How to steal other people's money

What the heck just happened in Cyprus?! Incompetent, bankrupt Government asks their European 'friends' to lend them 10bn Euro to rescue the country from collapse.




Cyprus: "We are on the verge of bankruptcy. Please help."
EU partners: "How bad is it?"
Cyprus: "Let's put it this way. Our President has more spare change down the back of his sofa than there is available cash in our national bank."
EU Partners: "Auch! Been a naughty boy have we?"
Cyprus: "Please help, we need a 10bn Euro loan."
EU Partners: "Okay, no problem"
Cyprus: "Thank you so much!"
EU Partners: "No problem, what are friends for. We are one big happy family right? By the way we forgot to mention that to get the loan you will need to find 5nb Euro first."
Cyprus: "But we are bankrupt!?"
EU Partners: "You will think of something." 

And so they did! I wonder what 'financial genius' first came up with the idea that the Cypriot Government could simply steal a load of money from ordinary savers. Quick, get the Nobel price for finance out.

Makes you wonder why Cyprus needed a loan in the first place. Surely the Cypriot Government could just steal the full 10bn Euro. Or why not make it 20bn Euro - just to be on the safe side. I mean, when you are able to get hold of other people's money, make sure you use both hands!

I love the irony of it all. The Cypriot Government has made a major mess, but when it comes to cleaning it up - everyone is suddenly in it together.

A Cypriot Government spokesman suggested that it was the people's own fault, having elected such an incompetent Government in the first place!


Now I finally understand why they have the 'right to bear arms' in the USA. 
"So you want to steal my money? Well, let's see what Smith & Wesson thinks about that!"

Popcorn, bloody popcorn!

I don't like popcorn. Why? Because bits of shell get stuck in between my teeth forever. 
While watching 'Die Hard 1' I ate a large bucket of popcorn. Naturally a stubborn piece of shell got stuck and it was still stuck by the time 'Die Hard II' was released. After that I stopped eating popcorn.



Simon and I went to the cinema last night to see 'Parker'. It was my treat, so I wanted to pay for the tickets.

"Two tickets for Parker please," I requested from the young man operating the till. He had a metal stud by each temple, at the end of his eyebrows, and one though the skin under his lower lip.
"Do you want popcorn with that?" he replied without looking up from the till.  
"No thank you, and I don't want fries either," I replied with a smile. He looked up, clearly confused by my attempt of a joke.
"We do small, medium or large."
"No, just the tickets please."
"And we do sweet or salted?" His finger poised on the till, ready to take my order.
"I don't want popcorn."
"Okay, how about you boyfriend?" He looked past me at Simon, who was patiently waiting for me to return. "Does he want popcorn?"
"No!"
"If you buy two large popcorn, you get the second half price," suggested metal head, who  clearly had a bright future ahead of him as an irritating double-glazing salesman.
"Okay Mr & Mrs Townsend, that's three exterior windows and a patio door. Do you want popcorn with that?"



The situation reminded me of a story that Simon had told me. Years back he had been to Tunisia in North Africa on holiday when we was hassled by a street vendor, who wouldn't let he leave without selling him a carved wooden mask.

"You buy beautiful mask, yes? Only 75 dinar"
"No."
"70 dinar and beautiful mask is yours. You buy, yes?"
"No."
"Okay I see, you want more. Okay I give you more. 70 dinar and you can kiss my wife, and then you buy wooden mask?"
"No."
"You tough, but I not give up. 70 dinar, you kiss my wife and sleep with my best camel, and then you buy beautiful wooden mask. Yes?"
"No, I must go now."
"Wait, okay, okay! I understand. 65 dinar, you sleep with my wife and my best camel, and then you buy my beautiful wooden mask? Yes?"
"No, I really must go now"
"Wait, I give you final offer! 60 dinar, yes? And you sleep with me and my wife, together or separate, whatever you want, and then you sleep with my best camel, and I lend you ladder so you can reach, and then you buy my beautiful wooden carved mask, yes?"

I finally returned to Simon with our Parker movie tickets, without popcorn I am happy to note, and we quickly found our seats. It was an excellent film. Only negative was when I had to turn around and shush two men behind us, who was eating - guess what - popcorn very laud indeed.

After the movie, on the way back in the car, I noticed that something was not quite right 'downstairs'. I was itching a lot and wondered if Simon had been kind enough to give me a nasty STD?

Back at my flat I locked myself in the loo. I pulled my trousers and knickers down to have a closer look at the itching. And guess what I found in my knickers. Bits of bloody popcorn!!

The only explanation that Simon and I could come up with was that the men behind us didn't like that I had shushed them, and hence, they had decided to drop bits of popcorn down my back, while I was engrossed in the movie. Or as Simon suggested, maybe they were just messy eaters?

Either way I now hate popcorn more than ever before - whatever they are stuck between my teeth or somewhere else!

Two men in a pub...

Simon, my dead boyfriend, loves to make me laugh by telling jokes.

Here are a few of his best jokes (those that actually make you laugh!)

