All posts by ottoblogs

Otto the Aid Worker

Bailed in Bazimbi

    I don’t know if you’ve ever been sucker punched? You know: when you set out on a lovely morning, brimming with effervescence and ready with a smile for all, when you step on a hibernating bear with a hangover and you wonder how fast you can do nought to sixty up a tree? Well, I have. Not literally stepped on a bear of course (not sure they have bears in Central Africa), but metaphorically my life has recently become wall to wall angry bears, all equipped with running shoes. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t want to complain or appear ungrateful, but things seem to have taken a *slight* turn for the worse here in Zabarindi since my last sitrep. And to be totally honest with you I’m not entirely, a hundred percent sure this is what I signed up for…

    Let me explain. My life before all this happened was rather meh. Blah. With all the zing and joy of Tesco tofu. So in an uncharacteristic fit of… well, just a fit really, I threw caution to the wind, carpe’d that diem and signed up for a stint with GAWD: General Aid Without Divisions. Imagine Oxfam meets Special Forces. My goal: to See and Change the World, Do Good, Make A Difference. (The capitalisation helps.) In short, I wanted Adventure that wouldn’t hurt me and Kudos that wouldn’t cost me. Except it’s starting to dawn on me that – and this may surprise you – that my efforts are *not* appreciated as much as I had been led to believe they would be.

    I got here in North Zabarindi a month ago (except of course it’s not North Zabarindi anymore, not since the border was overrun, but that’s another, much longer story) and ever since then things have been a little… well, fraught. Again, not complaining, wouldn’t dream of it.

    But I mean to say arresting me, taking my passport AND my vitamins and then denying me basics like airconditioning. This is not the behaviour of a grateful nation I must say…

    The first I was aware something was wrong was outside the guest house, having been dropped off by a taxi (only $60! I’m really getting the hang of this haggling business) and all of a sudden these enormous men with unnecessarily shiny muscles and sunglasses move in, yell at me in some dreadful lingo and, when it’s clear from my slack-jawed expression that I don’t understand a word they’re saying, they gesture me into their van with AKs (did you know they don’t speak English in Central Africa?? French! I mean to say!)

    Now, I’m just a press officer ok? My job is basically making sure people back home (donors) know what we do in the field (think we’re heroic), speaking to journos to promote what we do (get them to warzones and back safely in return for positive press) and stay on message no matter what (navigate the minefield of internal GAWD politics which is just stupidly harder than it needs to be).

    And in that capacity I’m literally the only Communications person on the continent. (Which, for an organisation that keeps banging on about advocacy but then doesn’t employ the staff is a bit of a disconnect but anyway.)

    Back to the scary guys with guns. After much yelling and repetition (the Latin lessons at school finally paid off huzzah!), I surmised I was under arrest for breaking curfew and being in the Green Zone at the time. I *may* also have been slightly trollied and singing a song I learned from the askari (“Mobutu’s Dumplings are Round and Sweet”) while waving a bottle of vodka at what I thought was a taxi but turned out to be a police van. Happily, a taxi *did* stop so I jumped in. Unhappily, the boys in blue just followed me home.

    So here I am, in Bazimbi’s main police station, trying to remember why I came here. The capitalisation helps… Gawd help us

    Next week: Otto accidentally goes on safari.

    Otto the Alien

    Sexual destiny?

    Hey guys and gals and all those in between or beyond; how’s your half-life treating you? So it’s been a while huh? I’ve kind of been observing, learning, treading water – not literally of course, I wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself like Gary did (you guys knew him as Jesus, but to us he was just Gazza. Actually maybe that’s why he ended up in Judea… Things might have been different if he’d gone to Congo but that’s for another time).

    I digress. In the intervening years since my last post I’ve noticed something odd about you lot: your species treats half of its members like gorp. Steaming gorp.

    This is not, I realise, an original observation, which ironically makes it all the more necessary to make.

    Back where I come from, we automatically change our sex every few stellar oscillations; it just happens. I’m currently in my female stage and starting to wonder if that wasn’t a mistake here. I notice, for instance, that I’m the only female on this forum – and I’m an alien… What does that tell you.

    So explain some things to me please.

    Why are female humans so often exclusively defined by their familial or sexual relationships with others…? When those relationships in turn define her…well…everything! Her name, work, longevity, education, prospects, sex life, love life, suffrage, mobility, appearance, rights over her own body, voice, her whole purpose. How the frook… I mean…I’m speechless.

    And I’m not just talking about some of the livelier parts of the planet where cutting off female body parts for minor infractions is de rigeur. It’s everywhere.

    Attractive? Can’t be clever. Attractive but rejects male? Lesbian. Have a strong sex drive? Nympho. Weak sex drive? Frigid. More intelligent than him? Gobby bitch. Want kids? Unambitious. Don’t want kids? Selfish. Single? Aww. Swear like a bloke? Common. Ambitious? Masculine. Emotionally intelligent? On her period. Eloquent? Yap yap yap. Protest against ANY of this? Screeching man-hater.

