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Corona quarantine diary
מפרסם התגובה: Mervyn Henderson

expressisverbis
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I don't buy it Feb 1

Matthias Brombach wrote:

expressisverbis wrote:

The "Angel Soft" toilet paper is just for disguise. They are not "soft" at all. They are the kind of "friends" I will use to to give special warnings to bad neighbours. (Matthias: I can give you their contacts.)


... because I am always home and make money at home, while others have to go to work for it.


I don't believe you are a bad neighbour
We are just excellent and humble translators who make an honest living whether at home or not.


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Panic at the Fruit and Veg Shop (yes, I know) - Part I Feb 2

Some of you know about my problems with a stalker. It’s not something I care to bother people with, of course. I try to put it to the back of my mind, and get on with my life. But recently it’s come to a head. The inebriated phone calls at four in the morning, e-mails and WhatsApps every five minutes demanding to know where I am, what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with, the doorstepping, the scenes in public, the affrays … but I thought she’d been scared off when I said I’d have a... See more
Some of you know about my problems with a stalker. It’s not something I care to bother people with, of course. I try to put it to the back of my mind, and get on with my life. But recently it’s come to a head. The inebriated phone calls at four in the morning, e-mails and WhatsApps every five minutes demanding to know where I am, what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with, the doorstepping, the scenes in public, the affrays … but I thought she’d been scared off when I said I’d have a restraining order served on her.


And it was then that the threats started. So you can’t be too careful. They get frustrated with the non-response after a while, and the next step is always violence. So I let my loved ones know where I am at any time. If I go anywhere, I always sit with my back to the wall with a view of the door, and preferably a window seat to keep an eye on what’s going on outside. If I take the metro or the bus, I always take the seat beside the exit, and always go to places where there are people. People means safe, harassment experts and psychiatrists have told me. Other than that, they say, you can live a normal life. But the truth is that, as I walk the streets of Bilbao, I cannot live a normal life, because I am stalked nevertheless. Stalked by fear.


However, any attempt at a normal life means doing normal things, so yesterday afternoon I did the usual fruit and veg jaunt. I bought Torres oranges first, as usual:



Torres Oranges. A sight for sore eyes, with their dimples sweating lightly in citric symbolism of the delicious, nutritious juice inside. Torres Oranges. You know it makes sense.



Anyway, there I was, throwing my broad beans into a bag, and imagine my astonishment when she strides up. There she was again. Keira Knightley. I swear, the girl came out of nowhere. I think I hadn’t noticed her because she was standing in profile.


“Whatever you do,” I’d been told, “never engage Keira Knightley. No matter what she says or does. Simply ignore her.” And so I moved on to the celery and peas. Keira Knightley followed me, of course:


“Why won’t you return my calls?” shrieked Keira Knightley. “Do you seriously prefer that celery to me? Peas? What do peas have that I don’t?”


People were beginning to look, but I didn’t even shrug at her craziness, because I was so used to hearing this kind of illogical babble from Keira Knightley. I didn’t panic, remembered what the experts had told me, and moved on to the tomatoes like she wasn’t even there.


Luvvies hate being ignored, naturally. Keira Knightley stood there with head bowed, visibly trembling. Then she raised it very, very slowly and looked at me with narrowed eyes, the mascara smudged and running. For crying out loud. It’s all drama with these people. They can’t brush their teeth without staring at the toothbrush and croaking: “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?”


“How can you have forgotten about me?” she wept. “Don’t you remember our night of unbridled passion in King’s Lynn?”


For your information, the ‘unbridled passion’ was a knee-trembler fifteen years ago behind a stack of wooden pallets around the back of Sainsbury’s. She’d latched on to me after climbing up on her stool and dancing on the bar in the Fox and Hounds, see, and then suddenly it was chucking-out time, and I did what I had to do to get rid of her, but you know what they’re like. They always have one eye on an imaginary clapperboard for the take.

“Ten times in as many minutes!” a distraught Keira Knightley sobbed, thrusting out her chest, as well she might, flinging her arms out at a right angle and staring up at the ceiling, shaking her head sorrowfully. Her arms descended slowly to her sides, and she clasped her hands as she half-whispered to the onions, potatoes and broccoli: “Tell me, who has ten orgasms in ten minutes? And why? Why? Why, I say?”


Now, I must say, that one was a bit below the belt. She had one too, you know. Definitely. Well, probably. As likely as not. As far as I remember. Maybe. Didn’t really notice, tell you the truth. You know what we blokes are like.


José came over. He rolled his eyes. “Keira Knightley again, is it? Jesus. Don’t worry. I’ll call the coppers.”


