Despite sinking more coins into our Olympic coffers than a virgin at Lucky Fountain, Toronto has been repeatedly denied the chance to host the games and as a result, we won't get to see if the shot-put can, after 2500 years of failing to do so, finally ignite the public's imagination.
By not landing the Games of the Olympiad, we'll not only miss out on yelling 'Geronimo' off a 10 meter springboard, but also the aesthetic thumb in the eye that is the opening ceremonies, which distill a nation's character down to a few silly gesticulations, which in our case would be break-dancing Mounties, some sort of giant papier-mâché leaf and a chorus line of lumberjacks.
However, the Olympics are about more than just cheap showmanship, like your uncle who can balance a cane on the end of his toe while whistling "Chevy Van". They're a chance for countries to atone for past sins, march together in a show of togetherness twice a decade and see whose athletes can pump themselves more full of pharmaceuticals than an Amy Winehouse pot luck.
There are some countries, such as those whose main export is a variety of tart nectarine, that you never really get to hear from in non-Olympic years unless an extradition treaty is violated or some autocrat is ousted and replaced by an antelope as the interim head of state.
The odd time though, one of these nations will unhinge the masturbatory grip on the podium held by Russia, Germany or the United States and you'll get to hear an off-key warbling of some country's national anthem and bear witness to a moment of pride that'll last for generations to come, if you define "generations" as however long it takes for the urine sample to come back positive, the sportsman in question to defect, or when the next commercial break will air.
But what exactly are they singing about as banners are raised to the rafters and the eyes of the world (or at least the eyes of the world that aren't glazed over by a less than rousing game of handball) are upon them?
Not surprisingly, most anthems are a call to arms, mostly partisan hymns that are a soundtrack to bayoneting your nearest geographical neighbor and a tune you can tap your jackboot to as you proclaim the superiority of your culture, mountain ranges and comely women (the seldom heard fifth stanza in Slovenia's national anthem: "To you, our pride past measure, Our girls! Your beauty, charm and grace!")
There are some ditties sung that are much more ominous than any ‘Bombs bursting in air', you might've whistled while relieving yourself after a heavy lunch, and that would make a scout troupe cower in fear more than a scoutmaster's invite to a midnight swim.
Of course, officials quickly noted that when performed at certain epochal functions, some of these stanzas were better left out altogether, like in the case of Italy, where if something of import were to be held in Warsaw, for example, it might be prudent to omit the bit about "the Polish blood they drank, along with the Cossack."
We thought we’d share a few choice verses, unearth a few national secrets, and perhaps create a diplomatic shit-storm with this, our list of the Top 10 Most Violent National Anthems!
10) Algeria: Being that Algeria's national hymn was written not long after the North African nation broke free from France, thus ending one of the most violent and oppressive periods in European colonial history, we're not surprised that their national anthem makes scant reference to daisy-picking and the value of complacency. Of course, as you'll learn during the course of our bloody world tour of national anthems, nothing ups the carnage in a national anthem like a good throwing off of the yoke of an oppressor. However, this one gets bonus points for the fact that amidst all bloodshed and overthrowing of oppressors, it never forgot the importance of the beat:
Choice Lyrics: "When we spoke, nobody listened to us, So we have taken the noise of gunpowder as our rhythm And the sound of machine guns as our melody" (click here for full anthem)
9) Tunisia / Haiti: Continuing on with our theme of countries breaking free from French colonial rule and celebrating their independence in violent verse, here are two nations that preferred death over French rule, much as we'd prefer such a fate over say, a screening and subsequent discussion of the Sex & the City movie.
Choice Lyrics: "The blood surges in our veins, We die for the sake of our land." "For the flag, For our country To die is a fine thing! Our past cries out to us: Have a disciplined soul! To die is a fine thing!" (Full anthem: Tunisia, Haiti)
8) Albania: It is impossible to enter into a discussion about Albania, without in some way referencing Mother Teresa. That should suffice. For a far more eyeball-rewarding look at a native of that country, turn your peepers to the left. Saints preserve us!
