Tarifa to just north of Cadiz. With the exception of Tarifa, most are beaches frequented by Spaniards. No Inglese here and little English is spoken. In fact there are few Northern Europeans to speak of. It is one of the reasons we come here.

The beach in Rota centre is excellent, though the village is not overly charming. We settle on the eco-beach north of Rota, a spot of natural beauty. The ancient sand dunes camouflage the beach from the casual onlooker. The sand bar runs for a few miles and is sparsely populated.

No beach club here, it is DIY. We transport our sun loungers, beach umbrellas and beach bags to an ideal spot between the dunes and the surf. We make beach camp and get horizontal. The cadence of the surf is hypnotic. Soon I am in Never Never Land. A fresh plunge in the Atlantic is electric and awakens me. I am very alive and in the moment.

Mrs BB and I have serious beach DNA. When we find a beach we like, we cannot be moved from dawn until dusk. Our existence is meted out around our small beach camp: reading, napping, swimming, kissing, and long and engaging conversations where we make deliciously big plans. Time is lost. I gaze off into the horizon, meditating, the gentle westerly breeze consoling my absent thoughts. I’ve checked out.

Life’s a beach.

Beaverboosh

A Major Event

2009-07-24T08:40:00.009+02:00

This week the family golf tournament was battled out over 18 grueling holes. It is an annual event and has become a popular fixture on the July calendar for family and friends.

We had 20 competitors with the number doubling for the proceeding prize ceremony and BBQ. As the Tournament Director, I can tell you the logistics are a challenge and require mobilising everyone in the family. It is a major event.

I have assembled a committee which includes my FiL, MiL, and Mrs. BB to agree tasks and delegate. We take the responsibility seriously and spend many an evening discussing issues of great importance over dinner and much too much wine. Often my FiL and I cannot remember what we agreed.

Mrs. BB has clocked this and now fulfills the role of Committee Secretary, dutifully taking detailed minutes of discussions for the benefit of absent minded committee members.

My MiL is responsible for Branding & Communications and insists the tournament logo be pink on black with a pig. Pigs are a central theme as the family name means ‘wild bore’, and of course there is her obsession with all things pig.

This is convenient for me as I have been accused of being both a pig and a bore in the past, if not a bit of a wild one. I feel I fit right in. I agree and add it must be a flying pig as this best represents my own chances of winning the damn tournament.

My FiL is responsible for Catering and insists we have plenty of food and booze on hand for the après golf. I agree but remind him that that we must pay heed to Ceasar’s observation that feeding an army can bankrupt a man.

As our shopping trolleys creek under the weight of the overspilling victuals we shout to each other across the aisles trying to locate the remaining items on our list. We create a great spectacle and a gaggle of older women look upon us shaking their heads in disgust. Who freakin designs supermarkets anyway, it is easier finding a needle in a haystack.

Mrs. BB is responsible for Prizes and insists we have funky golf prizes and not the usual tatty giveaways, especially for the ladies. I agree but draw the line on commissioning Jimmy Choo to design a commemorative golf shoe.

We agree on designer shirts and pullovers for the winning team, a big pink pig’s head club-cover for the team captain, and a big pink pig’s bottom club-cover with a curly tail for the most need of improvement.

In addition the winning team must each ‘sign the pig’, a giant ceramic pig, the official tournament trophy.

In the end the weather held, a very competitive level of golf was played with the winning team posting a commendable under par score. The après golf was great fun, and everyone enjoyed the day. It was a major blast.

Beaverboosh

Midsummer’s Night Dream

2009-07-17T04:20:00.021+02:00

The leafy suburbs of Oslo are eerily silent. Most have vacated to their summer houses on the fjords or in the mountains. We spend summers at our hytter on the Oslo Fjord, a summer house designed for sleeping and entertaining a large family and guests. If we are not at ours, we are visiting friends at theirs. It is a period of great social connection with family and friends.

The days are long and the sun sets into an indigo twilight at midnight rising gently again at 4. Farm fresh berries and produce are sold by farmers along rural roads. A bounty of lobster, prawns and crabs are harvested and served with chilled chardonnay. Sails billow silently along the fjord occasionally interrupted by the nasal horn and swell of a passing seasonal cruise liner.

Like Tom Bombadil of Withywindle, I am in the land of berries, milk and honey. Summer in Norway is magical.

On the weeked we visit good friends down the fjord. I love the two boys aged 7 and 5 and it is all boys’ fun: fishing, boating, paper airplanes and wrestling kung fu style. No Playstation here. I invite them into the cellar to search for hidden pirate treasure. I suddenly transmogrify into a monster and chase them around the house. The din of the screaming and ensuing chaos gives me the giggles.

Mid-week and we are on a 24 hour fly in with friends to the Molde Jazz Festival to see Jamie Cullum. Molde is on a peninsula facing a large fjord with misty snow covered mountain peaks as far as the eye can see. The approach takes us through Romsdalsfjella a mountain range that drops 1000 metres straight down into a valley out to the fjord. We are flying through the valley and I feel I can touch the crag through the airplane window. The views are breathtaking and look like a scene out of the Jurassic period.

Cullum is an energetically outstanding performer and a talented musician! His band are a crop of young jazz dudes and the compositions pay little heed to the discipline of genre. The audience is filled with a large collection of 20 something babes – that is musical reach! Rafael Saadiq, the warm up act, deserves an honourable mention – he and his entourage are hot. We have an outstanding time. We are blessed to have such good friends. We are all very fond of each other and are comfortably intimate.

Summer began for us on solstice with the British Shakespeare Company performing A Midsummer’s Night Dream outdoors in a garden on a private estate in a picture postcard seaside village next to us on the fjord. It is an annual event hosted by a patron keen on the arts. The players are accommodated in the estate house and speaking with them, I am informed it is their favorite venue on the summer tour, understandably.

The high point of the very surreal garden estate is the large phallic statue in the pond. It has a motion detector and erupts abundantly on close proximity. The players are most excellent as we are all transported to the forests outside of Athens to witness the subtly architected plots of comedy and love. Kant has nothing on Shakespeare who should be credited for his contribution to modern anthropology.

The multiple plots of my summer sojourn cross and intoxicate me. Fantasy becomes reality and spins back into fantasy. I dream that Oberon has instructed Puck to apply the magical juice to my eyelids. It is my midsummer’s night dream. Summer in Norway is magical.

Beaverboosh

Beaverboosh's Puck

London Calling

2009-07-10T05:20:00.002+02:00

Back in the big smoke for a week of business and socialising! As always, it’s back to backs, crazy, and loads of fun.

This week saw a bit of celeb spotting in Notting Hill.

Dinner at Osteria Basilico on Monday night sees Claudia Schiffer rock up with some new arm candy. She does not look anywhere near as beautiful in real life. I mean, she is not ugly, but has teeth that are bigger than her mouth and could suck corn through a picket fence. Airbrushing should be criminalized.

My team in London are all abuzz that scientists in Newcastle have created synthetic sperm, a water cooler topic that keeps the girls giggling all day.

So, in addition to being marginalised in many other areas of life, we are no longer required to procreate. The list of 101 other things to do with men published in the Times was clearly written by a man hater and is patently unfunny. Living in Scandinavia I am assured that men will always be required to assemble the furniture from IKEA.

Dinner with good friends mid week is most enjoyable.

We are all busy with interesting projects, drink much too much superb Burgundian wine, laugh at contagious levels, and play a most excellent guitar collection til the wee hours. I get back to my digs, a friend’s trendy new flat, pissed, and pen a 50 Post It note commentary scattered about the flat. I piss myself laughing!

I slip out quietly early the next morning still chortling and make ready to travel, after a boozy lunch in the city.

I really do miss London.

Don’t get me wrong, our life in NOWAY is great, but I lived in London for a substantial period of my life, I have many friends and colleagues there, and I love it. It is my favy city on the planet earth! Most importantly I really miss my good friends, anglo saxon humour and the culture.

Thankfully it is only another month before my London Calling.

Beaverboosh

One Small Cep

2009-07-03T06:10:00.005+02:00

40 years ago this week man landed on the moon with Neil Armstrong immortalizing the words ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’.

It is amazing to think man can travel 250,000 miles and land on a 10 square yard patch on a planet with a 2200 mile diameter, but struggles to find the clitoris.

By gods it may take a mission the scale of a Mars landing before the secrets of the g-spot are revealed. Apparently it is located due North inside the Valles Marineris canyon.

Better sex education for boys may lead to ‘One small cep for man, and one giant orgasm for womankind’.

There is hope for the future. I am reliably informed that Oprah, the people’s messiah, provides factual information about structured foreplay and female orgasms to the great unwashed! Unfortunately, the only men that watch her show are trouser pilots.

Thankfully, as a schoolboy, I had some of the best sex education available, though I have been accused of stampeding towards the clitoris.

Beaverboosh

Smoking, Masturbating and Urinating

2009-06-26T06:00:00.002+02:00

President Obama this week revealed he has not quite kicked his smoking habit following his signature on new anti-smoking legislation.

I love Obama! He’s one of the coolest guys on the planet, he is very human, and he smokes! Whoa!

Americans have vindicated themselves after eight of the darkest years of their mostly proud history. They have voted in a true leader, and a black one with Irish heritage to boot. Not since the Kennedy’s have the Obama’s of County Limerick had so much to be proud of, to be sure.

Obama claimed that he is not a daily smoker, or a constant smoker. He doesn’t smoke at home, or in front of the kids, but he occasionally ‘falls of the wagon’. He is 95% cured though!

He is an inspiration. I have always worked on the 80/20 rule when it comes to life, especially on the topic of moderation, but he has shown me there is room for improvement. 95% eh!

I consult my life coach to see how I can improve my performance. I am excited as we discuss how I can make ME better. We focus on 3 prioriy areas for improvement.

1. Smoking - I too like a cheeky marly, especially with a cocktail. To be fair, I could stop smoking but I would have to stop drinking. If I stopped drinking, my rate of masturbation would likely spike creating all sorts of health dangers.

To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only have 10 tabs a month! Doable! I have only smoked a couple of times in past months but with great intensity. At my SiL’s wedding, I consumed almost 2 packs in one night. I think I was eating them whole by the end of the evening. That was the past!

2. Masturbating - Mrs. BB and I have a passionate and abundant love life, but I have the hormones of a 17 year old and I live in a city with some of the most beautiful and playful women in the world. Not that I am ever tempted to stray, I am one woman man, but it is convenient to pop off to the bog and knock one out occasionally, especially in the summer cafés after lots of drinking and smoking!

To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only apply the handbrake once a week! Man, this is a challenge. It 27C and the forecast is for sun, sun, sun. I might have to stay inside a bit more this summer and especially avoid the beaches.

3. Urinating - Like most boys, my aim is true, but terribly inaccurate. The collateral damage can be devastating, especially on the toilet seat and surrounds. Captain Winky has a mind of his own and squirts out in all manner of directions. I’ve never been known to talk out of both sides of my mouth, at the same time, but my Member of the House certainly has.

To hit a 95% cured rate, I must have a laser guidance device installed in my penis, you know like in those smart bombs. This will still be a tough performance target to hit. In the end, I decide on taking the box lunch at the Y approach and sit on the toilet to wee. Early trials are mixed. There are still a few misfires and I feel like a pansy, but I have reduced the swaying factor.

It is a breath of fresh air to find a leader who is inspiring, is alive, sets a great example for all, and is of my generation.

I just can’t believe how much Obama and I have in common. I guess many boys of our generation do.

Beaverboosh

Well Hung

2009-06-19T09:13:00.005+02:00

Another morning of dehydrated brain pulsing numbness. This is the fourth this week. My tongue has swollen to twice its normal size. I have a bad case of the zaklys. You know, where your mouth tastes zakly like your ass. I am truly well hung. I am definitely maybe not going to drink tonight.

Monday night saw a return visit of AC/DC to Oslo at Valle Hovin stadium, an outdoor venue with a 40K capacity. That’s ten percent of the city’s population. I am always telling foreigners that Norwegians are a most beautiful and fit people. Walking into the stadium was the exception – it was one of the largest collections of ugliness I have ever witnessed. It was a freakin freak show.

My pals and I drowned ourselves in ale, played air guitar, and sang at the top of our lungs as an antidote to the gaggle of disfigurement. The show was outstanding, but left me both half deaf and ready to self induce vomiting as my alarm penetrated a deep barley haze at 5 am the next morning. I had a flight to catch. I had visions of my head hanging out of the window of the airport train laying large patches of elephant snot all of the way to the airport.

Tuesday night and it is Bolgen & Moi in Kristiansand. A long day of business continues and we decide on the 5 course tasting menu with wine accompaniment. I am desperate for a drink to smooth the edges. It is a warm summer night. I order a double G&T to start. I temporarily spiral into oblivion when the waiter tells me they have run out of gin. What kind of freakin restaurant runs out of gin in the middle of the summer?

The starter of scallops in pea pure with pancetta accompanied by a 2005 Montrachet takes me to heaven. Unfortunately 2 hours later and no main course, the endless banal business conversation, and I am jabbing a fork in my leg just to stay alert. I am back in hell. By the time the selection of cheese arrives I am ready to call in a code blue. There is one piece of cheese on my plate and I query the waiter about the selection. He reliably informs me there is a cheese selection and this is what he has selected for me. Right.

Wednesday night and I am back in Oslo having drinks with some new business associates. It is almost midnight and light out. It never gets dark here at this time of year and there are no obvious signals to stop drinking and go home, barring not being able to stand up, urinating down your leg, or passing out.

The restaurants and bars are heaving for summerfest. Everyone gets together with friends and parties in June before the country shuts down for the month of national holidays in July. If you include all of the partying people do before they take their holidays, where they continue partying, there are only two months of the year any work gets done in Norway. I still haven’t discovered when this is. Blink and you’ll miss it.

