Dropping It

“Good God!” I bawled, “I’m going to drop it! I’m dropping it! Bogdan, I’m dropping it!”

“No no, ha ha!” replies Bogdan, “You not drop it Englishman! You big and strong like Hitler!”

“Like Hitler? You can’t say that! And I am fucking dropping it, I say!”

“Why you say I can’t say? I say what I want! If I say you  Hitler then you Hitler yes? You not make me stop Englishman no? Bogdan beat your face!”

“I’m not Hitler!” I wailed, still on the verge of dropping the damned thing, “It’s going Bogdan! I can’t keep ‘old!”

“Why you not like Hitler British Benny Hills? Hitler strong! Hitler powerful!”

“Hitler was horrible! I’m not Hitler! Or Benny fucking Hill for that matter you bearded baboon! Why is everyone in this country obsessed with comparing me with dictators? Who’s it going to be next? Idi Amin? Franco?”

“Ha ha! Idi Amin strong! He eat men he keep in soviet-made refrigerator! Ukhtomsky Company make best refrigerators in world yes?”

“This is going … gawd me bleedin ‘ands!”

“And Franco? Ho ho! His moustache big and black like American Smokey Bandits! American Smokey Bandits beat you in fight I think funny British Benny Hills man! You would not beat American Smokey Bandits with your small arms and no moustache no? Ho ho!”

“IT’S GOING!”

And with that the bloody thing slipped and thudded into my foot.

Landmine In The Moonshine

Apologies for the lack of communication – this should explain everything … 

After a night drinking ‘Убийца Сорняка’ (haven’t the foggiest, sorry) with an Albanian turnip salesman in a central Belgrade bar, I made the drunken mistake of going for a walk in Tašmajdan Park. After pissing up the side of a slide in the children’s area (a bit of urine’s the least of their worries with typhus rampaging through the city) I staggered off in the direction of a processed horse bladder sausage stand I was amazed to discover still trading.

“You are brave Englishman,” said the owner of the stand, handing me a sausage in a bun.

“Thanks a lot,” I replied, stuffing the awful thing in my mouth and blundering off in the direction of the woods.

Suddenly there was a loud ‘CLICK’ under my foot that stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Ho ho brave Englishman!” shouted the bladder salesman.

“What the hell have I just stood on?” I asked.

“Why, a landmine Englishman ha ha! Tašmajdan Park famous for landmines ho ho! Belgrade government and warlord Miodrag Karadžić plant them during war with bastard Croatians! Ha ha!”

“Jesus fucking wept! I’m standin’ on a landmine? You people are fucking animals! Animals! What the hell kind of country has a park seeded with landmines for crying out loud? What the fuck happens if a kid stands on one eh?”

“BOOM! Ho ho!”

“Oh yes very funny … ha ha! ‘Boom’ … lovely …”

And so that’s how I stayed – standing on a landmine yawning like buggery all night. The next morning I heard a familiar voice behind me,

“Ha ha! I would not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes!” bellows Bogdan Gavrilović, wearing a sombrero, ”How long you stand here my friend?”

“Morning Bogdan,” says I, “I’ve been here all night. I was drunk and ate one of those bloody sausages again.”

“All night? Povutsi me za kurats! HA HA! You are crazy man like your British Benny Hills! Why you stand here all night British Benny Hills?”

“Because I’m standing on a fucking landmine!” I thundered, “I’ve been here all night because you’re no better than apes, the lot of you! I’ve been here all fucking night because some bloody warlord I’ve never heard of decided it might be a spiffing wheeze to seed a public fucking park with bombs Bogdan!”

“Ah Miodrag Karadžić? He was good man ho ho!”

“Was he now? Well that’s lovely … look, can you get me out of here? I’m in danger of collapsing.”

“Sure sure British Ben …”

“I’M NOT BENNY HILL! I’M NOT BENNY HILL! GET ME OUT OF HERE! GET ME OUT OF HERE! I’M BRITISH AND I DEMAND ASSISTANCE!”

“OK OK British Benny Hills. You want off landmine? Just stand off landmine! It simple yes? Ha ha!”

“Just stand …? But it’ll blow my bloody leg off!”

“No no!” says he, “Look English funny man! Look down at landmine! Look! Look!”

I glanced down. Part of the mine was exposed revealing the legend: MADE IN FRANCE.

“See?” Bogdan chortled, “It French mine! Ha ha! They not work yes? Remember? Not like good British mine no? BANG! You die says Queen Victoria! HA HA HA!”

