The third, and God willing final, part of the saga from the, if there is any justice in the World rapidly running out of ink, pen of BJD. Enjoy!

Players

Marco: Matt Damon
Maffeo: Hugh Grant
Niccolo: Morgan Freeman
Ticket Seller: Zhang Ziyi
Colleague: Desiree Cousteau
Savage: Andy Lau
See no Evil: Pierluigi Collina

Niccolo
OK, we have three camels, a kilo of parmesan, four bottles of Chianti, and a plastic gondola with a gondolier that spins and sings Oh Sole Mio that we want to get manufactured on the cheap despite our worries about the human rights situation in China and the external costs of their production, we have three days to get to Beijing to see the Great Khan, and Marco keeps doing a wee out of his bum ever since he ate at the Pakistani Cafe here in Kashgar. Gentlemen, I’m open to suggestions.

Maffeo
I think Marco needs to drink hot water, take medicine and wear more clothes.

Marco
More clothes, it’s sweltering here, it’s the middle of August and we are in the desert.

Maffeo
Yo bro, I guess you have a point. Yeah Bwoooyy.

Niccolo
Maffeo, you’re no longer Flava Flav, you’re Hugh Grant, so be foppish.

Maffeo
OK father, I’m awfully sorry.

Niccolo
Well, this guide book says we can get a bus that will get us to Urumqi in 24 hours and from there we can fly.

Niccolo
Ha ha, fly, like a bird no?

Marco
No, they now have something called a plane that flies in the air. We’ve been too long in the desert Papa.

Niccolo
Well mama my mia, we’ll do that. Where’s Maffeo.

Marco
He’s over there in that Santana getting blown by some nasty hooker from Gansu.

Audience
Oooh, not Gam Su from Gansu?

Marco and Niccolo
(To audience) The very same.

Maffeo
I have had oral pleasure and am now ready for the final part of our adventure father and brother of mine. To the bus station.

At the bus station

Niccolo
Marco, using your linguistic skills, communicate with this here seller of tickets and purchase our passage to the city of Urumqi.

Marco
Mmm, mm, m, mmm, mmm, mmm, m, mmm, mm, mm, mmm, m.

Ticket seller
(Too colleague) What the fuck is this fool on about?

Colleague
I don’t know, but they must want to go to Urumqi, all the foreigners do.

Niccolo
Well done Marco, you have the savages tongue firmly in your grasp.

Savage
An oo et me go now pwease?

Urumqi bus station

Niccolo
Where now Marco?

Marco
Well the Rough Guide to China says you can’t do Urumqi without doing Fubar – which would be an excellent bar no matter where it was. You can’t beat its Western menu, bar snacks, music and a selection of drinks that’s second to none in Cathay. It is owned by three monkeys: See no Evil, Speak no Evil; and Hears, Sees and Says Everything.

All together
To the Fubar!

At Fubar

Niccolo
Another pint of Galliano please barman.

See no Evil
(Broad Northern Irish accent) You’re getting through that Galliano so you are to be fair.

Niccolo
I haven’t drunk any, it just keeps falling off this uneven table that is a different colours to the others. Is it because we is Italian?

See no Evil
No, it’s because you are sitting there. Move to that table.

Niccolo
Oh, OK.

Marco
So Mr owner, the Rough Guide is full of praise for this place, it’s almost as though the writer worked here or something.

See no Evil
Huh, imagine, if only and other ‘I wish’ type cliches. No, he came through here, smashing bloke, very funny, cute little nose. The women couldn’t get enough of him.

Maffeo
Sounds like he liked it here.

See no Evil
He did, in the bar, just not outside it.

Niccolo
OK fella, we better be off, we got a plane to catch.

See no Evil
Where you going?

All together
Beijing.

See no Evil
What for?

Niccolo
Not too sure to be honest, we’re just trapped in a rather mediocre script.

See no Evil
My goodness! Does that mean I am too?

Maffeo
In a way old chap, in a way. Anyway, we have to go. Lovely to meet you, great bar you have here. The pizza was lovely and the selection of beers is the nearest thing you’ll find to an oasis out here in sandy Xinjiang.

Beijing – The Den near the City Hotel

Marco
So Father, what now?

Niccolo
We are going to manufacture the singing gondolas in their millions. I have started a joint venture company and have been given legal advice by Chris Devonshire Ellis who has no legal training whatsoever. Boys meet our new partners, Mr Lai Ying and his Cantonese cousin Do Yu Wong.

Two years later on a side walk near Sanlitun Bar Street dressed in denim mini skirts and thigh length boots.