    Are female reproductive organs really that threatening..?

    Take something as simple as bras – just hear me out… If you have a push-up, you’re a gender traitor, but if you prefer a sports bra you’ve let yourself go. Breasts are continually scrutinised and spoken at, while their owners have to endure comments like “Huh is it cold out?”, but wearing a padded bra to avoid this is a false promise.

    Frook, you people haven’t evolved much have you. No wonder I’m the only female on here. And so many females just submit and add to this pile of gorp. Getting the competition for the alpha male out the way I guess… “Pick me, pick me, I’ll be your dog!”

    Fun fact: when a male finally conquers (interesting verb) a female, he is biologically impelled to move on to the next one. When a female finally submits (…for frook’s sake) to a male, she is impelled to want it more.

    You monkeys are complicated.

    Oh, and #metoo. Though he lived to regret it. (Never try to feel up an alien on a tram unless you want to lose an arm.)

    Otto the Hill

    Whose Land is it anyway?

    Good morning good morning good morning what a hearteningly marvellous morning it is too! Gosh, a sunny crisp Autumn morning is just what the doctor ordered. Because good heavens these are trying times if you’re a British hill. Which, if you’re reading this is unlikely, I grant you, but let me tell you things have been fraught with tension here in the Sussex substratum.

    And there’s only one reason for it: Brexit.

    I first heard that dreadful term a few years ago – in fact around the time I posted my last update – but could never have envisaged how it would come to represent all that is most moronic about the humans occupying my person. And that, coming from a piece of the island in whose name other hills the world over have been stabbed by British flags simply for being populated by people of colour, is up against some pretty stiff competition.

    I honestly have no idea why, but Brexiteers keep alluding to the Blitz spirit (apparently remembered best with bunting and teacakes, not bunkers filled with terrified civilians), surviving the War (many didn’t, we’re still at war and survival is apparently the best we can hope for now) and stopping duplicitous foreigners taking the jobs nobody wants but without which the country will grind to a halt like cake-baking during rationing. Result: a green and pleasant land populated by nose-less spited faces.

    Well, none of this truly affects me of course because I’m literally part of the scenery and you all come and go so swiftly to me, but I do rather resent being used as the rallying cry by those who have at best a nodding acquaintance with my geography and history. And it gives me the hump. Or hill.

    So here’s a reality check: you know that speech from Shakespeare’s Richard II? The one about this royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, blabla demi-paradise, yada yada this earth, this realm, this England, cue orgasmic crescendo of Jerusalem? Ok well that’s not where it ends. No, it goes on rather prophetically:

    That England, that was wont to conquer others,

    Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

    Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,

    How happy then were my ensuing death!

    Everyone always forgets that bit.

    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)

    Otto the Alien

    A Perfect Pizza

    Having propagated successfully only last quinquinnium, I felt like a bit of a change. I’m sure you’ve all been there. Your youngest thousand offspring constantly howling for your attention, other spawners competing to see who gets their original shape back the fastest and comparing their “perfect promogeniture”, while you’re simultaneously made to feel guilty for not immediately resuming your bullshit ratrace career by smug, spawnless crotch-stabilisers.

    I fancied a change. A break. A holiday. Call me a bad spawner; bite me.

    So I left the kids with their co-spawner, hired Betsy my off-planet transport pod (740 pegasus powered, v16 engine, flies like a banshee bitch mainlining base) and made for the furthest edge of space-time. And, to give me something to do, I made it my mission to find the perfect pizza.

    I know, it’s weird, we have pizza too, blabla heard it, guy. You honestly think you’re the only civilization to think up dough, cheese and tomato? Frook, you people. What you don’t know is that where I come from pizza is seriously (see-ree-us-lee) high-end stuff. Like ahi tuna and saffron-infused truffles meets that cow that’s been massaged by nubile Asian chicks and fed only organic golddust or something.

    Which means that one of the most coveted jobs in my world is to be a pizza-delivery guy. Or girl. Man, it’s like being Heston, Hugh, Michel and Jamie, but with all the wealth and market-share of Bezos. Which is why it’s my next intended career move.

    So I know pizza is from Italy (I flew in for a few nights and Rome is now my totally frookin favourite place of all time), but I heard a place called Dudehattan is the place for a slice. I’m sure I’ll find it.

    Because I’m determined to find the best pizza on your frooked-up little planet, before it’s sucked into the shape-shifting vortex from Ephrinilium Camblex in about 5 centuries.

    Erp. Forget I said that. First Directive and all that. And YES I know you’re familiar with the concept; where do you think Gene Roddenberry got the notion…?

    Otto the Police Dog

    Zero Hour!