“No,” I said firmly. “That’s exactly what she wants. That’s what she needs. That’s what she craves. A scene. Excitement. Tension. And she’s obviously unarmed this time. I’ll tough it out. It’s OK, really.”



TO BE CONTINUED


This story was brought to you by Torres Oranges. Torres Oranges. Simply the best. Better than all the rest. Better than anything. Anything you’ve ever eaten. At a fruit and veg shop near you. And yes, now we’re exporting too. Soon available worldwide. Torres Oranges.


[Edited at 2021-02-02 18:31 GMT]
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Ten big O's in ten minutes? Feb 2

I'll have what you're having, Mervyn.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pQgbEEFPq0

[Edited at 2021-02-02 08:51 GMT]


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If truth be told ... Feb 2

... I'd had a pint or two, so I wasn't my usual self.

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Lol Feb 2

Loved the profile gag😂

I do sometimes wonder though how you get access to my dreams.


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Meg Feb 2

I had a bit of trouble with the Ryan woman too, I'm afraid. I rang Billy Crystal for advice, but he didn't want to know. Just said he was glad to be rid of her, because he was fed up being asked to leave cafeterias.

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Panic at the Fruit and Veg Shop – Part 2 Feb 5

I was watching Keira Knightley carefully out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to be addressing the kiwis and pears now:

“I carried his baby, you know,” Keira Knightley wailed, wringing her hands. “Our love child! A little boy. But he left. He walked away. He spurned me!”

Well, I knew the golden rule was not to have any verbal contact with Keira Knightley, but I wasn’t going to stand for this, plus a crowd was gathering, and I could already hear some mutteri
... See more
I was watching Keira Knightley carefully out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to be addressing the kiwis and pears now:

“I carried his baby, you know,” Keira Knightley wailed, wringing her hands. “Our love child! A little boy. But he left. He walked away. He spurned me!”

Well, I knew the golden rule was not to have any verbal contact with Keira Knightley, but I wasn’t going to stand for this, plus a crowd was gathering, and I could already hear some muttering: “… did you hear that? … he ditched her, eh? … these foreigners … bloody liberty, I call it … can you believe it? … should lock them up and throw away the key … I’d pull the lever myself, me …”

“Look, Keira Knightley,” I said, “you have two children, and neither of them is more than, what, six years old?” I raised my voice a little for the benefit of the bystanders. “Nothing to do with me, you know. People always told me, be careful what you do, don’t go around breaking young girls’ hearts. And Keira Knightley is not my love. She’s just a girl who thinks that I am the one. But the child is not my son.” … Yes, I know. But I thought it had a kind of a ring to it …

“But I lost him!” screeched Keira Knightley. “Of course I did. I lost our child. He knew, you see, the boy knew. He knew he could never be fully loved by a man and a woman …” her head bowed again. Suddenly it jerked up, and Keira Knightley placed one hand on her forehead, palm outwards. “Oh my, I think I’m going to swoon!” she squeaked.

Swoon? Really? I mean, who says that? You might say, “Oh, I’m coming over a little queer” or “God, I think I’m going to faint”, but “Oh my, I’m going to swoon?” Whatever it was, Keira Knightley did seem to swoon – or faint – and she swooned – or fainted - all over a load of display boxes. Suddenly Keira Knightley was on the floor, with cardboard boxes and Torres oranges rolling all around her ...


Torres Oranges. Your rough, coarse hands glide over glistening wet skin. Open it up. Inhale the intoxicating scent of the soft, tempting flesh at your mouth. Aaah. Run your tongue ever so slowly all around it with narrowed eyes and a mocking smile. That’s right. Lick it. Slurp it. Nibble it. And then eat it up. It’s yours, and no one else’s. Show it who’s boss. Feel that juice running down your chin, over your tongue, and down your throat. Torres Oranges.


“What’s all this?” said a voice at my side. That pockmarked face again. Ramón, in another of his sharp suits, had just come in the door.

I snorted as I watched a couple of customers helping the sobbing Keira Knightley up amid all the oranges on the floor: “Oh, nothing, it’s just this actress who … … well, actually, Ramón … she was causing a bit of an affray here, yes, yes … yes, she was. Creating a terrible scene. Oh, awful, it was – in she came, shouting and screaming about how crappy Torres oranges are, and how she’d never ever buy them, and that nobody should buy Torres oranges, a health hazard, she even said, and then, well, she just started throwing all the Torres boxes on the floor, look."

“She what? An actress? Isn’t that … oh yes, I know who it is. I saw her in The Danish Girl. And one of the Jason Bourne films, too. Bloody Scandinavians. I’ll take care of this lass, don’t you worry.”