Maffeo
Papa, we aren’t having much luck selling our arses, can we sink any lower?

Marco
Father, Maffeo, come quick. Someone has just given me the number of English First.

Sing along to the tune of ‘Dog shit on your shoes’ by the Chranquies. Click Here to hear the full Sinocidal version played along to a hard core porn video starring Xiao Bang Bang and featuring Heng Long, Da Wang’r and Xiao ‘Perky’ Huai.

VERSES
Things are changing and the times they are a’changin’ as well. They’ve widened many of the roads in town to allow the ever increasing volumes of traffic to flow better. (I should point out at this time, to those of you that are trying to sing along, this isn’t really a song, but if you’re having fun then stick with it) Knocked down all the old buildings that we knew and loved through the years and cut down the trees lining the roads that used to give me shade during the heat of summer. They replaced all the old, small shops and restaurants with,… shiny new shops, ’boutiques’ and restaurants selling the same things but only now they charge a little more.

Progress they call it and it’s the way forward for our city and our country. I suppose I shouldn’t complain really, they made me wider as well and gave me a nice new covering of yellow and red paving tiles with special ones for the blind to follow, as long as the blind don’t come out walking when it’s raining because I’m deadly when I’m wet. I suppose I’m helping play my part in making our great country more modern and helping those visually challenged folks as well - although I never see blind people walking about these days as they’re all working as ’specialists’ in back massage shops and never find time to venture out.

I used to enjoy my lot though, serving the community as a place to walk, underneath the shade of the large cypress trees as they all went about their business, walking from small shop to small shop and stopping to buy a snack in between and pass the time of day with others also out walking about. Everyone would walk on me and I’d be swept clean regularly and occasionally given a dousing with water to keep me cool - and wash away some of the lung-jam they like to hack up so much. The few cars there were in town would all drive along my close friend Mr. Road and so would the bicycles and merchants trailers. I wasn’t wide enough for cars to bother me and bicycles wouldn’t bother trying to use me either. I was designed and built to serve the pedestrian and that’s what I did. It was the great proletarian pedestrian that freed this country from it’s shackles and built it up to what it is today. In fact, that’s what I’m still designed and built to do but now I get abused in so many different ways by all those jabba’s and other capitalist dogs who own electric bicycles and other such materialistic things.

Now there’s so much traffic on the roads and so many jabbacars that park wherever they want to, that bicycles have to squeeze along between parked cars, crazy buses and pedestrians. That’s right, the pedestrians mostly walk on Mr. Road these days. Me, well I’m just used as a parking lot for bicycles since there’s no where else to park their bikes. Pedestrians can’t get walking on me because I’m full of bikes, aircon units, people washing vegetables and beggars. Sometimes, now that I’m so wide, even jabbacars drive along me with total disregard for the pedestrians. Other times, motorbikes drive along me, peeping there horns like crazy and making any brave pedestrian trying to get into a shop jump out of the way. They tried putting a bicycle lane between me and Mr. Road but that didn’t work. Jabbacars, taxis and even buses just used Mrs. Bike Lane for their own purposes every time the traffic lights caused the big junctions to back up like a toilet. Most other times, Mrs. Bike Lane was just as full of pedestrians avoiding me and motor bikes avoiding Mr. Road, that the bikes were forced to use me or dance with the traffic. It’s a crazy old world.

I used to enjoy being a pavement, I served an honest purpose and was treated with respect and consideration by the people that used me. They used to tell me things like, ‘I wish we had a few more of you on the Long Walk**, we’d have finished the job a lot quicker’. I felt wanted and needed - nowadays I feel abused, neglected and I think everyone’s forgotten what I’m really for. People these days are so damn selfish. If this is progress you can stick it up your exhaust pipe.

CHORUS
To everyone who’s reading this, Happy New Year. To everyone that’s not, then you should be.

** The Long Walk. Why didn’t they get it sponsored by Nike, they could have raised a fortune for charity.

Sometimes I think that with all the problems in the world, some people create little alternative worlds for themselves to escape from reality. A bit like Sinocidal I guess, but I’d hate to think we ever took anything remotely seriously.

“Oh fuck, North Korea’s building a nuclear bomb - let’s discuss the effects of sun spots on garlic production”.

“What’s with all those Asian girls trying to bleach themselves white? Let’s do a story on racism”.

