It seems that I start each one of these missives with an effusive apology for the absence of timely updates. Knowing myself, as I do, I cannot either pretend or promise that this will not recur. Therefore, in the interests of temporal economy (time saving, stupid!) I shall offer an all purpose apology, to which long-suffering readers shall be referred to in future overdue editions of this blathering journal. (If Vitus shows me how, I might even be able to create a link to the apology and back, because technology does things like that, or so I'm told!) Furthermore, in the interests of even more temporal economy, I shall incude generic apologies for my behaviour while under the influence and other stressful occasions such as those caused by the excess of blood in my alcohol stream. Thusly, those who feel in any way slighted by my person can log on and obtain an automatic, sincere and personal mea culpa from which they can select the relevant bits and print out with aview to framing and hanging behind their respective toilet bowls at home. By the way, for those of you in Norway, Love Story and countless others, an apology does not lift a ban from frequenting the bar. (My lawyer told me to stick in that last bit. So, that all said in a characteristically clean, crisp and concise manner, here goes:
"To whom it may concern:
I, Ali Visserman, modestly otherwise known as; 'gator, Papi, oom Ali, and God, to my knowledge, as well as a plethora of names bandied about behind my back (which I shall not list here for lack of space and censorial concerns), hereby duly, humbly, sincerely, unconditionally (see preamble), immediately and retroactively deeply regret, recant, repent, apologise and beg forgiveness upon bended knee (not to be confused with the other bended knee incident, somewhere in the archives, October 2002) to _______________________________ (insert name or names here, unless you are a John, Sergio or Ashley...in your cases I really meant it!) for any past, present or future insult, objection, offense, stress, PMS, mental anguish, psychological harm, anger, ire, nervousness, anxiety, religion, impotence, lack of appertite, loss of desire to drink (perish the thought), substance addiction, deviant sexual behaviour (does not include MFF), or a craving for Michael Jackson (a whole another category of deviant sexual behaviour) caused by any, and any possible combination of, real or imagined actions, words, thoughts and looks, (or the lack of any of the foregoing):
For getting drunk; For getting drunk with intent; For getting drunk negligently; For getting drunk and drinking bad vodka; For getting drunk and insulting your stupid football/rugby/baseball or any other sports team; For getting drunkand reminding everybody that you are an American; For getting drunk and loudly lecturing on the cons of being an American; For getting drunk and ditto other nationalities; For getting drunk and ridiculing your race, creed or politics; For getting drunk and loudly pointing out that you have jug-handle ears; For getting drunk and loudly pointing out that you have eyes like piss-holes in the snow; For getting drunk and loudly pointing out any other grotesque (or miniscule) physical proclivity; For getting drunk and jumping down your throat at every ignorant, assinine, puerile, idiotic, uninformed and unfunny comment, statement or joke; For getting drunk and reminding everyone that it is your round; For getting drunk and horny; For getting drunk and telling lewd, sexist jokes; For getting drunk and telling politically incorrect jokes; For getting drunk and drooling upon perky mammary glands; For getting drunk and fondling or trying to fondle said glands; For getting drunk and fondling shapely glutei maximi (any Latin scholars out there?) For getting drunk and suggesting that her clothes would look better crumpled up on the floor next to my bed; For getting drunk and being parsimonious with foreplay; For getting drunk and falling asleep on the job; For getting drunk and, when I'm done, wishing she'd turn into an Absolut and a pack of Marlboros; For not getting drunk; For not getting drunk in conjunction with all of the above; For not updating the blog.
Other conditions may apply. Please see overleaf."
Phew...I'm glad that's now out of the way!
So, I guess I managed to avoid telling you about the goings on (and off) for a while with the above diatribe. But nothing can be put off indefinitely.
First, let's tackle the story of Our Lady of Eternal Vigil, the erstwhile Child Bride. In a fit of uncharacteristic deference to my personal freedom, and egged on not just a little by Germana, the little one decided to inflict herself on the hapless Britons for a while. Ignoring minor details such as enrolling at the language school, obtaining the appropriate visas, or sorting out accomodation upon arrival, she tackled the one overbearingly serious issue; she retired to the beach for ten days to top up her tan, just before her travel date. It will stand her in good stead in the sub-zero temperatures of wintry London, swathed head-to-toe under the multiple layers of clothing. To my enormous relief, multiple farewell parties, dinners and barbecues, help and encouragement from likely and unlikely sources, declarations of undying frienship from all and sundry did not sway her resolve to leave.
