Not the sort of powder you get in Sydney...

The one area in which Europe far surpasses good ol' Oz, we must admit, is ski fields. Once New Zealand becomes the next 2 states of Australia this will be debatable, but for the moment it is sadly true.

Although not a snow bunny by nature, having a week off between jobs in January I decided to book a package trip to go snow-boarding in Chamonix. I made the booking with a company by the name of 'SpeedBreaks'. Harmless enough I thought, but it turns out to be a subsidiary of another company called SpeedDater, and apparently I'd booked myself onto a singles skiing holiday... Many will now be thinking wistfully of snow trips with university ski clubs and the associated shenanigans. Think again. Remember, I'm travelling with brits here, and most were single for good reason. Fortunately, a few others had made the same mistake, so we were spared any painful 'getting to know you' games.

Embarrassment aside, the week on the snow was absolutely astounding ('gnarly' in the parlance of serious snowboarders I believe). Having not been on a board since a few day trips from Canberra, I was grateful for the fact we were staying at a UCPA centre - as usual, the French know how to do things, with their network of non-profit centres making elitist sports accessible to the masses - with free tuition. By the end of the week I was cutting turns off-piste and playing in natural half pipes and loving it... I'd tell you about the apres-ski goings-on, but alcohol-amnesia prevents it.

Having been so impressed by the UCPA in January, a group of us decided to get in another cheeky long-weekend of snow (organised by ourselves rather than joining another singles trip) over Easter staying at the UCPA centre in Flaine. While it may be an abomination of a building, it is right at the foot of the slope, and covered in a foot of powder (as everything was while we were there) I'm prepared to forgive them. Again, the Alps delivered. Fresh snowfall every night and another flurry most days made for perfect boarding conditions. The highlight of the evening activities was without a doubt the snowboard instructor singing Nirvana's 'Rape Me' on karaoke night. A very modern serenade...

Sadly the weekend, and the season, ended. There were more than a few moments on the slopes spent considering ditching everything and becoming a snow-field worker so I could do this all year round... but the risk of turning something so magical into just a mundane job wouldn't be worth it.

Beetrootin' across the USSR

Moscow NYE
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

During a tumultuous period where I was constantly tossing up whether or not to quit the UK , I decided that I definitely needed to have done some more travelling before heading home with my tail between my legs. One of the results was a more or less spontaneous decision to sign up for a trip across Russia over Christmas and New Years with some buddies from the ABS.

Choosing a destination on a whim like this can be extremely liberating - you have no overblown expectations, you have no real preconceptions about how good it should or will be, but on the flip side, you have absolutely no idea of what you're getting in to. It wasn't until I'd already handed over my massive wad of savings that I found out Russian winters often dip below -30C, and that there is still a major issue with tourists being ripped off by corrupt police. Nevertheless, a little research (any guidebook) and preparation (new thermals and snow gear) had me excited about peering through the rusty iron curtain.

The trip kicked off in St Petersburg, which completely lived up to everyone's reviews as one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. The Hermitage was even more extensive than I was expecting, and after half-a-day staggering between the halls crammed with art, I was very much ready to have a culture detox by checking out the freaks in the Kuntskamera. Sublime to the ridiculous.

In a similar vein, following one night spent at the ballet seeing a modern interpretation of Giselle (which no-one could follow - I blame the suitcase of babies and the fact the duke and the dancer looked alike), we saw 'Feel Yourself Russian!', a cheesy show of folk music and dance. Despite the cheese factor, it was a fun night out and the Cossack dancing is mighty impressive. That was followed by a night on the turps in an underground bar. By the time we surfaced, the mild winter had turned to blizzard and no one could remember how to get back to the hotel. Luckily the vodka fairies were looking out for us.

Next stop on our Russian odyssey was Novgorod, birthplace of the Russian nation. Legend has it that the town came to prominence when a local fisherman named Sadko caught a magic fish that taught him to become a percentage-taking middle-man... Sadko is honoured in the highest possible fashion in Russia - there's a vodka named after him.

For me, our brief stay in Novgorod was the highlight of the trip. Unlike St Petes and Moscow, it is a proper Russian country town, surrounded by bleak fields and buffeted by ice-cold winds roaring across the plains. It's also where we saw a Russian man so drunk he couldn't defend himself when his wife started beating his head against the wall. Yes, Novgorod showed us the real Russia!

