McCoy's.

Sam pointed out to me the other day that his Marmite on toast tasted 100% better when I made it for him. After scoffing at him for a few minutes, and giving him the 'you are a ridiculous human' look, I had to admit that he had a point; my Bovril did taste better when spread by his fair hand. Well, to be honest, his hands have nothing to do with it; Bovril tastes better when you don't have to prepare it yourself.

Here are some other food items which also double their taste value when taken from someone else:

- Crisps.

Picture the scene: You are in a civilised English public house with your family and the kind so-and-so who is buying the next round asks if anyone wants a packet of crisps to accompany their pint. Unanimously, you all shake your heads and say, 'Oh no thank you, I'm fine', and you mean it. This isn't a sneaky English lie whereby you say you're fine but actually mean , 'Oh good Lord yes please! I haven't eaten in five hours', or other such sneaky English polite fibs. You really don't want any crisps, but as soon as one person opens their solitary packet of Flame Grilled Steak McCoy's, everyone's mouth is watering enough to make the Sahara fertile.

Once offered a crisp, you can't refuse; you know it is single-handedly going to be the best thing you have ever eaten. And it is. The rich flavours of steak and crisps and preservatives flood your mouth, perfectly complementing your fine local ale. One crisp bliss; if you had your own packet, it wouldn't taste the same.

- Peanuts.

Same principle as crisps, only nuts.

- Party food.

I'm sorry friends, I have to admit that one of the most exciting prospects of going to a party is the array of snacks that will be on offer. Why are sausage rolls put on a plate by someone else SO much more delicious?! The same goes for the carrot sticks, potted Tesco hummus, Ritz biscuits, cheese&pinapple sticks... I know they are exactly the same as the things in my fridge, but they are tantalising and intriguing. I have to sample everything on offer, just in case I never get the chance to eat such a varied array of food types again.

There are actually too many things to mention without sounding like a food obsessed thief. Please send in your favourite food-steals and why the taste so bloomin' good! All thoughts will be added to this ever growing list. I can't be the only one this obsessed with stealing food, surely?!

Tea Room.

Last Friday afternoon, I was roped in as maître d’ of an English Tearoom being run by an over-excited group of Year 6s.



Every year there is a day in which parents and prospective students come and have a nosey around the school. This principle is not an unfamiliar prospect for me; the school in which I spent my teenage years offered a very similar practice of school showcasing every year. The only difference between these two fine examples of boasting is that my German school took it to levels that my English school could only dream of.

Rethink your standard school tour led by a begrudging 14 year old; enter the Germans with a ski bar. Yes, a SKI BAR. Complete with schnapps, house music and disco ball. I asked myself the same question, what on earth were they promoting apart from teenage alcohol abuse and binge-drinking? Ohhhh, the thriving winter sport syllabus of course. Silly Engländerin.

Continue your school adventure down the corridor and you find yourself confronted by toga-clad 13 year old brandishing fine examples of imitation Roman delicacies. Mmmm, sheep eyeballs, my favourite. When I asked if they were promoting the history department, said sheep eyeball was spluttered at me in a moment of sheer hilarity; 'Oh Miss Ford, you are so funny.' I found out later that they were part of the Latin crew. Of course they were. I didn't even know we taught Latin in our school.

I have no idea what the Geography group were doing. All I saw was what looked to be bamboo poles and children dressed up as gorillas. I didn't stick around to ask what they were offering in the way of refreshments.

Around the corner, up some stairs, was my neck of the woods. I felt safe there. No gorillas, no eyeballs, no schnapps.

The children (the English teachers) had revamped the classroom to a state that you would never have recognised it. Teapot, scone, sugar cube heaven, complete with silver tea spoons and white table cloths; I was very happy. Standing at the entrance of our 'Tearoom', I flagged parents and children our way by brandishing a very large Union Jack and hollering 'Getcha tea here chaps - real English tea'. Del Boy's selling tactics came in very handy here. Lie a little, stretch the truth, talk in an accent they don't understand, get their money and run.

