they make them that way so you can listen

How do you deal with incompetence?

1) Ignore it.
2) Fix it. Where possible, if not irreversible damage. Without having aneurysm.
3) Drink a bottle of wine.
4) Scream into a beanbag.
5) Cry.
6) Threaten to immigrate to an Eastern Bloc country.
7) Wank a lot.

How do you spell incompetence?
1) I.N.C.O.M.P.E.T.E.N.C.E.
2) F.I.A.T. [Nice one. You know who you are. One day you’ll drive a F.E.R.R.A.R.I]
3) F.U.C.K.
4) M.T.N.
5) ‘What does that mean again?’

Or, instead do you breeze past the latest You at the Engen, read a headline entitled Laughing: How Jeremy Mansfield Plans To Deal With His Leukaemia (Good one Jerrers), and decide to take the same tack of defence – with regards to the sordid depression that envelopes you like a Lacoste sleeping bag in Chatsworth, and henceforth giggle yourself into a stupor over a team dinner involving stories coming out of Thailand that go as such:

Cue right: [paper thin walls, stolen KLM blankets that are your linen, Khao San Road]

Shuffle shuffle, tee hee tee hee.

Incessant giggling from unbeknownst faceless Thai persons of undeterminable sex. From behind walls.

Shuffle, shuffle, tee hee tee hee hee. BANG.

Roaring explosive British dude, cueing abruptly left, as heard through the paper thin walls:
‘You. Fucking. Cockface! What the fuck is this? Where’s my fucking passport you piece of ass dingle?’

Shuffle shuffle tee hee hee. Bang. Stomp stomp stomp.

‘Listen here. I asked for a fucking WOMAN mate and I got a fucking ladyboy innit?’

[Brief pause. Then immediate chaos]

‘You take four hours to find out he has dick! I no give you passport you take four hours!’

[Silence]

‘Fuck you mate and give me back my passport.’

Then have a giant fishbowl-glass of rouge, and start wondering whether you should move, get a house with a garden so that you can afford two dogs, buy that shit hot red Audi coupe with a sunroof in bright red, and then remember that actually you work to travel and you’re going to Turkey in less than a month, so why expend the bovver?

Do stuff rather to facilitate thereof. Mental challenge to ward of Alzheimer’s.

Have signed up for a German 101 course. They give you a spot test to decipher where you are on the scale of cheap German boy band porn [fuck yes] or on the scale of actually formulating sentences in an environment where you might be taken seriously in a bank in Frankfurt, say, and I got a 33.3% RECURRING result.

Which is fail in most countries, save maybe, Zimbabwe.

I am at Level A2. Whatever the fotzen that means. I mean I was so proud of myself when I asked the cashier bird at Zara in Berlin, ‘Why is this till closed and where is the other one that is open?’ in her language, [Wie ist das kasse geschlossen? Wo ist das ander kosse bitte?’- Ja see, I’m a fucking professional, however, it’s a bit of a enthusiasm deflatation coming out the other end with a score of a whopping 33.333333%.

Either way, the modules start with child-like pictures of say, a house, and you have to pick from a multiple choice range of words that a dribbling retard could happily answer correctly, even under face-bunion duress.

Give me three months. That’s all I need. And I have another 31 languages at my disposal. So I have a lot to do while my Lid happily fannies about wherever he is, until he decides to meander in my direction.

Or whatever. Seriously.

PS: I should’ve appreciated good red wine YEARS ago. Sure, in first year a papsak was an expensive investment, but then so was a sandwich-to-go from Subway. I’ve wasted years on vodka, when actually red wine IS. In fact. The answer to all of life’s problems.