Moscow was something else again. A huge metropolis that could be any other, except that everything isn't quite right. Public transport that runs efficiently and on time. Huge mega-clubs where the men are more interested in actually dancing than watching the topless dancing girls. Mullets in fashion. We braved the crowds and military cordons to get into Red Square for the NYE fireworks, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't find it disappointing. Just being in such an iconic place, with such a huge crowd made it all worthwhile. And we weren't even drinking vodka!

Like the trip in Spain, this trip was made all the better by the people sharing the journey. Thanks to Cass and Craig for letting me tag along, and to all the other Beetrooters for making it a great week. Funnily enough, as soon as I touched down in London, I started feeling completely miserable again...

I'm not dead yet

Recently a new television channel became available on our freeview box... this channel seems to be more or less devoted to showing Top Gear during my non-working hours. All of them. As a result my posting has been very lax of late.

I'm starting to see the same episodes for a second time now, so regular service should resume shortly...

San Sebastian: surfing and speaking Spanish...

outgoing tide II
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

...people with lisps need not apply.

Despite the fact I didn't grow up surfing, and haven't had even a walk on part in an episode of Home and Away (it's surprising how many Brits will believe that one), I find myself missing the beach more than most things. Yes, even Coogee.

Having gone since January without seeing a wave, or even proper sand (Cyprus came close, but just didn't cut it), I decided I needed a beach trip, even if I had to go on my own. Unfortunately, most 'beach getaways' sold in the UK feature horrible resorts, packed with horrible Brits, sporting even more horrible lobster-red tans. So I opted for a trip that offered Spanish language courses along with surf lessons, safe in the knowledge that most Brits would run a mile before speaking in the local tongue.

Turned out I was right. When I made it to San Seb and found the hostel that would be home for the week, almost everyone else booked in was an Aussie or Kiwi. Travelling alone is always a risk (what if you end up sharing a hostel room with a complete weirdo, or worse still, what if everyone else avoids you because YOU are the weird one in the room), but when it throws you in amongst a group of like minded travellers, it can be the best way to go. The rag tag bunch of would-be surfers and linguists quickly bonded over a few drinks, and formed fast friendships during our morning surf sessions, afternoon language lessons, and night-time shenanigans. Personal highlights include but are not limited to: nearly starting a fight in a salsa club by throwing my partner into another couple; eating and drinking ourselves stupid at the cider house; dancing on a floor of broken glass at San Seb's cheesiest night spot; and the blood, sweat and not-quite-tears when Troy and I tried our hand at mountain biking on our last free day.

All in all, a great trip that has probably now ruined Spain for me - no other trip there could match it. Thanks to all my fellow travellers for making it what it was. and teaching me about getting ham sambo'd.

Enjoying the rat race

ratrace_stpauls
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

Yet again, I found myself doing something that seemed like a good idea at the time... the London Rat Race. Based on a few posters and a slick looking website, I signed up for this 'urban adventure race' without even having a team. The concept is that the race brings 'adventure racing' (those eco-challenge things you see on tv where teams of people run, climb, swim, kayak etc around some pacific islands) to the city, so that average schmoes like me can be tempted into trying something they shouldn't...

I obviously wasn't the only one suckered in, managing to find some other Aussie novices to form a team (many thanks to Andrew and Gabbrielle). The running/orienteering session on Saturday evening started off well: we got the map, planned our route (not too ambitious) and set off... we got to the first challenge and I immediately wished we'd run in the opposite direction. The challenge was for the team to eat jellied eel. 3 team members, ergo 3 chunks of eel to be eaten. As soon as we got there, my newfound teammates told me they were vegetarian. So I was left to wolf down a bowl of jellied eel. And then run for another 2 hours. Go on, try it. I dare you. I had to stop every 10 minutes to retch and try to vomit.

The Sunday session started early, and with Andrew on the maps we raced through London on the bikes. After the pain of Saturday's running we'd decided to skip all the orienteering/running sessions. A small taste of the activities of the day included: riding in Richmond Park, barrel rolling at Fuller's Brewery, abseiling off Twickenham stadium, kayaking around Putney, and finally playing hide and seek on the HMS Belfast. A full day in the saddle covering nearly 80kms left me sore and tired and unable to ride my bike for weeks.