    I SAW THE QUEEN! THE ACTUAL, LIVING BREATHING QUEEN! It was very brief, if I’m completely honest with you (I saw her ankle when she got out of the car), but it still counts!

    So did you all watch the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony too? Gosh, what a wonderful show it was. The singing, the dancing, the chairs, the kilts; it couldn’t have been more Scottish if Frankie Boyle had been stabbed with a slice of deep-fried shortcake. Although I did take issue with some of the Scottie dogs who simply refused to walk out in front of their team and had to be carried – letting the side down rather, I thought.

    But I was busy most of the time working. On Tuesday we were scheduled to start our shifts in Winchburgh, although in the end we had to move because there were just three desks in a large, otherwise empty office. So we were sent to Livingston for breakfast but when we got there at two in the morning there was no food and we were then despatched to a 999 call in Niddrie, together with three other police vans for some reason. Thank Benji we have lots of resources to spare!

    But we made it to Glasgow in time thank Lassie. Everyone was talking about a virus in the athletes’ village and how the weightlifters would have to be  careful not to shart – must be a technical term – but at that point I was sent to “sniff out terrorists” by one of the bosses. I love tasks like that; the vaguer the better.

    And then afterwards when all the police bosses gathered together to give each other a pat on the back (mutual master baton society -?- the Sergeant called it later and everybody laughed, but I couldn’t see the baton anywhere so I’m not sure what that meant). Boss 1 said to Boss 2 how it had all happened without a hitch thanks to them personally and how they were expecting commendations for it, or possibly an OBE. Other Bugger’s Efforts, my Sergeant said later.

    And now the ceremony is all over I’m going to sleep for a bit. My shift turned out to be 35 hours long in the end, although there is no overtime but that’s ok, I love working for free.

    But Boss 1 was right: it did all go off without a hitch. Well, there was some drunkenness and theft in the park, and an attempted assault of one of the Tongan weightlifters by a rather surprised and crumpled youth. But there were no disasters or catastrophes (unless you count the Scotland team’s uniforms, thank god I’m colourblind), and I’m sure that’s all down to the bosses.

    Next week: Otto sniffs a suspicious package

    Otto the West Bank Barrier

    What’s in a wall

    Yesterday a man tried to cross me. I didn’t really mind. In fact, I didn’t react at all. But the other man with the gun did, the guard. It did not end well.

    As walls go (or wall-and-fence-barrier which is what I am strictly speaking), I’m quite laid back really. Most of the time I just want to keep people safe, like all walls do, or give people something to climb so they can see further. Most walls just want to help. I mean a house without walls is basically a marquee. People – humans – tend to need walls. Which is odd but whatever.

    But most walls will also agree that they are used by humans to do things that are bizarre, pointless or downright immoral. Take the Wailing Wall for instance – he’s called Eddie. You couldn’t meet a nicer wall; well what’s left of him. Always cheerful, always friendly. And to be wailed at, loudly, by milions of people a year (literally millions, sheesh) must give even the most tolerant wall the hump.

    Now me, I’m used as a barrier – well that’s what I’m called; the West Bank Barrier. Much like Hans in Berlin was before he went the way of Jericho. Because for some reason humans like division. The people who built me obviously wanted to keep the suicide bombers out, ok, but generally I’ve noticed that humans like barriers. They need barriers. Us and Them, with Them firmly Over There, so We can feel united and They can be blamed for, well, everything.

    Which is ironic because to me, you’re all exactly the same. You must really like arguing or something. To us walls, though, it’s only so much noise. Or wailing. And the lucky ones find love (Hans and Checkpoint Charlie, for instance, well that was a scandal but they were different times). But the rest of us just become really really grumpy.

    So if I lurk and loom a little now and again, forgive me. Because Isralestine is so beautiful on both sides of me – I just wish you could see it.

    Otto the Hill

    1066 and all that

    Good morning good morning good morning! Is everyone wonderfully splendiferously gorgeous, I trust? Gosh, this is my first ever post; I’m a little nervous. No one has EVER asked for my opinion, EVER! Truly an honour.

    Where to begin? The trouble with having an audience with such a short life-expectancy as humans (a CENTURY! Good lord, honestly, I had to laugh in disbelief. Managed to pass it off as a small earth tremor. Blamed it on the fracking) is that the beginning is so very long ago that it won’t make much sense to you.

    One thing I know you’ve all heard of is the Battle of Hastings. You know, 1066, William the Conquerer annihilates pretty much the majority of England’s governing classes in a field in East Sussex. Well, that field was me! And let me tell you, having a ruddy great battle fought on your very person is no way to wake up at the crack of dawn. No morning chorus, no how-d’you-do, just a lot of yelling. How rude. As though they owned the place…

    Well my short-lived little darlings, I’ve been asked by the Continental Shelf to keep it short, so I shall bid you all goodday. Anon, adieu, a-bye!

    Next week: Precambrian or Cenozoic – which had the best fashion sense?