He strode over and took Keira Knightley roughly by the arm, and headed for the exit with the distraught actress. “You’re out of here, Alicia Vikander. We’re going down to the police station to see a friend of mine. You people come over here and insult our oranges because you don’t have any yourselves, only fjords, expensive booze and porn. The nerve of you Scandos, how dare …” and his voice faded as they reached the street.

I could hear two old ladies discussing all this, rather loudly too, since both of them seemed to be slightly hard of hearing:

“Who was that pretty young lady, Puri? Isn’t she one of those actresses? Oh, yes, yes, she is, she was the daughter in Downton Abbey, wasn’t she? Dear me. The one … you know … who got into all that … well …” - she lowered her voice a little – “ … that trouble … with that man. The man who died. In her … in her, you know, in her … her boudoir, Puri. Scandal, Puri, scandal. It happens in the best families, you know.”

“No, María, that was Michelle Dockery. This girl was …”

“No, don’t tell me, don’t tell me, dear. It’s that one who plays a poor unfortunate girl down on her luck, forced to … oh, you know,” she half-whispered in horror, “… do things … terrible things … unholy things … with, with … men … with lots of men … for … for money, you know … and then she meets a multimillionaire with vertigo who changes her life forever.”

“No, María, that was Julia Roberts. This is …”

“No, no, I know who it is now, my dear. It’s the actress with THAT dress. The disgusting, depraved, lewd one, you know. All those gold safety pins holding a skimpy piece of cloth together and all her … bits, you know … hanging out so shamelessly and wantonly, do you remember? I mean, really, such goings-on.”

“No, María, this one was Keira Knightley. You mean Liz Hurley.”

“Liz Hurley?”

“Yes, you know. She was Hugh Grant’s girlfriend. Hugh Grant. He’s an actor who …”

María sniffed. “As if I didn’t know who Hugh Grant is! He’s the one who got caught by the filth in LA with his Y-fronts around his ankles and a two-bit hooker giving him a ten-dollar tackle-shocker. With butterfly flicks included. And a right shocker it must have been too – I mean, the cops only came over because the car brake lights kept going on and off as he threw himself around and his foot kept stamping on the pedal.”

I went over to where José was picking up all the oranges and putting them back into their boxes.

“Well,” he said, “Ramón seems to have settled her hash. Looks like you’re rid of Keira Knightley.”

“Yes, José,” I said grimly. “I’m rid of Keira Knightley.” Then I took my sunglasses out of my breast pocket, and put them on very slowly. I looked at him with my head on one side. “Until next time ...”



This story was brought to you by Torres Oranges. Probably the best oranges in the world. Torres Oranges refresh the parts other oranges cannot reach. Keira Knightley has been known to swoon over Torres Oranges. Torres Oranges.


[Edited at 2021-02-05 12:39 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-05 12:40 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-05 13:07 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-05 13:21 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-05 13:23 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-05 17:20 GMT]
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More, more! Feb 5

Can't wait till next time...

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@Portia Feb 5

Thanks, Portia! But that's the end of Keira Knightley.

...


Or is it? ...


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Mariano and Luis, or how love goes sour Feb 6

Spare a thought for Mariano Rajoy, former Partido Popular PM, now back in his job as property registrar after PP lost power to the red hordes (well, OK, the Socialist Party, along with a few pony-tailed pinko progressives). Being a property registrar is a nice little earner in Spain, but it’s becoming increasingly clear, according to lantern-jawed former PP treasurer Luis Bárcenas, that he was in on the cash-in-envelopes scandal some years ago. A formidable personage, Luis. The “Ramón” e... See more
Spare a thought for Mariano Rajoy, former Partido Popular PM, now back in his job as property registrar after PP lost power to the red hordes (well, OK, the Socialist Party, along with a few pony-tailed pinko progressives). Being a property registrar is a nice little earner in Spain, but it’s becoming increasingly clear, according to lantern-jawed former PP treasurer Luis Bárcenas, that he was in on the cash-in-envelopes scandal some years ago. A formidable personage, Luis. The “Ramón” enforcer in my Torres Oranges ramblings was inspired by him, to give you an idea ...

Torres Oranges. Oranges have simply never been this good before. Just look at those … oh, sorry, I digress ...

If you saw Luis walking down the street, you’d give him a wide berth like the wide boy he appears to be – large frame, sharp clothes, steel-grey hair slicked back with gel. Exquisite manners, but kind of menacing. Think John Gotti. Or Margaret Thatcher’s boot boy Norman Tebbit back in the day, only with more hair. Known in PP circles as Luis the Bastard, and you don’t get to be called that just by chance, do you?