Needless to say, we didn't win, but had a great time facing up to the challenge. If you get a chance to do something similar, I recommend it (just do some training first!) - I'm already booked in to the 2008 races in Edinburgh and London...

Bonne Anniversaire!

Balls Up
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

So another year rolled around and I had spectacularly failed to die, so a birthday had to be celebrated. While the Germans were celebrating my birthday with the opening weekend of Octoberfest, Rach convinced me to party with the Parisians, since the French were celebrating my birthday by playing Ireland in the Rugby World Cup (at the time, this was one of the most anticipated match ups of the tournament).

After a few hiccups (nearly missing the flight, then arriving at our pre-booked accomodation at midnight to find ourselves locked out and with no-one at reception... my month spent learning French in Villefranche really paid off at this point), we settled in to Paris. We did all the usual Paris things: strolling along the Seine, visiting Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, getting drunk with Canadians in kilts at Trocadero... you know, the usual.

That night, we all headed out to the Stade de France... most of us without tickets. Jono and I managed to score grade purple tickets a few minutes before kick-off by making a deal with some dodgy scalper types. The match was great fun, but didn't really live up to the billing, mainly because the Irish were so rubbish.

For post-match celebrations we headed to an English themed bar of all places, and even made it there despite the pick-pocket on the train and Tim's directions. The place was absolutely heaving, with girls even dancing on the bar, while the barstaff just kept serving the punters between their legs... a crazy night and a great way to see in another year.

Slightly Craic-ed

Pitch Invasion
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

Sartre once said "Hell is other people." It’s a sentiment with which I tend to agree, especially since I spent most of my formative years with my family. Even so, it’s a sentiment that is brought to mind when you spend any time staying in a hostel, as I did on a recent trip to Ireland. The funny thing is, after a few days travelling alone, I couldn't wait to get to the hostel…

For various planning reasons beyond my control, I ended up spending 2 days solo in Ireland, staying in a hotel. Armed with an iPod loaded with tourist walks, a Lonely Planet guide, and a copy of Ulysses, I thought I would have no trouble amusing myself for 48 hours. To be honest, finding things to do wasn’t a problem. I drank Guiness and read Joyce, wandered around Trinity College and drew some sketches, plugged in the iPod and wandered around the city… it’s just that after a while, you get a little sick of having no other conversation apart from "That’s three euro, thanks." Your mind starts to wander. You start getting lost in your own thoughts… and that’s one dark abyss that I’d rather stay out of.

To distract myself, I found a comedy night in a bar, thinking "ooh, this’ll be great. I’ll see some home grown Irish comedy, in Ireland. Brilliant!" And half the acts were English, and one Australian. It was perhaps the most half-arsed thing I’d ever seen. The first act was going to do an audio-visual type comedy thing (based on the cartoon Hammer-man) using the projector, which the venue had recently sold. At intermission, the MC ducked out to buy everyone biscuits, but couldn’t get the right ones. All the same, it was brilliant. The headline act (who’s name I forget) was so good that he told a joke in Gaelic, and I still laughed. Just so you understand how good that is: I don’t speak Gaelic.

Rach arrived just in time to save me from myself, and to attend her friend’s wedding – the reason behind our visit. I’d tell you all about the wedding, except that it was an Irish girl marrying an Australian guy, so my memories are hazy at best (I even ended up on the dance floor…). All I can remember is that the speeches were actually funny, even to the point of making jokes about the recent stroke of the father of the bride. Brilliant.
The next couple of days were spent driving around the south east of Ireland, spending the night in quite possibly the cutest B&B in all of Ireland in Wexford, and most definitely the crappiest B&B in all of Ireland in Bray. Bray is also the home of the Porterhouse – an Irish micro brewery that brews a range of boutique beers, including the Oyster Stout (not suitable for vegetarians), which is quite frankly the best stout I’ve ever had. If Sydney oysters weren’t so prone to poisoning people, I’d be buying the franchise rights right now.

After a painful search for a petrol station, we finally made it back to Dublin and dropped off the car as the crowds started to roll in for the All-Ireland hurling final. Walking back down Drumcondra St, we saw some people selling spare tickets, and emptying our wallets, managed to pick up two tickets for the match. Kilkenny were strong favourites for the match against Limerick, and put the game away with 2 early goals. The Limerick fan next to me was so disgusted he left at half time, but I loved just being in Croke Park, watching the game. I was sitting with Limerick fans, and therefore had to back the losing team, but still… brilliant.