Thursday night is dinner with my old team of all star delivery bitches. We are at Aker Brygge, right next to the sea in the city centre. My energy levels are very low but rising quickly with the third bottle of Rose and all of the smutty girly talk at the table. Good girls can be so naughty some times.

I tell them of my week’s journey and that I have been well hung all week. They giggle. One of them looks at me provocatively and says that she always thought I was intellectually well hung. Tease! It is great to see them! They have all moved onto important well paying positions and I am delighted to have contributed to shaping their young graduate minds, mostly with invaluable advice on how to lose friends and alienate people.

I am looking forward to catching up with Mrs. BB tonight. She has been away on business this week and we shall reunite over a family dinner. It is seafood and champagne, one of our favourites. Mrs. BB is a champagne monster, so I do not think I am going to get off as lightly tonight as I plan. Oh well, she doesn’t mind when I am well hung. Boys are horniest when hung over.

Beaverboosh

Golf Head

2009-06-12T07:21:00.014+02:00

I have led an outstanding life:

Prodigious child golfer with loving and ecouraging parents
World No. 1
14 Major Wins, 67 PGA Tour Wins
A Swedish underwear model for a wife
Two lovely children
Global racial appeal
A million dollar smile
A jet, exotic properties and $80 million of sponsorship deals a year
A cheeky caddy named Steve…

… how great is my life.

As my plane touches down in rainy Bergen with an almighty thud, I am abruptly awoken. I come back to earth with a resounding thump. This is not my life, it is that Woods fellow.

This has happened before. I make a note to contact my doctor to change my medication.

If you don’t know your birdies from your bogeys, or are fed up with my blog:

CLICK HERE to link away now if you are a GIRL
CLICK HERE to link away now if you are a BOY.

Love Tiger or not, the kid is outstanding! Playing injured and in great pain, Tiger won a final day’s playoff against Rocco Mediate to capture last year’s US Open title. After surgery on his ALC and 8 months off, he has come back in a blaze of glory this year winning at Bay Hill (Palmer’s event) and the Memorial (Nicklaus’s event).

This is a truly awesome achievement for a golfer.

Alas, my own golf game unfortunately requires a bit more dedication and patience. Last year saw a few good rounds but I struggled with my own golf injury.

Having hooked a drive off the fairway, I found my ball sitting 15 yards behind a Y shaped tree in the deep rough. Like most amateur golfers, I did not hesitate to try to hit my ball between the branches of the tree in order to save a stroke.

Addressing the ball with a 4 iron, I gave a mighty whack only to have the ball hit the tree and come right back and nail me in the middle of my forehead. It all happened so fast. I was stunned.

The subsequent lump on my forehead grew to the size and shape of a small penis. My ears were ringing for days.

Thankfully I recovered, but I still cannot remember the names of some of my family members, and the period between 1986 and 1990 draws a complete blank.

Luckily, I got away with a bogey.

Good luck with this year’s US Open Tiger, and may the golf gods be with you.

Beaverboosh

Ex-Girlfriends Reunited

2009-06-05T07:10:00.004+02:00

The deluge of social and professional networking has brought a few pleasant surprises over the past months. I have received messages from some of my ex-girlfriends querying “Is that the Beaverboosh that ~~fucked my ass off~~ I once knew?”

I have been tracked down. Thankfully, there were no secret children, outstanding claims, or long-standing grievances to be settled.

To be fair, I have parted amicably with all of my exes, on good terms, friends… mostly.

Even though the years have passed, and many circumstances are different, they do not appear to have changed that much.

Party girl is still partying loads at clubs, pubs and concerts. Brainy girl has acquired another degree and works and reads loads. Media girl is forever busy with a full work and social diary. Some things don’t change.

It got me thinking about what my unsuccessful conquests were up to. I set about tracking them down.

There was Medical girl - I don’t remember whether she was studying to be a proctologist but she sure loved assholes. The Twins, Fock Me and Fock You – I still have naughty thoughts about dating them both at the same time. Horsey girl – she preferred stable boys hung like horses. I could go on, but I shan’t.

I managed to track a few down and struggled to think of what I might say. I reviewed my options:
“Hi, remember me, I wanted to bonk your brains out.”
“Hi, I don’t think we were ever properly introduced, but I wanted to bonk your brains out”
“Hi, you probably don’t remember me, but I wanted to bonk your brains out.”

I mused on the situation. In the end, I made no efforts at contact. After all, they were not friends, but mere aquaintances. There was no meaningful connection beyond my lust.

I tire of the seemingly endless stream of banal social and professional networking. I choose not to participate in much of it.

Catching up with the exes was a pleasant surprise. After all, we shared spiritual and carnal pleasures together. Though it did not last, we shared a meaningful connection for a time.

Beaverboosh

Dam Beavers

2009-05-29T10:10:00.019+02:00

A slow morning over latte and my eye caught by the Times headline ‘Landowners Fear the Beaver Invasion’.

I mean really, who would fear a beaver invasion? Surely an occasion like this would be rejoiced!

It appears that after a 400 year absence in Scotland, a pair of European beaver families are being introduced as part of a ‘Beaver Trial’.

It’s no wonder the Scottish are so effin miserable. 400 years with no beaver! All of the golf and whisky in the world is not going to overcome that now is it?

Alas, fishing interests are deeply concerned about the impact on the salmon industry and have presented some pretty damming evidence: “American beavers, slightly smaller than their European cousins, were reintroduced to Prince Edward Island, Canada, in 1949, and opponents of that scheme say that the difficulties associated with their inexorable spread will soon be mirrored in Scotland.”

I always thought American beavers were slightly smaller than European beavers, though there is no question that American mouths are much bigger. As for the inexorable spread, well, quite. It’s nice to get the confirmation in print from an authoritative source like the Times.

The beavers used in the trial were captured here in Norway, and as most of us here will attest, the Norwegian beaver is one of the finest in the world. I am sure my Scottish cousins will be grateful once they have had a peek at the little, though slightly larger than American, snappers.

On an entirely separate but beaver related note, a 40 kg behemoth beaver has escaped a farm in Devon this week and has thus far evaded capture.

A behemoth beaver, and on the loose. Now that is something that will strike fear in most men’s trousers.

Beaverboosh

P.S. To avoid any confusion, the beaver on my head is Canadian.

P.P.S. Nursemyra's contribution: Australian Beaver

P.P.P.S. Rob's contribution: Canadian Beaver

Testicles, Tits and Teasing

2009-05-22T09:10:00.005+02:00

I am in a black taxi stuck in traffic in London with a Norwegian associate following a difficult but important meeting in the city.

I comment to my associate on the meeting attendee, “I bet he would have given his right testicle not to be in this situation.”

My associate, whom I had unfortunately forgotten had suffered testicular cancer casually commented, “Having given my right testicle under different circumstances, I am not sure he would have.”

My own insensitivity shocked me. Ouch.

At a recent family dinner, my sister in law announces that she has procured my mother in law a special surprise gift.

“I walked into the pub and looked at the girl behind the bar and said to her, you have something my mother really wants”, she declared.

“What, big tits,” I quipped not being able to stop the words from rolling off my tongue.

It was in fact a t-shirt with a sentimental logo. Amidst the collective ‘ooooohs’ around the table, my mother in law looked at me and wryly smiled.

Phew, out of jail, sort of.

I am meeting a young and very attractive associate for the second time.

She arrives in the rather large meeting room I have booked and asks, “Where do you want me?”

“Preferably on the sofa with your legs behind you ears,” I teasingly suggest.

I thank the gods I am not in America. This would have been a law suit.

Beaverboosh

Just Expense It

2009-05-15T06:59:00.009+02:00

The people of the UK have recently been exposed to a naked and shocking truth!

Politicians of all parties have been fiddling their expenses, at the tax payer’s expense. Quelle surprise.

In the case of the ruling Labour Party, more than half of Gordon Brown’s cabinet face embarrassment over their expenses.

The fraudulent activity is rife, and is not just for the odd restaurant meal and wine.

Members of Parliament are entitled to travel and housing expenses for London but are most certainly going to town with claims: renovations, all manner of furniture, flat screen tvs, gardening supplies and BBQs. The Prime Minister himself claimed £250 a month on a cleaner for his Westminster flat when he was the Chancellor.

Harriet Harman, Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, has been done for submitting hotel expenses claiming her husband’s porn viewing. If you have ever seen Harriet Harman this is quite understandable. I think taxpayers should subsidise her husband’s porn appetite out of sympathy.

When I worked in London, the number 1 client entertainment request was for the lap dancing bar on Thursday nights. Clients would expect to be entertained on account, for the whole of the evening. Of course I charged it back to them, one way or another!

The place of choice was a sea of dark suits and ties: lawyers, accounts, bankers, fund managers and management consultants filled the place. It was like English public school dinners, but with music, booze and semi-naked young girls pushing their pooties in your face.

Thankfully the tax receipt was for ACME Restaurant or something. I am sure this was known to all London firms including the Tax Office, but no one seemed to bat an eye. This was because most men that ran London firms and the Tax Office could reliably be found there on Thursday nights.

I would regularly expense receipts for thousands of pounds that were labeled FOOD. It most certainly was nourishment of a sort. All good innocent fun really!

My worst misdemeanor was after an expense crackdown under a new totalitarian regime in the firm. I chartered a plane to the North of England and took 12 clients to the Open Golf tournament for a huge piss up. The claim was in the tens of thousands of pounds. Not a word was mentioned. It never is in my business. It’s not the way. But my card was marked!

To fiddle expenses is human, to forgive unheard of.

Beaverboosh

The Death of Secularism

2009-05-08T07:14:00.007+02:00

We in the West are so evolved.

Having fought serfdom for two centuries we can now boast modern democracies, the protection of laws, relatively free markets, and equality for all genders, races, and religions.

Our children are growing up smarter, healthier and wealthier!

How clever we are.

Unfortunately, our secular predominance has two major weaknesses which will contribute to the decline and ultimate failure of Western society: our mathematical ineptitude and our ignorance of history.

For a civilization to survive in the longer term, it must generate a birth rate of above 2 children per couple. For many years now, most Western countries have had a birthrate well below this.

In the West, this gap is made up by immigration. In Europe, Muslims make up a large portion of that population, with a birth rate of well above 2 children per couple.

The mathematics are mind blowing! At the current rates of population growth, many large European countries will be Islamic states by 2050. Canada and the US may not be too far off.

Al Qaeda should chill out! By the time Osama Bin Laden’s grandchildren are running the family business, a combination of secular western policies and a lot of Muslim fucking will have done the job much more effectively than blowing us in small numbers over many years.

I have a few Muslim friends and I like them very much, though I couldn’t eat a whole one. They are smugly resigned to this destiny. Apparently, it is the will of Allan, whoever the fuck he is.

You work it out for yourself, but I warn you, it requires a good calculator and a copy of the Dummies Guide to The Anthropological History of the World. If you cannot be bothered to work it out for yourself, watch this piece on Muslim Demographics.

Beaverboosh

Beaverboosh Is Unwell

2009-05-01T08:24:00.003+02:00

Beaverboosh is unwell.

He exceeded his own standards of excess at my sister’s wedding on the weekend.

True to form, in his charming and erudite manner, he managed to insult almost everyone at the wedding with his ever so subtle rudeness. He’s such a flirt.

He consumed excess quantities of champagne, claret and cognac over a two day period, not to mention the marathon Marly light consumption.

He has not been able to speak for days. The gods have spoken. I am getting a bit of peace.

His prognosis is uncertain; he thinks he has swine flu. I am not sure about the flu bit.

I reassure him daily he will live. Men are such babies when they are ill.

Mrs. Beaverboosh

Picture This

2009-04-24T05:37:00.010+02:00

I am a bit cagey about personal photos on my blog.

After all, with the number of people I annoy, and the pending litigations, anonymity is best advised. Also, I am not keen to attract the attention of the immigration police, or Interpol, or the Women’s Institute.

The beautiful American in Norway posted a picture of herself on her blog this week.

I suggested she uploaded her picture at www.myheritage.com to check out the celebrity face recognition software for a bit of fun. She is a dead ringer for Whoopi Goldberg. This new technology is simply fucking amazing.

My own results were mind blowing.

Raoul Bova…ok… ya, sure!

Michael Stipe…back in the days when I had a heroin addiction and no hair.

My photo… I am not crazy about the lighting and I was feeling kinda down that day.

Can you see the similarities? I mean, they are uncanny aren’t they?

Who do you look like?

Beaverboosh

Driving With Uncle

2009-04-17T06:40:00.007+02:00

Our friend’s 5 year old was in the car with me when I raced into a roundabout and was cutoff to my right.

I slammed on the brakes and was nearly rear ended by a woman driving behind me.

“Asshole”, I hissed in a mild rage.

“Uncle BB, what is an asshole”, asked the little fella, not getting the pronunciation of asshole quite right in his native Norwegian tongue.

“Well Oskar”, I replied, “I am a dick! I’m a reckless, arrogant, stupid dick. The woman behind me is a pussy. And the guy that cut me off is an asshole. Pussies don't like dicks, because pussies get fucked by dicks. But dicks also fuck assholes: assholes that just want to shit on everything. Pussies may think they can deal with assholes their way. But the only thing that can fuck an asshole is a dick, with some balls. The problem with dicks is: they fuck too much or fuck when it isn't appropriate - and it takes a pussy to show them that. But sometimes, pussies can be so full of shit that they become assholes themselves... because pussies are an inch and half away from assholes. I don't know much about this crazy, crazy world, but I do know this: If you don't let me fuck this asshole, we're going to have our dicks and pussies all covered in shit!”

Oskar stared blankly at me and said nothing.

I felt much better.

