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Otto the Hill

OTTO THE HILL 2. Whose Land Is It Anyway?

Good morning good morning good morning what a hearteningly marvellous morning it is too! Gosh, a sunny crisp winter morning is just what the doctor ordered.

Because good heavens these are trying times if you’re a British hill like I am. 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, but I could never have envisaged how it would come to represent all that is most moronic about the humans occupying my surface. And that, coming from 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 the Alien

OTTO THE ALIEN 3. Drowning in the dating pool?

Imagine: you are a single, straight, middle-aged woman and you’re dipping back into the dating pool after a long hiatus. Now, I know I’m an alien who happens to be on this planet in the skinsuit of a single, straight, middle-aged woman, but go with me here.

OK, so what, you ask yourself, can you expect from said pool-dipping? Well, I’m always up for a laugh so I dedicated some time to checking out the different dating pools in my area (good lord) and “swiping right” as you monkeys call it. And after dipping, wading and splashing about for a bit, I noticed a thing or two about the age-appropriate men paddling about in my vicinity. Especially during the very early stages of dating them. 

Now, you have to admit that human women are no angels either (hey, when I’m pre-triplegluonic I can get a bit tetchy too, so I get it sister). And of course not every date was a car crash. But I’m curious. Is this normal..?

  • He never really asks you about yourself except ‘how are you’ with no follow up. If he does ask you anything, it will only be so he can flatter you briefly after which he will turn the focus back on himself. I cannot stress enough how often this happens.
  • So you find yourself carrying the conversation, as he just waits for further questions and prompts from you. Weird: It’s almost as if it’s all about him and how you make him feel about himself. But that would be ridiculous.
  • After he’s spent the evening talking about himself, he’ll say he thinks you’re interesting. 
  • OR you get the less common opposite: an emotionally-crippled, self-effacing piece of human wreckage whose confidence you spend the entire date trying to prop up. (Notice that it’s still all about him though.) 
  • He does the ‘test and apologize’ move very early on: he’ll say or do something inappropriately sexual to see how far he can go and then apologize with “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” (Which, by the way, also shows you he’s not that interested in a relationship.)
  • The following has, bizarrely, happened a few times: in the early stages, he will brag about the many interesting women he’s been with. He may even send you a photo of one or two. Or he’ll tell you what amazing sex he had with them (one guy actually said he was worried about sleeping with anyone again after his ex because she was so incredible in bed). I can only think they do this because you’re supposed to want to compete with that ex and all those women?
  • That same man will brag about his abilities in bed. From saying she cried with gratitude to saying that once he gets any woman into bed he’s “got her hook line and sinker”. Again, I am not sure what this is supposed to achieve, but coming from a planet where orgasms literally change your skin colour, I can only feel sorry for the guy. 
  • If he messages you infrequently, only on weekdays during work hours or very late at night, it means he’s married or has a long term partner. No exceptions.
  • If you ask him about this and he fesses up, he will tell you his wife stopped having sex with him a year ago or is a menopausal bitch or got unreasonably out of shape after the birth of their kids or – if he’s really desperate – he’ll tell you he’s falling in love with you. (My advice? Confess your ardent, everlasting love for him and watch him disappear faster than a photon in a Positronic Logicator.)
  • From his life history it seems that he has never been without a woman of one sort or another for any length of time. Coincidentally, he has also never been in therapy, or he bailed after 2 sessions, but hoo boy… he has issues. He despises his father and worships/fears his mother, or vice versa, but is completely unaware of it. (Hey, I get it man. We descended from Blue Fermions, so you can imagine how busy our therapists are!)
  • OR he was in intense therapy after his last break-up because he’s on a journey of self-discovery and he has now attained near-buddhist levels of emotional intelligence. Which means he now knows he has mommy issues but doesn’t see what that has to do with anything and anyway he unloaded the dishwasher only last week.
  • This is also quite common: He will go out of his way on the first or second date to tell you that he usually likes one particular type of woman (curvy or slim, blonde or brunette, pixie or long hair, doesn’t matter) when you are the literal opposite of that ideal – but he still comes on strong. Is that supposed to make me feel grateful or special? Or is he saying he’s so horny he’ll overlook your hideous exterior? (Granted, it’s not exactly Playmate Paradise under my skinsuit…)
  • If he is indiscreet about his exes and isn’t friendly with any of them, do point this out to him and see how he reacts. 
  • He only pays for the very first date but not often after that. This is not because he respects your feminist independence, but because he is one of the following: broke, tight, or married and doesn’t want it to go on a credit card receipt. He may even say he’s been burned before by “gold-diggers” (this from a guy who had no discernible gold to be dug). 
  • He’s great at suggesting meet-ups but has no ability to make an actual plan. Also, and much more damningly, he’s often late for when you do have a date. (They’re lucky that pan-dimensional licensing laws don’t allow me to carry my Instant-Kidney-Smoothie-Maker on this planet, because nonchalantly rocking up 20 minutes late to a pre-arranged meeting boils my piss like nothing else. Just saying.)
  • Quite common among my age group: good-old subconscious sexism. He’ll say things like: “Not all men”, “Women are too picky”, or “I used to help her all the time with the housework / childcare.” Or he will talk at length about your profession or area of expertise because he once did a semester at uni. Which, if you’re a Boson-Chaos Engineer like me is actually hilarious but anyway. Twats gonna twat. 
  • And last but not least: If you are wearing nice underwear and you’re plucked, preened, waxed and looking great (I mean, for a human) and then end up in bed with a man, somehow he’ll still think HE made the evening happen. Aw, sweetie.