I was then left to my own devices for the last night, and went out to another comedy night to run from my own thoughts, and ran into the most bizarre evening of entertainment. There was a ‘comedy magician’ who did some of the most basic routines, corniest jokes, I’ve ever seen, along with the occasional impressive trick. Another guy (the star of ‘Jesus: the Guantanamo years’) did his stand up routine sitting down… but the true highlight was the woman who headlined. She was drunk before hitting the stage, hadn’t prepared her material, and descended into making quasi-racist comments about a Polish man in the audience… cringeworthy, but brilliant.

At the end of the show I was getting ready to return to the hostel, and the random collection of strange people with whom I was sharing a room, when the only other Australian (well, okay, Tasmanian) in the room (I had stupidly answered the MC’s "where are you from?" question – although telling him I worked in cancer research moved his attention elsewhere…) invited me out for a drink. Although I’d been downing pints of stout all night, the chance of conversation that didn’t involve the phrase "here’s your change" made me go out to the trashiest club in Temple Bar and stay til closing time. The stumble home included a randomly collected chorus singing along to a busker playing ‘Wonderwall’, and pissing off every other person in my dorm room as I came in at 4am.

Hell’s not so bad when you’re one of the demons. Brilliant.

What's wrong with the UK (part 3)

It's started.

People back home have begun asking me when I'm coming home... the routine and cost of London have started to bite... and, frankly, I've been tempted.

If I were back home, no doubt the funk would be dealt with by a drunken night out in Newtown with friends and some bad karaoke (is there such a thing as good karaoke?), but here that's just not an option. Instead, I've been fumbling from day to day, barely managing to keep it together, feeling hollow and... grey. There's even been a mini panic attack one afternoon at work. I'd say it was textbook depression, but I think it may be down to hormones in the drinking water here... it hasn't just been the mood swings, I've also had to start shaving more regularly. And I hate shaving. Perhaps it’s all due to the extra razor nicks.

For a while I thought there might be something behind the hormones in the water idea... perhaps an evil conspiracy run by the British government, or even Richard Branson (I’ve never trusted him. No one is that smug). But recent events have shown me that the Brits couldn't organise a piss up in brewery. They are incompetent at everything they attempt... even when they're trying to collect money from you.

First up, council tax. For those not familiar with this concept, council tax is the money you're forced to pay for simply living in London. In theory, it pays for rubbish collection, recycling services, and traffic wardens in your local area. Considering that rubbish collection consists of having to take my own trash to a large dumpster on the street, recycling services are practically non-existent, I can only assume that all the money goes on traffic wardens. Since most of the people you walk past on the streets of Westminster are in fact traffic wardens, I think I may be on to something.
Last Saturday (4th August), I received a reminder notice (dated 27th July) informing me that I had failed to pay my council tax, and that unless I did so within 7 days of the date of this notice, there would be unspeakable repercussions - spotted the problem yet? I was quite surprised, given that I never received the first notice.

When I call them and point out the flaw in their little scheme, that they never sent me the first notice, and the second arrived a week late, their response is: "Well yes, there HAS been a postal strike..." as though I should have known that there was mail coming to me, and gone down to the closed, picketed post office, and found it myself.

That would have been a bad enough start to Monday, but then I also had to deal with British Gas. In the same post, I also received a power bill for 79p. Yes, I know that's a fair bit back in Australia, but over here it won't even buy you a bottle of hormone-free water. I figured that I could actually afford to pay this, and dutifully went to their online bill payment system, verified my identity with a gruelling set of personal questions (does it really matter if someone else pays my bill?), handed over my card details and hit 'PAY'. The system responds with 'I'm sorry we cannot accept payments below £2.'


Ha bloody ha, I think to myself, how very amusing. I then call the British Gas bill payment phone number, and after about half an hour I finally get to speak to someone and the problem. He laughs. Once he collects himself, he tells me that I can’t pay anything less than £5 over the phone. The best he could suggest was simply not paying the 79p, and letting it roll over to the next bill. Sounded reasonable. Knowing that nothing is ever that easy, I ask him if my non- payment will result in threatening notices, late fees, or even disconnection. I know it’s only 79p, but I also know the British relationship to bureaucracy. The guy on the other end of the line, still laughing, says “The reminder notices and threatening letters are all sent automatically, but they won’t actually act on them for such a small amount." - I breathe a sigh of relief - "Probably” he adds before I hang up.

