There is nothing more gladiatorial, physical and brutal and at the same time gentlemanly and enriched by fair play as rugby. Watching huge unshaven, battle scared brutes clashing bodily and testing their ability to play with skill and fairness while being subject to the pressure of extreme physical duress is something to admire.

While crushed under the weight of six bodies of 120 kilos, pinned by one arm and head, a good forward knows what to do. Get his body over the ball and force it back to his half, waiting to pass swiftly from his pain and suffering. Or the hooker. Jammed between two brutes and forced head first into the scrum with 800 kilos of grunt forcing him into the head of his opposite number, while concentrating on getting the ball with his feet.

Then the hooker needs to recover his strength for a line out. Where he must throw the ball with millimetre accuracy into the air to time with his giant 2 metre number seven who is launched into the air by two grunting forwards.

The back line get it relatively easy. Little light weights by comparison who can run with speed and agility. Unless they are waiting under the ball kicked into the air and knowing they must catch it cleanly. And also knowing that a split second later they will be hit with the full force of a rampaging 120 kilo forward whose intention is a crunching tackle using all his body mass at full speed.

At the end of a match, bloodied, bruised, crushed, twisted and exhausted, they all get wearily to their feet and shake their opponents hands after the blood and battle. For eighty minutes, not a one takes a backward step. However, after the match they are all on the same side. Because they are gentlemen, those who play rugby.

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It is nearly ten years since I wrote and recorded this song No Smile, Big Tits and it has achieved some level of notoriety. For completely the wrong reasons though I might add.

When I sat down at my kitchen table in Jerusalem in 2001 during the second Intifada, completely aghast at the horrors humans can inflict on each other, a thought came to my mind. Quite simply, the suffering of women during armed conflict. I wanted to protest. But how could one voice be heard? Hence, this song.

The song is about the beauty of the women of Israel and Palestine and their courage in the face of adversity, violence and fear. I deliberately chose the word ‘tits’, as it is a vulgarity as is war, and it contrasted with the beauty of the image of a woman’s caring smile. It was also for me a clear reference to motherhood.

The song and video have now been downloaded over 30,000 times, but alas, probably for the wrong reasons and inducing massive disappointment for some. The demographic of 12 to 15 year old boys searching for sexual gratification by using the search keyword ‘tits’ has caused the problem. These poor young lads have been responsible for nearly half the downloads.

Oh well, I suppose any publicity is good publicity. Even if YouTube have put a age warning on the video!

If you are interested, you can listen to the song here, or watch the video here.

It is also available on iTunes, but Apple have decided to re-title the song No Smile, Big T**s.

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Not everyone had a seven times Formula 1 champion living just down the road. My wife is even closer as his house is right opposite where she works. In the Swiss tradition though, we let Schumi lead his life and don’t bother him if we stumble over him when shopping on a Saturday morning.

The news that he is now confirmed to come out of retirement after three years and once again race in Formula 1 was a very big surprise. Us locals had envisaged Shumi enjoying his retirement here along with a few of his predecessors. However we all really wish him the best of luck on his return to the track and hope he wins another title or two.

Why? Because he pays tax here and that is just wonderful for our little community. Since Shumi retired, the flowers in our round-a-bouts just haven’t been as abundant and stunning as they were when he was earning mega-bucks. You need to understand that here in Switzerland our governments have for a long time offered, well, let’s say financial incentives for the rich and famous to relocate to Switzerland.

For the rich, this is a good deal financially as well as socially as us Swiss are well used to living around actors, tennis players, Formula 1 drivers, rock musicians and any other sort of rich or famous celebrity. We just leave them alone, and happily accept their tax to make our roads, schools, gardens, kindergartens and bus services so much better. This is on top of the fact that they help reduce our own individual taxes. Not a bad deal all ways round.

So, go, go, go Schumi! Win every race and bring all your loot back home.

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It is coming towards that time of the year when an annual scientific mystery leaves me puzzled as to what can happen inside a wardrobe over the cold winter months. In recent years this puzzling mystery had increased in ferocity and is starting to give me strange phobias about leaving the bitterness of winter and wanting to enjoy the pleasures of spring.

There is just no rational explanation as to why all my precious Levi’s reduce in waist line capacity over winter and induce an extremely uncomfortable standing start to the warmer temperatures. Sitting during the first weeks of spring is next to impossible. The same affliction affects my wardrobe of trendy short sleeved shirts which all suffer from a mystery winter induced movement of buttons. Particularly in the midriff area. Belts are even affected, which is a surprise, as they are made of leather and I thought they would survive this malady.

The strange part about this mystery is that socks and shoes seem to be immune as are hats and sloppy old cardigans.

Oh well, what is life without a few little mysteries? I am sure my Levi’s (with the unbuttoned top button) won’t be noticed if I keep wearing my sloppy old cardigan buttoned up tight!

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This may seem like a silly ‘sour grapes’ attitude, but I have my reasons for being happy and content, plodding along on my own.

Many reasons in fact, but most of them revolve around the fact that I react very badly to doing what someone tells me to do. Or in other words, I am hopeless at deadlines, appointments, regimentation, work hours, discipline and generally behaving responsibly. This said, the single most important reason for me is that I can write what I want to write, and not what I am told to write, or what is saleable and marketable to write.

My current work in progress novel has me scratching my head at the moment trying to decide what genre it will fit into. It is sort of a cross between adventure, sci/fi, medical, romance, political, drama, comedy, satire, historical and allegorical. The only thing I think I have left out are car chases and cowboys. Now this follows on from my previous four books which were absolutely nothing like this at all. Poetry, essay, historical fiction and life drama.

