Dear loyal reader

I would like to apologise for the lack of items posted on this site over the past few weeks (or is it months). There are a number of reasons for this but I wont bore you with too many details, rather I will concentrate on two and let you decide which is the more believable.

Reason number one. I am and always have been illusive (hence the name) and due to my connections with large underworld organisations and the British secret service I must disappear from time to time. Now I’m back from assignment and have had to wait for several gun shot wounds to heal properly before attempting to write.

Reason number two. My career has gone headfirst into the great toilet bowl of life and despite various attempts to retreave it or replace it on Malta, inevitably as with everything else in my life I cannot avoid the great rush of poop water swirling down upon my head.

I know what you’re thinking…

Although the first one seems by far the most logical and reasonable explanation for my recent absence I have to confess that it is actually reason number two. I’m pretty much screwed and being Jonny foreigner on Malta I get neither assistance (despite paying high rates of tax and social security) nor sympathy. Therefore unfortunately I have to depart these shores for other another far distant land.

They (who?) do say though that every silver lining has a cloud and of course this is true in my case. I have secured employment in Spain and will continue to blog from there. Hopefully you, my loyal reader, will continue to find my insights in to life, love and toilet humour worth reading.

This of course is the real reason for not writing. I have gone through various emotions from shock to anger, anger to depression then a brief moment of elation when realising I had a savior from unemployment then to absolute stress realising that I had only four weeks to pack up, move, get settled then start work in a new country, company and job. Then I slipped back into depression realising I would miss Malta, then elation again because at least the Spanish know how to drive and have a highway code and a logical set of traffic laws and enforcement, then depression again and finally stress. I have had to sell house, home, furniture and car (the last one still pending).

I would like to take the opportunity to say thank you to the Maltese bloggers who have read and commented and please, please, please don’t be strangers. I’m still here… IllusiveFreddy lives on.

I’m only sorry I didn’t get chance for that torrid fling with Claire, although I’ve not left yet…

I hate football (soccer if you’re from over there).

I know this is not a particularly popular point of view, especially as millions, nay billions treat it as a virtual religion but I hate it.

Perhaps it’s the fanaticism that goes along with it. Or the hooliganism. Or maybe it’s just the pointlessness of the whole game. Oh and NO, I’m not some kind of puff or gay boy nancy. I like sports in general but just have an aversion to football. Two sides get together and kick a ball around and try to score goals. Fair enough, but then the play consistently goes something like this…

(commentators voice) - Rooney’s got the ball and so England’s in with a chance again. Rooney charges up the field… oooohhh he’ challenged but, ooh, ooooh, there’s an opening (pitch of voice gets higher), there’s an opening, oooh Owen’s there… Rooney kicks the ball up field and Owens there to receive… ohh, ohhhh, ooooohhhhh, he’s charging up the field, he’s close to the penalty area, ooooohhh can he get it through, no it’s blocked but wait (now shouting), there’s Beckham and oooohhhhI think I’m going to explode, Owen passes it to Beckham, ooooohhhhhhh Beckham’s in the penalty area, HE SHOOTS and aaaarararrrrrhhhh… the ball goes into orbit to land somewhere in the Gobi dessert. What a disappointment… yarda, yarda, yarda.

After 90 or so minutes of this along with 30 minutes of extra time then injury time the score remains at nil-nil. I ask you… what is the f*@~#ng point.

It’s especially annoying now that the local council has decided to erect a giant screen in Spinola bay where hundreds of people can gather to watch the game. What’s wrong with that, you may ask? Well only that it would have been better had they given some thought as to where these hundreds of people are going to park their cars.

Last night they showed the final between Man U and Chelsea with hundreds there to watch. The streets around about were chaotic. Cars were double parked, blocking off roads, on double yellow lines across peoples garage entrances… everywhere. So bad was the situation that after popping out to collect some relatives from the airport, I returned home to find there was nowhere to park. I then spent the night driving around looking for a space in the end to find one only after the match had finished and the revellers returned to their cars for their respective journeys home. Even then it was a ten minute walk home.

I suppose though, the question remains… with all the illegal parking, where were the wardens? After all they could have made a killing in fines. But then I can probably guess…

They were drinking beer and watching the game with the rest of the crowd. Useless b@~#@*ds.  

I am passionate about a great many things.

Sex, Star Wars… actually films in general, sex, music, motorbikes, books, sex, poker, alcohol, sex and last but not least FOOD. (Oh and in case I didn’t mention it… sex).

I recently dedicated a post to the great art of making sandwiches sooooo big they become a challenge to actually fit in ones mouth. To continue this theme I would like to champion the much maligned (unfairly I think) art of cooking British style.