I gingerly lifted my leg. Nothing happened. For fuck’s sake.

“Oh you are good funny English man!” Bogdan laughed as he led me away to his internet cafe, “You stand all night on shit French landmine that never work ever in whole war! Ho ho!”

In the distance I heard a loud BOOM followed by the sound of someone screaming.

Back At Bogdan’s

“So,” shouts Bogdan Gavrilović, as I tramped into the Čajkanović Internet Cafe and Insecticide Clearing House, “No help from James Bond 007 no? Ha ha! I say British not help you and look! British not help you!”

“Yes, thanks for that,” says I, “And thanks for stealing my record you bastard. I was …”

“It not good record anyway,” he interrupted, “Not like British music … ‘bay-hey-hey-hey-beee I’m your mans’ Andrew Ridgley yes?  GREAT musician, beautiful boy no? Ha ha!”

“Beautiful? Joan Collins beautiful?”

“OCTOPUSSY beautiful!”

“Octopussy beautiful eh? Nice … lovely … top notch …” I muttered, parking myself down on an insecticide barrel, “Look, is it possible I can get a cup of tea Bogdan? Do they have tea in Serbia? I had a bad experience yesterday with some horse bladders and I’ve still not got rid of the taste, y’see?”

“Tea? Yes! The English, they drink tea, make them big and strong like fighting dog yes? ‘Jolly good’ says Englishman Sean Connery, ‘Jolly Good I drink the tea and fuck the Octopussy in ass’ yes? Ha ha! James Bond 007 strong like Stalin!”

“Sean Connery was Scotch I think you’ll find old man,” says I, “Roger Moore was …”

“Sean Connery is English! Jolly good! JOLLY GOOD! Why you say Sean Connery Scotchman?”

“Because he’s from Scotland?”

“James Bond 007 is Englishman I think … in Octopussy Sean Connery …”

“He wasn’t fucking in Octopussy you moron! Roger Moore was in Octopussy!” I thundered.

“Roger Moore is Octopussy?? But Roger Moore is man! Octopussy is beautiful woman with big, bouncy kiselina! I think you are lying about Roger Moore James Bond 007 yes?”

“Oh for fuck’s … look, can I borrow 500,000 Dinar?”

“500, 000 …? Shit! Why you need this money? You owe prostitutes this money yes?”

“No I don’t owe prostitutes money for crying out loud! I need to pay a guy to smuggle me into Hungary in the back of an animal fat van … I need to get home Bogdan! I’ll pay you back, honestly!” no I bloody well won’t, thinks I.

“Hmmm … Rasho Čabarkapa tell you this?”

Shit.

“Erm … the name rings a bell …”

“Ha ha! Rasho Čabarkapa is Croatian thief! I not think he take you to Hungary my friend! I think Rasho Čabarkapa drive you to woods and slit your throat no?”

“Oh for the love of … this is the Middle Ages is this! I’m doomed!”

“There, there English boy,” says Bogdan, patting me on the shoulder and near breaking my collar bone, “I will get you home … I make some calls yes? You wait and see yes?”

“Thanks Bogdan,” I whimpered.

“NOW! Are you hungry Englishman?”

“Well I am a bit peckish …”

“Here!” he says, thrusting an open can of sausages into my hand, “This good food. You eat! I make calls, you eat yes?”

I absently-mindedly grabbed a sausage and popped it in my mouth.

“Hmmm …” says I, “Not bad … what are these?”

“Horse bladder sausage!”

“OH FOR FUCK’S …”

Food

Zdravo! A man cannot live on beetroot alone so this afternoon I went foraging through the markets of Belgrade in search of something half-way edible (as most of the things on offer over here look like they’re cooked in gasoline, it’s more challenging than you might think). Finally I came across this stuff and was assured by the market trader that it was ’something along the lines of sausages’. As I’m no stranger to foodstuffs being ‘along the lines of …’ I handed over my money and greedily consumed the contents of the can,

“Hey,” says I, licking my lips, “They’re not bad … what are they exactly?”

“Great delicacy in Belgrade!” replies the stall-holder proudly, “Processed horse bladders in brine … good, yes?”

I’ve only just finished throwing up. I have to get out of here before I eat fish anus soup or something equally barbaric.

Embassy

“But I’m British for God’s sake!” I wailed.