Thank the gods the little fella doesn’t understand English. Well, much English.

Beaverboosh

Egg Hunt

2009-04-10T08:56:00.014+02:00

I get very excited at Easter. I want to fuck like a bunny.

It's understandable really.

Saxon pagans celebrated the goddess of the spring equinox and the rebirth of the land symbolized by the egg. It was generally a time of great revelry and fucking.

Like many a great pagan knees up, the Christians came along, hijacked it, and stopped all of the revelry and fucking. Killjoys!

Easter is BIG in Norway.

It is a family holiday and many people spend time in their mountain huts, cross country skiing, and partaking in family celebrations, games and traditions. The whole country shuts down for a week, not that we foreigners can tell the difference from a normal week.

Murder mysteries are a very popular modern Norwegian Easter television viewing tradition. This year there are 2 new episodes of Poirot on over the weekend. It is Good Friday and I am already contemplating murder. In our family this would not present a mystery to anyone.

Norwegians, like many cultures, are very keen on decorating eggs for Easter. Mrs. BB’s clan is no exception. We are at the family mountain hytte doing some serious Easter stuff, in very "pagan-centric" surroundings!

Egg painting and the egg hunt are all part of a rich tradition that goes way back.

This part of Easter makes me particularly horny. It makes the Saxon bit of my Anglo Saxon DNA throb. I make plans to do some serious hunting for Mrs. BBs eggs tonight, I’ll give them a good spring decoration.

I pray to the spring goddess for a blessing of abundance.

Beaverboosh

Condomed

2009-04-03T09:42:00.010+02:00

Having sex with a 14 year old is mind blowing, if you are 14.

Once you are 16, there is an unwritten law. You can only have sex with those 16 and above.

At 18, having sex with a 20 something year old is a conquest. Having sex with a 30 something or a 40 something is almost unthinkable, unless they are really hot!

Condoms are going to be advertised around the clock in the UK in an effort to thwart teenage pregnancy. If you are having sex at 14, there is a good chance you live in the UK and are having unprotected sex.

The UK boasts the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe. The most recent well publicised Dad was 12 years old, and damn proud of it. For many youngsters in the UK, a baby is a means of obtaining income in the form of social benefits.

It is difficult to see how advertising will have any great impact, but I wish the campaign well.

A young teenage boy is unlikely to want to deal with the embarrassment and humiliation of walking into a pharmacy to purchase contraception. A young teenage girl may be a bit more mature, but walking into a pharmacy and asking for the morning after pill may be uncomfortable, though many are happy to display their wares on the internet .

Mom would be better off packing contraception in the school pack, or even better, fitting a permanent contraceptive device to the little one’s genitals. Of course, there is always the snip.

Most teenagers are genetically programmed to fuck. Whether you live in a trailer park, or your teenager is in a private same gender boarding school, the probability is higher than not that they are having sex.

Parents can do little but hope to engage in a productive dialogue and be supportive. Opra is more likely to have influence on your child and she’s talking about how women can better achieve orgasms with their partners.

Uncle BB passed on his sage but liberal view of sex to a sexually inquisitive teenage BB: 'Wait until you are in your 20s in college and the world is your oyster':

'At 20 something, have as much sex as you can with whomever will have sex with you'
'At 30 something, the field opens up and you can find yourself having sex with partners spanning a decade in either direction'
'At 40 something, having sex with a 20 something is mostly a fantasy, or demands an hourly fee'
'At 50 something, you become beguiled with youth as it is clearly becoming difficult to fool anyone of your age, so you’re lucky to get sex, even with your partner'
'At 60 something, you just don’t care about sex as much. If you do, hope that your partner shares your passion
'At 70+, if you still have the desire to have sex, are still physically capable of sex, and you can find someone to have sex with, go for it man.'

I am a good boy and dutifully and respectfully listened to the old fella who was in his late 50s, single and had travelled the world.

I reflected on his message which started out optimistically but ended rather bleakly. It wasn’t exactly compelling but I appreciated the sentiment.

In the end, I set out to have as much sex as I possibly could. Having sex with a 14 year old is mind blowing, if you are 14.

Beaverboosh

Hostage

2009-03-27T08:25:00.003+01:00

Workers at a 3M factory in France released a manager they had held hostage for 24 hours. The episode, known as ‘bossnapping’ is becoming a popular means of negotiation for workers’ benefits in France.

A spokesman for the hostage taking workers said, "Until they agree to discuss conditions, he (the hostage) will remain. It is out of the question that he leaves without discussing our conditions. It is our only bargaining chip."

This is not the first incident. Last month a manager from Sony was held hostage. This is a disturbing trend.

Thankfully there has been no violence, and no one has been hurt.

So now in addition to revolution, beheading, infidelity, surrendering, striking, and sheep burning, the French can proudly add ‘bossnapping’ to their list of social accomplishments.

The poor, poor French people. They staged one of the biggest social revolutions in modern history to get rid of the hereditary aristocracy (a small group of people born with the right to rule the country) to find 200 years later they have an intellectual aristocracy (a small group of people who think they were born with the right to the rule the country).

Clearly, the revolutionary spirit is alive and well.

To the many children devotees of this blog, take note. There is much to learn from this.

If you feel your class is not getting fair treatment at school with conditions or grades, mount a class action and take your teacher hostage. Teachers secretly fear collective action from pupils and a spot of ‘teachernapping’ might just do the trick and get your grades up.

Every child despises a parent who prevents the child from reaching their dreams by saying NO. Get your neighborhood gang together with your brothers and sisters and lock Mom and Dad down until they cave in. ‘Parentnapping’ can go a long way to help getting you what you want and releasing you from the shackles of parental repression.

Unhappy with team coaches, the local priest or vicar, bus drivers, shopkeepers… you know what to do.

Brian Keenan’s book ‘An Evil Cradling’ provides an horrific insight into the degradation of being held hostage. He was mostly blindfolded and chained for 5 years. Were it not for the friendship developed with his cellmate, John McCarthy, his personal outcome may have been very different.

Regardless of the circumstances, hostage taking is a grisly business and is unacceptable.

If your only bargaining chip in our democratic and plural society is to hold someone against their will until you get your way, you are not fit to participate in society. You must go to jail where you will likely be held against you will while your orifices are compromised.

Thank the gods, most of us will never experience being held hostage.

Beaverboosh

Alien Intruder

2009-03-20T08:17:00.020+01:00

There is an alien amongst us.

Unfortunately, he has penetrated the highest level of office, and in the great US of A.

Now we all know that the US is home to more aliens and fruitcakes than anywhere else on the planet: Roswell, Area 51, the alien abductions, the Elvis reincarnations, not to mention the vast number of conspiracy theorists… but this is a very serious matter indeed.

The Research Team at Beaverboosh Industries has it from reliable sources that Tim Geitner, the new US Treasury secretary, is the son of Sarek, the Romulan Commander of the Bird of Prey, both pictured below. The resemblance is uncanny.

Tim Geitner, a.k.a Son of Sarek

Sarek, Romulan Commander, Bird of Prey

In addition to the cloaking device, the Romulans must have mastered time travel. Sarek was killed in a battle with the USS Enterprise on Stardate 1709.9 (2266 for you earthlings). The mutant sprog was likely sent back in time as part of a master plan to infiltrate the US government, but to what end?

The Research Team has been asked to assist, but has not yet uncovered the full plot. Early analysis indicates Geiter is attempting to destroy the global economy by bringing down the US economy, thus thwarting mankind’s development.

He appears to be succeeding. He must be stopped. Not since Dr. Evil has has the planet been hostage to … well, such evil.

The team has put a call into MIB but they are not answering the hotline. Since the huge surge in the unemployed, many of whom are allegedly aliens, the boys are choka and are run off their feet with clean up duties.

Republican Man had his powers taken away, Super Banker has been withdrawn, Stock Market Boy is stuck in the doldrums… with all of these economic superheroes out of commission, who is going to take on this alien scum?

A quick surf of the intergalactic white pages offers up Predator's number. He is a potential candidate though I think the Terminator may be better suited for the job. He’s a bit old even for a cyborg, but is well versed with time travel and can be found easily in California.

Beaverboosh

Plastic Fantastic

2009-03-13T06:53:00.003+01:00

Barbie celebrates her 50th birthday this week. She’s looking pretty hot for 50! Of course she is plastic.

Young girls around the world have grown up wanting to look like Barbie. Unfortunately for some this does not change as time passes, especially if the years are not kind to them.

This is surely a contributor to the dramatic increase in plastic surgery.

I rarely meet a trophy wife these days that has not had some sort of plastic alteration, if only minor. To be fair, I rarely meet a trophy wife that doesn’t deserve to be mounted.

Regardless of what you think about Barbie, she is BIG!

Barbie has always reflected the times: Swim Suit Barbie, Malibu Barbie, Warhol Barbie, Army Barbie, International Barbie, Nascar Barbie and Millennium Barbie, she is now world famous!

A Tattoo Barbie will be available on the market soon and experts are predicting it will not be long before a Pierced Barbie is available. There is even a Barbie Megastore opening in China.

Barbie is a role model for aspiring girls around the world. You can see where this is going!

The US: Celebrity Barbie – She’s rich, has her own fashion line and perfume, and parties for the planet. Drunk driving charges, a sex video on the internet, and a short jail stint are all part of the fun.

The UK: Ladette Barbie – She loves night clubs and wears Top Shop clothes with no knickers, drinks herself senseless passing out in a pool of vomit after shagging half of the football team in the loo.

Germany: Atchung Barbie – She is beauty and the beast, looks like Claudia Schiffer, shoots Schnapps, and loves a big hot Frankfurter. Under her lederhosen and knee socks she has more hair than a Yeti.

Russia: Belle de Jour Barbie – She shows up at your hotel room wearing fishnets, a short skirt and Manolo’s, takes credit cards, and has her A-Levels. She speaks 7 languages, is handy with a pistol, and has a PhD in soil mechanics.

India: Slumdog Barbie – She’s and Asian babe that escapes her cruel Mumbai overlords who wish to prostitute her, to find true love with a game show contestant and dances the night away Bollywood style at the train station.

Australia: Phone Me Barbie – No sheep shearing Sheilas here. Dressed in swim suits for the beach, this babe has her phone number written on her back in zinc sun bloc to attract the fellas and other low life.

Norway: Scando Barbie – Massive improvement on Malibu Barbie, looks pretty much the same but is a real blond, has bigger tits and isn’t stuck up. She drinks beer, is super friendly, down to earth, and swallows.

Canada: Wild Girl Barbie – Dressed in jeans and a tank top, she’s quick to rip up her top to show you her tits, drop her trousers to wiggle her booty in your face, and kiss other girls to drive you mad. Check out the VIDEO. Wasn’t like that when I lived there!

Unfortunately Ken, Barbie’s ‘male friend’, has not changed much from the 70s after getting muscles and a new head. He still prefers GI Joe to Barbie.

Beaverboosh

Picking Bottoms

2009-03-06T08:26:00.005+01:00

US and European stock markets are plummeting to new historic lows. Markets have slammed through the lows of 2002, and are hovering around levels not seen since 1997.

Market pundits are engaged in the game of bottom picking to forecast when the rot will stop, though indicators used have now become mostly irrelevant.

The markets are in free fall!

They say the only thing you get from picking bottoms is stinky fingers (Ian knows much about this).

Many are shocked to the point of disgust with news about the economy, banks, markets and frauds and hope those responsible go directly to jail, do no pass go, and do not collect their bonuses.

This is likely how your grandparents felt following the Great Crash of 1929. The poor buggers had to endure a decade of high unemployment, no credit, no economic growth, and playing Monopoly just to remember what cash felt like!

Take heed!

If you are not a fan of history, or are too young to understand what life was like before the glut of consumer credit, here are a few pointers to help get you started in these troubled times:

Drink, all of the time – it soothes the senses and will put you in the right frame of mind for many of the things you are about to undertake. Drop the premium booze for paint thinner, mix with fresh urine to taste
Give your credit cards to a gypsy immigrant busking in town – call the bank and report them stolen. Refuse to pay the outstanding debt. It’s not your fault gypsies shop at Prada
Go shopping in your closet – start wearing all of those things you bought during the good times but have not worn. Consider your partner’s wardrobe fair game, you know you always wanted to try on that… thing
Steal your second car – make sure you dump it in the ocean or scorch it. The insurance money should cover the outstanding debt. Put a horse’s head in the back to confuse the authorities
Stop going to restaurants – too chi chi in tough times. Spam was invented for the credit crisis. Spam and eggs for brekky, pack a Spam sandwich for lunch, and sautee it with garden grass for dinner. If you have a pet, start the BBQ
Burn down your second property – make sure you use loads of fuel, leave nothing to chance. If you are handy with explosives, SEMTEX can be considered. Do a deal with the insurance company to hand the rebuild costs to the bank and default on the land mortgage
Take a second job – the market is rife for call girls and rent boys. It’s a great way to earn some extra (tax free) cash and get nailed at the same time. All you need is a mobile phone, an internet connection, and a Teflon sphincter. If this does not appeal to you personally, pimp your partner
Put your children to work – make the ungrateful little shits take a job at wetback wages. Factories and farms that employ illegal immigrants are always willing to take on child slave labour. It is good to learn the values of hard work at an early age. Charge for rent and board and sell their Xbox games on e-bay on the cheap for drinking money
Get into DIY – you might as well, you’ll probably be unemployed soon and have loads of time on your hands to bake bread, darn socks, fix your car, grow vegetables, grow pot… you can get your children to sell it in the school playground
Go to church – it is always popular at times of crisis. Make regular withdrawals from the ample collection plate instead of using your bank ATM. Don’t feel guilty about depriving the padre of his choice cuts of meat, golf games and foreign holidays.