No doubt I’m being harsh. And everyone knows the apps are the scorched hellscape of Satan’s bleached anus. Plus it’s abundantly clear from the above that I have a couple of issues of my own. (Before you ask, yes I’m in therapy, yes I know I have mater issues, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything and anyway I unloaded the dishwasher only last week.)

I feel sorry for my next date. A bit. 😉

POSTSCRIPT: I highly recommend Jennie Young’s Burned Haystack Dating Method on insta, fb or substack (https://www.instagram.com/word_case_scenario/) (https://www.facebook.com/groups/9116647515019601). Good lord, the stories from women in the comments alone… which for clarity, is where a few of the above examples came from. (I know, I know, I lied in the intro but this is a blog about an alien called Ottovegachelvara, so presumably your disbelief is already hanging by a thread).

Otto the Aid Worker

OTTO THE AID WORKER 1. Bailed in Bazimbi

I don’t know if you’ve ever been sucker punched? You know: you set out on a lovely morning, a-brim with vim and ready to smile upon all and sundry, when you step on a hibernating bear and wonder how fast you can do nought to sixty up a tree?

Well, dear reader, I have. Only yesterday in fact.

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 ursines, 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, one hundred percent convinced this is what I signed up for.

Let me explain.

My life before all the recent events was completely fine, ticketyboo and tinketytonk, the seas were calm, the going was steady. But I must admit it also had all the zing and joy of the last gluten-free tofu sandwich in a British Rail food cart. I baulked at the thought that reaching the dizzying heights of winning the Latin Poetry Recital prize at Oxford was to be my only achievement, impressive though it undoubtedly was. Makes an enterprising young gentleman feel like a bit of a lemon.

So in an uncharacteristic fit of impetuosity, I threw caution to the wind, carpe’d that diem and signed up for a stint with GAWD: General Aid Without Divisions.

Imagine Oxfam in combat boots and a flak jacket.

My goal: to See and Change the World, Do Good, Make A Difference, Help the Less Fortunate. (The capitalisation helps.) Preferably in a warm climate.

Except it’s now starting to dawn on me that – and this may surprise you – my efforts are not earning me the kudos I assumed would be heaped upon me like golden shekels upon Gideon.

I arrived in North Zabarindi a month ago (of course it’s not North Zabarindi anymore since the border was overrun, but that’s a story for another time) and ever since then things have been a little… well, fraught.

Again, not complaining, wouldn’t dream of it.

But I mean to say: detaining me under the Zabarindi Terrorism Act just for popping out after curfew for a quick snifter at the local watering hole is a bit thick.

The first inkling I had that something was wrong was when I arrived back at the Bazimbi guest house, having taken a taxi from the bar.

I had just finished haggling with the cabbie (only $60! I drive a hard bargain), when all of a sudden two enormous policemen with unnecessarily lapelled shoulders and aviator sunglasses appeared out of nowhere and started yelling at me in the local lingo. (Quick sidenote: did you know they don’t speak English in Central Africa? French! Who knew!)

When it became clear from my slack-jawed expression that their incomprehensible diatribe wasn’t having the desired effect, they gestured me into the police van with their Kalashnikovs. Bit brusque, I thought, but a gentleman always complies with the long and chiselled arm of the Law. So into the van I popped.

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 staying on message no matter what (navigate the minefield of internal GAWD politics which is just stupidly harder than it needs to be).