And in its national anthem we have a recurrent theme in many such ditties: the glory of having your ass shot off in a war.
Choice Lyrics:
"From war abstains only he, Who a traitor is born, For he who is a man is never frightened, But falls, but falls a martyr to the cause!" (Full anthem)
7) Hungary: The Magyar Himnuz, based on a poem of such emotional intensity, that some interpreters apparently see it as an example of the nation's deeply-rooted pessimism. We would agree, but what does it matter anyway? Choice Lyrics:
"But no freedom's flowers return From the spilled blood of the dead, And the tears of slavery burn, Which the eyes of orphans shed."
(and later) Grief and sorrow all the same Underneath a sea of blood (Full anthem)
25 Horrible Bands Named after Places: Music from Hell and Elsewhere
Much like hypertension or obesity are predictors for cardiovascular disease, geography is a measure for determining whether a band's music will make you want to cover your ears.
Before you start penning a terse letter to your city councilor, we're not referring specifically to where a band might be from, but one whose name is geographic in origin.
Now, there is no question, there are a handful of talented place-derived bands in genres other than rock/pop. These include punk bands UK Subs, New York Dolls and MC5, soul bands like the Sugarhill Gang and the Ohio Players, not to mention traditional acts like the Blind Boys of Alabama or the Clinch Mountain Boys. However, with few exceptions, the vast majority of rock/pop bands at least, whose names reference a particular place are overwhelmingly and unspeakably awful. There are several reasons for this. First, if you're feeling less than creative when coming up with a band name, say, Julius & the Epileptic Caesars is already taken, the first thing that may spring to mind after a failed bid by the drummer to name the band after himself (The Tommy Hitzenberger Three), is a particular land mass or continent---especially if you were excited about tectonic plates in high school geography class.
Second, some bands are filled with a great sense of civic pride. The Doors, for example, whose version of Alabama Song received kudos in our Top 10 'Bar' Songs of All Time would famously be introduced: 'From Los Angeles, California, the Doors'. If an announcer isn't available, or for some reason your band doesn't believe in loosening up a potentially hostile crowd with whimsical banter, naming yourselves after a particular city works as this removes any doubt as to where you're from for future 'why don't you go back to __________ ?' heckling.
And thirdly, there are several bands, who for whatever reason, likely because they're fond of anything and everything ironic [see the book/site, Stuff White People Like: The Definitive Guide to the Unique Taste of Millions and for Sharkguy Chris's review of said book in this past weekend's Globe and Mail click here] go out of their way to name themselves after somewhere they're NOT from. Perhaps you'll find them on our next list, that is, if they have enough staying power and a big enough fan base to extend beyond Brooklyn or Chapel Hill.
Here, alphabetically then, is an in no way definitive list, (as awful acts sporting geographic monikers are sprouting up literally everywhere as we write this), of 25 of the most notable, and quite horrendous bands with geographic names.
1. Alabama: Not coincidentally, as far as your ears are concerned, this band hails from Fort Payne and brought us Christian Rock-like crossover hits like Dixieland Delight, proving that a taste for piss-poor country translates to a lousy taste in MOR pop.
2. All Saints: after All Saints Road, London. Pure Brit blasphemy
3. America: Their songs have elevated people, but unfortunately only in the context of entering, and pressing your floor. America's big hit 'Horse with No Name' is often mis-attributed to Neil Young--a guy who'd never pen anything like this. I mean, what good is a horse going to do in the desert? That's what camels are for.
4. Asia: A wretched prog-rock outfit whose keyboards were so large they'd likely need to be hauled off by Hercules jets.
5. Backstreet Boys, after Back Street Market, a shopping area in Orlando, Florida. If you name your band after a shopping area, what more can be said, other than your tunes will provide musical accompaniment to mall teen loitering. As far as their Youtube videos are concerned, embedding has been disabled by request, and not by us either. A big thank you to whoever that was.