For those of you in denial, and still seeking to fund your excessive lifestyle, you may wish to try your hand at or continue with the stock markets. There are bound to be many great deals at these prices.

You better be a good bottom picker though. You know what they say about picking bottoms...

Beaverboosh

Sniff The Bum

2009-02-27T06:53:00.007+01:00

This is the winter holiday season in Norway. An 'exodus' from the cities ensues as many families head to the mountains for a week’s holidays.

Last week, our friends and their children joined us in Narnia. I love children, but I couldn’t eat a whole one. We usually have a crowd of family and friends in the mountains on weekends and holidays, we’re just that sort of folk.

The agenda is pretty straight forward, loads of skiing, more skiing, a warm fire, and general bon viveury, including a big hot dog party for the kids with way too much chocolate, sweeties and games.

I skied with my friend’s 2 young boys aged 4 and 6. The little gremlins are pretty fearless on the hills at that age, zipping off piste into the boreal forest for a little forage every now and then. This can be perilous for anyone over 1 meter tall unless you really like the taste of wood. It is all good fun!

In the mornings, our friends skied with their boys while we looked after their daughter, Mrs. BB’s 4 month old goddaughter. Mrs. BB is a natural with children!

One morning, sitting eating my breakfast, and partaking in activities of the on-line variety, while watching skiing on TV, I was confronted by Mrs. BB holding a crying baby.

As I put bread roll to mouth, Mrs. BB shoved the baby, bottom first into my face.

“Sniff the bum”, demanded Mrs. BB.

I was taken aback. Before I knew what was going on I was gagging as tears formed in the ducts of my eyes. It all happened so quickly!

“Ja, thank you” says me, “what am I, a champion bum sniffer or something?”

“Well, you’re pretty good at it”, she offers.

“Hmmm”, I grumble.

As Mrs. BB attends to the matter at hand, I bin my breakfast and knock back a stiff Aquavit trying to arouse my olfactory senses. It takes a second shot and a Marly light for core systems to return to normal.

Both the baby and I have now stopped crying.

We have more friends with babies coming for Easter, another week long family holiday in the mountains for many Norwegians.

In preparation, I plan to shop for a white lab coat with a pencil protector, a big wooden clothes pin, black horn rimmed glasses, tissues, and a clipboard. In addition, I consider a car air freshener to hang around my neck.

I have a feeling I may be called upon to perform this task again in the future, and I wish to be better prepared for it.

I must not delay, Easter holidays are only 6 weeks away. I am not sure yet what I will do with the clipboard, but at this stage it seems essential.

Beaverboosh

For Those About To Blog

2009-02-20T08:14:00.010+01:00

We salute you.

I have lived and worked all over the world. I am often asked what it was like growing up in Canada.

“Have you seen the film Wayne’s World”, I ask?

“That is pretty much what growing up in the suburbs of Canada was like for me”, I add.

Most people that have seen the film(s) connect right away.

“Hey, you actually look like Mike Myers”, often follows.

“You mean George Clooney don’t you”, retorts me.

I’ve have at times been accused of sailing down a long river called Denial!

AC/DC will be on the top 10 list of any self deprecating North American suburban teenage boyman. They are a classic, though not in the Zeppelin sense the word.

Wednesday night AC/DC started the European leg of their world tour in Oslo. Sweet!

I met Garth and the guys there.

On route, it occured to me that in many ways I have not changed much since the age of 13.

I still dress in jeans, sneakers, a hooded top, and a puffa, in the middle of the snowy -10C winter.

My hair is no longer half way down my back but I still wear baseball caps.

I didn’t drive to the gig in a Gremlim, choosing public transportation, but was eating black licorice because you cannot buy red licorice tubes here.

Bohemian Rhapsody wasn’t piping out of my Ipod, it was Black Dog.

Other than that, not much of a difference really.

Garth had scored corporate hospitality tickets. They served a sit down dinner before the concert. Yeah right! Like who eats a sit down meal before an AC/DC concert. We hosed the catering staff of loads of meat balls and chugged brewskies until we were ready to spew.

And like, we were like standing right behind 6 Scando babes with bodacious tatas all wearing flashing devil horns. I bet they were from Kneurgen, near the Joergen Fjords. Schwing! I think Garth creamed his jeans.

Anyhoo, AC/DC were way cool, they totally rocked, they were freakin awesome dudes. For sure.

Beaverboosh

Regress To Mean

2009-02-13T07:16:00.014+01:00

I am in a mood most foul.

I have been coming down from a week of champagne powder in the mountains. I see excessive ugliness in the world.

I have been short with everyone. My overall performance recently has been entirely unspectacular.

RevoLucian's Christian Bale Remix - Bale Out has gone to No.1 on the Beaverboosh chart.

Anyone in the office asking me a stupid question receives the same response. I stare at them blankly and hit a hot key on my laptop. A sample of ‘what don’t you fucking understand’ blares. If this does not solicit an immediate response, I hit it again. The minute the individual opens their mouth to respond, I hit again, and again!

I have had some disturbing feedback. Cleary I have offended. I keep a straight face and try not to wee myself. It is one of the few things putting a smile on my face.

I have regressed to the mean. I appear in good company on this journey.

Michael Felps, 8 times Olympic gold medal swimmer has been suspended for 3 months for smoking gear from a bong. Dope smokers everywhere feel a strange sort of vindication, if they have any feeling through the numbness. Felps should get another gold medal for this, it is some achievement. Unfortunately, in the eyes of the world, has regressed to the mean and is back again amongst the great unwashed.

Jeremy Clarkson, the UK petrolhead presenter, has apologised for calling the UK Prime Minister a Scottish cyclops, or something like that. Clarkson’s repertoire is built on derogatory and offending remarks. He does not discriminate and applies his discourse equally, offending all. I am not sure Clarkson has regressed to the mean, he has always been predictably mean. Very funny though!

President Obama admits to having screwed up in his selection of Tom Daschle to the appointment of Health and Human Services Secretary. Daschle has stepped down due to a matter of tax avoidance. There is a theme developing here, with the number of resignations due to tax avoidance, not to mention the bipartisan backlash to his stimulus package. Obama might be a high-beta, but his stock price is declining. It is just a matter of time before he regresses to the mean.

What goes up has a high probability of coming down. Bankers, politicians, business leaders, sports stars, and celebrities are coming down with resounding collective thump. It is difficult for superstars who believe they are biologically above of the curve to understand and come to terms with this. Welcome to how the normal standard distribution live. That’s life sunshine.

Yesterday marked 200 years since the birth of Charles Darwin. I am sure if he could have read the day’s papers, he would take delight that 150 years after the publication of ‘Origin of the Species’, mankind is doing an outstanding job of substantiating his theory.

I am planning my next big thing. With recent events, I am erring on the side of evolutionary incrementalism.

By gods, it very mean, ugly and fucking slow.

Beaverboosh

Powder Junkie

2009-02-06T08:39:00.003+01:00

There is nothing more exhilarating than a face full of fresh powder first thing in the morning, though I can think of a face full of a couple of other things that are as exhilarating.

There has been so much powder this week I have been choking on it! I have been praying at the big white altar every morning. Hallefuckingluiah!

Mrs. BB is away on business. I have taken the opportunity to spend a week in the mountains. Of course, I am working and have made myself available to the team and clients:

on-line –when I can bother to check my mail
by phone – on silent most times and selectively screening
in person – should they wish to take the 2 hour trip from town
by carrier pigeon – too cold for the little fuckers right now
telepathically – a small bump on my frontal lobe from a wipeout on the hills has left reception intermittent and unreliable.

It is a great opportunity to catch up on a few very important projects running a bit late, and get some skiing in at the same time, you know, a kind of work life balance sort of thing.

The mountains are very relaxing. The silence is almost deafening, there are few people around during the week as it is more a family weekend destination, and I am alone! I am back in Beaverboosh’s Narnia.

Peace and solitude with no one to get on my tits. I am bound to be very productive!

Alas, I must admit I am having a very difficult time getting started on my important projects. It has just been hectic with some of the other priorities.

I have been skiing both downhill and cross country every day. I have been surfing, networking, blogging, and on-line shopping. I have been through the whole series of Band of Brothers. I have plundered the cellar, sampling some new vintages. Lazing on the sofa, I have completed Niall Ferguson’s ‘The Ascent of Money’, and I have had a number of deep and spiritually fulfilling naps.

I put it down to the frontal lobe not functioning well, in particular, the inability to recognise future consequences resulting from current actions.

This morning, I sought to strengthen the lobe with some exercise. I am attempting to telepathically communicate with the deer, birds and rabbits. The mountains are teeming with wildlife and I am keen to break into their social scene and find out more about their habitats. Anything to give me a bit of a head start on next year’s hunting season.

I have just checked the forecast. It is going to snow all next week. I immediately start to devise a plan that will allow me to stay here and work from the mountains next week.

In the end, there can be no denial.

My name is Beaverboosh and I am a powder junkie.

Beaverboosh

It’s Your Fault

2009-01-30T07:20:00.003+01:00

The world’s political, academic and business luminaries gather this week for their annual knees up at the chi chi resort of Davos in Switzerland. The event is billed as a brainstorming hot house for the global advancement of mankind. It also gives the tax evaders attending the opportunity to withdraw some cash.

Given the state of the global economy, there are already hints of recriminations as brainstorming turns to blamestorming.

American bankers blame the government and regulators for underwriting sub-prime lending and changing the rules that do not allow them to hide their mess through accounting trickery. Bankers believe that ½ of 1 should = 1, because it might, again, sometime in the future.

Bankers around the rest of the world blame American bankers for getting them into this mess. Surprisingly, the data suggest European banks have lent out much more money per capita than the Yanks and with greater enthusiasm, clearly following a new model of social wealth distribution not understood by anyone.

Hedge funds blame their poor performance on the banks for taking away their ability to borrow up to 30 times the investor cash they hold. Unfortunately their highly sophisticated models did not predict that any of this mess was going to happen, so there is no investor cash left.

Investors blame the credit rating agencies which gave toxic investments an A for Excellent when the deserved an S for Shite rating. This is the equivalent of paying for Kobe beef and receiving cold and stinky regular cow shit, albeit a very large portion.

Business blames a lack of consumer demand for the decline in profitability citing that people have just stopped buying stuff. Ironically, this is forcing businesses to sack people, who will have less money to buy stuff.

The general public are unsure who to blame. Frankly, when you don’t have a job, lose your home, and have to spend your savings to keep your family alive, allocating blame is the least of your concerns although blaming the government is usually a good starting point.

The French people are going on strike holding their government accountable for the mess they are in. Why not, if there is no demand just stop the supply. Hah, that will show them!

Governments and their regulators are setting bankers up for the fall, but are increasingly doing some niggly finger wagging.

The Chinese and Russians are blaming the Americans for fucking up capitalism with Vladamir Putin questioning whether Americans are fit to run businesses. Pot, kettle, black?

The American government is pointing a finger at the Chinese citing that their currency is being manipulated and needs to be devalued for any substantial economic recovery to take place.

The Canadian government is being blamed by the opposition for not grasping the scale of the stimulus required, and in response, the government is refusing to govern.

The Brits are blaming each other and cannot seem to unite in concert to blame anyone else.

Norwegians are not great at pointing the finger at each other. Nothing is anyone’s fault in Norway and this lack of accountability generally means that the blame will fall on foreigners.

I haven’t yet heard recriminations from school children but I hope they are blaming their parents for their total fucking incompetence in managing grown up stuff and leaving them with huge debts before they can even spell collateralised debt obligation.

I did not make it to Davos due to a diary conflict. It is my fault for double booking, but it was the only time the psycho therapist could fit me in. I am being treated for excessive responsibility disorder. He is convinced I do not apportion enough blame to others.

Beaverboosh

Difficult Times to Come

2009-01-23T07:33:00.011+01:00

‘Wealthy men give women more orgasms’, was a lead article on the webpage of the Sunday Times this past weekend.

Scientists have discovered that women’s orgasm frequency increases with the size of their partner’s bank balance. Women with partners on the lower end of the socio-economic scale rarely or never orgasm.

I have always suspected this.

Science calls this ‘evolutionary adaptation’, that is to say, women are genetically hardwired to ruthlessly exploit men to ensure the best chances for survival of their genes. This is also known as the ‘gold-digger’ gene.

No wonder working class women are so fucking miserable.

The scientists go on to point out that they are not sure why women orgasm as it serves no reproductive purpose. This will be a surprise to many men that have no idea women have orgasms and are still not sure why women are allowed to drive.

Scientists speculate that what those orgasms are saying is ‘I'm extremely loyal, so you should invest in me and my children’. Barring the orgasm, this message is well understood by men, though many are suspect about women’s loyalty, believing that the first man to come along with a bigger wallet and a glint in his eye is likely to lead to ‘Hasta la vista looser’.

It was awkward enough last week listening to my hairdresser’s disappointment at receiving a small diamond ring from her man. He could not afford a big one. This new data sheds light on her disappointment.

Poor girl!

A simmering pot that rarely boils, a smouldering volcano that may not erupt, a deep itch that is difficult to scratch... I digress.

As a man of science, I feel a duty to break this important scientific evidence to her. It could be critical to her future happiness.

I ponder the situation. This is a delicate matter better suited to nursemyra than my own Edwardian sensibilities.

I decide to do what any gentleman would do given the circumstances.

Nothing.

I can’t help but think that as the global recession tightens its grip, and men’s bulging accounts shrink, kept women around the world may find there are difficult times to come.

Beaverboosh

P.S. Size Matters Revisited

There were a couple of comments last week requesting photographic evidence of my hairdresser’s great tits. I mean really! I am a gentleman. What an utterly outrageous request.