Two men in a pub.
- I am crazy about Diane even though she lives very far away. To keep in touch I have written her a letter every day for a year.
- Sounds great mate.
- Not really, she has just married the postman!


Teacher asks the class
- Why is English called your mother-tongue?
Someone from the back of the class answers.
- Because dad never gets a word in.


Father returns to house and meets his son.
- Dad. Dad! I drank a little vine together with mum and the postman today.
- Did you get dizzy?
- No not at all, but mum and the postman did.
- Really?
- Yes, they said that they had to go lay down.

(Simon got all red in the face when he told me this one, as he obviously thinks this is a really naughty joke. Bless!)

The inverted nibble

Recently, I acquired a new boyfriend, Simon, which has left me with little time for my five best girlfriends or writing my Blog. 

Rather than "The Koala speaks", maybe I should just rename my Blog to "The Dead Koala ", which seems to suggest that "The Koala" may not write a new entry any time soon. Takes the pressure off big time!

As for the girlfriends, I think they have given up on me going out with them Friday or Saturday night, like we used to do BS (Before Simon). 

Believe it or not, Simon and I still managed to run into them - well sort of. 

This Sunday, Simon took me to lunch in a pub on the edge of Bristol town centre. In the evening, the pub is heaving with drunk and sexually frustrated men and women, while the clientèle found wondering in around Sunday lunch time, when they serve up a half decent roast dinner for under five pounds, tend to be able to stand unaided and be less likely to vomit repeatedly in someone's handbag.

We sad at a small wooden table next to the bar and was tucking into the roast pork with all the trimmings, when I heard the two men behind the bar laughing their heads off.
From what I could initially make out, one of them had been working behind the bar the evening before, when a group of girls had walked in and sat down at the bar. 
One of the girls had been particular interested in chatting him up, and had after a little small talk asked if he wanted to pop around later and see her inverted nibble.



I don't know about you, but even if I was the last woman on Earth, and I somehow did have one or more inverted nibbles at my disposal, and it was up to me to save the human race by attracting a suitable mate, I would be unlikely to say: "Fancy a cup of coffee and a bit of inverted nibble at my place? Shall we say 2 am?"


As I sad there and looked at Simon shovelling down his roast dinner, I could not help but wonder what crazy woman would use her inverted nibble to pull a barman in a sweaty Bristol pub. And then it struck me that my friend Bev actually is the proud owner of an inverted nibble (I know because I have spend many an hour looking at it against my will, but Bev insists that I check it over once in a while to see if it is turning into a 'normal' nibble!), and that she is very much single. 
As not to put Simon off his pudding, which was quickly disappearing down the hatch too, I kept my suspicion to myself.

When we got back to my flat, and Simon had taken up permanent residence in the loo with the Sunday newspaper, I saw my chance to call Bev. 
After the usual greetings and chit-chat, I asked what she and the girls had been up to last night. Only to keen to let me know how much of an 'Oh my God brilliant night' I had been missing, she started off telling me about their evening and how they had visited the pub where Simon and I had just inhaled a large Sunday lunch.

"So, did your 'use-inverted-nibble-to-pull-barman' trick work?" I asked cheekily.   
Dead silence!
"Bev? Are you still there?"
"Maybe...," Bev replied. "How the devil do you know about this. Did you spy on us?"
"Spy on you, come on woman get a grip," I laughed "The barman told his friend, who is now busy Tweeting about it, and I just happened to overhear them."
"Oh my God!", whispered Bev. 
"And I just realised what my next Blog entry will be about," I continued. "Before long you will have people stopping you in the street politely asking you to expose your bosom and your special nipple. Bev, you are going to be famous!"
"Oh my God!!!", screamed Bev.
"So did it work or not?" I asked again. No answer, she had slammed the phone down.

Don't know about you, but I am keen for Bev to let me know if she got lucky or not, though it may take a decade or two before she has forgiven me writing this entry.

Sorry dear crazy and horny Bev, but the world just gotta know. :))

Pope Frances I - a real rebel!

First the abdication, then white smoke, we have a new Pope - Hallelujah! 

Finally, the world  makes sense again! After having camped out in front of the telly the last 48 hours, afraid of going to the loo in case I missed anything, a new Pope has finally been elected. (I guess this means that I have to go to work tomorrow?!)

I just can't help laugh because of the hysteria surrounding the whole thing. One woman, who was asked what Pope Frances Ist mend to her, almost couldn't get the words out. Crying she said: "It is wonderful, I am so full of hope for the future"


My initial reaction is why? Does she expect the Pope to drop by to personally help her with the electricity bill, the dishes or to put a good word in for her at her next job interview?

Pope: "You must hire this one, she is such a good Catholic, has never used contraception in her entire life." 



According to those who know about this Pope business, by selecting a 78 year old man from Argentina, the Cardinals have apparently send a clear signal that the Catholic church is ready to move in a new and highly exciting direction.

Pope Frances I is the first Pope to be elected from outside Europe in 1300 years, he is the first Pope to take the name Frances, and he is, are you sitting down, the first Jesuit Pope. 