"Oh yes Mrs Schmidt, I drink tea with the Queen every weekend."
"No, no Mr Becker, English women never drink anything as vulgar as beer."
"Ha ha, funny you should say that Miss Müller - I am actually a personal acquaintance of Harry Styles."


What a tricksy hobbit I am.

The whole point of this exercise, apart from making the school look well-mega-wicked-cool, is to raise money for the individual classes' 'Kasse', which subsidises school trips etc., etc. A rather good idea, if you ask me, as the children take responsibility for their own class' fate and funds. No credit cards for these children when they reach university. In this case, don't follow in Miss Ford's footsteps children.

All round, very fun. Well done Germany, you beat us fair and square.

Dunce.

"Hello Children,

I'm your teacher's Grandfather and I am 88 years old, so I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes in my lifetime, along the way.

Your teaching today is so different from when I was a boy. I still can't understand computers, the new type of phones and the way your taught today, so you should consider yourselves so lucky. I'm afraid I was a bit of a dunce and got the cane a few times, but it did me no harm.

So learn all you can about everything in life, and you will all grown up good citizens.

Goodbye, Jim Ford"



I received this letter today, from my Grandad, as an appendix to the letter he had sent me. Although written with the intention of inspiring and educating young German children, I see no reason why it shouldn't inspire everyone, young and old. Although grammatically incorrect, the words ring so true and clear and honest, that you cannot fail to take notice of their message.

What do you take from these five sentences of gold? Replaying the last sentence in my head over and over, guilt pangs shake through my chest. No, I'm wrong - not guilt pangs. 'Pang' suggests a nice gentle acoustic guitar rocking you to sleep; this feeling is not that. I mean a guilt trombone is blaring it's brassy tones somewhere near my heart, with an elbow in my lungs and foot in my stomach for added effect. Yes, this guilt trombone is making me nicely uncomfortable.

"So learn everything you can about everything in life" - I know it's meant sincerely. I know it means, work hard because you have been given everything and you have no excuse. It means, you are not hungry and you are not at war and you are safe and you are warm - grasp the education you have been offered and bleed it dry. It means, I didn't have your opportunities, take advantage of your youth and freedom.

An entire 88 years on this planet summarised with the line, "I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes." Take from that what you will, but if this 'full life' includes a war, raising two children (not to mention five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren) whilst maintaining a 60-odd year marriage, then I am humbled to the core that it can be reduced to ten words so nimbly, and am listening with open ears and heart to whatever advice can be exchanged.



And yes, he is my Grandfather so of course I take this personally. But no, that is not the only reason. Take away his name and there are millions of men and women with the exact same story. Our grandparents. They changed this world for better or worse; they structured the society in which we live. Their lives have given way for our lives to exist. And now they are telling us to work hard. Work really hard and be good people.

Now, if that's not a kick up the arse, I don't know what is.

Trendy, Part 2.

Hey Y'all fashion loverrrrs!

So sorry sweeties for not publishing this earlier, have been dashing around like a moron trying things out so you don't have to! I know you've all probably been dying to get your next installment on how to become the next trendsetter, but let me reassure you darlings, patience really is a virtue in this instance.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter Part 2. 'Go on a diet'.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking - 'oh my goodness, she's mental' - but this diet really does work! No more nasty low-carb options, and it leaves you feeling full and content - what more could you want? I've called it The German Diet, and have compiled a typical day's menu for you to sample, because caring is sharing, fashion friends!

1st meal: Pre-breakfast snack.


Milka. Preferably the variety that is on offer in Rewe for 55 cent (it makes it all the more delicious). I advise leaving the chocolate on your bedside table, so that you don't forget to take your morning supplement before you get out of bed. Think of this ordeal as you would suncream; Milka chocolate will protect you the from world's ills. A chore, yes - but one you will be thanking yourself for by the moody mid-afternoon slump! Mood enhancing factor 30! What's not to love?

2nd meal: Breakfast.


This should include at least four types of sausage or cured meat, cheese that tastes like a foot, three varieties of bread, unsalted butter, honey and enough coffee to kill a small animal. And there you have it; ready and prepared to take on the world before the sun has even decided to rise.