I must admit, I briefly considered rifling through my extensive digital picture library of dirty young suburban bitches I have toiled, to fob one off. This of course was in my wild days before my celestial union with Mrs. BB.

In the end I felt I could not further besmirch any of the young trollops. I also gravely doubted I could deceive my lascivious inquisitors.

Instead, I had the boys at Beaverboosh Polymers knock up this model, a bust of remarkable likeness to my hairdresser, for the depraved of you. You know who you are.

Size Matters

2009-01-16T10:59:00.003+01:00

My hairdresser has great tits. I know not whether they are her own, but most certainly, they are captivating. She has other great assets. Thankfully included amongst these is cutting hair.

Before the holidays, she confided in me that she is desperate for a diamond from her boyfriend. He has looked at diamond rings but unfortunately cannot afford one. I mention to her I had to sell my Porsche to procure Mrs. BB’s diamond ring. She tells me this was exactly the sort of ammunition she was looking for!

I am horrified. What have I unleashed? I feel a sense of guilt.

I arrive for my new year’s trim. Leaning over me as she washes my hair I am informed that her boyfriend presented her with a diamond ring over the holidays, having borrowed the money. It is in the shop being fitted. I am provided with an opportunity to open my eyes. Good gods, what a sight!

‘That’s fantastic’, says me, as small tears form in the ducts of my trained eyes.

‘I hope it’s a big one’, I add?

‘No it’s not, it’s very small, but size is not important’, says she.

I choke, my head blanketed in the comfort of her warm and robust bosom. The aroma of eucalyptus and oranges is intoxicating. This woman is in heat.

‘Well, modesty is best with these things’, I confidently offer.

‘Sure’, she says, ‘but it is pretty small.’

As she lifts my head, patting it dry with a towel, I survey this sight. She has big breasts, big hair, a big smile, and a big personality... and apparently a wee diamond ring.

‘Well, I am sure he makes up for it in other ways’, I proffer in a comforting tone.

‘Sure’, she says dismissively with a cheeky smile and gets to work.

She completes her work. I look like a cross between Noel Gallagher and Mr. Spock. Apparently this look is in! I make a mental note to grow out my sideburns.

As I leave, I cannot help but think that though she is overjoyed at receiving a diamond, and is clearly in love, there is a hint of disappointment about the size. After all, this woman is constructed for a big rock on her finger. A modest one might suffice. A small one is lost in the bigness of her Yin.

I reflect. Size really does matter. It is just a case of recognising when.

Beaverboosh

Imbalance

2009-01-09T08:44:00.002+01:00

Steve Jobs did not give the annual key note address at the Macworld 2009 conference this week. He announced that he is suffering a hormone imbalance which has contributed to his dramatic weight loss over the past year. Poor soul, brain the size of a planet and a hormone imbalance. I bid him well soon.

I have the hormones of a teenager. I’ve never considered it an imbalance, but it has given me concern for thought, after another morning with an enduring titanium hard-on and a new blemish developing on my forehead above my left eye. My brain, well that’s another story.

I am now deeply concerned. I have an imbalance. In fact, I feel discombobulated. This seriously fucks with my aspirations for a Zen like existence, in harmony, in balance, aligned, and at one, with, whateverthefuck.

Despite the new year, and the hope it brings, it seems that imbalance is the new thing. It is a gripping epidemic, a contagion. Everything seems out of sorts.

I love a tight spread with a small gap as much as the next fellow. Unfortunately the markets look like a cheap whore with legs akimbo and a prolapsed flapper. Not as many jumping on for the ride. Plenty have already been seriously fucked and will think twice before coming back for seconds, but they will come back. I am an ardent capitalist, but recognise that whilst it lifts us out of poverty and has greatly contributed to man’s progress, it is less than perfect.

Israel has set off a record number of fireworks over Gaza in response to Hamas December fireworks on Israeli border towns. Unfortunately, there are many Palestinian civilian casualties. We all hope for a swift end to the carnage. I despair. I reflect on my own conflicts with enemies and hope that I can resolve them in under 2000 years, and without bloodshed.

Packing my groceries in my ‘not a plastic bag’ at the checkout, I am astounded at the number of plastic bags others employ. Anyone who has travelled Africa will attest to this disaster. Worse, we are killing our oceans with them. There are two separate assemblages of plastic bags floating around the world’s oceans, both the size of America. Plasticland. It is likely these will be settled as urban space becomes congested, hopefully by anarchists.

Russia has again thrown Europe into chaos in the midst of a big chill by suspending gas supplies through the Ukraine in a long standing dispute. Predictable, but unacceptable. They are blowing enough hot air to heat the planet, and it is clearly a renewable source, if they could just put it to good use.

And then there is Bernie Madoff. I mean really, it was all in his name. It is shocking that this level of fraud could take place in a predominantly institutional system. After the banking debacle, it is difficult to engender a modicum of trust to the system. That punters were fleeced is unfortunate. That major banks were fleeced is laughable. Thank god my own conscience is clean, though my long term memory does not function well.

Barack Obama will soon request an economic stimulus package of some $775 billion over a mere two years and optimistically hopes to hold the final figure under $1 trillion. But before we get lost in the policy details, let's pause to consider that number of $1 trillion. The human mind is not well equipped to fathom a number that large. A check for $1 trillion -- a million million dollars -- would have 12 zeros to the left of the decimal point. Homo sapiens hadn't evolved a trillion seconds ago: 31,546 years in the past, Neanderthals were still trying to make fire.

To address my imbalance, I undertake a deep yoga session, facing a panoramic view of the sun rising over the Oslo fjord. I find peace. I have again united my body and soul.

As for imbalances in other areas of the world: well, it is a relative perspective.

Beaverboosh

Thank God It’s Over

2009-01-02T08:41:00.002+01:00

We can finally put 2008 behind us. Thank effin god for that! The global economy has blown up and things look bleak. And thank god America is finally getting rid of the retarded cowboy, only a few more days. If being retarded wasn’t enough, 8 years of war and fucking up capitalism certainly did not help.

The new guy has his work cut out for him. Early doors look promising but he soon will be expected to walk on water and lead us to the promised land. He is so talented, he’ll probably pull it off. And he’s ripped like a greek god. Good luck man, we in the rest of the known universe are depending on you to restore America Inc. from the depravity to which you have sunk.

Though 2008 had its low points, there were many high points for me. In addition to pissing people off, insulting business associates, embarrassing myself in public, and a stint of excessive masturbation, I really enjoyed the blogging and all of the great connections made! Given I will be working twice as much this year to earn money worth half as much as last year, I can only hope I find the time to keep the blogging up. We shall see!

To all in blogsphereland, here is hoping that 2009 brings all of your wishes, sprinkled with heaps of yummy luv!

Beaverboosh

Season's Greetings

2008-12-19T08:44:00.009+01:00

Top of the season to you and yours!

Beaverboosh

Mrs. Beaverboosh's T10, Chrono

I Ski Do

Back, Crack and Sack Wax Tops Mens' Christmas List

Double Your Pleasure

High Infidelity

Immigrant Song

Maasai Marathon

The Rain In Spain

Extreme Makeover: Office Edition

Eat Me

Bïg Bang

In The Bush

2008-10-17T10:53:00.001+02:00

Beaverboosh is on a Blogging Break.

I Predict

2008-10-10T10:48:00.010+02:00

More banks will fail, it must be Monday. This was my first thought as I awoke Monday morning.

It is amazing! Over the past few weeks, I have gained superhuman powers.

I can predict the future!

My track record has been perfect. In the last couple of weeks I predicted:

Banks would go bankrupt or be nationalised
Stock markets would go down
Government intravention would do little to help
George W. Bush television appearances would move my bowels.

With my new found superhuman talent, I offer my Top 5 predictions for the future:

1. America will become a socialist state... until the next boom when they will become capitalists again. This cycle will repeat itself for the rest of history, capitalists on the upside and socialists on the downside. No one wants big problems. It is convenient when they are taken away by someone else in times of crisis.

2. Obesity will be resigned to history... with consumers unable to borrow far beyond their means, high food prices and mass unemployment, the availability and consumption of food will reduce to levels not seen since the 18th century. The Credit Crunch Diet will prove the most effective in history, though the least popular.

3. Global warming will stop and a new ice age will begin... with the reduction in oil consumption and fossil fuels, and the mass shedding of human flesh through forced dieting, temperatures will plunge us into a new ice age. In order to keep warm, body hair will replace wallet or penis size as the principal attribute women will seek out in a male partner.

4. Obama will become President... with all of the media focus on the financial meltdown, no one will pay much attention to the election. Few will vote for the Republicans who will be blamed for this mess for a long time. Following Obama’s election, the markets will have a happiness bounce. He will deliver a weekly speech to the nation from his porch rocking chair, and we will all feel good. Really good.

5. Love will be the preferred tool for growth in the new era... most people in the western world and modern economies will use love instead of greed to achieve economic growth. This will further piss off Germany and Russia, neither of whom understand capitalism or love. Al Qadea will dramatically change its strategy and adopt new tactics by training terrorists in market speculation, hedge and shorting instead of using explosives.

I am now working on Time Travel. I am off to see a man about some horses and a carriage.

If the markets can unravel themselves back to 19th century lows, I will need this.

Beaverboosh

Forest Run Forest

2008-10-02T12:51:00.006+02:00

Mrs. BB and I ran the 10K last weekend, part of the Oslo Marathon.

I would never consider running a full marathon. I am too slow. I do most things slowly: running, swimming, walking, blogging, love making... Thank goodness I am a marathon partier and a quick thinker.

The 10K is well suited for bon viveurs, alcoholics, drugs users and smokers, so I was amongst friends.

Mrs. BB ran with some work colleagues. She is very sporty and pretty much sprinted the distance. She wore a new running belt with six small water flasks attached around it. She looked like a suicide blond jogger. Whoa!

Inspired by Lance Armstrong’s meticulous preparations for the Tour De France, I prepared a glutinous carbohydrate meal the night before to ensure we had massive reserves of energy on tap for the run.

A creamy Smoked Arctic Char Risotto aside a 96 Fume Blanc (acquired from Le Petite Ferm in Franschhoek on a past visit), followed by Spaghetti Carbonara with crisply seared smoked pancetta, sautéed caramelised garden onions and shaved Reggiano companioned with a 98 Sassicaia (Tuscany last year), and completed with a crunchy Mela Torta with fresh berries and cream assisted by a 99 D’Yquem (tour of the Chateau in 04).

A restless sleep ensued. I awoke in the middle of the night with weighty matters on my mind. I poured a glass of wine and lit a Marly Light to contemplate issues further. Shall I wear my blue running top or red?... hmmm... Don’t forget to get the winter tires on car changed next week!... uhhhm... I really hope the US government sorts this bank bailout stuff... mhhhm.

The sun shone brilliantly from rise. After 2 double espressos, it felt great to be alive. Well good anyway. We made our way to the Start Line. I was well prepared. I had my game face on, I would run my own race, play my own game, aim high and draw the bowstring hard, take all of the chances offered.

At 5K, my belly was grumbling, loudly. The glutinous carbohydrates were seeking an exit strategy. The espressos were threatening a fecal evacuation.

I caught sight of a small forest in the distance... grumble, grumble. Panic set in and my mind was racing wildly for solutions to the impending problem... forest, run... forest... grumble... I can make it... grumble... evacuate, evacuate... grumble, grumble...

I recalled that champion athletes use visualisation to overcome pain. I visualised a wine cork stuck in my bum. Not a screw cork or one of those Australian synthetic jobs, a proper cork, possibly from an 82 Margaux, or even better, a champagne cork from a bottle of vintage Veuve.

Everything went quiet. The sun warmed my face. I dug deep, deeper, and deeper. I felt better almost immediately. I was going to be alright. The terror of the moment had passed. I was in the zone again.

I sprinted the last 200 metres of the race. Everything was in slow motion. Chariots of Fire played in my head. Gorgeous blond women were smiling at me, cheering me on. Mrs BB was waving her arms in the air and shouting encouragement.

I crossed the Finish Line and kept running, directly to the ‘Portaloo’, my official finish line.

It was a medal winning finish.

Beaverboosh

Deja View

2008-09-26T07:48:00.012+02:00

I have lived a charmed life:

A fairly tale upbringing on a country estate with loving parents
Owner of the world’s coolest record label cum airline
Extreme adventurer
Champion of the people – enemy of big business
My own island in the Caribbean....

... how fortunate I am.

As I slide further into an opiate like haze at 30,000 feet, murky clouds of uncertainty billow into my Neverland. This is not my life. It is the life of that Branson fellow. I make a note to ask the doctor to change my medication.

It is not the first time this has happened.

My airplane makes ready to land at yet another provincial Norwegian airport. I take in the surrounds. The nature is stunning. I could be in Canada... except the people are more beautiful... it’s twice as expensive, and they speak Norwegian. Not really much in it though.

A colleague, of the junior minion variety, is waiting outside in his car. He will transport me to my meetings. He is young, arrogant and unbearable, but functional. I pick up a large black coffee to try to whip up some enthusiasm for the day ahead.

I open the back door to the car. Before he can utter a word, I pull a chauffer’s cap from my leather satchel and toss it onto the front seat.

“Good morning Bjorn, I hope you don’t mind, but I would like you to wear this cap, and please, I am not in the mood for discussion, I have much preparation at hand”, says me.

I open the business papers and check on the overnight markets. They are a mess. There is great uncertainty in the global markets. This feeds my contrarian hunger. I sneer thinking about the great opportunities that will come my way.

The car pulls into a lot with an inauspicious 3 storey building on it. The coffee I have consumed in order to assemble a modicum of energy for my morning meeting has conspired to push my bladder to the tipping point. A mild tremor of pain shoots down my leg.

