Wednesday, July 01, 2009
You know when you have one of those days where, say, the [Get In! Lucrative.com!] hotcake industry starts to become an actual serious consideration?
Where you have a conversation, whereby the final words of a sentence, sound as if your testicles/reproductive organs have been whacked into a vice gripe, puberty attacks, and you’re throwing your hands around like an Italian on a particularly strong batch of amphetamines?
Where you’re actually considering starting up a rum stand on a tropical island, even though the bank manager would probably finance your hotcake company before he sets foot near your palm-fringed rum depot on the lapping shores of Mauritius?
When you give serious consideration to exiting the urban environment, and setting off on a permanent lifelong sabbatical to WhiteSandville.com, coupled with clumps of hair falling mercilessly onto the keyboard in front of you, and where every second word you use is ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘ hairy donkey’s balls’ or some variation thereof?
Peas: Look, I have three options in which to spend my savings. 1) On a house 2) On a 6 month cruise around the globe 3) On a rum stand in Puerto Rico. How easy do you think it would be to do Option 3?
French friend: Ze problem iz ze healthcare. If your appendix explurdes, you will have ze local tribe docteur perform ze surgery. Pas de healthcare. No fund. Eet would be un disastre, putain merde.
Peas: Didn’t really think of that.
Who thinks of this when all they can see is sunny skies, a full head of hair, palm frond dresses, a fuck off treehouse and an indescribable amount of rum? On tap?
French friend: Ze ozzer probleme of course, iz eef you need to fly home for une grande emergency, like if your parents are seek.
Peas: Won’t my rum stand make enough for a flight home?
French friend: Non.
Peas: I see you’ve looked into this.
French friend: Oui. Let us just go and make goat’s cheese in Provence. Zen we have free healthcare in France and we own a few goats in our garden and eet iz all marveleuse.
And everyone likes goat’s cheese. Even ze Eenglish.
Peas: Where do I sign?
French: You might need an EU passeport. For ze healthcare and so you don’t get arrested.
Peas: Fuck this for a ball of shit. Perhaps I should add an option 4) Marrying for passport.
Not a fucking joke. I rate having an EU higher in value than having:
1) A mansion on Westcliff Ridge
2) A man
3) A real marriage
5) No bunions ever
6) Laser on my bikini line
7) A qualification higher than an Undergrad. (That’s me. Snaps for Peas.)
8) The super power of being able to tell the future
9) An endless supply of Diemersfontein Pinotage, delivered to my door, everyday
10) Fuck it. A piece of the Diemersfontein farm
11) Jimmy Choo’s trust fund
12) One sweaty monkey-sex filled night with Richard Hammond in a Formula One in Scunthorpe
13) This is hard: an Audi A3 2.0 turbo, in red, with a sunroof
14) Not getting action for a year
15) One million Rand. I’m telling you, I could do more with an EU passport.
16) A free Green Card. God bless America, but having an EU is easier.
17) One night sandwiched between the tasty buns of Jake Gyllenhaal and Stuart Townsend.
18) One night sandwiched the tasty buns of Richard Hammond’s jock strap
19) Gisele Bundchen’s body
20) Caprice’s tits
21) No Norwegian salmon for 6 months. [How would I cope?]
Speaking of which, I nearly married a Danish dude in Turkey. We were close.
I’m being dead serious.
Except that he lived in Copenhagen and I live here. But as far as business transactions were concerned, it was a great deal.
If only I didn’t have to leave my job, support him, live in Copenhagen work-free for a year, pretend we were madly in love, were considering lots of Danish babies, and prove were more legit than a Nigerian bank account.
Pity. He was strapping.