3rd meal: Mid-Morning snack.


Butter Bretzel. You should purchase your butter bretzel (pretzel with butter for all you 'deutsch-phobics' out there!), in a local bakery where they are fresh out the oven and neatly stacked in orderly lines to maximise selling efficiency. At a tidy little 1 Euro - it's a snip! Not only do you receive the chewy, salty, doughy pleasure of the pretzel itself, but you are also presented with a 5mm thick layer of butter too! WHAT AN ABSOLUTE BARGAIN! Ideally enjoyed in the not-so-grosse-Pause at school, at 9am. Remember fashion friends, this is Germany! Mid-morning = 9am, not 11am; you've been up since 5am!

4th Meal: Midday Meal.

For this meal, I am offering you a variety of options - the world is your oyster. So long as it predominantly involves carbs, you are in for a winner. Here are a couple of suggestions:


- Maultaschen. Somewhat similar to Ravioli, you could be forgiven for thinking you were eating an Italian delight, that is if you ignore the fact your ravioli pieces have quadrupled in size, and are swimming around in a hearty broth! Surprisingly delicious, and perfectly filling, this is one diet option not to miss out on.


- Any Würstchen you can get your hands on, cradled by a crusty roll and enveloped in oodles of mustard. Does what is says on the tin; Nigella needs to watch out, 'cos this really is a sexy little diet option.


- Wiener Schnitzel. As do all the best things in life, Schnitzels come in a variety of sizes, and it's not always 'the bigger the better'! I, for one, have eaten a terrible schnitzel which was utterly HUGE, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It just stuffed me, and left no room for some after-dinner 'Willi'.

Post 4th Meal Schnapsle: Willi.


No Midday meal is complete without your best friend 'Willi'. Aiding digestion, and getting you so bladdered you don't care what happens in the afternoon, I can wholeheartedly say that this is the secret to this diet's success. Teamed with its super cute little glass, it's any fashionista's dream!

5th Meal: Afternoon Coffee and Cake.


Any cake you choose, as long as it's 90% whipped cream. They can be found in the ever-so-quaint Konditoreis dotted around the German landscape. SO quaint.

6th Meal: Abendbrot.

See: Breakfast. You must eat exactly the same thing you ate for breakfast for maximum dieting efficiency.



And Ta-dah! Sweethearts, I can 10000% say that I'm loving this diet, and you will too!

Valentine.

Sometimes in life, I wish I was a normal human who went about life in a normal, round about way. Someone who didn't accidentally flash her boobs on her bike and not realise for a whole minute in rush hour, or get her skirt stuck on a chair leg at the front of class (consequently showing her knickers to a group of 15 boys), or get compared to Bridget Jones by her closest friends and family.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to relate my latest night out, or night in, without a catastrophic crescendo - or describe this disaster to a friend who is utterly shocked and surprised, rather than awaiting the moment at which I inevitably tumble from grace. Wouldn't it be lovely so be able to say that I didn't fall down a whole flight of stairs; or turn my hair orange; or turn my hair purple; or sing James Blunt's You're Beautiful to a group of apparent strangers whilst sober; or knock myself out on a bedside table; or a thousand other disgustingly embarrassing events that only people like me could commit.. Wouldn't that be marvellous.

But.

But sometimes, very rarely, I revel in the fact I am very much not a normal human being.

On Valentine's day, I had one of the best 24 hours of my life.
I was whisked away to Strasbourg in France; wined, dined, spoiled. On the surface, how very romantic and sickening it all looks. My teeth hurt from even looking at the screen.