6. Bay City Rollers: According to legend, the Scottish 'Rollers' threw a dart at a map of the continental US and landed upon Bay City, Michigan. At least they really did put Bay City on the map.
7. Boston : Thankfully, a band that only puts out an album every decade. Right now, a radio station somewhere, is spinning More Than a Feeling and there's not a damn thing we can do about it, though we've mulled over every legal option.
8. Bush, after Shepherd's Bush, a district of London. The best thing this moribund outfit did, was attach itself by marriage to a successful one, Gwen Stafani/No Doubt
9. Chicago, after the city of Chicago (originally Chicago Transit Authority). Touted for their musicianship, horn section, as well as their consummate blandness, Chicago is one of the longest running and most successful U.S. pop/rock and roll groups of all time, something more difficult to grasp conceptually, than String Theory.
10. Chilliwack, after the town of Chilliwack in British Columbia, Canada. Their song 'My Girl', is not even among the top ten best songs called 'My Girl'. They've been 'gone gone gone so long' and hopefully there aren't any signs of an imminent return.
11. Danzig is the German name for the Polish city of Gdańsk, though the band got its name by way of Glenn Danzig. Either way, drift your eyes left, and you'll get a pretty good indication of what you're dealing with.
12. Europe was a living, breathing and sucking embodiment of the phrase 'all sizzle, no steak', and the sizzle in question here was hardly enough to start even a modest grease fire, however striking a match anywhere near any of the band members' noggins might have.
13. Hedley, after the town of Hedley, British Columbia, Canada. Hedley is one of the countless acts featuring songs under 3 minutes, lots of screaming, Major Key power chords, a bunch of skinny guys, spiky hair, tattoos, wallets on chains, and other signifiers of North American suburbia.
14. Kansas: Kansas is known for two epics, Carry on My Wayward Son and Dust in the Wind, that are no doubt being cranked to oblivion in an El Camino right now, somewhere between northern Maine and southern California, with air guitar accompaniment.
15. Linkin Park, after a park (now known as ChristineReedPark) in Santa Monica, California (spelling was changed from Lincoln to Linkin because the domain name lincolnpark.com was unavailable). One of the many 90s bands who merged hip hop and metal, a musical marriage more doomed than the nuptials of Liza Minnelli and that overtly gay guy whose name escapes us.
16. London Beat. When we listen to this, we can't help but think they deserve a good beat-ing. Actually, this could be its own category, as just about every band with London in its title is awful. Due to space restrictions, they're not listed here.
17. The Manhattan Transfer, after John Dos Passos's novel Manhattan Transfer, which is in turn named after the Manhattan Transfer train station in New York City, and this is all you need to know about them, trust us. Disclaimer: some really really bad dancing here
18. Marcy Playground, after the playground of MarcyOpenSchool in Minneapolis. The band achieved success ten years ago with Sex & Candy, middling 90s Nirvana-lite, sans shotgun blast.
19. Mannheim Steamroller, Mannheim Germany. We almost hate to do this to you good people, who were kind enough to stop by and enjoy our list, but here it is. The Steamroller doing a rock instrumental version of 'Joy to the World'. One of us has been to Mannheim, a lovely city, and it pains us to see the musical atrocities committed in its name.
20. Miami Sound Machine. This band helped launch Gloria Estefan, but not in a good way, like out the window of a sufficiently tall building.
21. Nazareth, after the city of Nazareth. Famous for a vocalist, who, like Axl Rose of Guns 'n' Roses sounds like Edith from All in the Family, they were known for this ballad, which is uglier than twinned cow arses, Love Hurts. Listening to this, it's clear something hurts, though it isn't love. They're also known for choice lyrics: Love is like a flame, It burns you when its hot
The above prompts the question, when is a flame not hot? Is there some aspect of fire we're missing here?