“That’s as maybe sir,” says the Embassy-wallah, adjusting his spectacles, “However, you don’t have anything to prove that you’re British other than your accent. I mean, that haircut’s hardly regulation …”

“Look!” shouts I, “Ignore the haircut! I’m as British as brown bread I tell you! I know everything there is to know about Britain! Ask me a question!”

“When was the Indian Mutiny?”

“1857!”

“Hmmmm …” he scratched his chin, “You could of got that from a book o’course … plenty of history books in Germany … who was commander in chief of British forces during the Sikh Wars of 1846?”

“Sir Hugh Gough!”

“Where would you expect to find a Corncrake?”

“In a nest!”

“What was W. G. Grace’s tally for England on the Thirtieth of July 1866 against Surrey?”

“224 not out!”

“Würden Sie eine Zigarette mögen?”

“Ja bitte … OH FOR FUCK’S …”

So the embassy didn’t work thanks to the bastard’s Great Escape tactics – the underhanded son of a dog. Now my only hope lies with a man I talked to last night after I managed to avoid him sexually assaulting me in a public lavatory. He says he can get me on a lorry carrying part-rendered horse-fat for 500,000 Dinar … it’ll get me as far as the Hungarian border.

Arses.

The Apprentice – Serbia Style

The Apprentice is big news here in sunny Belgrade. It differs slightly from the version you may be familiar with, not least with its all-female line-up of wannabes – all contractually obliged to expose their breasts at least twice during each show. Also gone is the famous catchphrase “You’re Fired!” which has been replaced with “Fuck You! Get Out Whore!” – bellowed by convicted war criminal Bogoljub Stanisavljević, the show’s star. The prize on offer has changed too – instead of the high-powered job offered by reptiles like Alan Sugar and Donald Trump, Stanisavljević offers 300 gallons of agricultural-grade diesel and a two-week holiday to the Kostizva- Ristanović Salt Flats where he makes no bones about the fact he expects sex.

According to the newspapers, anticipation for tonight’s show has reached fever-pitch. Apparently Stanisavljević gets annoyed when one of the contestants refuses to participate in a nude bean-wrestling session, so drags the offending lady out into the woods and blows the back of her head out with his pearl-handled Ruger P345 Compact. One guy I heard on the underground summed up the general sense of excitement,

“I can’t wait!” he said in Serbian, “The gun he uses was presented to him personally by Slobodan Milošević following the 1993 Ognjenović Massacre … it is a national treasure!”

Top Of The Pops

The number one recording artist over here in Belgrade is ‘ДЕЙВ’ - or ‘Dave’ to give his name its English translation. His latest album Now We’ve Sold The Dog, My Family Can Have Bread has just been released and looks to have some interesting (if somewhat eccentric-sounding) songs on it. Unfortunately, the copy I was holding was snatched from my hands by a cyclist bearing a striking resemblance to Bogdan Gavrilović, my internet cafe nemesis, so I’m not able to hear what they sound like. I did, however, manage to note down some of the track names …

Теперь Борис Тадик закрыл мой уран, что моя жена должна будет обменять на черном рынке? (Now Boris Tadić has closed down the uranium mine, what will my wife have to exchange on the black market?)

Экономические реформы, обещанные Белградским правительством не осуществились… давайте нападать на Хорватию! (The economic reforms promised by the Belgrade government have not materialised … let’s attack Croatia!)

Я люблю Вас больше чем грязные свиньи Косовской любви, имеющей секс с тракторами (I love you more than the filthy pigs of Kosovo love having sex with tractors)

Hopefully I’l be able to buy another copy of Dave’s new album once I work out how to change English money into Serbian money. So far I’ve failed at this but have managed to swap £20 and a Zippo lighter for twelve boxes of beetroot and a petroleum coupon.

Onwards!

Letter From Belgrade

“Činiti te oskudica Internet pristup. Inače sredstvo protiv kukaca?”

In the Čajkanović Internet Cafe and Insecticide Clearing House they don’t fuck about. You won’t find a cafe latte in there, or a comfortable chair even. The owner, Bogdan Gavrilović, explained the rules to me when I came in enquiring how much of this Mickey Mouse money they wanted so I could communicate with civilisation,

“Fourteen minutes,” says he, handing me a hammer, “is sixty-one Dinar. Fifteen minutes you pay extra yes?”

“I might not need fifteen minutes Bogdan old son,” I replied.

“Fifteen minutes three Dinar more!”

“What’s the hammer for?”