“Global warming, fuck that, that’s old news - let’s start a rumour about grain shortages instead”

Not following my logic? Don’t worry, the whole fucking world is illogical and I don’t have time to think about the intro to this story too much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care. There’s an old saying, “look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves”. Someone needs to adapt that to remind people to ‘look after the pennies and forget about the pettys’. This is an old story, but… ( ‘but’ meaning, I felt a need to post something but it’s too close to Christmas vacation to be thinking too hard - I’m saving my best thinking for the beach next week ) Anyway,

Listen, I’m Chinian, not Chinese. <<Click link for the full story.

Group I: American, Australian, Austrian, Canadian, German, Italian, Norwegian, Russian…

Group II: Chinese, Congolese, Japanese, Nepalese, Portuguese, Sudanese, Vietnamese…

In the State of Ohio in the United States, what do local residents call themselves? Ohioese? Wrong. Ohioan. In Toronto, Canada, the people there call themselves yes, you guessed it Torontonian. Never Torontonese.

Not enough to make you feel superior should you fall into Group I, or inferior if you unfortunately happen to be in Group II? Let’s look at the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English, 1978, for the definition of “-ese”: suffix, 1. (the people or language) belonging to (a country); 2. (usually derogatory) literature written in the (stated) style. Examples: Johnsonese; journalese.

Or MSN Encarta Dictionary online: … 3. The style of language of a particular group (disapproving). Example: officialese. [Via Old French -eis; Italian -ese]

Even these two dictionaries published in modern times when racism is illegal reveal that, clearly, “-ese” here relates to derogation and shows a low opinion of people, to say nothing of centuries ago when the ancient Europeans saw themselves as the centre of the world, and called the countries near the eastern Mediterranean sea “Near East,” the Asian countries west of India “Middle East,” the Asian countries east of India “Far East,” and North America the “New World.”

The writer finishes off with - In the 21st century, the world has evolved into an era when racial discrimination is not tolerated. It is time the names in Group II were abolished.

—Absurd or what? I’m having dinner with my Chinian staff tonight, I’ll discuss with them.

PS - I’m Scottish. -ish means pertaining to. I’m also beerish, podgyish, baldish, oldish, pizzaish and full-of-shitish. I demand that from now on I be Scottian.

It’s raining, again, and through empirically derived results we see once again that rain enhances stupidity. Although the subjects for analysis are based locally, the same laws will probably apply anywhere in the world to greater or lesser degrees, although I lay wager it’s mostly lesser. Now, although I say ‘empirically derived’, it’s just a nice word I like to use and I’m sure being the smart arsed, picky fuckers that you are, you will want some sort of Sinocidal, Irrationally derived theorem. Well, here you have it.

Firstly we have the subjects, in no particular order. Most times they are selfish, self-centered and tunnel visioned with a touch of arrogance and fuck-everyone-else, pedestrians, cyclists, motorcyclists, car/bus/truck drivers and road sweepers with and without carts.

Secondly we have gravity. It keeps all the shit close to the ground. Everything has gravity and everything attracts everything else. The larger the mass of shit, the stronger the gravitational effects. Where I live, I’m sure we have more gravity that many other places as we sure do have a lot of shit.

Thirdly we have the pollution. Not as much as some places but a lot worse than most. On a bad day when someone farts, you can see air swirl in the nether regions. Girls with particularly air-tight stockings tend to look like they have lumpy hamstrings and knees, but that’s a story that LaoLao will tell us one day.

Now, humans need air and in particular oxygen, to function properly. Dilute or reduce the oxygen and people start to act drunk and their judgments, actions and speech are impaired. When we have high levels of pollution, we have everyday life in China - havoc with lots (and lots and lots and lots) of people walking, riding or driving about like drunks. HAVOC - Harmful And Volatile Occurring in China.

We have an open system controlled by, yet trying it’s damnest to defy, the laws of physics, especially the 2nd law of thermodynamics - but we don’t want to get too deep into that. As for the law of biogenesis - well, feel free to contemplate that at your leisure, but it’ll drive you crazy as you sit next to a pond and compare pond ‘life’ to, well, life in general.

All goes along smoothly, no doubt conforming to and constrained by some sort of laws and theories. The chaos theory fits nicely in here as well methinks. CHAOS - China Has Always had Organised Shambles.

Then, we add some external stimulus - and all Hell breaks loose. Rain - pure, unadulterated, acid rain! The physichemical formula for rain is -

R = G*(H2O+CrAp) where G is the universal gravitational constant and CrAp is the non-universal chemical coefficient of the atmospherically absorbed solids.