British chefs do have knockers (but there are plenty of male chefs too… eh… nudge, nudge) particularly those from the USA which is surprising really considering that America is the home of everything fast, cheap and tacky (McDonalds, chilli dogs on sticks, Britney Spears etc…). The French, who claim to be the best at cuisine (and everything else for that matter) have long derided our Yorkshire puddings and fish & chips, this coming from a nation of frog eaters. Some countries eat worms, bugs and spiders…. eeewww. Germany fought two world wars in an attempt to turn Britain into a nation of sausage sucking sauerkraut eaters but we prevailed.

And so, to celebrate good old British fayre I bring you three national institutions.

Number 1… The great British breakfast fry up.

Fat gut inducing, yes… artery clogging, certainly… the best way to start the day, hell yes especially when accompanied by a cup of tea and a round of fried bread.

Number 2… Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

with roast potatoes and gravy… bring it on.

And finally…

Number 3… Shepherds pie (not made with real shepherds)

A real treat of minced beef, onions and vegetable topped off with creamy mashed potatoes.

Now if you are looking at the above with disgust all I can say is don’t knock it until you try it and just be thankful I didn’t mention the spotted dick.

Every now and again someone will come into your life and change the way you view things. For me this happened recently with two people.

Firstly there was my friend from the good old US of A. We became firm drinking buddies and shared philosophies on life, women and food. I learned a lot from him and will always be forever thankful that we became friends. (See the post ‘Absent Friend’ from 20^th February 2008).

The second one came into my life about a year and a half ago. We met as colleagues and during the time we have worked together she too has taught me a lot about life, about cultures far removed from my own, about music and about friendship. Sadly our time as colleagues is about to come to an end and so I would like to dedicate this post as a tribute to her; La Delirante.     

La Delirante recently passed on the below list of questions for me to add my answers. Check it out, feel free to answer the questions yourself, share the list with whomever then please follow the link to ladelirante.blogspot.com and check out her blog.

Enough sentiment… now for those questions;  

Worst Feeling In The World: Heart break

Favorite Fast Food Place: Pizza Hut

What Was Your First Car?: Mini

Do You Eat The Stems On Broccoli?: Yes

If You Could Dye Your Hair Any Color, What Would Be Your Choice?: brown

Morning Person Or Night Owl?: neither

Over Easy Or Sunny Side Up?: sunny side up

Favorite Place To Relax: the Spar

Favorite Ice Cream Flavor: hazelnut

Of All The People You Tagged This To, Who’s Most Likely To Respond First?: no idea

Freddy

(Speaks into microphone)

Ahem… is this thing on?.. HELLO aaaaarrrrrgh (loud screeching feedback from mic’)

Testing, testing… icicles, bicycles, tricycles, test…ing. Ah that’s better.

Unaccustomed as I am to speaking I would like to say a few thank you’s to my family and loyal supporters, well… supporter.

While I am not one to boast or brag about my incredible talent or unrivalled abilities, I am however extremely proud that my little blog has been voted blog of the month. (Cue Gwyneth Paltrow Oscar acceptance speech style floods of tears). Thank you mom for giving birth to me and for helping me grow up, thank you uncle Tony for teaching me how to drink hard liquor at the age of 3, thank you’s go to my teachers for imparting knowledge to me with the exception of Mrs Jones, my English lit teacher who said I wouldn’t amount to anything. Well Mrs Jones, what do you think of me now? Alright I haven’t amounted to anything but at least I’m blog of the month. Where’s your blog bitch?

(speaks to someone off stage)
Sorry? What? Oh I see, that’s a pity.

(speaks into Microphone)
Apparently I have to cut my little speech short due to time so let me just thank Mr Sandro Vella for all his hard work in promoting the Maltese Blogosphere… his title ‘King of bloggers’ is well deserved, Thank you to the people who took the time to vote for me, thank you to La Delirante for getting me into the whole thing in the first place and finally a big thanks to my fan… the person who actually reads this crap.

Finally, to my fellow bloggers in Malta, please, please, please get involved with blog of the year… blog more, read more and vote more.

(Staggers of stage to find the bar)

I am not a prude.

I like a good pair of knockers as much as the next hot bloodied, sex obsessed, virile middle aged perv.

However a line needs to be drawn somewhere.

Topless bathing is not permitted on Malta, in fact I think I am correct in saying that it is an offence punishable by law. Some may argue that this is too draconian and that in a more liberal age laws should be tolerant. The dirty old man in me quite agrees and indeed applauds such a notion until, that is I take my wife and 9 year old daughter to the beach. Suddenly it becomes a whole different debate.

Now at this point I would like to interject to comment that under normal circumstances the presence of topless women isn’t a problem. After all most of them are either grossly overweight Germans or old, skinny Germans whose breasts have gone the way of the dried prune long ago. While I have nothing against Germans (with the exception of those years between 1914-1918 and 1939-1945); the women really need to learn how much more appealing it is if they shave their armpits, legs and bikini regions… nuff said.