So if Branson’s evil scheme goes according to plan, it won’t be long before I’m left sitting at home in the dark, developing man breasts, and crying myself to sleep.

The Good, The Bad, The Iggy

glastonbury 07
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

Okay, some time has passed, the bile has mellowed, and my memories have taken on a slightly rosier hue. So, for what it's worth, here's what I thought of the world's premiere and music festival, in reverse order...

The Iggy

Anyone who was at Glastonbury and missed Iggy and the Stooges on the Other stage on Saturday night would no doubt be kicking themselves when they read the music press on returning to civilisation. You can't blame them: you could understand not wanting to see a bunch of decrepit senior citizens trying to recreate their 15 minutes, the risk of disappointment was high. But, as I have been reminded, Iggy is actually a terminator-like robot sent back from the future to save rock. And on that Saturday night, in the middle of a field in Pilton, he may have done just that.

Clad in his usual uniform of skin-tight jeans and nothing else (at least he wasn't in his other uniform of just nothing else), the Ig-bot came onto stage and did his damnedest to save us from our future of tasteless pop-rock and manufactured groups of beautiful people with no talent (unfortunately, Ig's work may have been for nothing, as the Spice Girls are reforming. Booo!)

A ripping rendition of 'wanna be your dog' opened proceedings, then Ig began calling people to come up on stage, and yelling 'Let them up!' when security tried to stop people answering Ig's call. You may as well have tried to stop the tides...

With what looked like a couple hundred people jumping around on the stage, and Iggy wandering among the crowd, it looked like the set might be over after the first two songs. At this point Iggy changed his mind, and started calling on the 'muddy motherfuckers' (Ig's words) to get off the stage. As you can imagine, having gained the stage, these people weren't about to leave in a hurry. It took nearly 20 minutes, and Iggy singing 'The shadow of your smile' acapella to get the young ragamuffins off the stage. Iggy clearly wasn't happy with the way security were dealing with some of them, at one point yelling 'You can't do that to a man dressed as a clown!'

While other punters were muttering that Iggy must have been pretty stupid to invite the crowd on stage after only two songs... geez, doesn't he realise that he'll have to get them off the stage before the next song? all those drugs must have addled his brain... I on the other hand recognized Iggy's true genius: it was a sublime piece of showmanship to fill in the time that The Stooges probably couldn't fill with songs. My supposition was confirmed when the encore consisted of a repeat of 'your dog,' but it was that good it deserved to be played twice.

The Bad
Now, the great thing about Glastonbury is that there's so much on there's always something you want to watch. And the worst thing about Glastonbury is that there's so much on there's always something else you want to watch somewhere else AT EXACTLY THE SAME TIME! To make matters worse, the programmers also saw fit to keep some of the performances secret, so that you can't even make an informed choice as to what it is you want to see.

The worst case of this occurred on the Saturday night after Iggy had done his damage to the Other Stage. The official programme said that 'Special Guests' would be playing at Lost Vagueness (Las Vegas? geddit? it's a part of the festival grounds that I didn't even get to over the weekend, that's how big this thing is). An Irishman in the portaloo queue said he'd heard rumours that the Special Guests were none other than Madness. I weighed up trusting the words of a drunk Irishman trying to cut ahead of me in a toilet queue, and the reality of trekking to an unknown part of the farm at midnight across a mile or so of mud... I chose to go back to the tent and sleep. I later found out that it was Madness playing that night, and it was incredible, and it was the absolutely greatest moment of the whole fucking festival!

And that's the last I want to hear of it. Ever.

I could also complain about the mud, the loss of the original hippy ideals to consumerism and wellington-boot price gouging, and the fact that people are no better than selfish, thoughtless pigs when it comes to choosing between walking along the muddy path, or tramping their muddy boots all over your tent... but I won't. Much.

The Good
Where to begin? At the beginning is probably a good idea...

Friday

The View: proved Scots that the further North you get in the UK, the better you rock.

Modest Mouse: were overshadowed by all the Smiths fans simply there to see Johnny Marr. So I left to see...

Gogol Bordello: only saw half their set, but they crammed a whole weekend's worth of energy into that half. Mind-blowing gypsy punk. If you get a chance, see them. So good I've pre-ordered a CD on the interweb (they don't have Fish records stores over here). 3rd worst act to see if on a bad acid trip.

