England is not part of Europe.
London might be an hour and a half from northern France by Eurostar, but England's as much part of Europe as is Pakistan.
European cities smell of wee.
Be thankful this isn't Smell-o-Vision.
What this photo doesn't show (thankfully) is the Belgian approach to public toilets: literally, public toilets. Meaning open-air slashers on street corners. And yes, the Belgian male populace were happy to drop trou and water the plastic even in brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine. And noone thought this was in any way odd.
Belgians are odd.
QED. But what could realistically be expected of a country famous solely for soapy beer, chocolate and pedophiles?
From our Latest Advances in Soapy Beer files: Hoegaarden Citron. Soap with lemon flavouring. Think Sunlight dishwashing liquid with carbonation.
European universities are run-down shitholes.
The main lecture block at the University of Gent resembled a cross between the access tunnels at St James Station on Sydney's decrepit City Circle underground, and a tiled urinal from a '60s pub.
We are shit hot.
We might be from the other side of the world, but scientifically, we've got the Eurotrash covered. Our patented brand of 'Break stuff to figure out how it works' science had Engerland and the Continent's finest running scared. Or, in the case of the boss' old boss, making very dubious excuses. 'Sure we can't do any functional studies in our model system, but the advantage of that is it's easier to come up with hypotheses...' Which you, erm, can't test.
Afrikaans may be the language of love, but Flemish Dutch gets the chicks hotter, wetter and nastier than a dockworker's armpit.
On a related topic, the Flemish Dutch for 'Art' is 'Kunst'. Appropriately. Particularly appropriately given that the Museum of Contemporary Art translates as 'Museum Actuele Kunst'...
...which is quite fitting since I've always maintained contemporary art is actually a load of old vag.
Of all the European races to get on the piss with at a European conference, the best by far are Australians and New Zealanders.
Which was why our tribe of drunks comprised me, two Kiwis, three girls from Queensland and a couple of lost Poms and Seppos.
Russians can't hold their piss.
Judging by the pair of sorry fuckers who attached themselves to our party after the conference dinner, nicknamed 'Gropie' and 'Fightie' based on their preferred means of interaction with our peeps. Interesting fact: the current poo-fight in South Ossetia was instigated by Russia getting fucked off by Georgia talking to a girl Russia was interested in, and Georgia's mates telling Russia to fuck off when Russia tried to get friendly.
Londoners could use cheering the fuck up. Seriously.
Ever wondered why no Londoners actually work in hospitality in London anymore? It's because they're shit at being hospitable. And because the one million Poles have to do something (other than holding up the power lines of course.) The Cockney shuttle bus driver who took us to our hotel on our first hours in London genuinely looked in hideous discomfort as a result of us paying him to do the job he was employed to do.
This is largely because:
The English are genetically inferior to Australians and New Zealanders.
Think of the settlement of the Antipodes as an experiment in targeted evolution. Take all your resourceful, entrepreneurial, risk-taking adventurers - either by rounding up volunteer migrants or by locking up a bunch of petty criminals and Irish nationalists - and remove them from your gene pool, to send them tens of thousands of miles to the other side of the world. Is it any wonder their offspring go on to be a bunch of self-motivated, intelligent, competitive, authority-ignoring hard cases who routinely kick your arse at any sort of competitive meeting, sporting or intellectual? Or why the genetic flotsam that stayed home are such a sorry bunch of gits? Whose only recognisable features seem to be (a) whinging and (b) the ability to spontaneously self-aggregate into a queue when in gatherings of three or more? Britain's Sports minister declared in the papers that they were on track for a record haul of medals at Beijing; unfortunately noone pointed out that competitive queueing is only a non-medal demonstration sport at this games, though obviously it's in for London 2012. Give an Englishman the opportunity to be in a queue, and then to be able to whinge about being in a queue, and you've got an Englishman who's mere seconds away from combusting with delight. Which, of course, he will whinge about.
The only reason anyone bothers painting pedestrian crossings on European roads is to give approaching drivers sighting marks to line up their targets.
Though you may be in the right, the ensuing argument may be difficult to win, given the language barrier and the fact they're in a car. I find loud swearing works quite well.
The Tube rocks.
Literally. Though usually it just wallows like a harpooned whale. Time for a bit of trackwork methinks lads? Or, in the great British tradition of patronising euphemism, 'planned engineering'?
All the well-worn, long-standing cliches about English food and drink are well-worn, long-standing cliches because of one simple fact. They're true.
The food's awful, the coffee's hideous (burnt and bitter, as results from turning your espresso machine up to Vulcanize like a prize fuckwit) and the beer's warm. Even when it's thirty degrees outside.
You know things are grim when this bucket of arse starts looking a winner.
I am an accent slut.
Seriously, get me away from home for just a week or so and I'll pick up anything you've got. Five days in Flanders field and I'm sounding like John Travolta in Goldmember.
Is good, yessh?
In the words of TISM: London. The five hundred most snooty people think something's important. Big fuckin' whoopie.
Yeah, London's OK. It's a big city. People everywhere, stuff happening. But it's not worth the price of admission. Quite why generations of kids from both sides of the ditch are compelled to fling themselves at it like moths to a blue electric zappy thing is a bit beyond me.
And Jesus suffering fuck is it a dash on the exxy side.
Streetside parking lot in average London side-street. Or maybe the Historic Supercars display at the British Motor Show. I don't remember which.
Singapore Airlines have some fuck-off weird ideas of what constitutes breakfast.
Pork vermicelli? At 6am? Not even superhot Asian poontang in a silk full body condom is convincing me that's a good idea. I'll have the rubberized omelette thanks Chung Li.
And finally - read your ticket stub. It speaks the truth.
Mine is from the HANNspree World Superbike Round at Brands Hatch, and says the following: 'WARNING: Motorsport can be DANGEROUS. Despite the organisers taking all reasonable precautions, unavoidable accidents can happen. In respect of these you are present at your own risk.'
We had a fantastic day at the Superbikes. We watched bikes, drank beer, ate rubbish food and got rained on. Craig Jones didn't have a fantastic day. Craig Jones died last Monday night from injuries he sustained in a hideous crash in the Supersport race. By all accounts he was a lovely lad, great white British hope, career on the up-and-up, leading the race in front of his home crowd, when it all went horribly, horribly wrong for him. And for a mate of his, Kempsey's 2001 World Supersport champion Andrew Pitt, third in line behind Jones when he highsided off his Honda at 200 kays directly into the path of the following freight train, whose own CBR600RR inflicted the injuries which finally did for him. I could talk about how empty platitudes like 'He went doing what he loved' must be for his family, his mates or even Andrew Pitt, or the hideous sinking feeling in my own gut watching them trying to peel him off the tarmac fifty yards from where I was standing, unfurling a bright red curtain to hide the reality from the punters, while the fuckers on the PA chortled on idiotically and oh-so-Englishly as though nothing at all was going on.
Leaving us with two final thoughts: (a) the English are gormless, spineless cunts; and (b) Craig Jones, despite being English, was - is - more a man than anyone who left Brands Hatch on their own two legs that day.
Vale that man.
The Doctor is OUT.
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