I patiently ask Bjorn to come around and open the car door for me. I exit the vehicle in a dignified manner, unzip my trousers, and relieve myself on the back wheel of the car. I expel a blood curdling yelp in relief and take cold fresh air into my lungs.

By gods it’s great to be alive.

The receptionist is a Goddess, of the Botticelli variety. I am temporarily stunned by her beauty. She is sheer visual Viagra.

I announce myself. She is smiling devilishly, her eyes wandering between mine, and my lower midriff.

Mild panic sets in. I drop my head.

I have left the drawbridge down... the cavalry appears as if it is mounted... and evidence of the moat has splashed down my trouser leg.

I compose myself.

‘He has a mind of his own’, I smugly offer, shaking my head.

It is not the first time this has happened.

Beaverboosh

Don't Panic

2008-09-18T23:55:00.011+02:00

We are in a time of great economic uncertainty.

Banks and financial institutions are being bankrupted.

Stock exchanges are in a nose dive.

Properties are being repossessed.

The money markets and interbank lending have dried up.

Nobody knows what is going on or how to fix it.

Governments are stepping in to ‘act’ where necessary to nationalise financial institutions.

Karl Marx is surely turning in his grave!

It’s capitalism Jim, but not as we know it.

It sounds extreme, but capitalism always sniffs out the rats. Unfortunately, sometimes this is done with the precision of a smart bomb and there is collateral damage of the human variety. Let us hope the collateral damage is limited to the architects of this mess.

Few will sympathise with bankers who are out of a job. Having cleverly created complex financial instruments, in the end, they didn’t understand how the instruments worked. They were clearly smarter than they thought and outsmarted themselves.

This situation was created in the banks by assembling groups of high performing jumped up greedy magne cum laudes with little adult supervision. It only takes a small group to spoil it for everyone. Now no one wants to play in their sandbox.

Fingers are being pointed: governments; central banks, regulators; credit agencies; bankers; market rule makers; short sellers; Al Qaeda economic terrorists... Really!

This is a time of great opportunity for the contrarian. I have set up a new fund to invest in a large psychiatric rehabilitation centre in Connecticut for unemployed bankers. I have found a large old estate on gently rolling pastures with a small river running through the property. It is just the thing to soothe terminally depressed unemployed bankers.

Of course, a week’s stay will be terribly expensive and the fund is forecasting double digit returns.

The daily treatment programme is spartan and functional:

a near excessive dosage of Prozac
a locking codpiece / chastity belt to prevent masturbation
no phone, blackberry, internet or media access
a morning session with Dr. Terri Firma on coping with life after being a Master of the Universe
an afternoon session in the anti-gravity decompression chamber
an hour with a ‘Joe/Joanne Public’ guest speaker whose life has been completely fucked up as a consequence of this institutional moral hazard.

The centre is not confident of a high rehab success rate, but following a number of visits, it is confident that bankers will be comfortably numb. Unfortunately, they will always be wankers. There is no known treatment for this condition.

Not since Jimmy the shoe shine boy gave Grandfather Beaverboosh a stock tip before the great crash of 29 have I heard financial distress stories of such magnitude.

DON’T PANIC.

And don’t forget your towel and some peanuts.

Beaverboosh

Big Bang

2008-09-12T07:45:00.006+02:00

This week sees one of the most interesting and long awaited science experiments in the advanced stages of testing. Geeks around the world are soiling their undergarments in anticipation of the results.

After two decades of planning and construction, the Large Hadron Collider (LHC), the biggest and most expensive experiment in the history of science, is up and running.

Its job it to answer the ultimate question: the meaning of life. This is similar to ‘Deep Thought’, Douglas Adams’s fictional supercomputer designed to answer the same question. Let us hope LHC’s answer is an improvement on ‘42’.

The LHC will throw particles towards each other at near the speed of light to study the effect of the impact of collision. The experiment is designed to replicate the beginning of our universe. By understanding what happens immediately following the Big Bang, scientists hope to better understand our origins by identifying the Higgs Boson, or "God particle".

Controversy is already afoot.

Professor Hawking, the renowned physicist has placed a $100 bet that the particle does not exist and continues to argue there are more interesting outcomes to be drawn from the LHC than its discovery.

We shall see.

I am taken back to my youth. I will never forget the day I discovered the secrets of the universe. I was bonking a couple of skinny girls behind the bike shed instead of attending my physics class.

I discovered that hurling my genital particles as fast as I could towards female genital particles that were being hurled at a similar velocity towards mine created cosmic results.

When the genital particles made contact at the right speed and position, a simultaneous explosion occurred. I had discovered the Big Bang.

At the very moment of this cataclysmic event, under a grey sky, wind billowing, as my lungs filled with the cool freshness of universal particles, I understood the secrets of the universe, for a nanosecond. The secrets escaped in my endorphin state, and I felt as if I must sleep, deeply and immediately.

From that time, I was on a mission to seek out female partners to recreate the results of the unplanned experiment. I yearned to have the secrets of the universe revealed to me again. After testing significant statistical samples of women, from around the world, and over varied intervals, I found but few with whom I could recreate the experiment successfully.

However, even with few, I repeated the experiment successfully over and over, and every time, the secrets were within my grasp for a nanosecond, but proved elusive, like water in the palm of my hand, and I would fall into the arms of Morpheus.

In the final analysis, I learned something of great and profound consequence. Female genital particles before, during and after the Big Bang behave differently to male genital particles and communicate different information to the female brain.

Some women hold the secrets of the universe.

My fellow men, seek these women out, but remember; they are not going to share the secrets with man, you will only ever catch a fleeting glimpse.

You will have to be content with that until the LHC results are in, if you are interested at all.

Beaverboosh

Palin Comparison

2008-09-05T07:43:00.002+02:00

Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska introduced herself to America before a roaring crowd at the Republican National Convention on Wednesday night as “just your average hockey mom”.

Canadian boys are reared playing hockey, it is our National sport. Having grown up playing competitive hockey, and having been surrounded by average hockey moms, I shudder at the memories. Washington, prepare!

Osama Bin Laden must be quaking in his boots at the thought of a new Republican administration. Years of the Bush regime’s incompetence has given him freedom. Sarah and a posse of moose hunting, snowmobiling hockey moms will sniff him out in a jiffy.

The hockey moms will be on the phone to his terrorist friends in that unmistaken demeaning tone of voice, extricating his whereabouts by threatening to expose embarrassing misdemeanours unknown to their moms. The terrorists will break like brittle autumn twigs.

Osama will be frogmarched out of his hideout, by the ear, and be humiliated in front of his terrorist friends. And then he will be grounded, big time!

You can’t get away with anything where hockey moms are concerned. Roger Waters penned a North American version of this Pink Floyd classic in empathy with hockey mom boys:

Hockey momma gonna check out all your girlfriends for you
Hockey momma won’t let anyone dirty get through
Hockey momma gonna wait up until you get in
Hockey momma will always find out where you’ve been
Hockey momma gonna keep baby healthy and clean.

She went on to ask the delegates Wednesday if they knew "the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull."

"Lipstick," said Palin.

She is clearly from the era of yummy hockey moms. In my time, I do not recall hockey moms wearing lipstick, most looked like pit bulls, though there was an occasional alsatian and the odd collie.

I am big fan of America. It is the best British invention since the House of Commons.

I have a great interest in how America votes. As a Canadian expatriate of many years, I can reliably inform America that most of the world has a great interest in how America votes.

The last 8 years have been the darkest period in America’s history. People who live in democracies around the world would never have voted for someone with eyes as close together as Bush’s. It’s just not right.

Sarah Palin is not from the capitalist elite, intellectual elite, political elite, or a political dynasty. She is a woman of the people, a commoner (aka redneck to the rest of the world). You have to go along way back to find anyone like that in the slick world of American politics.

Palin is a breath of fresh air, warts and all.

In that respect, the other candidates pale in comparison.

Beaverboosh

P.S. America, my brethren, whomever you chose to vote for, vote for the team you think will restore the integrity of the values of democracy, peace, public service, and free and fair markets, that your current administration has so seriously fucked up.

Prat a Porter

2008-08-29T07:40:00.011+02:00

I am in London on business this week. It is grey and humid. I am in back to backs for most workdays. I take solace on the roof top terrace of my Soho club with good friends. The cocktails are world class and I enjoy a Marly Light under the veiled grey sky.

The talk is of the Olympic closing ceremonies. I did not see them. I am told the scene depicted a typical London street. Cyclists ride by. A double-decker bus pulls up to a stop in perfect time for the roof top of the bus to open up. Jimmy Page is wailing ‘Whole Lotta Love’ on guitar.

This is surely fantasy land and does not depict typical London street life. In London, you wait for ever for a bus and two come at the same time. One is likely to hit a cyclist on the way into the stop. The last time a roof top opened on a bus was the result of explosives and Jimmy Page wasn’t playing guitar.

Interesting choice of tunes London. Whole Lotta Love is about a guy who intends to fuck the object of his desire senseless. The lyrics were penned by Jimmy’s partner Robert Plant. It is alleged he stuffed a sock down his hip hugging trousers for shows. His conquests testified that he was hung like a prize horse.

The talk strays to hip hugging fashions. A friend tells of his frustration that his wife is trying to get him to upgrade his wardrobe and into designer labels. He asks the table what we think. I couldn’t possibly comment sitting in 7 jeans, a Michael Kors shirt, Marc Jacobs jacket and Prada leather sandals.

I explain that my personal stylist, aka Mrs. Beaverboosh, dresses me. The truth of the matter is that when we met, Mrs BB immediately disposed of my casual wardrobe and replaced it with urban chic items. I missed my plus fours and frilly shirts for a few weeks but am over it now.

He continues. His wife wishes for him to see a tailor and give up his off the rack suits. He again solicits opine. I could not agree with her more. His ill fitting Italian off the racks have the shine of a cheap street criminal.

I recommend my tailor in Saville Row but warn the time to purchase is now during the summer month discounts. In fact, I am off the next day for my yearly fitting.

“Mr. Beaverboosh sir, may I suggest that we reconfirm the measurements we have on file,” asks my tailor, his sights fixed on my small but perfectly developing love handles.

“Chop chop man, I have important appointments and do not have much time,” says me in a testosterone pulsing hungover haze.

“Mr. Beaverboosh sir, it would seem that the girth of your midriff has expanded slightly. Should you wish, I know an excellent doctor on Harley Street that can sort these sorts of things out.”

He is a very cheeky tailor.

He re-checks the measurement of my inside trouser leg. I gently pass wind and ignore him.

Surprisingly, he makes no comment on the girth of the large sausage I have stuffed in my briefs.

Beaverboosh

Holiday

2008-08-22T07:53:00.009+02:00

I have yet to take a holiday. It has been a frantic summer with all of the activity in the global markets. I am in desperate need.

My criteria is simple, I abhor undue complexity, in anything:

Sun – bar 1 nice week, we have had thunder, lightning, monsoon rain, and temperatures of 16 C for most of the summer in Oslo. It is like living in Wales
Sea – actually, any body of water larger than a bath tub will suffice
Value – given these economically challenging times, I demand value for my money.

I consult my travel agent in London. She suggests an African safari. We will have a personal guide drive us across the plains to see the Big 5. The accommodation is sumptuous: high end design, chi chi menu and cocktails, and a fresh water pool.

I am in dream land, moist with excitement just listening to her. I enquire about the price. Upon hearing the daily cost, I break into a mild sweat. The daily run rate is what I wish to pay for the whole holiday.

I communicate the budget I have in mind. She suggests I buy back issues of National Geographic magazines, a SAD Lamp, and a blow up splash pool, and promptly hangs up.

I revert to my own research and consult the omnipotent internet with my criteria.

Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan top the list. 42 C is just what the doctor ordered to toast my gonads. Pools are plentiful, and the value is outstanding. And... I have just taken a Suicide Bomber Spotting course in the UK which could come in handy.

I consult my mates in the French Foreign Legion for some travel tips. They have important business in each of these territories thanks to outsourcing. They deliver a compelling offer. If I pick up a couple of days work, they’ll cover the whole cost of the holiday. Fantastic!

I have not considered a working holiday. A couple of days is doable. I enquire as to the sort of work they had in mind. Nothing strenuous, a village snatch raid, a kidnapping, or political extortion. Something that is manageable within office hours. I will be back at the hotel in the evenings for dinner with the Mrs.

I consult Mrs BB. She is adamant that I need a break and is not keen that I pick up any per diem. She knows I am wetting myself in anticipation of using my new training but suggests maybe next year and requests we focus on a destination a bit closer to home.

A desperate google yields an unexpected result.

Georgia. It is closer to Norway and is excellent value, hot in August, and on the Black Sea. It could be in play though I hear the place is overrun by Russian tourists this year. Russians can be unbearable on tour. They are loud, aggressive bullies who throw their money around trying to impress. This would spoil the ambiance of my holiday.

Back to the internet. Thankfully, I can get National Geographic back issues on their website.

Beaverboosh

Oh Canada

2008-08-15T09:12:00.009+02:00

We are half way through the Olympics. I am so busy with work I have not seen any events and barely paid notice to the goings on, other than those reported in the media.

Two things have caught my attention 1) The outstanding performance of Michael Phelps 2) The poor performance of Canada – NO medals.

Phelps is truly outstanding. 6 record breaking gold medals in this Olympics and on his way to 7. 12 career Olympic gold medals to date. What a star. He is the leading light for all parents whom have children with ADD, and long arms.

Canada. Well!

Canadians have a rather over-inflated view of themselves at the best of times: a mutli-cultural democratic society, resilient neighbour to an imperial war monger, member of the G8, one of the world’s best standard of living by most surveys, populated by really nice ‘do gooders’ that say ‘eh’, and a lot of beavers.

Most of the world thinks otherwise. Nice, but really fucking boring... and mostly irrelevant on the world’s stage.

