Europhiles, Unite!

Great story from a good mate in the pub last night. Him and his workmates head to the boozer after work. One of their number has just arrived in England, from Germany. Naturally, this chap's getting all the ribbing you would imagine, being a Kraut, working in the UK. And he was taking it all very well. Right up until his round. Our German friend goes around the group, taking orders. (Not the first time for a for a VaterLander.) Several Carlings and Tetleys are submitted, as well as a few Lowenbraus. Which, as we all know, is pronounced LOW-N-BROW. Our German hero takes immediate umbrage. Vas is das you are sayink? he enquires. Low-n-brow? Hah! You are so stupid. It is LER-VEN-BROY. Kan you not see ze umlaut above ze "O"? Don't vorry, Britisher scum, I vill gett your beers. And our man heads to the mahogany. Please bear in mind, we're in Birmingham, here.

Our European cousin tackles the barmaid, ordering the Carlings, the Tetleys. Finally, he makes it to the Lowenbraus. Whaddayawant, bab? comes the screeched reply? LER-VEN-BROY? We don't have that here, sorry, bab. Our now-very-confused Teutonic pal looks befuddled, before pointing to the tap clearly offering the liquid he requires. No, you haff it, here! Lervenbroy. Ooh, no, bab, you don't understand, the barmaid offers. Leaning over the bar, so that she can actually see the word on the front of the taps and point to each syllable in turn, she educates the visitor, making it all quite clear. No, bab, you see, that says LOW. (pause) N. (pause) BROW. Lownbrow. How many would you like, bab? The glory of a Brummie barmaid, telling an actual German how to actually pronounce the name of a German beer, will remain with me for many years. The poor man must think all us English are mad.

Apologies for the no-show these last days, but things have picked up apace on every level imaginable. Since my last post, our mortgage has been agreed. That was last Friday, which was also the night that all the boys went out and celebrated one of our number's 33rd birthday, back at our old stomping ground, The Swan in Harborne.

Strangely, we all bumped into a chap none of us had seen for about a decade. He's a year older than us, though to look at us all now, you'd think he was 20 years older. Poor Rog is a known alcoholic, declared bankrupt, etc. He's been in Holland for a few years (he says), where he's been doing nothing (he says). Basically, the bloke's a mess and that's upsetting to see, but there's very little that you can do about it, which is equally upsetting, but there you have it. Rog ended up getting slightly irate at the taunting meted out by some of my cohorts, regarding the due date of his baby and so on. Thankfully, none sought to mention the horrendous condition of his skin from years of pickling. That would have been a bridge too far, even for my lot.

After the pub, we all came back here for more of the same plus loud music, which would have thrilled my neighbours enormously. The last reprobate staggered out at 5am, and I haven't had a single complaint. Saturday was written off, and Sunday saw me amd the missus at the previous evening's birthday man's house, giving his youngest son his last birthday present - nearly two months late. The child is very creative, very expressive - he's a star. He told me all about dinosaurs and tanks, and another boy from his old school who always liked to kiss him. Did he kiss girls, too? I enquired. No! came the startled response. And what about other boys, did he kiss other boys, or was it just you? Only me, I was told. Well, I'd watch out for boys like that, I said, feeling immediately the moral panic that the average parent must experience daily. Anyway, he loved his painting set. His mother approved of the junior painting apron.

Wind forward a few days during which I can account for neither my whereabouts nor achievements, and we are at Thursday last week, and the good lady's birthday. She's very old, now, and soon I might have to take her to the Knackers Yard, where she can be turned into glue. With this future on the horizon, I thought it best to take her out for a nice time, perhaps some seaside, countryside, nice places. And so - not entirely unselfishly, but nonetheless amenable to her - we headed to Penarth, just next to Cardiff in Wales. This is where I shall be mooring my speedboat, when it arrives in the UK. Which should be very soon indeed. Anyway, we drove there door-to-door in two hours, and headed straight for the marina.

There, I met the marina manager, Stuart, and a remarkable chap he was. He looked genuinely pleased to see us, given that we'd headed down from Birmingham, and immediately rustled teas and coffees. He took us into the control room for the lock into the marina, urging us not to fiddle, and showed us his big schematic of the moorings - including a magnetic nametag with DADSBOTE on it. They are ready and waiting. We talked boats - his history, mine, the lady's - and once pleasantries were over, we said our goodbyes and headed off for lunch.

I'd planned a nice birthday meal at the St David's Hotel in Cardiff, the Rocco Forte gaff right on Cardiff Bay. Unfortunately, my timing was off by 30 minutes, and when we got there, the restaurant had stopped taking orders. We could sit in the bar - nowhere near the window overlooking the bay - and eat Bar Menu food, which was what we did. Of course, it had neither the breadth nor depth of the Proper Menu, and so lunch was a somewhat muted affair. A brisk walk over to Mermaid Quays, popping our heads into the Welsh Assembly building and a sit under the mushroom, and we were back in the car and heading back north.

Friday last saw me spend the day with Mum looking through EPOS/e-commerce providers and settling on a few that we'd like to meet. We also finished most of the photo work for the website (at least, on a good starter level) and so we can push forward once the database is created via the EPOS system. Sorry, am I boring you?

After the aforementioned, and slightly Tarantinoesque time-shift, night out with the boys at The Swan and present giving weekend, I headed to London to get the last pieces of the London Flat puzzle sorted. As you will know, my London flat is on the rental market. However, feedback was that everyone loved the flat, but the entrance hallway let it all down. The story of my London flat, it's leasehold, and the freeholder to the whole property, is a saga I do not have time for here. It needs it's own space. Suffice it to say, it was looking like a spruce-up job to the hallway would be a good plan. And so, on Tuesday morning, I met up with the contractor (and uni mate's dad) who did my flat renovation, to see what could be done. It's all sorted. It'll cost a bit, but it will give me peace of mind for the future, and making sure no one can complain about it again. That starts on Tuesday.

I got back to Brum on Wednesday lunchtime, where I immediately headed to the new house to meet the missus and the estate agents. The homebuyers' valuation survey is now done, and so we went armed with foreknowledge of the problems/issues. Subsequent to that, we've renegotiated price accordingly this very day, and now a final sum is agreed. Overall, we have reduced the price £6K from our first expectation - representing a 3.7% reduction to IPO. Boom. Bought a belter, for less than UK average house price, in an area becoming increasingly sought-after. We'll see you all in five years with a goldmine.

This weekend sees a university crew reunion in Hampshire. We've hired a holiday cottage (house, really) which will sleep us ten. There will be food, booze, fireworks and fun, for it is 400 years since Guy Fawkes tried to rid us of the scourge of politicians. I like his thinking, but shudder at the alternative. I'll check in next time with tales of debauchery, excess, derring-do and tomfoolery. And hopefully, no injuries. Kaboom. Night, night.