Recently I took the family to Golden Bay. The sun was shining, the weather hot and the beach full of happy people. There was the odd kraut sitting about with their hairy bits out but as stated above I could cope with that.

The situation became critical however when the lady to our right suddenly decided to take off her top and shorts. Let me tell you… hairy German she was not. Shapely figure, thong, breasts the size of melons and nipples like dockworkers thumbs. ‘Holy crap’ thought I… ‘quick look the other way and pretend you didn’t notice’. Damn… sitting to my left was an even hotter specimen in a white topless-thong ensemble. Bigger funbags too. ‘Look straight ahead… look straight ahead… maybe the wife won’t notice… oh crap…’ Right in front of me a girl with an ass the size of Brazil stood up and yes you guessed it… topless with a red thong. Worse still, because of the size of her posterior, what little bit of thong there was had been swallowed up by her ample flesh. I may be wrong but I believe the term is camel toe?

It didn’t end there but fortunately for me my wife has a sense of humour and secondly I had a rather large book on tax and financial planning in which to bury my head. What a relief. In the end it was better than a cold shower.

As mentioned in ‘About’ I have a love of cartooning and so here is a quick doodle of my day at the beach. I’m out of practise so please be kind.

Freddy

Today I find myself taken back in time to 1977 when as a young and impressionable sprog of no more than 8 years old (damn now the world knows my age - or at least my faithful reader) I cued up outside the cinema to see the much talked about and much hyped first (now fourth) Star Wars movie.

I remember it well. All my little friends at school were so desperate to see it that Star Wars dominated the conversation with all of us competing over who had the most memorabilia, comics, toys and trivia knowledge.

The day came when finally I got to see it and I remember oh so well the chills that ran up and down my spine when the famous 20th Century Fox fanfare announced the beginning followed by the immortal ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away’ gracing the screen. I have vivid memories of sitting open mouthed at the opening scene with the star destroyer filling the screen. At the time a friend told me that he’d timed how long it took for this huge space cruiser to fly seemingly overhead and that it was a full five minutes. Being young and with a peanut for a brain I believed him however in later years I came to realise that it was he that had a peanut for a brain and that the timing was closer to around 15 seconds or so. (Die hard fans will probably go away and time this now to prove me wrong. Personally I have a life and so am not that concerned with absolute accuracy). This in no way diminished the impact of that opening scene and even though I have probably watched it well over one hundred times by now (well the film is over 30 years old) it still fills me with a boyhood excitement.

Now I know that this is somewhat sad to admit and further I have mentioned in this blog already what a huge impact James Bond had on my young fertile imagination, still I have to admit that from the age of 8 until around about 12, I was Han Solo. I tried my best to be smart and cocky; I even wanted to change my name. Fortunately my parents advised me that this might not be such a good idea. Still over the years I still retained my love of the films and watched over and over. I collected loads of the toys which I sold shortly after getting married. (Women… you just don’t understand us do you?). I later regretted this after finding out how much it is all worth nowadays. Still… you live… you learn… you cry…

Anyway, years went by and despite still being an avid fan, other things kind of occupy ones life so that obsessions with films take a back seat to slightly more important things like work, kids, DIY etc… until of course the hype started to build for the return to the big screen of the Star Wars series. I remember well sitting in the cinema waiting for Episode 1 - The Phantom Menace to begin. The 20th Century Fox fanfare, the immortal ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away’ and the signature Star Wars fanfare burst through the air in full digital surround sound. I was immediately transformed back into an 8 year old boy and found myself with tears streaming down my face for something I thought I had lost - my childhood enthusiasm, excitement and sense of wonder.

Why am I reminded of this rather sad occurrence?

Because yesterday was Star Wars day. A day to celebrate all things Star Wars.

So break out the DVD’s, watch all 6 films back to back, party with your fellow geeks and a belated…

May the 4th be with you.

Freddy

As a departure from my usual ramblings about how unfair life is and how although the solutions to life’s problems is not to be found at the bottom of a whisky bottle its fun to try and find them there anyway, I thought I would write about something which brings me great pleasure… gluttony.

More accurately I refer to the art of making a good sandwich.

Being British I thought we had the whole thing covererd right from our nice little triangular cucumber sandwiches to the heart attack inducing ‘chip butty’. I was mistaken.

My best friend, a chef in the US of A once proudly informed me that ‘whatever you can put on a plate, I can put in a sandwich‘. To illustrate the point he made the largest bread rolls (more akin to logs) I have ever seen and proceeded to fill them with layer after layer of meat, crispy fried chicken, salad, cheese, pickle, more meat, fried potatoes then mayonnaise. Literally a plate full of food crammed into a sandwich.