22. O-Town, after a common nickname for Orlando, Florida. Not to be confused with, the Big-O, an experience quite opposite to what you'd feel after having to endure any of this craptacular act's hits.
23. Rascal Flatts, after a geological formation in Oklahoma. Rascal Flatts is an embodiment of what country music, unfortunately, has become: your nouveau riche uncle who's moved out to the burbs and bought a speedboat that he likes to show off and needs musical accompaniment. Rascal Flatts are about as far removed from real country, as The Olive Garden is from a trattoria in Palermo.
24. Styx. Nitpickers might point out that this is a mythological place, but this doesn't take away from the fact that if there is a Day of Reckoning, these guys will have a lot to answer for, musically speaking. [see below]
25. The Village People, Greenwich Village, NYC. One good thing that can be said about them, is that unlike everyone else on this list, they never took themselves too seriously.
It's impossible to forget the first time your taste-buds are left smarting from a slap of Belgian beer.
Like most, I was weaned on traditional lager or pilsener, the kind of stuff 'Johnny Sixpack' might pick up in his, well, pick-up.
To make watching sporting events palatable, such as our failing local hockey team's perpetual first round exit from the playoffs, or as an adjunct to a post-work barbecue in someone's suburban backyard, our greatest concern was a six-pack that wouldn't tax the wallet---and would leave us comfortably under the $10-dollar mark to to grab a bag of Doritos and pay for the last bus of the night without having to scramble for change.
If any of these bargain garage sale suds strayed too far from having what we came later to realize was a distinctly "beer" finish, it wasn't uncommon to hear "it's got a bitter aftertaste" bellyaching. This was odd, given that whenever anyone would inhale a candy bar, you'd never hear a "isn't that a sweet aftertaste?"
Belgian beer, as I came to learn, not only has aftertaste, but a heady "before" and "during" taste as well, and furthermore, some types weren't bitter at all.
Like the first time I guzzled a Guinness and realized it wasn't a facsimile of orange juice, like a Corona, or the first time I took a belt of whiskey left out in the bedroom of an older acquaintance whose jail-bait sis was hosting a party for precocious 9th grade tipplers, I realized it was a flavor distinctly unlike I'd ever encountered.
Most people's experience with Belgian beer comes via Stella Artois, which goes to show just how damn spoiled the Belgians are as that is the worst beer they make.
However, their other, more interesting beers trace their origins back to monasteries from the Middle Ages, and the product was so damn good many a monk broke their vow of silence to say as much. Unlike a lager, where the yeast ferments at the bottom at cooler temperatures, or an ale, the opposite, where the bits of goodness rise to the top, Belgian 'Lambic' beers do so spontaneously within the bottle itself.
This is admittedly a bit weird, and leaves the drinker wondering if the little bits floating around in the bottom of the bottle aren't the result of the local bog water source, rather than natural springs. It's also closed with a cork, so that you couldn't give it to the guy who got straight A's in shop class to remove the cap with his teeth.
Lambic beers are also laid down like fine wine to age, and sparkle as well. One of the sub-types (Kriek) is given a second fermentation with sour cherries, and another (Gueuze), is sometimes called Brussels Champagne.
For a country with a population only slightly higher than that of New York City, Belgium has 125 breweries, and an eye-popping 1000 + brands. Having been recently wowed by fruit beers, not for sissies as it turns out as they often pack a 10 and 12% alcohol punch, I figured I'd make a beer pilgrimage to the land that makes, and it pains me to say this with a mother and grandparents who hail from Germany, the world's finest beer.
I visited the Cantillon brewery, and if anyone is interested reading more about the brewing process, you can do so here, as this is not the forum to bore you with minutiae. -- Chris
For more Shark Guy travels, check out what happened to Ireland's supply of a certain stout called Beamish when Noel visited the Emerald Isle by clicking here.