Blimey, I don't know about you, but I can't take much more excitement. Sounds like the church and the Pope are completely out of control! Wonder if he is the first Pope to wear his underwear back to front too? A real rebel indeed!

Oh! I nearly forgot in all the excitement. The new Pope naturally objects to gay marriage, but he is apparently a staunch fighter for social justice and the poor, as long as they are not gay and want to get married.

At least the Pope is on Twitter, which should enable him to quickly get the message across that he and the Catholic church is staying firmly rooted in the past.

I believe this is called "Progressive Conservatism" i.e. standing still.  

Viva il Popa!

Mothering Sunday

Yesterday, it was 'guilt trip' Sunday here in the UK, also known as Mother's day.

I am sure there are millions of people, who on a daily basis pay tribute to their mother by complementing her latest gastronomic creation, making a thankful remark when finding that the dirty socks under the bed somehow magically have returned to the sock draw clean, or like myself keep in touch regularly on email and phone throughout the week.

An yet, if you don't participate in Mother's day by spending huge sums on a truck lead of flowers, mountains of chocolate, a tent sized card with a sickly sweat inscription and a meal out in a five star restaurant, well then you simply don't appreciate your mother. 
You are in fact viewed as extremely ungrateful, clearly forgetting that she carried you around for nine months, and that you have never really given her anything else than ugly stretch marks and sleepless nights.

If you dare to answer 'Nothing?!' to the question: "So what did you buy your mother?", well then you are looked at suspiciously as if you are in the process of farming you old mother off to the first and best old folks home, so you can flock her house and last remaining possessions in a garage sale. 

Mother's day must be the best business idea ever. Get one 1/3 of the population to feel guilty and get them to spend heaps of money buying stuff for the other 1/3.
There is simply no end to the variations, a goldmine indeed.

"Really, you didn't buy the guy who lives across the street from you, and who you have never spoken to before anything on stranger's appreciation day?"
Or 
"No wonder why your dog is upset with you. You haven't bought him anything at all to celebrate pooch's day!"

Clearly scared of being the only daughter in the UK, who didn't get her mother anything, I bought flowers and a box of chocolates. In fact, I was so guilty that I out of respect for my mother washed the car before driving the eight miles across town to visit her. I haven't washed the car for a while, turns out it is white!

My mother was of cause please to see me, though her joy dampened when she realised that the chocolate contained traces of nut. She has an allergy, and had to watch while me and dad eat the lot :) 

How sad that we measure love in how much money one spends on a particular Sunday once a year. Commercialising love and appreciation for another human being just seems wrong, and yet we have come to accept that this is the best way to show someone that we care and deal with our own guilt.

Anyway, just can't wait for Daughter's day! :))

Advanced diplomacy

For once, my boyfriend Simon is not coming over this evening. The flat feels a little empty and while watching TV I find myself missing him. Amazing how quickly I have got used to having someone around to make me tea, pop my favourite CD in the stereo and generally carry out my smallest, yet highly important wishes.

On the other hand a little 'me' time is always welcome. Firstly, I am completely in control of the remote, which suits me just fine. It stops me from having to watch the BBCs antique road show (Simon's can't get enough of the antique road show despite the program format is as old as some of the junk they are showing off!)

Also, I don't have to worry about the toilet seat being left up. It constantly catches me out. One minute I am happily minding my own business, the next I am having a freezing cold ring of porcelain pressed against my backside. As girls do, I first scream loudly, then I swear for a few minutes at Simon, while letting him know that if he really loved me he would surely be putting the bloody toilet seat down. (Yes, I know I could have checked, but it is far easier blaming Simon!)


While I am busy blaming Simon on behalf of all women, I of cause forget that the toilet seat is up. Hence, when I am finally ready to get back to business, I get the now famous cold-porcelain-on-naked-bum treatment a second time :( That should teach me!

Having settled down with a good book, the phone rings. It is Tracy. She is crying and from what I can hear, calling from a cake tin with bad reception. It turns out she is sitting in her car, having minutes earlier left the flat she share with her long-term boyfriend Steve after a heated argument.
"Tracy," I start, "what is happening? Are you okay?"
"Yes, we had a big fight! A really bad one," she sobs.
"Pure Tracy," I say, "tell me what happened."

An hour later we have to hang up. Tracey's phone is running out of battery and I am on my second ear, the left one fell off after 45 minutes.

In the end Tracy decided that driving around Bristol all night was not the way forward, and she returned reluctantly to the flat to speak to Steve. I write reluctantly, because my dear friend Tracy did have a lot of explaining and apologising to do. Explaining because she apparently had been receiving txt-messages from another man, and apologising because she, before leaving the flat, had told Steve to - and I quote - "get used to making out with himself and when finished he could always go fry his fat face."

As you may have guessed, Tracy is not much of a diplomat. If everyone followed the 'Tracy' approach to world peace, a few of us might be lucky enough to eke out a bleak existence in a post nuclear apocalyptic world inhabited by mainly rats and other beings capable of withstanding high levels of radiation.

And I thought Simon and I had issue! We practically look like an old couple, who have been married happily for 40 years! 

Simon, I miss you!