Amy Winehouse: Not sure if you'll have heard of her in Oz... think 'The Nanny' with self mutilation issues. Highlight was bringing out a few members of the Specials and performing a few covers with them.

The Hold Steady: Like Gogol Bordello, I only caught a fraction of the set, and like Gogol Bordello, I wish I could have seen it all. A lot of press called theirs the set of the festival. Big call, but they could be right. American suburban rock done right. Springsteen would be proud.

The Cat Empire: still kick arse live. They had every Aussie in Pilton crammed into the Avalon tent, and funnily enough, it was the only time where I was a victim of and acted out my crowd-rage - apparently we ARE complete pricks when overseas. If you're too drunk to stay on your feet don't push in front of people and try to dance, cock-head. You know who you are, and I don't regret pushing you over.

Bjork: 2nd worst act to see if on a bad trip. She's freaky. Don't know why, but the stage show reminded me of 'Where the wild things are.'

Saturday

Josh Pyke: love his songs, but his performance didn't really fill the small 'Park' stage.

Lilly Allen: made the sun come out with Smile. Cameraman went for the cheesy shot of a toddler singing along to '...and it makes me smiii-iiiile, yeah it makes me smiiii-iile.' I think he missed a trick in not filming the small girl singing along to '..girl on the guest list's dressed like a cunt'

Guillemots: the absolute worst act to see on a bad acid trip, from the freaky stilt dancers with reversed heads, to the song with the repeated chorus: "they're coming and they're trying to steal my face" (very catchy tune by the way).

John Fogerty: Rach's favourite performance of the weekend. Made me think of the Simpsons gag:
Marge- 'Quick Homer, perform CPR!'
Homer- 'uh okay... I see a bad moon risin'...'

The Stooges: see The Iggy

Sunday

The Marley Brothers: What's better than one Marley performing the songs from Exodus? Two Marleys performing the songs from Exodus! Sure, it ain't Bob, but they had the trustafarians in the crowd on cloud nine and puffing away so hard that you could hardly smell the portaloos anymore.

Shirley Bassey: Rach's second favourite performance.

Manic Street Preachers: much better than I expected - they've written a lot more anthems than I gave them credit for. Probably deserved a better spot than 6.30 on the Sunday, but apparently they bad-mouthed the festival last time they played it. Definitely made amends.

KT Tunstall: proved that Scottish lasses can give the lads a run for their money too. Another of Rach's favourites.

The Who: Did passable covers of the CSI theme and that song on you tube by the Zimmers.

All in all, a very muddy weekend. The nightmare trip home on the Monday is another story all together

Pun Pals

On a recent flight out of Stansted, while the security man was patting me down for cutlery of mass destruction in a slightly over-friendly manner, he was kind enough to give me the following set up:

Security (while copping a good feel of my ankles):
Do you have anything sharp on your person?

Me (grimacing in pain as I try to keep my mouth shout):
Nothing except my wit.

With sincerest apologies to Oscar Wilde.

Although the security man didn't bat an eyelid, let alone smile, he must have appreciated the joke, otherwise I would have been taken aside, strip searched and possible anal probed to find the 'wit' I had admitted to carrying... but that's enough toilet humour for today.

Or is it? In all matters punning, I must bow to Joe who recently sent me the following email exchange (I'm sure the guys working at CERN had this in mind when they first developed the idea of an internet)...

From: Leon Franklin

Subject: Re: training

All I can say is that last time I looked at the BOM site it said, and I quote, "Make yourself an ark of cypress wood! Make rooms in the ark and coat it inside and out with pitch. And this is how you will build: the length of the ark three hundred cubits, her width fifty cubits, her height thirty cubits." Needless to say that I was just a little alarmed. I'm just happy that things are looking up and all us heathens are not going to be destroyed in an upcoming flood.

From: Pietro Di Ciaccio

Subject: RE: training

How big is a cubit, anyway? We should go back to using them...

From: Joseph Greensmith

Subject: Re: training

less than a culot...

From: Leon Franklin

Subject: Re: training

shocking, just shocking. How long have you been waiting to use that one
Joe?

From: Joseph Greensmith

Subject: RE: training

Suffice to say.... I was fore-armed Ouch.