“For computer … it play up sometimes …”

I looked around at the Soviet-era machines arranged on trestle tables. The one he pointed me towards was made by a company called Kovalevskaya KVD and appeared to be made from potatoes and sellotape,

“This is twenty seven years old … nearly brand new yes?” said Bogdan proudly, patting me on the back, “It has twelve megabytes of memory … more than a Liapidevsky 1300 no? It is good computer … if a little … temperamental …”

“Temperamental? How?”

“Well …” he was hesitant, “Last week it electrocute man from Sarajevo … he lose fingers … maybe thumb too yes?”

“Jesus Christ! He lost his fingers and thumbs? From a fucking computer?”

“Maybe thumbs …”

“Maybe thumbs?”

“Maybe thumbs,” he stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Still … he was mathematician … they not need thumbs so much I think yes?”

“I … well … I can honestly say the question’s never come up before Bogdan,” you fucking maniac, thinks I.

“My brother, he mathematician like this man from Sarajevo … he does not need his thumbs.”

“Your brother’s got no thumbs either?”

“NO! Ha ha ha ha!” he chortled, “He lose thumbs during war! Landmine! British-made … very good yes? The British make finest landmine in world! Better even than French yes?”

“I couldn’t tell you …”

“French landmine not so good I think,” says he, “Take only leg from below the knee … but British! Ha ha! It take whole leg! Once, during war, I saw Croatian pizdu stand on British-made mine … HA HA! It take his leg, his testes and half stomach! Ho ho! We watch him die for hours yes? Serve bastard right for standing on British landmine … best in world!”

Well it’s nice to know our international standing in the manufacture of underground bombs is untarnished despite the best efforts of do-gooders like Princess Diana, isn’t it just? Bogdan beckoned me towards an eight gallon barrel of insecticide,

“Come, you sit,” he said, “You use web of world to look at black man take prostitute with yellow hair up the ass yes?”

“Prosti …? Oh God no! I want to send an e-mail to the British Embassy!”

“British Embassy? You wish to talk with James Bond 007?”

“James Bond? No, I want help getting out of this fucking hell-hole before I go …”

“James Bond is strong … like bull!” he shouts, “I see many of James Bond’s greatest adventures! I like when he kill old German man and fuck the Octopussy! Octopussy is beautiful woman! Beautiful like your Joan Collins yes?”

“Joan Collins? Well it takes all sorts …”

“Joan Collins most beautiful woman in British Empire yes? Ha ha! ‘I will have revenge on you Blake Carringtons I say’ says Joan Collins in bath … I see her many times on VHS cassette recorder!”

“She’s a bit long in the tooth nowadays old son …”

“Long tooth? Like horse?”

“Eh?”

“You say Joan Collins horse?” suddenly my new friend looked angry, “She not horse! She most beautiful woman in British Empire! Why you say Joan Collins is horse?”

“No no no! I said she’s …”

“Yes yes yes!” he thundered, grabbing me by the lapels, “You say Joan Collins is horse! You say Joan Collins not most beautiful like Octopussy! You find other place to watch prostitute I think yes?”

“Hang on!”

But it was too late. Picking me up bodily and manhandling me past his furiously masturbating clientele, Bogdan threw me out the door into the dusty street,

“You not so British I think,” he shouted, waving his finger at me, “You are traitor! James Bond 007 will not help you!”

And with that he slammed the door and eyed me suspiciously through the glass. My Belgrade adventure had not got off to the best of starts.

Let The Sun Shine

Grumble … mutter … complain … grizzle …. etcetera.

My hair’s been rapidly spiralling out of control recently, so a trip to the barber’s to tame it was called for. Sitting down in the chair the young lady asked how I usually had it done,

“Sort of longish at the front, shortish at the back … er … you know?”

“You have it cut, yeah?”

“Yeah.” (Of course I have it fucking cut … what else? Burned off? Acid?)

So she picks up the clippers and shaves a trench of hair out of the back of my head,

“Ey ‘old up!” shouts I, “What’s the game?”

“Oh shit!” she says, looking all worried-like, “You wanted it cut didn’t you?”

“Yes I did! You asked me that three seconds ago! What have you done?”

“I’ve sort of fucked it …”

“Fucked it?”

“Fucked it.”

“Fucked it?”

“Fucked it.”

“How’ve you fucked it?”