As we've pointed out a few times here, we're Canadian and many Canadians take great pains to explain to bored foreigners who could not give two shits otherwise: we're much different from Americans. For example, the Great White North, for those of you who don't know, is an officially bilingual state, though in reality English speakers are much more well-versed in what's known as "Cereal box French". For our American friends, this refers to French language proficiency a well-fed gorilla could comfortably master in sign language, and that might lead the average tourist to a bathroom or the nearest lost and found should they be parachuted into Basse Normandie.
Colloquially, it refers to an ability to do little more in "The Language of Love that's not Italian" than read the back of a cereal box and determine its ingredients (say, if peanut products, a plastic inhalable toy or trans fats are contained therein) but would not get you off with Juliet Binoche if you met her in a bar.
For those of us who couldn't converse with an "enfant" with our "terrible" Francais, it's tempting when encountering a Frenchman to simply precede an English word with "La" or "Le" and hope not to be met with quizzical stares.
One phrase that would not be lost in translation, (like the eponymous movie starring Bill Murray should've been), is "Le Binge Drinking", so obviously adopted from the English as in the UK it's their national past-time second only to differentiating themselves from lowly continentals and not combing their hair.
Indeed, there are few countries, save for Russia or Germany, who can even begin to compete with the levels of self-ruination we've chronicled across the pond.
According to a recent report though, even France is battling the scourge of increased public drunkenness and is mulling over the banning of happy hour, that period of time between work and home life that doesn't leave you looking at your watch and wondering when it's time to punch the clock or go to bed.
Other possible measures could include restricting the sale of vodka, whiskey and other high-powered potables in discos to glasses, rather than entire bottles, that you could previously hoist above your head and swing around to the beat of 'Love in this Club' while pouring the contents into the mouth of whoever you'd like to bed that evening.
They are also considering raising the legal age to three years below that of the US, where hairlines can recede, and mortgages can be bought at the comparatively ripe age of 21. Mon dieu! Sacre bleu!
As we've noted in previous posts, to the point of smacking our heads repeatedly against the steering wheel in frustration, we unequivocally, in no way whatsoever endorse impaired driving---our Top Ten Greatest Drinking & Driving Anthems of All Time referring solely to the soundtrack of a drunken, Grand Theft Auto game in the confines of one's moldy basement.
That being said, we've taken great pleasure here in pointing out the folly of those who do get behind the wheel blotto and while this may not garner any favor with those who fly red ribbons from their antennae, we'd be hypocrites if we claimed otherwise---as authors of a sizable chapter in our book entitled, Contents May Shift in Transit: Drunk and on the Move.
In a subsection of the above, Chariots of Firewater no less, we noted a drunk driver in Germany who got sidetracked with a flat, and in a breach of male etiquette dictating that you change your own damn tire drunk or otherwise, decided to phone for help. In his compromised state, he unwittingly called police instead of roadside assistance, presumably missing the 'Hello---police', on the other end and then blurting out that a mechanic should be dispatched post-haste as he was very drunk and things would turn ugly for him if the cops arrived. Which they did. In Wisconsin, a woman decided to call 911 dispatch while driving home drunk from a local watering hole. The following is a transcript of the conversation. Caller: I just want to know if somebody can follow me home because somebody seems to think I can't drive home straight.
911 Operator: OK, why is that?
Caller: He seems to think I am too intoxicated to drive.
911 Operator: OK, and so you called 911, or he called 911?
Caller: Well, he wanted me to call 911 because he thinks I'm too drunk to drive.
The 'he' in this case was a boyfriend who'd consumed a 12-pack by himself, yet still had the wherewithal to point out the driver, who'd knocked back 6, should not be getting behind the wheel (and yet no foresight or judgment whatsoever to pass up a ride home).
The woman failed the Breathalyzer and was ticketed in her own garage, but not before earning the unlikely kudos from a county sheriff (possibly, a distant relation):
"I think a judge will look at her and say, 'You know what? You stepped up to the plate. You did the right thing. I think it's commendable."