The Olympics expose an inconvenient truth about Canadians: we are rubbish at competing globally in sports, and in many other areas. With the exception of Canada’s treasured sport (ice) hockey, and possibly curling, we have a mixed international track record, and hockey ain’t even that great!

There is a simple reason for this. Canadians excel in other areas. We are all gifted in different ways:

Complaining : Canadians are world class complainers, particularly about the government. It is not long after arriving in Canada before you hear someone cursing the government, particularly the Federal variety.

Thriftiness : Canadians are world class cheapskates. We would travel for miles to purchase something at a discount price rather than be ripped off. Foreigners that shop in Canada understand this, most goods available are cheap, and often crap.

Dope Smoking: Canadians are world class dope smokers. By the time a large percentage of the population reaches the age of 25, half of the country's brain cells are fried.

Politeness : Canadians are polite on a universal scale, and not just with the please and thank yous. We believe we can solve global conflicts, war, hunger and poverty with politeness. Laudible, but naive and innefective.

When Canadian Ben Johnson was stripped of his gold medal for doping in Seoul, Canadians had to confront the truth albeit painful: he was Jamaican. As for home grown talent, we rely on hydroponic skunk, and Moosehead.

Beaverboosh

Stupid And Industrious

2008-08-08T13:39:00.001+02:00

“The man who is clever and industrious is suited to high staff appointments;
Use can be made of a man who is stupid and lazy;
The man who is clever and lazy is suited for the highest command, he has the nerve to deal with all situations;
But the man who is stupid and industrious is a danger and must be dismissed immediately.”

Baron Von Hammerstein-Equord could have coined this after learning of the political shenanigans in Australia this week.

Troy Buswell has resigned as leader of the West Australian Liberal Party. Mr. Buswell has been the subject of increasing pressure to stand down since he admitted to sniffing the chair of a female staff member.

Most politicians are stupid and industrious, but you have to be pretty fucking stupid to sniff chairs in the office… and get caught. You are even more stupid to admit it, regardless of the evidence.

Unless of course the person was sitting on the chair while you attempted to sniff it, amidst a handful of teetotal, drug free, unimpeachably honest witnesses. You would only find these rare conditions in a convent, certainly not an office, especially one of public service.

To be fair to the idiot, he dismissed the allegations a lucky 13 times before caving in. His stupid and industrious party members, whilst disgusted with the evidence, refused to challenge the leader because there were no better candidates.

I can only assume that now he has resigned, and with no better candidates, the party is duty bound to appoint another chair sniffer, albeit one of the closet variety.

I consult my Australian cousin Bruce-Beaverboosh on the subject. In confidence, he spills the beans. It appears that those Down Under are consummate chair sniffers. In addition, surfboard sniffing, didjeridu sniffing, and koala sniffing are rife.

Teenage boys throughout the world would admit to a spell of panty sniffing or finger sniffing, under a bit of alcohol and testicular duress, but this Oz sniffing thing is of a totally different magnitude.

Now that their secret shame has been revealed, the more industrious in the land of Oz will be turning these spectacles into competitive sports. It is too late for Beijing but London watch out.

Let us all pray that the clever and lazy take hold of the situation before it goes much further.

Beaverboosh

Go Commando

2008-08-01T10:23:00.005+02:00

The summer heat has arrived in Oslo with temperatures pushing 30 C. Long may it last. Unfortunately, there is a 16 C monsoon lurking around the corner. This is typical for the weekend. The weather will be fine by the time I am in the office on Monday.

I am a big fan of hot temperatures with low humidity. I dream of living in the desert one day. The thought of travelling by cheeky camel tickles my hump. I would name it ‘Bob. Bob the Camel’.

I am less keen on hot temperatures with humidity. Many a time in South East Asia I have taken a taxi from hotel to office for distances under a kilometre to avoid becoming overly moist. When taxis were unavailable, I paid locals to carry me over their shoulders to my destination.

I honed this technique in the islands of Fiji where I required to be carried nightly from the local watering hole back to my bure, rewarding my porters generously.

Fiji is where I first started going commando. The only item of clothing required on the islands is the sulu, the traditional national dress worn by both men and women, not the lieutenant helmsman of the USS Enterprise.

I wore only a sulu for months and experienced such an overwhelming feeling of genital liberation I swore off undergarments. To be fair, while frolicking in this ocean playground, I swore off many things: urban life, politics, office work, traffic, pollution, monogamy, and wine gums. The road to hell is paved...

I lived in the UK for many years and considered wearing a kilt but had trouble sourcing my tartans and did not want to offend my tribal ancestors. In addition it was difficult to find a sporran big enough to contain my wallet, mobile phone and house keys. I probably would have looked a bit out of place in the office anyway.

No doubt the strong winter north westerly’s would have troubled the lads, they like it hot.

Britney and a gaggle of IT girls took to going commando a few years back. Girl Power eh! The thought of the fairer sex going commando clothed only in a delicate dress sends most men wild with excitement, as long as world class grooming techniques have been adhered to.

One of the best things about this time of year in the Northern Hemisphere is that I liberate the lads and once again go commando on a daily basis. After a ski season of being of being trussed up in woollen briefs, well cashmere briefs, they can once again frolic freely.

Unfortunately a physicist blogger has recently drawn my attention to the correlation between no underwear and no brain, http://dorigo.wordpress.com/2008/05/29/no-underwear-no-brain/.

I shall have my penis contemplate this further and discuss it with the lads.

Beaverboosh

Champagne Taste

2008-07-25T11:55:00.008+02:00

Mercer released its 2008 cost of living survey this week, a must see for expats and avid city travellers, http://www.mercer.com/costofliving.

Oslo is in 4th place behind Moscow, Tokyo and London. New York is 22nd. Oslo keeps very interesting company for such a dull and uninteresting place.

The first Canadian city in the survey is Vancouver at 65th. This is of no surprise to me. Canadians are very cost conscious. It is the influence of our Presbyterian roots. What did the Scottish ever do for us eh? Well, in addition to golf, whisky and deep fried Mars bars, they instilled a sense of McScroogeness.

I never really paid attention to prices until I moved to Norway. I do now. Unfortunately in many situations one is offered little choice bar abstinence. This is a result of inefficient supply chains, subsidies and protection, lack of competition, and or tax. For example:

My litre of milk at the shop - $3 – Subsidies and protection
My bottle of beer at the pub - $8 - Tax
My takeaway pizza - $30 - Inefficient supply chain
My monthly cable sports subscription - $70 - No competition
My Volkswagen Passat - $80,000 - Total fucking economic incompetence.

A look at the average annual gross income offers a few insights:

1st - Moscow - $12,000
2nd - Tokyo - $45,000
3rd - London - $60,000
4th - Oslo - $75,000
22nd - New York - $45,000
65th - Vancouver - $47,000.

However, these numbers are distorted by tax and the currency exchange. When adjusted to Purchase Power Parity (PPP), the real purchasing power of the average consumer, most cities come in around the $30,000 level, except Moscow.

To be fair, Moscow has 87 billionaires. They are mostly ex-politicians, ex-KGB, and criminals and contribute greatly to the high cost of living. I doubt they are included in the official statistics as most are tax exiles. Who says there is no money in Communism, it’s just a matter of being at the right place at the right time.

In Norway, the cost of goods is generally twice as much as those in many western countries. Labour costs are also twice as much and you would expect this is the case so that people can afford the cost of goods. You would be wrong.

It is a tax generating system to keep the unemployment rate low. The slack is taken up by employing government spreadsheet jockeys to devise and calculate complex tax systems. Go figure.

I now have a great empathy for struggling families trying to make ends meet. Just speaking to people at the golf club and the yacht club in Oslo about their economic challenges has given me a great insight to how the other half live.

It would appear they have champagne taste, on a premium beer budget.

Beaverboosh

Note: All figures in USD.

In The Hole

2008-07-18T07:26:00.006+02:00

Nothing fascinates men more than trying to get a small thing into a small hole, other than getting a bigger thing into a small hole. We have been consumed with this since the beginning of time.

150 men will be attempting to get their balls in the holes in fewer strokes than their fellow competitors for 4 days this week at Royal Birkdale in Southport England in the hopes of winning the 137th Open Championship.

If you are uninterested in golf, golf bores the tits off you, or you are fed up with my blogs, link away now, http://www.naughtyallie.com/1/updates/golf233.htm.

The Open is the original golf championship and the only of 4 majors to be held outside of the Unites States. Unlike America, there will be no spectators shouting ‘IN THE HOLE’ as the ball rolls toward the hole, unless it is an American. UK and Irish crowds are renowned for their spectator etiquette, and their golf knowledge.

No one has ever screamed ‘in the hole’, as my mine rolls toward the hole. I had a girlfriend who often screamed, ‘wrong hole’, during alcohol fuelled nights of trying to put her away. I am terrible in the dark when I am pissed. Luckily I have never played the wrong golf hole.

Golf can become a compelling addiction for some. It can consume hours of study, tuition and practice principally due to a seemingly large and somewhat complex number of variables: stance, weight distribution, grip, swing plane, swing speed, driving, irons, pitching, chipping, lobbing, bunker play, putting, clubs, ball, course type and layout, weather... Just to name a few.

If you take this rather academic approach to golf, you are a propeller head and are bound do more gardening on the course than golfing. Golf is not for nerds. Anyway, nerds tend to lick their balls, which is repulsive to witness.

Others look at golf as a Zen sport and play the inner game. In ‘Golf in the Kingdom’ by Michael Murphy, the biggest selling golf book of all time, you are encouraged to take a philosophically mystical approach to finding your ‘true gravity, inner body, and the next manifesting plane’. I am dizzy just typing this.

Chevy Chase as Ty Webb in the film Caddyshack summed up the best philosophical golf mantra for students of the game: ‘Just be the ball, be the ball, be the ball. You're not being the ball Danny.’

The best results in golf are yielded from doing what comes naturally to you, without the noise and confusion of the copious information that is available. Most bipeds golf just fine using their natural swings, after a couple of starter lessons, and a bit of practice, as longs as they do not have expectations of playing like Tiger Woods.

Just grip it and rip it. Unless you have no hand eye coordination, in which case, this technique can be applied to male masturbation, regardless of gripping gender.

While I can get it in most holes in par, it is rare I do it during the same round. I have yet to get it in the hole in 1.

Beaverboosh

Count Me Out

2008-07-11T22:24:00.010+02:00

The world’s population is set to rise from 6.5 to 9.1 billion people by 2050, an increase of 2.6 billion people.

That’s a lot of fucking.

It took since the beginning of human kind to the 90s to get the population to 2 billion. I wonder if the hippies in the 60s preaching sexual revolution realised what a mess they would get us into. Hippies, free love and mathematics eh. Toxic.

I hope to personally contribute to this growth at some point. Mrs BB and I moved to Norway with starting a family in mind. So far we have managed to start new jobs, a family war, a mountain of debt, and our car each morning.

Oh, and I have started to learn Norwegian. Hey, it’s a long starting stage.

Norwegian women are baby factories. A weekday trip to the cafe mid morning finds gaggles of yummy mummies chatting frothily and breast feeding. No wonder lattes are so popular here with the kids.

I attribute the Norwegian birth rate to the ‘shagability factor’. Norwegian women are both gorgeous and lovely. It is more likely that additional factors such as social benefits are at work.

Mom gets a year off work at 80% wages. Dad gets 4 weeks paternity leave and it is mandatory. Kindergarten is free for all children and starts at the age of 1. Of course, all is funded by the taxpayer. It is the family side of social democracy.

Thank goodness for social benefits, Huggies are twice the price here than anywhere in the known world and Norwegian babies are weaned on designer clothes. It is a zero sum game.

The population explosion is set to take place in the developing countries with the world’s poorest nations contributing the greatest. The developed countries will stay static with at 1.8 billion people, a neutral birth rate.

I can understand this. At the rate the missus and I are moving, by the time our 2.x children can vote, we will be scheduled for hip replacements.

I consider fiddling the statistics by moving to Burkina where the birth rate is at epidemic proportions. Mrs. BB can have 12 children and then we can move back to the developed world. If I can get 500 million people to do the same, we can do something about the static birth rate.

I moot the idea with her. She is uninterested. I add that she can put her most excellent French to good use and will have a permanent tan. I am not getting anywhere. It can see it is not exactly a persuasive argument.

At any rate, it is unlikely we will be around to be counted in the census in 2050. We will focus our attention on a procreation displacement strategy. We must ensure we are doing our bit for the continuity of the developed world’s birth rate.

Beaverboosh

Oh Bugger

2008-07-04T20:32:00.004+02:00

‘War for the most part is boring with occasional outbursts of violence.’ General Bernard Law Montgomery, affectionately known as Monty, could have been speaking about my experience of working through the lazy hazy summer holidays.

The silly news season is upon us. Unfortunately to the untrained eye, it looks no sillier than the rest of the year.

Malaysia's opposition leader Anwar Ibrahim has been accused of sodomy, an offence which if convicted could carry a prison sentence of 20 years, and surely more sodomy. He denies the allegation.

I am slightly concerned having spent much time in KL years past. My Bumiputra girlfriend enjoyed the occasional irregular position but never mentioned it in respect of the law. This could upset any plans I have for running for public office in Malaysia.

It is a good thing that the UK repealed its buggery law for consenting adults many years ago. Half of the House of Commons and most of the House of Lords would likely have been prosecuted, in many instances by each other, and then where would we be.

The bible, one of the best historical fictions of its epoch, dispenses harsh justice. Leviticus defines sex between men as a capital punishment. Thankfully it says nothing about sex between Canadians and Bumiputras.

The Romans looked down on same sex sodomy in the ranks, however, it was commonly accepted to use your slave as a sex object, as long as the slave was on the receiving end.