Now, the (simplified) law of universal gravitation states that ‘every object in the universe attracts every other object with a force that is proportional to their mass and inversely proportional to the square of their separation’ or

Fg = G(m1.m2/r^2)

Now, please bear with me. On any given non-rainy day, things work as well as we can expect. People go about their business and the chaos theory is clearly evident and in action at all places at all times. However, add some Rain and things all go to fuck. Pedestrians walk about with umbrellas so low they can’t see where they’re going, cyclist wear capes with hoods that preclude anything but straight ahead and down vision, street sweepers walk about in the middle of traffic swinging their brushes wearing the same capes and drivers try to drive faster, accelerate, brake and change lanes even more erratically than normal - if that is possible - and still seem to get nowhere fast. The fuck-you-I’m-getting-to-where-I’m-going attitude is intensified and the general laws of physics and sensible behavior go out the fucking window. So how can that be possible?

Well, the Sinocidal 4th law of chaos is, that when it rains, all the pollution is pushed lower to the ground causing a greater concentration of CrAp. This further reduces available oxygen levels and causes more drunk like behavior. At the same time, the greater mass of water in the air, combined with the concentrated crap, means that there are more objects with mass nearer to ground lever and as the gravitational influence of all these masses with CrAp affects each and every other mass then the normal and prevailing vertical gravitational affects are weakened and this in turn means less oxygen is available at these lower levels and compounds the drunk like behavior. In fact, chaos becomes more like a stag party with a few too many kegs, and now we’ve added a couple of cases of Tequila.

Because there’s less gravity, there’s less strain on the body, circulatory and respiratory systems and people get light headed. This, as you would expect, compounds even further the drunk like behavior and what we end up with is the equivalent of the stag party at 3am and heading to the red light area.

You see, life in China is like one big fucking party and sometimes we have some really wild ones. Now, if only we had strippers then it’s a party I’d like to be invited to. Welcome to China where every day is a fucking ‘Party’.

A Guest Post by Frankie the Clam.

I truly have no problem with not smoking. Actually, I can name several reasons why I haven’t…..

But I can tell you from my experiences, one most recent comes to mind, that there is really no physical addiction to cigarettes.

When I spent my 20 days in a Chinese jail recently, I had the following experience.

Day 0 - The Bastard policeman, whom I will refer to as Mr. Pig, and his accomplice Officer Twat escorted me from the Jail Precinct to the Central Booking Office of the People’s Republic of China Shanghai and started taking measure of my physical attributes before processing my fingerprints.

They didn’t take my shoes off as they led me toward the “wall” with it’s height scale not much different from the one on the doors of the local Zippy Mart.As a final expression of desperation and or defiance I stood on my tiptoes to throw off my true height, as I learned from countless Hardy Brother’s episodes both televised and published, this is an effective way to disguise ones true identity’s identifying characteristics. Once this was complete my fingerprints were to be scanned individually against a computer input device not unlike the Glidepoint on many notebooks. You know the one that somehow acts like a cosmic static translator. The static from my hands being 2 inches from the damn thing causes it to move my cursor from CTRL+HOME to CTRL+END while also instructing the little fucking hamster in the CPU box to hit the eject button and landing flat-assed on the DELETE key….. Thus rendering my brilliantly prepared blog post into a big fucking Arial 36 pt Blinking Cursor…. Blinking and mocking me for not saving my work…..

Sooo…anyways, scanning fingerprints on the scanner. When they come to this one, my little half-bird on the left hand, they freak out.You see I lost the tip of my left index finger in a freak accident. Well, it wasn’t so much a freak accident as a simple mathematical concept. 5 laowai + 5 kegs of beer + 5 shots + 5 Boxes of Chinese Fireworks <= 5 fingers.

So Mr. Pig and Officer Twat, they insist on scanning the nub. Now, if I haven’t explained to you already, Asians are Mildly Retarded Individuals. M.R.I’s for short. Now I am not the first person to make this statement. And it IS a factual statement. The same hormones that keep their skin so fucking smooth and wrinkle free, also causes the brains to develop at a different pace than other Peoples (s not apostrophized purposely). For example, the expression Chinese Fire Drill brings what to mind? A well organized affair where queues are formed and brigades of individuals selfishly passing buckets of water over unfathomable distances to professionally evacuate a facility whilst simultaneously extinguishing the flames to avoid a catastrophe? Looking sooo forward to what comes to your mind, Sinocidal Tribe, when describing how you think the Chinese Fire Drill will come down….

So now we have a Chinese Police Drill in the fukn Peoples Republic of China Shanghai Public Safety Bureau’s Foreigner In-Processing Center over what to do about my fingerprintless digit.

Chinese MRI #1: Just rub the nub.

Mr. Pig: I did, the computer said “lack of sufficient identify characteristic features”.