“Well … I’ve just fucked it …”

So now I look like a football hooligan, or an angry Kosovan refugee who’s doing his damnedest to keep his head down after spending the 90s shooting old women in forests. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if I’m arrested in the street and shipped off to some God-forsaken internment camp for illegal immigrants. Indeed, if my next post is slightly scrambled and has the dour whiff of post-communist Eastern European-ness about it, it’s because the bastards have shipped me out of the country and I’m dispatching from an internet cafe in Belgrade. I can see it now – eking out a meagre living shovelling shit whilst trying to keep in touch with the outside world via the computing equivalent of a Trabant. I’ll probably end up married to an overweight prostitute – my only pleasure in life being smoking knock-off Turkish cigarrettes while watching hardcore animal pornography in my filthy Soviet-era concrete flat.

And all because of a fucking haircut.

Death Star

Why haven’t I got a Death Star? If I had a Death Star you could all wave goodbye to any finickity notions you’re ‘arbouring about human rights and freedom, I’ll tell you that for nothing. If I had a Death Star, this would be the course of events …

1. I’d park the Death Star next to the moon and let you all sweat for a bit. “What the devil’s that Death Star doing up there?” you’d say, scratching your ‘eads and looking all puzzled-like. “Ho-Ho,” I’d think to m’self, behind your backs, “Just you wait ‘n’ bloody see what that Death Star’s doing up there, oh yes.”

2. A decree would be issued from my Death Star as follows:

Dear People of Earth

This, as you’re no doubt aware, is a Death Star. I don’t believe I need to point out what the function of a Death Star is – anyone in doubt should focus on the word ‘Death’ that precedes the word ‘Star’ … a-ha-ha-ha.

RIGHT! These are my demands. There will be no negotiations – I know governments are fond of the phrase ‘We do not negotiate with terrorists’ but in this case I hope you see the folly in following this course of action … because I’ve got a fucking Death Star and you ‘aven’t … so less o’ that. Demands:

1. I want the Caribbean. All of the Caribbean. I intend to go on holiday there and I don’t want the place cluttered up with folk I don’t like the look of. I will need servants, however, so eight people can stay. Oh, and I want a supply of supermodels to march about close-quarter fashion –  good lookin’ supermodels, mind, none of your rubbish.
2. I want the following people to be my friends: Roger Moore, Burt Reynolds, Lee Majors and that bloke what plays Rodders in Only Fools And Horses. I don’t care if they don’t want to be my friends, they’d better pretend they are or you’re all fucked – comprende? Don’t forget I’m the one with the Death Star.
3. I want a big painting of me dressed in military uniform and mirrored sunglasses (a-laSaddam Hussein) plastered to the side of the Taj Mahal. The painting should be enormous and bear the legend ‘I OWN THE DEATH STAR – DON’T YOU FUCKING FORGET THAT’ written in German. I also want a statue of myself erected above the hills of Prague where that big statue of Stalin used to stand. I should be depicted stamping on a dove, looking vengeful. The plaque on the statue should read ‘THE OWNER OF THE DEATH STAR STAMPS ON THE DOVE OF FREEDOM BECAUSE HE’S GOT US OVER A BARREL DUE TO HIS DEATH STAR’. In both the painting and on the statue I should be seen holding an AK-47 assault rifle and a carrier-bag full of grenades. Oh, and with a moustache – like Stalin’s.
4. I want the Great Wall of China torn down and the bricks used to spell out my name in big letters. The structure should be visible from space – I want to be able to see my name stamped on the planet from the throne room of my Death Star (my Death Star).
5. I want the seas explored thoroughly. Any new species found in these explorations should be named after me and my Death Star. I also want Tyrannosaurus Rex renamed Bennasaurus Death-Starasaurus Don’t You Bloody Forget Thatasaurus Rex. And I also want cats exterminated.
6. I want the Titanic raised from the ocean floor and re-fitted as my private Caribbean yacht, and I want all ice-burgs melted so there’ll be no repeat of last time’s shenanigans. On board I want a bowling alley and an amusement arcade. And a gold statue of my Death Star.
7. These demands are subject to elaboration. That is all.

3. You’d all quake in fear. “We’re under the yoke of a space-bound tyrant up there in his bastard Death Star, the lousy sod!” you’d whine. These and all other moans would fall on deaf ears … and don’t think some ratty-assed band of force-bound scoundrels will rush to save you from slavery, neither. For one I’d tape up all the air vents, and for two the slightest hint of an X-Wing on my scopes and I wouldn’t hesitate to push the button. Welcome to your Death Star chains.