On the day, the would be refugee alighted at the Varig check-in with numerous volumes of overweight luggage which she managed to get whisked through with an innocent flutter of her eye-lashes. The check-in was all done before I could even park the car. After a few classes of claret and a minor anxiety attack at the airport bar, reluctantly she headed to passport control.
Sensibly dressed for the benefit of immigration officers at Heathrow, a waiflike figure, far too small for her rucksack, she walked ahead, eyes aswim, stomach knotted, turning to wave goodbye at every other step as she disappeared down the lane reserved for flight crews. Same thing all over again, plus a reddish embarrased look, and down the passenger lane. Copious waves and blown kisses, and then she was gone. I'd thought I would go to the airport and get myself a pair of wings, but I must admit, I was more than a little sad as I drove back to a here-to-fore unimaginable unsupervised night at the bar. A word of warning to the hapless, unsuspecting inhabitants of London Town. There is a ninja amongst you, beautifully packaged but capable moving objects a thousand times her bodyweight with nary a glance. As for the ladies-in-waiting around these parts, I have only one thing to say: The corner stool is empty.
Our ninja is not the only one that is leaving these shores. Karl D'Mello, a.k.a. Caramello, a shameless London-red also has departed, having hung on to the bitter end, ending the seven year reign of the telecoms contractors, which he started, together with the likes of our favourite Makam, Andy Thorpe (tee hee!), Blind Ronnie (I Knew Jim Baxter)Woodcock and Gerry Talbot, amongst others. Now only his Bobness is still around and under the thumb!
Our very own gaycop, try scorer extraordinaire and the biggest exponent of his own achievements, Mark Draycott has also decided that the challenge of being the Chairman-of-the-Board at CSG Global is unequal to the Metropolitan Police, where he intends to go back on the beat after a five year career break. At least PC Plod will have Josy to come home to everynight. They are not getting married, of course not, perish the thought. Does anyone know of a "sort-of-serious-girlfriend-but-not-a-fiancee" visa? If so, please e-mail markdraycott@yahoo.com! She is going to live in Catford because, well, if they have a tiff, she can just pop over to her Mom's somewhere in the Amazon! Right. Mark, smell the coffee, son; you are history.
Talking of history, another erstwhile O'Malley's manager...or should I say manageur?...also a Marc, the little frog, young bull, Asterix, the raffish Gaul, whatever, is also tying the knot, date set for June 12th although it has been put back a few times already. Congratulations to Judy for her steadfastness and resolve in getting her mission accomplished deep in enemy territory. I will be there to see this event with mine own eyes!
The moral of the story is that if you don't want to get spliced, don't be a manager at O'Malley's. Is that not right, Billzinho?
Not everything is one way and away, mind. Tim Vaas, much loved big Dutchman from upstate New York will be heading this way for St. Patrick's Day to get his quota of greens, after a few years of forced absence. I'll put the one on ice for you, big guy. Jeff Gardner, to whom all may complain about their electricity bills, will also be coming down for St. Patrick's, but unlike Tim who is coming to get his fill, Jeff will be looking for a reverse action. How are condom futures trading nowadays? Obviously, Murphy's Law will also be here for the festivities.
Then there is a rumour that Tony "Basher" Davies might be coming to retire in Brazil, the old bastard.
I'll reserve a whole episode for the Johns soon, including police action, fire brigades, ambulances and other sorts of flashing lights all over the place. Little is in Oslo for a month and under the thumb; Magda decided to invigilate at close quarters so the poor sod can't even play away anymore. Big is in and out (of the country, of course) deciding where to take a few years of R&R.; Tough life. The next edition will have a full section on Graham too! By the way, a happy birthday to Graham, Andy Hague out there in the sticks, Rafael and his mulatas, and last and, well, probably least, to O'Malley's which completed 74 years on the first Tuesday of February. (That is seven years that I own it and four as O'Malley's.)