Chinese MRI#1 : Shenma yisi?

Mr. Pig: Wo buzhidao, let’s rub the nub again.

Chinese MRI#1 : Did you delete the set of finger scan or the one finger scan.

Mr. Pig: Shenma? Wo bu ming bai….

Chinese MRi#1: Wo shuo, shi …… Mei shi… rub the nub again.

Mr. Pig: Okay le

So….They delete the set. AND, I have to scan all of my digits yet again. And again….. And again…. Basically, at this point. My inner laowai died, and I was helping them try and figure the problem out. I asked them for a either a bullet to the head or a cigarette. They lacked the former but produced the latter with the finesse that only a Chinese Cop about to lose face can achieve. They uncuffed me, gave me a chair, some tea, and a smoke as I proceeded to instruct myself in the proper operation of the Oracle System they have in place in the fucking Peoples Republic of China Shanghai Public Safety Bureau’s Foreigner In-Processing Center.

Twenty minutes later, I found the menu option for selecting DAMAGED/MISSING/DISSECTED FINGER when scanning a set of fingers. After showing this option to Chinese MRI #1 and Mr. Pig, we proceeded to scan my ten xiao shou into the system.

This completed, I was given a bottle of water as we got in the police van to proceed to the People Republic of China Shanghai Public Safety Bureau’s Detention Center….

TO BE CONTINUED

Time:

July 2008

Place:

Pedagogue II – US/Russian/Japanese space station orbiting Earth

People:

Colonel Bill Gertz USAF, 43.

Captain Yuri Andropov Russian Federation Air Force, 38.

Professor Kendo Nagasaki, scientist, 37.

Major Tong Ke, Chinese Air Force, 42.

Lieutenant Wang Ke, Chinese Air Force, 35.

Comrade Wang Er, CCP member and son of somebody, 32.

Scene: All is well on board Pedagogue II as Kendo monitors the progress of different types of grain seed germination in zero gravity. Bill runs his daily checks on the emergency systems while Yuri scans the monitors.

Yuri: Bill, I’m picking up something on the sensor, it’s a large object and it’s heading straight for us.

Bill: Are you getting any life readings?

Yuri: Kind of Bill, I’m picking up a large amount of unintelligible noise, massive, what seem to be, garlic emissions and what appears to be litter flying out in all directions. It’s a form of life Bill, but not as we know it.

Bill: Kendo, any ideas?

Kendo: (Face ashen) It sounds, it sounds like the Chinese Bill.

All: Oh shit!

Yuri: Have visual contact Bill. The craft seems to have collided with a satellite. It also seems to have deposited a large amount of faeces on the solar panels. It says “QQ-1 – Beijing 2008″ on the side. Estimated time of contact ten minutes.

Bill: Goddammit, those fuckers ain’t supposed to be here until 2010.

Kendo: It’s the Chinese way Bill.

Yuri: Who knows what they know.

Bill: The Chinese way eh?

Ten minutes later QQ-1 hits the side of the space station. After 47 attempts at docking they finally land home in the bay. Immediately an incessant banging starts on the hatch to the station.

Muffled voices: Kai men, kai men (voiceover by Daniel Craig ” Open the door, open the door.)

Bill: Hang on, hang on.

Bill opens the hatch door as bundles of floating litter, toilet paper and phlegm enter the space station.

Bill: You’re two years early, what the hell do you think you’re doing? And, one, two, three of you, there ain’t room or food for you guys. You can’t just do things like this without any warning.

Major Tong: Don’t worry Colonel Bill, we are all friend in Beijing Olympic year. Here, have a friendly Olympic mascot toy.

Bill: We haven’t got enough supplies (looks at Tong’s name badge) Major Tong, can you hear me Major Tong?

Tong: Don’t worry we’ve brought convenience noodles and vacuum-packed chickens’ feet in chilli oil. For you Colonel Bill I have a presentation box of Nescafe coffee. Mmm, just smell the quality. For Captain Yuri I have presentation box of Hunan pigs’ feet, for when you feel like you want to eat your own hands. And finally for Kendo we have a box.

Kendo: Oh thank you very much (bows), what is in it?

Tong: Fuck all Jap, but you will fill it with apologies and confessions for the Chinese motherland before we leave. Ok, where are we sleeping?

Bill: Er, well you’ll have to go in the storeroom for now, down there on the right. (Wang Ke goes to light a cigarette) I’m sorry gentlemen, no smoking, this is an oxygen rich atmosphere, you should know this.