Mesopotamian law meted out a harsh penalty to the well hung caught sodomising brothers-in-arms allowing them to turn him into a eunuch. Contrary to popular belief this did not produce the sublime soprano voices of the castrati who were castrated at birth, but rather a gruff nasal whine.

Sodomy still carries a serious offence in many countries. Same sex sodomy is punishable by death in Iran. Thankfully this will be avoided, as their President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stated during his recent visit to Colombia University, ‘there are no homosexuals in Iran.’

Consenting sex between adults in many western countries is legal. Canada’s most famous Prime Minister, Pierre Trudeau, when repealing archaic sodomy laws proclaimed ‘there’s no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation.’ The law provides that consenting adults can do what they wish, provided no more than two people are present.

I doubt this law will get in the way of most Canadian men’s fantasies, especially where twins are involved. It is on the top 10 list of things Canadian men must do before they die.

Beaverboosh

Hot Dog

2008-06-27T19:51:00.005+02:00

Hot Dogs are a national delicacy in Norway. They can be purchased in every paper shop, confectionary and gas station throughout the country. On many an inbound flight, Norwegians jostle to get off of the plane and charge to the 7 Eleven in the airport lounge for their hot dog fix.

Of course, they are the best hot dogs in the world.

This is of little comfort as I sit in the airport lounge at 6:30 AM, drinking my double espresso while hoards of Norwegians chow down on hot dogs washed down with a pint of beer awaiting their charter flights to the Costa del Chav.

My stomach, robust in most situations, bar road accidents or train wrecks, is feeling a little sensitive. This is an unpleasant sight. My mother would be disgusted.

I read the analysis of the Irish referendum on the Lisbon Treaty. This is the last ditch effort for the European Union to seize greater federal power, and it requires unanimous approval by the remaining countries.

Most importantly for the treaty, it will put into law that future treaties will not require country referenda. Ratification will be left to the sovereign authorities, not the people. After the Rome treaty, Lisbon’s predecessor which was rejected in referenda by France and Denmark, the politicians have learned!

The Irish, whom have benefited greatly for 30 years of European Union membership have spoken, and spoken for many Europeans. They are the only country to hold a referendum on the Lisbon treaty. The NO vote means the treaty now looks dead in the water. Back to the drawing board for the EU centralists.

So why NO?

Most Irish claimed they did not understand what the treaty meant, so felt compelled to reject it. This is a great insight into democracy where a referendum is concerned.

Power to the people. It is a timely slap in the face to European leaders.

Few would argue that the free movement of people, capital, goods and services have not been beneficial to all members of the European community. However, when membership translates into ceding further sovereign powers to Brussels, it is a sensitive subject with the vox pop!

Bravo Ireland!

Norway is not a Member of the European Union, but participates as a member of the European Economic Area which is essentially a trade agreement. The people of Norway were twice asked in referenda to join, on both counts the majority said NO.

Bravo Norway!

It would have more than likely meant giving away most of its precious oil revenues to poorer member states. Worse, the EU may have legislated to prevent the consumption of hot dogs and lager before 10 AM.

Beaverboosh

Midnight Sun

2008-06-20T12:21:00.009+02:00

Summer solstice is upon on us. I look forward to frenzying with the Scando pagans around a bonfire in the sacred forest. Witches were traditionally the first choice for the blaze. With the way the economy is going, I fear this year it may be foreigners. I make preparations to peroxide my body hair and hone my Norwegian accent. From today, I call myself Bevermunn!

It is light here all day in Oslo. The sun disappears just before midnight but a permanent dusk remains until sunrise at 4. 10 pm can feel like the late afternoon. There is a tinge of madness in the air. Six months ago, you were lucky to see the sun for a few hours. The hoards on the streets at midnight look a little wild eyed!

I awake to find an industrial team with drilling apparatus on my front lawn. The noise of the drilling fractures my peaceful sleep and reminds me I should have passed on that last glass of wine. I know there is an oil crisis, but urban drilling rigs? They leave a small but very deep hole in the garden and disappear quickly. Dry I guess. I prepare myself for a visit from the corn planters.

It is swim suit season. I notice that a small but perfectly formed love handle has pierced the side seam of my golf shirt. Back to the gym I am afraid. I try on my fashionable swim suit in anticipation of a weekend at the beach. I secure it just below my tits. That will keep the feisty little mound in place.

I have also noticed my penis is frequently getting more chubby. I fear this has nothing to do with the gym and more with the nubile peaches out in full summer dress. At this time of year I must wear dark sunglasses for fear of embarrassing myself. It is of little help as they are usually steamed up and I cannot see a thing. I have run into more breasts than you can shake a thing at.

In preparation for summer holidays, people are in a festive mood and the restaurants and bars in town are heaving until the early hours of the morning. In Norway as in many parts of Scandinavia, most office workers take the full month of July off and head to their summer houses on the fjord. As most people in Norway work for the government in some capacity, Oslo will be vacated by 1 July, save the daily cruise ships, and the prostitutes.

No rest for the wicked, I am off to London and will work my way through most of the holiday period! Some of us must try to keep the economy going through this mad period!

Beaverboosh

Feet In Mouth

2008-06-13T07:23:00.012+02:00

I am on business in deepest darkest Norway, the Christian bible belt. I have an important meeting with a new banker. My associate introduces me to the new banker and his colleague. A conversation ensues, in Norwegian, which I do not understand fully. My associate chuckles.

The new banker says, ‘they are laughing because I come from a small island that is famous because we do not drink alcohol and sex before marriage is not permitted.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I quip, ‘ where I come from we have as much sex before marriage as we can because once we get married we don’t get any so we drink a lot.’

He does not find this funny. My associate tries to keep a straight face and snorts an occasional chunk.

During pre dinner drinks with business associates a couple of weeks ago, I meet a lovely American who has been working in London for many years. His professional pedigree is world class. He is a grand old gentleman of the old school.

‘I just don’t get this online chat thing,’ he says, ‘I am ok with email and texting, but why would you not just phone someone to have a conversation instead of chatting online?’

‘I agree,’ and add, ‘except when I am in a sex chat room chatting online with some dirty little bitch from the suburbs.’

The whole room instantly goes silent and all eyes are fixed on me. I casually sip my whisky and move the conversation on to the commodity markets. An associate shakes his head and waggles the finger at me.

In a former life, I was in a colleague’s office for a morning coffee chat. She was gorgeous and talented and we were quite fond of each other, professionally of course. She stepped out of her office just as her phone rang. I answered it. It was her boss, a man whom she despised. A sexist mcp who was always making inappropriate remarks and salivating over her.

‘I am sorry Bill,’ I said, ‘she can't come to the phone right now, my cock is in her mouth,’ just as she walked back into the office.

My mouth is big enough to accommodate both feet. Unfortunately, like a pool ball, I cannot get them back out with medical help. Thankfully I went private many years ago.

Beaverboosh

Sex In The Cinema

2008-06-06T10:44:00.015+02:00

Mrs. BB and her girlfriends are moist with anticipation awaiting the premier of Sex in the City in Norway. 4 of them have planned to dress to the nines, don their Manolos, outdo each other’s handbags, and sip Cosmos prior to the big preview. I am sure this is a scene being played out by women around the world.

Not since the village got a new gynaecologist that looked like George Clooney have I seen so many women queuing in anticipation.

What the girls talk about over Cosmos does not merit consideration for men folk, for the most part. However, hidden deeply in the bouffant of dialogue lie many a great insight to what grooves the truffles of the fairer sex. It is a bit like the DaVinci code – it takes patience and perseverance to decode, but what you finally get is a pleasant surprise.

Many heterosexual men I know have never seen the series, and laugh at the idea. They are a bit too macho for this sort of girly thing! I disagree. I have seen but a few of the programmes which have provided a cornucopia of helpful insights to better understanding women.

Let me share a few with you:

All women want to be seen as beautiful and desirable by their suitors. To furnish this desire they shop. Men do not appreciate the extent of this effort and cannot tell a Prada from DKNY. Women immediately asses each other and rank themselves on the suitor hierarchy based on this appearance. It is nice when a man comments on a woman’s appearance, but much nicer when women in the know comment
Professional women want it all – the high profile job, the wardrobe, the social life, the trappings, the dream husband, and the family. More than often, they have gone to a good university, get good jobs, have careered, are single in their 30s, and are critical of men. This is often because they have dedicated so much time to their pursuits that they have little experience with men and by the time they are in their 30s have had few meaningful relationships
Women are more sexually adventurous than men think. Using the programme as a barometer, 1 in every 4 women are into tea bagging, 2 in every 4 are into A levels, and 4 of 4 orgasm regularly during passion. Most men would dream of this but not believe this to be statistically reliable, even discounting the Samantha factor
All women want a prince and believe there is one out there for them. They are delusional and sailing down a big river called ‘de nile’. 1 in every 1000 men are princes, the rest are frogs. 999 men make no pretence about being princes, the belching should be evidence of this.

I have not seen the movie, but read of the ending on a blog this week. For those that have not seen the film and do not wish to know the ending, link away now:

http://www.hbo.com/city/.

Charlotte is happy with Harry and finally conceives their child, Amanda and Steve are happier than ever and he constantly dotes on her, Samantha and Smith take loving making to new levels and commit to each other for an eternity and Big softens, marries Carrie, and they live happily ever after in a castle in the Hamptons.

Beaverboosh

Party Like Porn Stars

2008-05-30T07:04:00.008+02:00

It is Mrs. BBs birthday next month and I am planning this year’s celebration.

I immediately attend to the guest list:

Family
Best friends and their partners
Work chums
Fashion designers
Sports stars
Captains of industry
Actors
Foreign dignitaries
Musicians.

I hit the wall at work chums. I consider inviting Al Qaeda. I wish to break the global ice and promote a bit of mutual understanding through celebration. A reliable source tells me they have a habit of crashing parties. I scrap the idea and keep a low profile.

I turn my attention to the theme. I want something new, something fresh, something moist, something almost now but not then:

White party... soooo last year
Opera theme... too pretentious
School discos... too much Abba, all night
Nautical theme... too much rum, sodomy and lash
Hot dogs & sex toys... too girly, no fun for the boys
Vicars and tarts... too many tarts, not enough vicars
Dominatrix... just isn’t Mrs. BB’s thing
Circus circus... This is it. Fantastic!

Guests must come as circus performers and entertain each other taking turns in 1 of 3 rings. Brilliant! I will be the ring master, of course.

I phone Siegfried & Roy to source a big cat. There are a few heads I am keen to place in the beast’s mouth. They tell me to fuck off. They are busy grooming their pussies for a new show. Once finished, they will start grooming the cats.

Dwarf Tossing could be the thing, it is not illegal here. I am excited at the prospect of my guests tossing the little people. Instead of Velcro suits on sticky targets, we will chuck them in the fjord. They will be fished out like big game with dwarf bait. Cool!

Stumped again. There are few dwarfs in Norway and they are all booked. I consider using children but quickly scrap this idea. Children are a national treasure in Norway and I do not wish to attract the attention of the tabloids.

In desperation, I phone Guy Laliberté to beg for some last minute assistance. I ask if it is possible to borrow Cirque de Soleil for an evening. He is graceful in his apology. It will not be possible. They are doing another birthday that evening. He offers to send a few masks, some makeup, a hand puppet named Lucien, and a copy of the Dummies Guide to Contortion.

I don’t have the freakin time for this. Back to the drawing board.

Whatever the theme, one thing is for sure. We will party like porn stars.

Beaverboosh

Upset Patron

2008-05-23T17:31:00.005+02:00

I have been in London on serious business for the past ten days. I denote serious as my liver is communicating to me in various ways, most too shocking to mention in a blog that is read by children. Suffice to say my liver has gone to defcon 7.

Mrs. BB rocks up for the weekend. We are flying under the radar as it is our anniversary and we do not wish to see friends. Rather, we cherish the time we get to spend together, especially when it is alone! This happens all too infrequently!

I have booked a table at an excellent fish restaurant. We are persuaded to change the booking by a good friend’s new man who is in the know. Scott’s is THE place NOW for fish. It is a newly refurbished restaurant with a long heritage in the fish trade.

I attend to the re-booking with my usual and healthy level of scepticism though I am happy to get a table on a Saturday night at such short notice. Years of working away and client entertaining have turned me into a hardened critic of transportation, accommodation, and eating establishments. Ditto for Mrs BB.

You do not want to be on the end of a poor service proposition if we are flying in team formation.

We arrive. The signals from the outset are disturbing. The Maitre De, waiting staff and bus mooches have stiff postures indicating that most have something large stuck up their arses. The restaurant is heaving and the wait borders on tedium.

As we tuck into lifeless starters, the table next to us are complaining for the Nth time. One of theirs has not received his main. Desert has been served to the rest of his party. Shocking!

My main course is a road accident. I am keen to draw this to the attention of anyone on staff. Hailing a NY cab in a blizzard is easier. In the end, I am uninterested and enjoy the Montrachet, the best thing on the table, next to Mrs BB.

We laugh. We are having a wonderful evening in each other’s company despite the food. The deco ambiance is hypnotic. It is 1939 in black and white. We are too tired pick a fight. Life is too short. We enjoy more of the wine and each other’s company.

Removing an almost uneaten plate 30 minutes after I have downed cutlery, the waiter says nothing. I ask for the bill. I have nothing else to say. There is nothing else to say. I will never be back. I will rubbish the restaurant at every opportunity. C’est la vie.

It will not survive London unless it ups its game. Once the weekend sub-urbanites (bridge and tunnel people) move on, they are fucked. This is a sign of the Michelin Dog in its ascendency. A laudable ambition but with a pretention devoid of professional talent that has already been blinded by an early false success.

Dogs don’t shine.

Beaverboosh