My long winded at arriving to point here is that if I had achieved any success with my previous books, and I was guided by a publisher, I would probably have to recreate something similar to my previous success. That’s what marketing is about. Recreating the recipe that worked. Thinking Angels & Demons and Da Vinci Code here.

But I am not that capable, talented or disciplined.

You may call it ‘sour grapes’ but I am very happy writing what I want to write and trying my hand at a number of genres before I curl up my toes. At least it will hopefully give my grandchildren some variety to read.

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I couldn’t believe my luck when I read this story about Barack Obama. Fancy having the most powerful man in the world on my side for a change. Alas I am not an American so I really will not have the opportunity to lobby him to bring smoking back to restaurants and bars, but it still gives me optimism that the world has not yet been totally purified and sanitised.

The other point that came to mind when I read the article was that I now understood (but only a little) the debate about health care reforms in the US. I must admit, being from Europe, it had not made much sense to me. Until now. Good old Barack is wielding his power for that other minority voting block. Smokers! What a coup for his re-election campaign. I bet the Republicans will be spewing in their soup, as they will now have to play political catch up.

All I need to read now is that Mr Kool (or is he Mr Camel or Mr Marlboro?), drinks beer! But there was no mention about ‘Bud’ in the article. Rather unfortunate, or perhaps it was just an oversight.








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The older one gets, the wiser one gets, as the saying goes. Well, this may be true for some, but personally I go by the motto that as every day goes by, one million of my brain cells go missing. I have a theory that they are escaping through my ears, but I haven’t been able to prove this as yet. The other theory I have is that my most enjoyable but probably unhealthy lifestyle in my younger days may have taken its toll.

It’s is easy with hindsight to know that I did some terrible things to my brain and body during those years, but I reacted as quickly as I could and began a new and totally healthy regime. About two hours ago.

That’s when I discovered where I had misplaced, or should I say carefully placed, but quickly forgotten, or carelessly placed and couldn’t remember, my wallet.

It was a mystery for some hours, but the Sherlock that I am refused to be beaten. I backtracked on myself and all the movements I had made during the day. I knew I had it early in the day, because I went shopping, and normally the shops want money. So therefore I had my wallet then. I think. Or I thought.

After a number of hours, I was at a loss and almost ready to call the bank, credit card companies, health insurance and however many other little plastic card providers. I had no worries about cash, because I have no money.

Then I became depressed, and gave up. I couldn’t face all those phone calls. Best to leave them for my wife I thought. Then I did the only sensible thing. I drank beer. But the effect wasn’t fast enough, so I resorted to the whiskey. I just love whiskey on ice.

So I opened the freezer to get some ice cubes, and lo and behold! That’s right. I had my wallet in my hand when I returned from shopping and had trouble manoeuvring the left overs Tupperware containers to make room for the Fish Fingers I bought.

Silly me. Cheers! Hic!

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How many times do I read how easy it is to work from home and make money, get rich, make cash and retire, all while sitting on your sofa while watching TV. It constantly amazes me how ‘Get Rich Schemes’ never go out of fashion. Affiliate marketing, Social Leveraging, SEO Traffic, Webspace Advertising but sadly no encyclopaedias, insurance or vacuum cleaners.

The products have changed, the door is no longer wedged open by a trained size 12 shoe, but the aim is the same. Today’s door to door salesmen and women have it so easy. No traipsing around wearing out shoe leather and knuckles bruised from knocking on countless doors in search of a sucker.

All they need is a cheap computer and an internet connection and they can bang on a million doors an hour. Ups the odds of finding the sucker they are in search of and saves a lot on shoes.

It is so often said that the more things change, the more things stay the same. I think this is a perfect example of that truism. The old tried and true trades of selling snake oil, sex and wild dreams have always been the first to adapt to change, and with modern technology, they now change rapidly and often.

Credit where credit is due though. They are a tough breed that never say die.

I am now off to clean their daily handy work from my computer.

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Wusband is a new word for me. The meaning I well know, but have used descriptions such as house husband, homme au foyer or simply lazy soul in the past. This new word however, is much better as it describes me perfectly, and in only one word and two syllables.

So what makes me a wusband? Well firstly, I have a very intelligent, educated, hard working and at times stressed wife who works an uncountable number of hours each week. Secondly, I am good at ironing, cooking, shopping and knowing which button to push on the washing machine. I am also a bit of a dreamer with projects that are a sometimes rather abstract and prone to long term procrastination, so setting machines running and then going off to have a good think really suits me.

I do have my responsibilities, and take these very seriously. When I remember to do them that is. But my wife seems happy with my application and near completion of my tasks. Our arrangement allows us time to be together on the weekends without any domestic chores, and although it may be strange for some, we are very happy with our socially inverted roles.

With the changes in our society over the last twenty or thirty years, it would be interesting to know how many true wusbands there are out there. I am sure there are more than we think.


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A follow up for those who may have been traumatised by my recent article about my Apple iMac’s sibling problems. Well I’m happy to report back that my beloved iMac has just returned home from the MacHospital and seems to be back to it’s happy and smiling self once again.

Not only that, but during the transplant surgery the surgeon kindly gave the dear thing a much bigger ticker and now can do anything with a transplanted 1.5 Terabyte hard drive ticking away inside. I can almost hear the pride calculating away just behind the screen.

I hear you asking, and yes I did have to part with some hard earned money, but what is money when it’s spent on one of your best friends?

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