Impressive thought I. Until of course I took a bite of one end while watching the entire contents spill out of the other. Which of course brings me to a question and a challenge for my regular reader (the one and only reader). When you have made the perfect sandwich or sub as my friend called it, how the hell are you supposed to eat it without dislocating your jaw, bursting several blood vessels or looking a complete prat?

Answers on a postcard please. The best suggestion will win a sandwich. It’s one we accidentally dropped on the floor but all the bits of dirt and fluff have been scraped off so it’s OK.

Here’s my attempt at a top 5

5. Cut the sandwich in half so that you have a chance of covering it with your hands in case anything tries to escape. The cupping method.

4. Squash the sandwich into a more manageable size. Asking a fat person to sit on it usually has the desired effect however please use tact when asking for use of their buttocks. Also don’t be surprised if you loose it either between the cheeks or in a fold of flab. This is better known as the elephant method.

3. Lean right over your plate then take a bite from  one end then the next bite from the other until your bites meet in the middle. This is the see-saw method.

2. Get the sandwich, shove it in a blender and liquidise it. Its easier to eat through a straw. Great idea for hospital food. The baby food method.

1. Get naked, get in the bath tub and go wild. When finished just wash the spilled bits of food and dribble off with the shower. The pig slop method.

My department is closing down soon.

 This is very sad.

It was a good department full of good people.

We loaned money to old people who desperately needed it and made a modest profit on the side.

However due to the American sub prime blah blah blah credit crunch blah blah blah Northern Rock collapse blah blah blah… no further funds are available and so we have to close.

I have just spent the afternoon writing to people whom had received offers for loans to inform them that we can no longer honour these offers and must therefore withdraw them. While the letters were polite, informative and sympathetic what they really should have said is written below;

Dear Mr & Mrs Incontinent Hearing Aid-Wearer

Recently you successfully applied for a loan with us and received a loan offer in writing. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that this offer must be rescinded due to current costs of obtaining loan funding.

While I am sure that you have probably already decided what you will do with the money and have paid the deposit on that luxurious new car or had plans drawn up for the little guest apartment or swimming pool, I am afraid you will no longer be getting a penny from us.

I would therefore advise you to plead with the nice man at the Ferrari dealership for your deposit back, call your contractor and ask him to tear up those plans for which the architect charged a fortune to draft and ask the pool company to fill up the huge gaping hole in your back garden.

While this decision is regrettable we have had no choice and so would appreciate it if you refrain from calling my direct line and screaming down the phone at me. After all you’re not the only one who is screwed. I’m out of a job next week.

Many thanks for your interest in our company. Please enjoy the remainder of your retirement.

Yours sincerely

F. Ingscint-Now 

My childhood memories are not the happiest.

I have no recollection of my father. It seems that just as I was leaving hospital after what was apparently a difficult delivery, my father was being admitted for tests to confirm whether he had cancer or not. Unfortunately the tests were positive and he never left hospital again. I have only one photograph of my father and I together. He is sitting up in his hospital bed holding me in his arms.

Following his death my mother was left on her own with 3 young children to care for. Life was hard but she did the best she could. I have memories of her going without food so that we children could eat. Being a young lad without a father for some reason made me an object of hatred in the village and as a result the remaining memories of my young life tend to revolve around me being beaten black and blue. Things did not really improve during my teens until the age of 15 when I decided not to be a victim anymore.

Even so, it seems that my life has gone from one disaster to another. Always when things are going well, it seems as if some unseen force comes along and pulls the rug right out from under my feet and I end up flat on my arse.

I’m sorry to bitch about this of course and am fully aware that there are people worse off however it does raise interesting questions. For example why do some people work hard all of their lives to get absolutely nowhere where others seem to cruse and even when a disaster strikes, they come out of it smelling of roses?

Why is it that it’s always when things appear to be running smoothly that the sh*t hits the fan and splatters all over your open mouthed face?

My theory is that when your are born a secret government agency takes your name and enters it into some kind of lottery to decide who will succeed in life and who will fail. Those chosen to succeed will always get the breaks while those chosen to fail will get breaks of a different and altogether more unpleasant kind. This government agency keeps tabs on everything in your life and times everything to perfection. They listen out for the time you dare to mention to your wife that you’re happy, life is good, your savings have picked up again…  then at that precise moment you get bitch slapped.

And so it goes that the next day at work I find that the business I’ve been managing is to close for no fault of my own and that all my staff are to be given other jobs and that the only position for me, despite having a high profile in the company and being showered with praise from the company directors, is a rapid demotion from senior manager to toilet cleaner.

Perhaps I’m being silly or downright pathetic but since this kind of thing is a regular occurance for me, again through no fault of my own, I think I could be forgiven for being a little paranoid.

Or perhaps bad luck is simply a matter of genetics in which case considering my family history I’m completely screwed.