Tong: We are not stupid Colonel Bill, we are all educated at the prestigious Beihang University, except for Wang Er who was educated at the prestigious Qinghua University. We are all trained in dam building and embezzlement, Wang Ke…Where is Wang Ke?

A loud explosion from the toilet causes the door to bulge out. There’s a puff of smoke and a cigarette butt falls out into the main corridor, closely followed by a lighter with a picture of Mao on it. The opening notes of The East is Red electronically chime form the lighter.

Bill: What the fuck?

Tong: Don’t worry, we will clean up.

Tong opens the door where the charred remains of Wang Ke stand and then disintegrate with the first touch filling the cabin with ash. Two hours later Bill enters the storeroom.

Bill: I think you should send a message back to Earth about your colleague.

Wang Er: Don’t try and force your imperialist ways upon us Yankee.

Bill: Eh?

Tong: What colleague? We are all here. All two of us.

Bill: But…

Tong: What colleague? Did you know Beijing is the first Olympics to have five mascots?

Bill: Hang on, what are all these tubes floating around? Hey, you’ve eaten all the food. Jesus Christ, we’ll all starve.

Tong: That was not food Colonel Bill, that was just a snack. Don’t worry, we’ve brought famous Sichuan hotpot and a hotplate to cook it on. Wang Er, show Colonel Bill real food.

Wang Er removes the lid only for the scalding, weightless contents to fly up in and burn his face off. Next day

Bill: Do you want to send a message about your colleague?

Tong: What colleague? I came alone.

Yuri: Bill, the garbage compactor is showing an ejection late last night.

Bill: Tong, did you eject his corpse?

Tong: Don’t worry Colonel Bill, I’ve re-wired the bathroom.

Bill: What the fuck? Why?

Tong: (shrugs shoulders) No reason.

Kendo goes into the bathroom.

Bill: No Kendo!

Noise of toilet flushing then a loud bang and fizz. A blackened Kendo staggers out of the bathroom with his hair sticking up.

Bill: You idiot, you’ve electrocuted our scientist.

Tong: Fuck him. Do you know what they did in Nanjing?

Yuri: Bill, the reactor is overheating.

Bill runs to the reactor chamber to find a bird’s nest of rattling pipes held together with duct tape and bandages and leaking steam.

Bill: Tong, did you do this?

Tong: I directed hot water to storeroom as it was too cold. I didn’t want to catch cold. Must drink hot water. But I tell you Colonel Bill. That water have a funny metallic taste. (Tong’s teeth and hair fall out and float away).

Bill: You fucking idiot, you’ll kill us all. You’ve only been on the scene five minutes and already everything is fucked.

Tong: You’re offending the great Chinese nation.

Bill: Yuri, radio Houston. We need urgent, repeat, urgent pick-up.

Yuri: Bill, the radio looks like it has been dismantled.

Bill: Tong, was that you?

Tong: I wanted to listen to Beijing Economics Radio.

Bill: Aaaarrrgghh! Can’t you guys leave anything alone. Why didn’t you just set the frequency?

Tong: I wanted to use my IKEA toolkit.

Bill: You fucking idiot!

Tong: Don’t blame me, blame the Swedish imperialists. Don’t worry, I can put it back together with the hammer.

Bill: Yuri, try and get a signal.

Kendo: Bill, we’ve got terminal oscillations.

Bill: Fuck, the reactor’s going to blow.

Tong: Who wants to play traditional Chinese chess?

Yuri: Bill I’m getting something. It’s radio. It’s, it’s music, it’s The Doors…

…The End

A not so special day is fast approaching in a rickety old rickshaw with a few cases of lager and a couple of bottles of Buckfast strapped to the back. One year ago on November 19th, the large, sweaty loins of the Internet opened up and after a few grunts, squeezes, deep breaths and screams of ‘boil the water and bring plenty of clean blankets Betsy’, Sinocidal was finally dragged into this sad, pathetic fucking world of ours.

It’s been an up and down year as well as side to side with some grinding gyrations and horizontal body slapping to boot. We’ve also done our bit for people’s health as we provided an option instead of alcohol to help get through the day - but I guess that was countered by more than a few get-togethers that got out of hand and led to inebriation and visits to our chain of Happy Ending Houses of Fun. We can’t win them all I say and we are many things to many people.