Reality dictates a rather different picture once you scratch a little deeper than the Facebook-photo facade; wine-drunk, food-stuffed, tequila-spoiled. We spent the day being dazzled by the beauty of the city, and the night dazzling others with our beautiful 4am renditions of 'Angels' by Robbie Williams (guitar solo on knees included). Our inner-weirdness couldn't be tamed, not even on the day we were meant to be a lovey dovey new couple enjoying their first V-day together. Not even France could help us. What felt like 40000000 tequila shots, 2 bottles of wine and 6 beers later, we were cheering couples leaving the night early to shag, screaming 'are you guna bang doe' in their ears, whilst on a floating boat Discotheque. So. Bloody. Romantic. That isn't even to mention getting home to write 'Jo iz wicked' on the bathroom mirror, before passing out starfish style face down on the bed.



Having said all that, then having looked through hundreds of other people's beautiful V-day photos on facey-b, I would not change a thing. Not everyone's cup of tea, no, but we had fun and that is surely all that matters.

I then today found a video posted online by one of my sister's friends - she is a very pretty 14 year old, who obviously has far too much time. The video was called 'hot or not', whereby she systematically denounced people she went to school with as either 'hot', or 'ugly'. I am not sure if I have missed something here, or if I have become 84 overnight, but isn't that a trifle over-the-top and judgemental? Christ knows what catagory she would have put me in; 'mentally unstable gin addicted minger'?

Having been a 14 year old girl who obsessively wrote a diary about absolute crap, I can tell you that it is not necessary for other young women like her to make you feel a gremlin. You need only look in the mirror to pinch imaginary rolls of fat, squeeze phantom spots and put concealer over invisible stretch marks to know that you are actually the ugliest creature to ever grace the planet and that you will never get a boyfriend because you are interested in poetry and don't speak like an airhead.

Silly girl, don't call other people names. It's just not attractive.

Why should I, or anyone else for that matter, ever compare myself to anyone else? If doing things you enjoy is considered strange, then I wholeheartedly choose to be a weirdo, knicker flashing and penny swallowing included.

drink me

dear life

people tell no drinkjng

i saying drinking

particularly when random middle aged italian men are incovled ande they give you moneys for teaching them enflish;. um english zu lernennren.

dear sam you can take over:

hello, mein name is sam and i come from england. jo mentions me all over this blog and finally you get to meet the stupid mug. soooo heres a little ditty for ya,

once upon a time there was a very pure and kind jungfrau, who lived in the deep depths of the darkest corner of germany. She was lost. She spent her days drinking schnapps and teaching an old italian bloke english. she listeninged to radio stations thatr no one else listen to in this world. music such as ronan keating and john lenon mixed together wtf really.

okay ill pas you over to the kind hands of nocollalalalala


As Simon and Garfunkel once said "like a bridge over troubled water" like ein brooke uber kaputz wasser. (The direct German translation). This quote relates to the amount of alcohol consumed tonight. Like 3 little bridges attempting to survive a tsunami we went down to Giovanni's flat speaking a dazzling array of German. Each earning a total of £10 each. i myself earned a place to stay for a full month, complete with heating and my very own sewing machine. Which will be much needed seeing as whilst being here I have eaten enough food to last me a week! Two of my favourite things are hats and alcohol. And both are encorporated into our night right now.

P.S - The following photos were taken during this hideous night. Many apologies for such messy behaviour and public declaration of it.

Caroline.

I am untalented.

Whilst reassessing my life this morning, I realised that I have no talents. And that isn't meant in the way of 'wah wah I have no talents, please someone massage my ego', because that is rather dull; I mean, if I was stuck on a desert island, I would be able to offer nothing in the way of entertainment, unless you count being the only human on earth to be able to commit every social faux pas in the space of 5 minutes as something amusing.

Rewind four glorious years, and you will encounter a prime example of the extraordinarily awkward social behaviour being used as means of entertainment by yours truly. Victoria Station Weatherspoons; approximately 11.30pm; group of loud teenagers drinking and being annoying; Joanna Ford.

This group of loud teenagers were doing their usual drunk teenager thing, drinking and telling jokes and being loud. In the midst of such group stood myself, and not knowing the group very well, I decided to arm myself with rather a lot of dutch courage. One young man dared me to swallow a penny, and not having anything better to say for myself, I did. I swallowed a dirty old 1989 penny. I proudly stuck out my tongue and showed him that it'd disappeared, to which he replied;

"You're going to have to swallow another, I didn't see you do it."

