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Profile for Stevedix:
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Expatriate Englishman abroad in Cologne. Currently rising through the ranks of stand-up comedy in Cologne.

Yes, there is such a thing as german stand-up comedy. They've not quite got the hang of it, but it does exist.

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» Accidental innuendo

My First Visit To The Doctor In Cologne
So, off I went to the Doctor to register. Bear in mind I had been resident in Germany for about a year and a half, and had been having language lessons.

"Herr Dix" says the Doctor, going through his little checklist, "Haben Sie Verkehr?" - He's just asked me "do you have traffic?"

Somewhat puzzled, I reply "Ja, Jeden Morgen mit dem Bus", only to have the doctor explode into hysterical laughter.

Not only does Verkehr mean traffic, it is short for geschlechtsverkehr - sexual traffic ie a sex life.

I had just told the Doctor that every morning I have sex with a bus.

Length? Well I burnt my balls on the exhaust pipe.
(Tue 17th Jun 2008, 14:27, More)

» Pet Stories

He's only trying to be friendly.
Cantsleep's entry just reminded me of my sister's dog, George. George is a staffordshire bull terrier, and when he was a cute little rubbery-faced puppy, he used to sit on people's heads.

The problem is, that he is now a boisterous bundle of energy and solid muscle that still thinks he can sit on people's heads.

I discovered this last time I visited, and he tried it on me. He got as far as my shoulder, with two paws on the top of my head, trying to clamber up.

It was then I felt something alien enter my ear. Guess what it was, readers?

I was about to turn and yell "George! Down!" when I realised that if I turned my head, my mouth would be in the current position of my ear, and it would not be wise to open it.
So I started trying to beat him off.

Er. You know what I mean.

It was then my sister uttered the classic line "He's only trying to be friendly!"

Length? Well, I didn't have to buy cotton buds for some time.
(Mon 11th Jun 2007, 13:04, More)

» School Trips

Apeshit
Condensed (yes, even more long-winded) from the entry at www.stevedix.de/blog/305

Our school once decided to take us all to Twycross Zoo, home of tea-recommending chimps and TV-watching gorillas. (no, really).

On this trip was someone who shall be known as "Charlie". Charlie was the school psychopath. Charlie was so mental that even the hard kids avoided him.

We arrived at Twycross and were herded round the cages, which seemed to be full of shit and little else. This bored Charlie, who disappeared. We were sent to find him, before he mauled a lion or something.

I discovered him just in time to see the horror unfold. Charlie had discovered a chimp that had been isolated from the others in a wire cage. The chimp blew raspberries at everyone. Charlie, on discovering this, blew raspberries back.

The chimp spat at him.

Charlie spat back.

The chimp then calmly stuck his hand underneath his arse, and filled his hand with his own shit. Charlie was too busy laughing to mimic that, which was an unfortunate mistake, as it left his mouth wide open.

None of the shit really missed him, which was incredible, considering it had passed through a wire-link cage.

When we got back to the coach, the teacher sniffed suspiciously. "What's that on Charlie?" she asked.

Bingo.

"It's chimp-shit, miss".

First post, apologies for enormous cock. er.
(Tue 12th Dec 2006, 12:13, More)

» Childhood Ambitions

It's the Archaeologists Life For Me...not.
Condensed from www.stevedix.de/blog/349

1982. Head set awhirl by "Raiders of the Lost Ark" in Lyme Regis Cinema, and a sugar-high from consuming far too many Slush-Puppies for my own good, I decide I want to be an Archaeologist.

Because Archaeology looks fun. Archaeology, as peddled by Steven Spielberg, seems to be one long round of exotic climates, mysterious tombs, ancient puzzles and stuff, with only the occasional breathless pause to write up the whole thing for "Archaeology Today", and, let's be frank, shagging sexy archaeology-student chicks.

Wrong, little archaeologist manqué.

The truth is Archaeology is badly-paid, hard work, 90% of which consists of filling-in applications for grants to study something, which are often rejected by people who are worse-educated but better-paid, and then hard, long, back-breaking work carefully brushing the compacted dirt away from something, just in case it might be an important Roman artifact and not an old bone buried by one of the local dogs. It's a job with many disappointments, such as finding that some amateur treasure-hunter has, a week before you finally get to your planned dig site, gone over it with a magnetometer, dug up a couple of coins and then boasted about it in the pub afterward, so that next day your carefully-planned dig has been turned into a bombsite by treasure-crazed locals. Rarely do you get to uncover a pristine ancient Tomb, often you spend years arguing over the significance of a few potsherds in the letters page of the International Archaeological press, and the only Archaeologists equipped with a bull-whip are very, very strange people indeed, whom it's best not to share a tent with.

So remember, kids. For every one of you that loves "Raiders of the Lost Ark", there's a bitter, twisted archaeologist who HATES SPIELBERG'S GUTS.

Length? Yes, but it was longer in the original Sanskrit.

EDIT : There seems to be more than one of us disappointed Indy fans round here. Class action against Harrison Ford, anyone?
(Fri 30th Mar 2007, 11:53, More)

» Darwin Awards

The Little Green Dragon
So, there I was, building a kit car. Not a crappy little airfix thing, I hasten to add, but a proper, hell-for-leather Sylva Striker Mk2. A small, but nevertheless quick-off-the-mark Lotus-7 style vehicle, capable of taking roundabouts at impressively high speeds, and going up Harlech Hill at a rate which most motorcyclists would find impressive, never mind sports car owners.

This is all in the future, however, as I and my dad are currently trying to get the 1300 Kent X-flow engine to fire after being rebuilt, which it is failing to do, despite copious amounts of "quickstart".

Unfortunately we haven't realised that the distributor has been put on 180 degrees out - a common problem with that type of engine.

So, what does my dad do?

He takes out a spark plug, and earths it next to the spark plug hole, to see if we're getting a spark.

This is not a clever thing to do.

As the ignition turns, the engine sucks in a mixture of petrol and air, which, instead of being compressed, is expelled through the open plug-hole..which happens to be just right next to a sparking plug.

The results were impressive, to say the least - about three metres of flame. What was really impressive, though, was the speed my father moved - unfortunately not fast enough.

He stood there, face blackened, shivering, looking like something out of a bad comedy show.

Then his eyebrows fell off, as did his quiff.

The fire had neatly carbonized them both. One millimetre more and it would have been off to the serious burns clinic, but that didn't stop the rest of us from rolling around laughing.

From that day on, the car was known as "The Little Green Dragon".

EDIT: It should be pointed out that my family were no strangers to the smell of burning hair. For years we had a gas stove where you had to light the oven with a match, and if you weren't quick enough, lost all the hair on your arm.

These safety-conscious days, gas stoves are no fun at all.
(Fri 13th Feb 2009, 12:43, More)
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