Rumours abound and Chinese whispers are rife and no one is really sure what the hell is going on. We’ve been blocked and ducked under the radar again more than once and no doubt it will happen again, apart from the radar part. We’ve seen life long friendships come and go and we’ve even had a couple get married after meeting on Sinocidal. We’ve been present for the birth of babies as well as their conception and misconception in many case. We’ve had people die and come back to life as new online identities but with the same old baggage. People cum and people…, well is there anything better than a climax? Whether it be to a movie, a good meal, a piss up with buddies or a shag with some girl you know about as well as you do the guy who posted 45th on the thread about ‘how to eat bananas with your eyes closed while wearing your best Sinocidal t-shirt’. Here, have some throbbing gristle.

However, this is not quite the climax of Sinocidal. It may feel good and it may make your legs feel like jelly and leave a warm, wet sensation sliding down your inner thigh as you roll over and reach for your fags and lighter (Brit usage - buy a book) but it’s certainly not over until the fat lady sings - and although I’m not making any assumptions about any of the lovely ladies who frequent our site like a dark street corner, they’ve not sang for us yet. It was close, but Celia and KAT remained seated at the bar waiting on their next free drink from a Tribal passerby - and y’all refused to put your hands into your stoorie pockets ya bunch of miserable, tight fisted bastards.

So what’s the point of this thread? Well, far from the any of us looking for anything from you all in the way of birthday gifts, we’d like you all to share what keeps YOU coming back here and provide us with some highlights from the Tribe. Tell us about the friends you’ve made or the experience you have gained. What made you laugh or cry - if anything at all. Tell us why you like or hate Sinocidal but as usual, make sure your tongue’s not too far from your cheek - but if that means your trying to lick your own ass then please don’t send us photos.

Happy Birthday Sinocidal and the Sinotribe. You’re all ‘Special’, with a capital Spesh!

I know I’ll write about people spitting…er hang on. OK, I’ll write about how I struggle through the streets of a Chinese city on bicycle every morning…hmm. Eureka! I’ll write about wandering around Beijing’s fast-disappearing hutongs and the way of life that still exists there (finger tapping on desk and quizzical raising of the left eyebrow at screen).
Oh what the hell, I’ll write about how I fisted Gong Li.

I’ve recently moved into a new apartment, and I don’t just mean new to me, I mean just built. I haven’t bought the place though, I’m renting from a urologist who lives on the 12th floor. I’m on the 14th for what it’s worth. Anyway, I don’t know if any of you have experience of new-new Chinese apartments but after you’ve just spent your life savings you take delivery of an empty shell with not even so much as a light switch or plug socket as a sundry. But these apartments are different. These apartments came replete with a boiler for the water and under-floor heating.

As you can imagine, the company that built these places went all out to find the best boilers, with no expense spared as they put consumer first before even thinking about pocketing money for cigarettes, sluttish, overpriced, brocade splashed jeans for their mutton-dressed-as-lamb wives, pigs feet dinners and SUVs. And so it is that I am now the proud user of a state-of-the-art boiler that will protect me from the -18C winter weather here.

This state of the art technology means I have to move the inlet and outlet taps to different positions depending on whether I want heating or a shower. If I want heating, I must set the taps and then turn on the hot tap in the sink to bring the pressure down to 1-1.5 bar. Marvelous. If I want a shower I change the taps back and turn up the flame to high. However, there was a problem. Fantastic. The boiler sounded like an A380 taking off so we had to have the ‘engineer’ come round to put a new part in. Jia you.

After three days of phone calls and two no-shows, the twat with a spanner finally showed up with three women who worked for the boiler company. After telling the women they had no business in my apartment, I made them wait outside while the guy came in to do his thing. However, three days of calls obviously wasn’t enough for he had failed to bring the replacement part, so he had to make a call to his jabba-wannabe mate to bring it up.

After the part was fitted, they told us we had been setting the taps on the pipes wrong, and showed us how they should be set. For a week I danced in and out of the shower as it went from hot to cold, holt to cold, ad infinitum. I called the landlord who arrived and said there was nothing wrong. “You shower in cold water then,” I told him.
“There’s nothing wrong it’s you,” he insisted.
“OK, tell me why it was OK before the monkeys with tools arrived but not now?” I countered.
“It’s OK, you’re doing something wrong,” he repeated.
After 30 minutes of fannying about to no avail, he came to the conclusion:
“There’s nothing wrong.”

I hit the roof and told him to get someone in to look at it. This he did, an amiable young lad with wire-rimmed glasses and a big smile. He took one look at the taps and said “They’re set wrong,” before promptly putting them back in the position that the original ‘engineer’ had said was incorrect. “See,” said my landlord. “It was you.”
The cunt.

As I mentioned earlier, my landlord is a urologist. He plumbed in the bathroom. It’s fucked. Your life in their hands eh!

