Monthly Archives: August 2014

Otto, Nero's violin tutor

Nervous With Nero

Erm… Is this thing on? Can you hear me? I haven’t got long (His Imperial Bipolarness is just catching a show in the Colosseum), so I’ll make this quick. Right. So my name is Otto, although given this forum I think you already knew that. And I work for the Emperor Nero – yes, the one who made Rome nice and toasty – as his violin tutor. It could be worse. I could be his official food taster and have a life expectancy of three meals.

My boss, let’s face it, isn’t very popular. I mean, he’s not even a Marmite sort of bloke (you know, hated or loved); he’s more a flatulence kind of guy. Only the dealer likes the smell, the rest of us stand upwind. I just pray he never finds this tablet as I’d be crucified along the Appian Way faster than that hippy in Judea. Luckily he’s also the dumbest man since Severus the Simple headed north to “talk some sense into the Visigoths”. Nero, in short, doesn’t know his culus from his cubitus.

Which is a good thing, because his capacity for inflicting agonizing pain is frankly impressive. In an age when casual sadism is celebrated as heroism, when 8 out of 10 Big Cats prefer kosher meat, and when the main form of exercise for women is Escape the Rape, you’ll understand what I mean when I say Nero makes Caligula look like a hypnotised buddhist. Oedipus was a well-adjusted first-born compared with Nero’s daddy issues.

I confess, he makes me a little nervous. I’ve had to put three smallish fires out already this week, and I’m running out of ways to say “E Minor, not A Major” without implying that he is less musical than Tarquinius the Tone-deaf Tenor who was publicly lynched for his rendition of Mamma Mia in the forum. (There’s nothing more dangerous than an angry mob maddened by dissonance…)

I’d better go. I can hear screams of agony from the corridor and the pitter-patter of tiny feet running for their lives; ah the little tell-tale signs that His Unhinged Majesty is on his way and has a story to relate.

Next week: Otto fiddles while his toast burns

Otto the West Bank Barrier

Hamo Hamas Hamat

Finally. After seven weeks of bombing interrupted by short cease fires, we have a long-term truce in Gaza at last. Wonder how long-term that actually is. The previous cease fires were not pauses so much as dot-dot-dots of waiting for the next round of shelling. But right now all I know is that the party to the left of me (on the -alestine side of Isralestine) is going full swing and long may that last too.

And as the rest of you tip ice water over your heads in support of ALS research (not just because you’ve been challenged to and because you want to be part of something fun and big, of course…), some Palestinians have taken to tipping the rubble of what used to be their homes over their heads to raise awareness of Gaza.  Calling it the Rubble Bucket Challenge. And demonstrating that humour, not love, will always win over hate.

After all, love is – in a fragile break from a war that has claimed tens of thousands of innocent lives – possibly a tall order. Amo, Amas, Amat, as we learned in Latin class, is first and foremost a matter of grammar. Let alone Hamo, Hamas, Hamat (or PIJ, Hamas, Fatah, as the case may be). But humour may be the first step for those with little reason to love their enemy, whatever side of me – well, of the Gazan border of course, but I speak metaphorically – they’re on.

If you hate me, for instance, for being a symbol of divisiveness in an area that really doesn’t need any more divisions, just switch the first letters of my name – West Bank Barrier – and have a giggle.

If you can’t love your enemy, you can at least take the piss.

And given the truce forged in Cairo this week, it appears to have done the trick. Maybe tipping the contents of your hoover over your head will bring back the missing girls in Nigeria, who knows.

Otto the Police Dog

Games Over

Phew. And boo. The Commonwealth Games are over and I’m both relieved (nothing bad happened) and sad (it was all so exciting!). And I think we all in the police did brilliantly, if I say so myself.

We created at least 8 briefings per day, just in case the bosses ran out of updates to read; the number of completely identical maps produced by different departments was very impressive; and there were even some beat officers who, having no access to public loos and being on duty for so many hours without a break, were forced literally to relieve themselves. They did ask their managers if they could maybe take a quick ‘comfort break’, but apparently were denied. It was odd but when we were told about this at the morning briefing, it was one of the few times my Sergeant said nothing. He looked angry though.

Meanwhile, I turned 10 years old yesterday!! I knew nothing about this until my Sergeant gave me a dentastix (wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended) which was tasty. My Sergeant called me Slobadog Milosevic before wiping me down – not sure who that is, to be honest.

So now the Games and my birthday are over, I suppose I can catch up with some sleep, although I’ll miss all the activity, running from pillar to post, sniffing and marking same. On the bright side, we have the Ryder Cup to look forward to!!! Very excited.

Next week: Otto’s top 10 songs (spoiler alert: Led Zeppelin is in the top 5, for obvious reasons)