Beer prices up! German consumption falls! Stay calm folks
In our spare time, the odd hour of sobriety as well as professionally, we're not only "festive boozing consultants" (with carefully hand-crafted-in-the-garage business cards to prove it) but self appointed industry analysts taking the sector's pulse and checking for slow, shallow breathing of the type the gentlemen pictured here might experience if they kept up this activity for a protracted period.
With the buzz from 2007 wearing off and the promise of a brighter and more prosperous 08 (our jobs have yet to be outsourced to humorists in India) we Shark Guys were ready to stagger into the New Year without tripping and falling on the panic button. However we’ve just smashed the protective glass case and wrapped a towel around a hand to stop the bleeding. This is the same hand that would’ve ordinarily been extended— palm out, to demand a traffic cop-like halt to a disturbing trend post haste, or slapped down in a Jeopardy-style buzz-in: "What is beer?: the correct response to the clue: ‘hops and barley prices have risen sharply over the last year, affecting the cost of this vital, lifeblood if you will, consumer staple.’
Our pulses quickened, and we experienced lightheadedness that could not be explained as the result of too many push ups when we confirmed that beer prices were indeed on the rise. This recently caused one of the biggest manufacturers, Anheuser-Busch, a sector benchmark, to raise prices of its mass-market undrinkable swill, Budweiser, to counteract the rising cost of ingredients. This will affect our bottom line, in terms of housewarming gifts, but also because of the trickle down effect to the makers of the high end stuff we ourselves consume.
Speaking of which, in another disturbing trend per-capita beer consumption in Germany, once the world's largest consumer of the drink (and home to a world record, 1284 breweries), fell yet again—the eighth decline in the last nine years. This is of special concern to us, not only because their beer is tops in our book, figuratively speaking, but because its country folk figure so prominently in our actual book, The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery. The country's Brewery Association managing director predicted the decline would begin to have a negative impact as Germans are inexplicably turning to more non-alcoholic beverages, which does not bode well for us in terms of amassing as wide-ranging a compendium of stories for a sequel.
And what's the situation in Canada you ask? (as writer's block and a spontaneous bout of delirium tremens is preventing a proper segue). Well, AOL Canada recently purchased a limited edition Stella Artois for $15,000 in what the Financial Post reported was "the most expensive six-pack in the world", and across our great land, per capita consumption of our fave legal drug has increased more than 11 per cent over the past decade so perhaps things aren't as worrisome as they appear. Knock on that wooden bar top...A toast to a heavy beer swillin' 08 with this Irish proverb!
"It is better to spend money like there's no tomorrow than to spend tonight like there's no money."
They say you cannot put a price on freedom, but that is hooey. Freedom, the best kind too, freedom from work, costs a mere $US19.95 via the Excused Absence Network. The network has isolated a distinct need – that of goldbrickers and hungover partiers to shirk a day’s office duties while not losing pay or stepping into pink-slip lane – and has filled it admirably. For this meager fee you can purchase fake doctor’s notes, as well as funeral programs, which will come in handy if you’ve already tested the limits of your boss’ credulity by both the sheer number of aunts you have (if you’re not in a predominantly Catholic country) and how they seem to drop dead close to a long weekend.
Halloweenthis year falls inconveniently right in the middle of the week, making a service such as this one quite handy for those who don’t want to worry about a next-day hangover when they don their Eyes Wide Shut masks and hit the nightclubs to grope random strangers and enjoy the only day of the year when it is socially acceptable to go outside the way you secretly dress up in front of your bedroom mirror.
In The Shark Book, we covered more than one tale of the Halloween hammered, including a particular favorite of an Aussie who borrowed a friend’s policeman uniform, possibly thinking that the genuine article would up his odds of winning the giant canned ham or whatever the prize was for best costume. When he later was so drunk that he passed out on a suburban street and passersby who spotted him thought that a policeman had been taken out in the line of duty, things got a bit uncomfortable for both the cop and the partier.