Oh yeah. The other day a famous Chinese actress came to my house and I jammed my hand up her box.

Not really.

So, let’s have them. Your experiences of Chinese workmen and/or new apartments.

Or, how to survive in China on one sheet of toilet paper per day.

People in the Forum were bitchin’ about having to carry their own paper in case they are caught out and need to go to visit the squater while out and about. Never fear, there’s no need to walk around with large wads of bog roll stuffed down your lunchbox - here’s how Sinocidal Ones overcome that problem.

First - Start with one sheet of nice, white, asswipe paper. Soft is good in this case.

Then, fold the sheet into quarters and then tear a corner off from the corner that is made at the middle of the sheet.

You MUST remember and save the small bit you tore off - this is critical.

You’re then left with a sheet with a small hole in the middle. Put the index finger of you wiping hand, through the hole.

Use your finger to clean the rim (simulated here by a chocolate covered mint).

Slide the paper up and off your finger, twisting slightly as you go to help clean your finger.

Make sure the finger is as clean as possible. Remember this is just chocolate for training purposes - come the real thing you won’t be able to lick you finger clean, so practice well.

Now, retrieve the small corner you tore off in step 3. If you’ve lost it or not bothered your arse to keep it, then you’re fucked you minger.

Use this small corner to clean under your finger nail. Just because you’re using a squat toilet and you could be out in the countryside, there’s no need to be a grotty bastard.

There you have it, now you can survive anywhere and there’s no need to worry about carrying extra weight. A few sheets in your hip pocket and you’re good to go. Now, get out there and explore China with confidence.

A Guest Post by Got Rice.

Once again I find myself navigating the labyrinth of narrow passageways between the homes in a village who’s name is unknown to me. But the smells, sounds and feel of some undefinable viscus fluid squishing beneath my shoes. These things I know. These things are familiar.

As I make my way through the twists and turns that are encased in walls of crumbling brick I go over the plan for today. The mental checklist of names, faces and phrases is gone over one more time just to make sure no detail is overlooked, no contingency not planed for.

Turning a corner I note that the sun in coming up, its light not coming to me directly but by a series of caroms off windows, windshields and car mirrors. Its light both reminding me that I need to hurry and also saving me from stepping in a puddle of liquid that is all too identifiable.

Suddenly amongst din of the background ambiance, I smell something that brings my travels to a momentary halt. Could it be? I have heard rumors that it exists here, but outside of protected havens I have not seen it among the general populace. Could it actually be cheese?

Out of a sudden nostalgic hunger I search for the source only to have my hopes dashed yet again. The cheese, the lovely fromage of which I dreamt was nothing more than the bare feet of an old man sleeping on a pile of styrofoam.

In olden days this discovery would put me off of visiting the protected haven known as Pizza Hut for at least a month, but now it is nothing more than a slight disappointment.

Picking up my pace to make up for lost time, I come to the clearing filled with Aunties doing Tai Chi. This is always one of the most perilous parts of my journey. I must pass through the crowd without being engaged in conversation, offered food, introduced to their daughters (who just happen to be with them that morning) or having my solar plexus rammed into my spine by one of these elderly genetic experiments doing the deadly “scooping water” move.

Safely past that hurdle I see the main street ahead. If I can cross that street, I will make it to sanctuary. Only a little further.

I step from the alleyway onto the main street and I cross the street with the dexterity of a 10 year old playing human frogger on their home computer. The building that is my goal is within site. Only 10 more meters.

Making my way, I deftly dodge strollers, people stopping randomly and others who just move way too slow. As I reach for the handle of the door, I hear it. I have been spotted. Today, just like every day I have once again failed in my mission to enter sanctuary unnoticed and unmolested by ‘him’.

“Hellllloooooo! You buy watch? Omega? Rolex? I sell. Cheap”, says ‘him’, AKA the obnoxious watch hawker.

I turn and scream into his face. “You stupid fuck. No, I do not want to buy any of your shitty fucking fake fucking watches. You slack jawed, in-bred, dirt farmer fuck.”

“Just like every other day for the past year and a half. I haven’t wanted to buy your damn watches then, I don’t want to buy them now. Every day, you bother me with your fuck wit fuck fuck fuck…” I sputter as I realize once again that he doesn’t understand a single word I am saying.

I stare into his blank smiling face and it dawns on me. He knows I don’t want to buy his watches. He just does it for the entertainment value of watching me explode.

With a heavy sigh I turn and enter my office without another word. But one thing still bothers me. One question still tugs at my brain like a happy ending factory. Just how much does he charge for those fake watches? Maybe I will have to ask someday.