My point is I am a stranger to the rough-and-tumble world of skirting the law: the only time I had ever crossed paths with the local constabulary was when I tripped and spilled wine all over Chief Constable Mwanga at the embassy May Day reception. (I remember because it was a particularly agreeable Château Pétrus.)

Back to the gentlemen with the guns. After much yelling, arm-waving and pointing at the clock on the wall, they were able to apprise me of the fact that I was under arrest for straying into the Green Zone during a military curfew and the only thing still up for debate was whether I was suicidal or just criminally stupid. There’s a slight chance I may also have been a little trollied at the time. (Apparently leaning out of a taxi as it speeds past the local copshop and loudly singing “Mobutu’s Dumplings are Round and Sweet” while brandishing a bottle of Glenfiddich is frowned upon in the tropics.)

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

Next week: Otto accidentally goes on safari.

Otto the Alien

OTTO THE ALIEN 2. Sexual destiny?

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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 and 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 apparently classed as 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!”

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, Nero's violin tutor

OTTO THE TUTOR 1. 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 Genghis Khan look like a hypnotised sloth in a floatation tank. Oedipus was a well-adjusted first-born compared with He Who Can Not Be Shamed.

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. (You know: the one who was publicly lynched for his rendition of Mamma Mia in the forum. His own fault: there’s nothing more dangerous than an angry mob maddened by tritone 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 Wall

OTTO THE WALL 2. Hamo Hamas Hamat

Finally. It’s August 2014 and 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

OTTO THE POLICE DOG 3: 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, and the number of completely identical maps produced by so many different departments was really impressive!

And apparently there were some beat cops who had been on duty for so long without a break that they asked for a ‘comfort break’ (is that like a biscuit…?) but were told they couldn’t, so they had to just…go. In their trousers. When he heard about that, Sarge used a lot of bad words although I’m not sure why because that’s how I do it too. Without the trousers, mind.

Meanwhile, I turned 10 years old yesterday!! I knew nothing about this until Sarge gave me a dentastix (wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended) which was tasty. He called me Slobadog Milosevic before wiping me down. I love Sarge. He’s the best.

So now the Games and my birthday are over, I suppose I can have a nap at last. I’ll miss all the activity though, running around “sniffing and barking and marking and whiffing”, as Sarge calls it. But he calls me Good Boy too so I don’t mind.

And next month it’s the Ryder Cup! Very excited.

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

Otto the Alien

OTTO THE ALIEN 1. 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 progeniture”, while you’re simultaneously made to feel guilty for not immediately resuming your bullshit ratrace career by smug, spawnless crotch-stabilisers.

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

So I left the kids at the stasis crèche, 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-deliverator. 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

OTTO THE POLICE DOG 2: Zero Hour!

I SAW THE QUEEN! THE ACTUAL, LIVING BREATHING QUEEN! Well I saw her ankle when she got out of the car in the main arena, but it still counts!

So did you all watch the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony too? Woof, 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 stabbed Nessie in the throat with a slice of deep-fried shortcake.

Mind, I missed most of it because I was working very hard; my absolute favourite thing. On the Tuesday we started our shift in Winchburgh, although they must have not told the Desk Sergeant because there weren’t any. Desks, I mean.

Then we nashed it to every treble nine call for the next 14 hours because most of the force were made to stand guard outside empty buildings.

And then we went to Fettes for breakfast but when we got there at two in the morning there was no food and we were then despatched to a treble nine call in Pollokshields, where another three police vans had been sent at the same time! thank dog we have lots of resources to spare! I was so excited to see everyone that I piddled on Sarge’s boots; the ultimate compliment.

But we made it to the Glasgow arena in time phew. 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 all the police bosses gathered together to give each other a pat on the back (mutual master baton society Sarge called it later and everybody laughed, but I couldn’t see the baton anywhere so I’m not sure what that meant).

Boss1 said it had all happened without a hitch thanks to him personally and how he was expecting a commendation or an OBE. (What’s that then? One Bark is Enough? Otto the Biscuit Eater? Dog knows).

But it was a smashing Games in the end. Well, there was an attempted assault of one of the Tongan weightlifters by a yoof; I saw him getting taken into custody looking a wee bit surprised and crumpled. But there were no actual disasters or catastrophes.

Unless you count the Scotland team’s uniforms. Thank dog I’m colourblind.

Next week: Otto sniffs a suspicious package

Otto the Wall

OTTO THE WALL 1. 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 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.