Luis was sentenced to 29 years for doling out cash “donations” from the business fraternity to senior members of the party in envelopes in exchange for lucrative public procurement contracts, but Luis, after all, was the accountant, so he kept records of all the “transactions” in a little book, with initials against names. Apparently “M.R.” was in there too, although he’d held back on that until now. When he was first arrested, and the PP’s initial reaction was outrage and disgust at the very idea that anybody could so much as conceive these ugly goings-on, Mariano Rajoy sent him an SMS, “Be strong, Luis”, he wrote. Because Luis was going to prison. Luis probably thought that the party would get him out of jug (but, of course, that would be impossible, wouldn’t it, because the judiciary and the executive are always independent entities, as any fool knows), and he certainly thought that his wife would be spared. But wifey went down a while ago, pardon my French, and this seems to be what has sparked Luis’s lust for vengeance. And now Mariano's back in the spotlight.

All those names in his little book, of course, vehemently denied it all. When fingers were being pointed at all and sundry from a prison cell, Mariano even ceased to use the accountant’s name. When asked about it, he referred to his old friend Luis the Strong as “that man of whom you speak”.

PP boss and Chief Gnome Pablo Casado, who seems to have been dossing down at Spanish TV and radio studios recently, given the frequency of his moaning diatribes in the last few days against the government’s general uselessness, was suddenly unavailable for comment on the sleaze. Although it doesn’t actually affect him, as a relative newcomer. No. He had been dodgy in another sense. Just another politician who came up with a university master’s without studying for it or anything, a mere nothing which could be easily swept under the carpet. TV crews could only shout questions at him the other day from a distance as he got into a car between diatribe and diatribe.

To give you an idea of the mindset of the politicians we are dealing with here, some PP-ites have even said earnestly that the cash-in-envelopes scandal is simply “a thing of the past”. Really? Really. Well, that’s all right then. If only Ted Bundy could have said that at his trial: “All those women I killed, it’s a thing of the past. I’m already on record as stating that I’m the most cold-hearted son of a bitch you’ll ever meet, but that’s little old me in the present, and all those women were in the past. So really you should release me. And let me kill a few more.” But they executed Ted for things he did in the past. They always execute and imprison people for things they did in the past, don’t they? I can’t see a judge saying “I hereby sentence you to thirty years for a murder you committed next week.”

In Spain, however, scandal rears its ugly head on both sides of the political spectrum. I mentioned pony tails above. Take Pablo Iglesias, former pony-tailed leftie firebrand and now second deputy PM. There are three deputy PMs, I think. Why do you need so many deputy PMs? To create unnecessary well-paid jobs for your partners in government, silly. What a daft question. And Irene Montero, his wife, another leftie firebrand, and now Ministeress of Equality. She doesn’t have a pony tail usually, but it’s different for women. And Pablo doesn’t have one either, now. He now ties it up at the back. That’s what power does to you. It takes away your pony tail.

Anyway, the Marquis and Marchioness of Galapagar, as they are known in certain circles, due to their tiny, tiny little mansion with all mod cons in one of Madrid’s nicer parts, are now having to field questions about why a public functionary was diverted from her labours to take care of their twins, Leo and Manuel. How annoying for them. They’ve already had to justify their huge fuck-off house in the last few years on many occasions, railing all the while against the problems experienced by blind single-mother wheelchair-bound transsexual immigrants and their ten children being evicted (by their not-so-radical government partners, of course, despite their protests) from a 20 m2 dump in the arse-end of Madrid, and now this.

Life can be so unfair. Don't you agree?
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They would be good friends... Feb 6

expressisverbis wrote:
They are the kind of "friends" I will use to to give special warnings to bad neighbours.
(Matthias: I can give you their contacts.)


P.L.F. only yesterday told me something about the Dutch "Poldermaffia" and when I looked up the Internet for it, I got the following hit:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cekgc_fRYx8

The guy on the right side is in everything, both in appearance and gesture, an almost exact copy of the son of the old bloke, who made so much trouble here in the house for decades before he finally died last year. But that didn't improve the situation, because his son became already his inheritance before his dad died, and there we have him, 2 m tall and the King of the northern part of the street. The character in the video may look young and a bit exaggerated, but have him older and in my age and behaving exact the same way as he did when he was in his twenties. And he does. And he's got a lot of followers and fellows here among the locals and in some areas of Kiels local business scene, ranging from his uncle, running a mid level trucking company with best contacts to other local companies and solicitors in Hamburg, who know the bad tricks, and down or up to the lower ranks of the Police, but high enough to have admittance to certain data banks and some relations, which can be of importance, when in trouble. The son (his nephew) is working for him and of course calls himself "Chief Executive Driver" on Facebook. Some assume that he is responsible for turfing away all that drivers for his uncle when they don't work overtime unpaid. End of month my flat will be empty. Is there anyone interested?