And more recently in Hamburg, we came across another story of Halloween gone wrong, when Die Polizei were called to a train by frightened passengers who believed they had come across the victim of a serious assault. According to officials, "The passengers were alarmed as the man appeared to be bleeding from the face and hands [and] could also not talk”. The passengers tried to revive him and failed (not surprising for anyone who has ever tried to wake up a seriously heavy drinker once he's settled into a serious snooze) and judging by the gore concluded that he had been the victim of a terrible assault.
By the time emergency officials arrived, the clamor surrounding the man caused him to wake up and explain to everyone with a drunken slur that he had just come from a Halloween party. First responders removed the man’s make-up to prevent any further misunderstanding. [Full story here]
South Africa Safari: Hey teacher, leave us kids alone!
When preparing The Shark Book, we took great care to ensure that every continent was represented except for Antarctica (although we now have our eyes on a few climate-change researchers who know how to party for the sequel). Yes, we traversed great distances via keyboard tapping and mouse clicks to bring together a collection of drunks with a truly international flavor (much like Ibiza, one would assume).
Our book featured soccer referees getting wildly drunk and directing traffic on a busy Jerusalem street, a shit-faced German who offered his friend’s identification to arresting DUI officers, forgetting one key detail—his friend had a glass eye—a tough sell to even the dimmest of cops, and a Maltese man so blotto on cheap whiskey that his flight had to be diverted because he would not be stilled in his quest to break into the cockpit so that he could tell the captain he "loved him".
We may be accused of a lot of things (libel, extremely poor taste, bad judgment, and offering our accusers hush money) but ignoring Africa isn’t one of them and like Bono, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to put the oft-ignored continent under the glaring lights of our Shark Guys roadside spot check—but unlike Bono, we’ve done it solely out of blatant self-interest and in a bid to further gas up our airplane-hangar-sized egos (read with sarcasm heavier than a fat camp welcome wagon).
We chronicled a drinking contest in Tanzania, in which a man washed down a liter (two pints) of pure vodka with a couple of beers en route to "victory" (his nickname was "Shame", which you can interpret as you may) and now, the continent is represented again by a couple of high school teachers in South Africa who made the news recently when they were arrested for being drunk on the job. (Note: This might not shock the odd reader who may, in retrospect, recall the odd whiff of something other than a Fisherman's Friend lozenge emanating from the homework-checking teacher of his or her own school days)
A police official said the school had long had a problem with the students showing up looking as if they had completed their essays on Dylan Thomas by living out one of the end stages of the man's life, but that "now it's teachers themselves that get drunk at school". The policeman then went on to ask "What is this world coming to?”
We would refer him to the "Halls of drunker learning" chapter of The Shark Book, chronicling boozing antics on both sides of the chalkboard divide, for the answer to this excellent question. [full story here]
The Portable Beer Cooler: And now, a word from our sponsors...
As the observant among you will have already noticed, we here at TheSharkBook.com have elected to include Google ads to go with our drunken chronicles. Consider it the cyber-equivalent of that guy at a spoken-word performance who comes around at the end with a hat, forcing you to feign distraction so that you can hold on to your small change and lower-denomination currency and thus be able to tip that attractive bartender consistently throughout the night.
Google’s AdSense works on some sort of mysterious computer-language-based voodoo that we don’t have a clue about, however it seems to base what ads are displayed on the text that appears on a given page. Thus, when we posted a blog in tribute to the drinking prowess of a certain young prince among drinkers (we will withhold his name for fear of those irrelevant ads popping up again), all sorts of advertisements began to pop up that were somehow based on his name and title – gossip sites, genealogy services offering to trace your heritage back to the big Kahunas of various medieval fiefdoms, and travel offers to places with royal sounding names like… (Again, we won’t mention the town's name here, but let’s just say that it is the westernmost point on the TransCanada highway, which makes matters convenient once you’ve soaked up a bit of the sad local life and are ready to jump in the ocean.)