Sometimes, I am not very intelligent. I swallowed a second, with not much success. Rather awkwardly, I ended up choking and spluttering and gagging in the middle of the pub. Oh so attractive; you're SO funny - what a joker. Next thing I know, a female friend's fingers are down my throat and there's a big 'ole kerfuffle. NHS direct were not too impressed with my early morning phone call, and advised me to drink a couple of liters of coke to dissolve the metal chilling out in my stomach. What an anti-climax.

This whole shenanigan revolved around me trying to be funny, or vaguely entertaining. If I had owned a talent, in one form or another, this would never have happened. I could have broken out into all singing razzmatazz tap dancing, and stunned them all into silence. Or, I could have sang them a little ditty and made them cry with joy at my angelic tones. Oh no, I swallowed a penny and it got stuck. Fantastic.

With this in mind, I want to present you with a real talent, so you can all see what I am aiming to achieve. This time next year, I will have stopped losing passports on border control; stopped major airport security breaches; stopped swallowing pennies; and stopped re-enacting scenes from Bridget Jones' diary every time a drop of alcohol touches my lips. I will be FABULOUS, just like my friend Caroline.

She is undeniably beautiful.

It does not take a long period of time for you to fall in love with her presence; I do not know one person who has come into contact with her and has not fallen in love, but for many, if they have not been ensnared by her rather addictive personality, they are caught by her voice. Tangled in a web of silky threads that no-one really wants to struggle away from.

I'm quite happy here. These silky threads have me tightly in their grip and I can feel my eyes filling with tears, but I'm quite happy to stay here. Keep singing; I know I'm witnessing something incredible.

Real talent needs to be recognised, and Caroline, I am recognising you as someone to aspire to be like. When I sing in the shower, my darling mother knocks on the door to ask if I'm crying. (No Mum, I was actually busting out my best rendition of 'Baby Love'.)

This voice makes grown men cry:


Please watch, enjoy and cry - there will be more on Caroline's work soon.

#1

I know that in life one encounters, and always will encounter, people that piss one off.
That is a life fact, and a fact we all need to come to terms with, one way or another. My little brain, tonight, is the sad testimony to the fact that I, as of yet, have not come to terms with this fact, and let things rile me beyond all realms of belief.

I will bore you with only #1 on my list of 4000 things that make me want to poke my own eyes out.

Travel bloggers. Yes, you read correctly, travel bloggers. (Oh, no - actually blogging in general makes me want to cry; it's hedonistic self centered grammatically incorrect narrow minded poorly structured rather pointless blabbering on, actually seems to serve no other real purpose other than to massage the ego of its author. Yes, I fully count myself into this vile category.)

The worst kind of annoyance is when you know you are being hypocritical by disliking what someone else is doing, because you are indeed committing an identical crime against mankind.

But, in my humble opinion, travel bloggers are the worst; I simply do not care about that wonderful little beach shack off the west coast of Thailand that NO-ONE has been to before, because you are such an intrepid traveller and really 'threw yourself' into local life. Why would I, a rather self obsessed fellow travel writer wrapped up in my own fabulous life, give a toss about what you did 6 years ago but won't stop banging on about?

Browsing through countless mind-numbing tales of adventurous excellence, I realise that it is all just one big case of dick-comparison; who's amorous escape into the unknown is more daring, took the less travelled path, or led the new-age wannabe Indiana Jones to the highest spiritual enlightenment. It is self advertising at its worst; all it serves to highlight is how pretentious you really are, and how many times you can use a thesaurus in one sentence.

In its nature, this dick-comparison is rather contradictory. Why, when you seem to have found an idyllic hidden spot on a corner of this increasingly un-secret globe, would you post your secret on the World Wide Web for all the minions to see? Why brag about how secret and untouched and virginal it is, when all you are doing is publicly deflowering it in the process? Why can't your secrets stay just that, a secret?

bajdbvndbajskjn blergh. I'm tired and annoyed and think this is all rather pointless.
Goodnight.