[Bearbeitet am 2021-02-06 15:01 GMT]


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Candidate Feb 6

I know a one-legged homosexual ex-ISIS Namibian refugee here who wants to move to Germany with his three children, one of whom has cerebral palsy and needs constant care, another is blind, and the third is autistic. He's keen to learn German despite his occasional paranoid psychosis episodes, but he really does need to know whether there is an en suite bathroom, crèche facilies, and a park nearby with swings and slides. He'd be happy to arrange a little house-warming party with canapés for his... See more
I know a one-legged homosexual ex-ISIS Namibian refugee here who wants to move to Germany with his three children, one of whom has cerebral palsy and needs constant care, another is blind, and the third is autistic. He's keen to learn German despite his occasional paranoid psychosis episodes, but he really does need to know whether there is an en suite bathroom, crèche facilies, and a park nearby with swings and slides. He'd be happy to arrange a little house-warming party with canapés for his new neighbours if it all works out.Collapse


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Housing shortage... Feb 6

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

I know a one-legged homosexual ex-ISIS Namibian refugee here who wants to move to Germany with his three children, one of whom has cerebral palsy and needs constant care, another is blind, and the third is autistic. He's keen to learn German despite his occasional paranoid psychosis episodes, but he really does need to know whether there is an en suite bathroom, crèche facilies, and a park nearby with swings and slides. He'd be happy to arrange a little house-warming party with canapés for his new neighbours if it all works out.

...is tough here in Kiel, that's why the housing company will leave the flat empty for a month or two, just in case any would be interested and visit the rooms while I still live here, which would be common practice, and ask, how a living would be here, i.e. in terms of neighbours etc. I think they will just let it all start again, with walls that can hear, windows that can talk, and a backyard with no witnesses. Most important: The staircase has to be clean!


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Yearning for a polder Feb 6

God, I wish I had a polder of my own. Stretching into the distance as far as the eye can see. I'd go out there to Polderland with my son in the car, and I'd say, "Son, some day this polder won't be yours either. But have a Heineken, son, and just pretend. I know, I know, you're only ten, but you've got to learn, and that's what we Poldermafiosos do. We tank ourselves up on Heineken, we drive out to what we call "our polders" and we look at them, Heineken in hand. Heineken. 100% Dutch. Because He... See more
God, I wish I had a polder of my own. Stretching into the distance as far as the eye can see. I'd go out there to Polderland with my son in the car, and I'd say, "Son, some day this polder won't be yours either. But have a Heineken, son, and just pretend. I know, I know, you're only ten, but you've got to learn, and that's what we Poldermafiosos do. We tank ourselves up on Heineken, we drive out to what we call "our polders" and we look at them, Heineken in hand. Heineken. 100% Dutch. Because Heineken refreshes the polders that other dickheads cannot reach."Collapse


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Property for sale Feb 6

If anyone fancies relocating to the land of the Language of Heaven, my property portfolio is about to be cleft cruelly in two.

Don’t worry, you won’t have to put up with Tom practising his scales while gargling mouthwash every morning, Kelly stomping up and down the stairs on his stilts, or Shirley doing her nightly Goldfinger cam shows.

That’s my current abode here on Party Road. At the old place in the country, the only neighbours are a flock (herd? pride? bevy?
... See more
If anyone fancies relocating to the land of the Language of Heaven, my property portfolio is about to be cleft cruelly in two.

Don’t worry, you won’t have to put up with Tom practising his scales while gargling mouthwash every morning, Kelly stomping up and down the stairs on his stilts, or Shirley doing her nightly Goldfinger cam shows.

That’s my current abode here on Party Road. At the old place in the country, the only neighbours are a flock (herd? pride? bevy? diego?) of alpacas. Dopey-looking woolly llamas who make weird squealing noises when they feel randy. A bit like me.



[Edited at 2021-02-06 13:36 GMT]
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CafeTran Espresso
You've never met a CAT tool this clever!

Translate faster & easier, using a sophisticated CAT tool built by a translator / developer. Accept jobs from clients who use SDL Trados, MemoQ, Wordfast & major CAT tools. Download and start using CafeTran Espresso -- for free

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Anycount & Translation Office 3000
Translation Office 3000

Translation Office 3000 is an advanced accounting tool for freelance translators and small agencies. TO3000 easily and seamlessly integrates with the business life of professional freelance translators.

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