However, given the nature of this blog, and the drunk-compendium from which it sprung, ads more related to drinking, drunkenness, and the various accouterments that can spruce up this lifestyle do thankfully appear (including ones that are a little too appropriate, such as the ad that asks if you drink too much wine or another that wonders if you could stand to lose some beer-fat). Editor’s note: While we normally would include links here, we have opted not to in the hopes that you’ll refresh your screen a thousand times until the relevant ad comes up and then click on it. Danke!
Of these, our absolute favourite thus far is from the Frankfurt-based “Rocket Packs Getränke-Rucksack-Systeme”, a company that sells “Beer rocket-packs”. This is a huge step up from the beer drinking hat popularized by fans of American sporting events who don’t want to get up to get a drink (and who presumably wear diapers to deal with the natural corollary of that kind of beer consumption).
Getranke’s website itself is not text-heavy, and most of it is in German, however the pictures seem to tell the story: the company sells packs that can keep a two or three liter tower of beer cool so that drinkers can be served on the move. A serving person straps on the jetpack-looking like device (at times while wearing a ball gown, which may or may not be offset by a pair of gigantic, devil-swooping-in-on-a-bad-dream pair of black wings) and offers freshly-tapped beer for thirsty patrons. In terms of venues where this sort of thing might be popular, it seems from their publicity material (see above photo) that no place is too toney to have a lady in high-heels squirt beer into your glass from a hose attached to a backpack.
We here at TheSharkBook thank all of our inadvertent advertisers and commend Getranke especially for coming up with a product that makes shameless shilling fun.
Who keeps the metric system down? The EU, the EU...
The metric/imperial debate has largely been decided: most countries of the world with the exception of the US, and, you guessed it, Burma and Liberia, officially use the metric system of weights and measures. Being raised in Canada, where the metric system has been in place since the days of The Great Trudeau, The Shark Book authors grew accustomed to being struck with a meter-stick for misbehaving at school rather than the yard-stick, which was the weapon of preference for the homeroom teachers of their parents’ generation.
However, if you were to ask a random person on a Toronto street how much he or she weighed, the response (if you were to get one that didn’t consist of a finger to your eye, or a curt “Drop dead creep”) would probably be in pounds. Somehow, the metric system just isn’t a comfortable fit when discussing weight or the length of certain appendages of import – those spammers sending out emails on how different a gentleman's life might be with 12 inches never boast of how impressed the ladies would be with 30.48 centimeters. And of course, when you go to a bar, you order a pint – and if the bartender were to give you any lip about 0.473176475 liters, well his quarter tip might stay firmly clenched in your fist when it comes time to pay.
Drinkers’ familiarity with pints, while maybe not reversing the trend toward metrication, is at least slowing it down. A recent ruling in the European Union’s Court of Justice came down in favor of the imperial measure when it granted Diageo, the maker of girl-drink drunk favorite Baileys Irish Cream, permission to sell mini-bottles of the liqueur in Germany.
Bailey minis are sold in individual units, each one containing an eighth of a pint (0.071), which while allowed in imperial-friendly Britain and Ireland, is a non-standard measure in Germany and therefore technically illegal. The German drinking public, the distillers argued, would not know what to make of the little bottles and the non-standard amount of sweet liquid it contains. The EU, further proving that it has given up all hope of ever trying to force the British or Irish to order anything other than a pint at a bar, disagreed and interpreted the relevant laws in such a way that they gave Diageo permission to sell the wee bottles throughout Europe. (Full story here)
Despite sinking more coins into our Olympic coffers than a virgin at Lucky Fountain, Toronto has been repeatedly denied the chance to host the games and as a result, we won't get to see if the shot-put can, after 2500 years of failing to do so, finally ignite the public's imagination.
There are some countries, such as those whose main export is a variety of tart nectarine, that you never really get to hear from in non-Olympic years unless an extradition treaty is violated or some autocrat is ousted and replaced by an antelope as the interim head of state.
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