If there’s one bunch of people I particularly hate with a passion, it’s that hockey team from Jyväskylä.

What they lack in actual skill, they make up for in bodymass and Neanderthal-tendencies. It’s a miracle they make it in and out of the bus each time, it’s a miracle they achieve forward motion at all. What a bunch of nitwits. ‘If you ram into something else long enough, no doubt it’ll collapse into a pile!’ seems a fitting team motto. I wonder how they’re allowed out to roam the streets at all.

Last summer at the airport there was a lonely jyp-bag left behind. I don’ know whose it was but I sincerely hope the bunch abandoned his ass and then left for Siberia. I sincerely hope the plane was made out of Chinese ducttape. Looks like the real deal but performs a helluvalot differently. Nice thought that your seat can be used as a flotation device but I doubt it would support their over-sized waterheads that smell like dead fish. I hope it was Nolan Wankman’s bag. Wankman can now be seen staggering around Vantaa like a bum. A bum with a JYP bag; you truly deserve each other.

In hindsight, they should have checked that bag thoroughly, you never know what crap it could contain. People who smash their heads smack-boom into their own sticks do not deserve to tell the tale, yet last Spring this one particular delinquent managed to skate onward to do exactly so. The only appropriate way for these idiots to leave a stadium is in bodybags.

It’s too bad it’s so difficult to translate the ‘Ziekte van Hedel’ into English cause it would truly fit the mood. It’s refreshing to swear with diseases.

Maybe because they want to smuggle baijiu Caribbean style, but methinks not.

2016 was a pile of pish for most of us, and then some.

We lost many a brilliant and talented soul. Of the top of my head: Alan Rickman, David Bowie, Sharon Stone, Prince, Sonia Rykiel, Franca Sozzani, Carrie Fisher, Bill Cunningham, Johan Kruijff, George Michael, and the list goes on for a couple of pages (Lenoard Cohen will be missed by many but I have bad memories to his songs due to an unfortunate hitchhiking trip through Norway). The rest got injured and cannot play and be epic for the remainder of the hockeyseason.

Speaking of which –my team sucks. No other way around it. Silver-lining speak such as ‘two steps forward, one step back’ does not cut the mustard. In fact, we’ve taken the mustard and I don’t know where else to go with this sentence other than that everything sucks, mustard spilled all over the ice, and it’s a big mess and all I can think of is getting a stack of big, fluffy cardigans from Fida for those cheerleaders cos they must be freezing cold!

The other remedy would be making hotpot for the whole bunch, with some nice extra Sichuan peppers for the coach. I’m sure Larry David would have something nice to say in defense of the bald gentleman but I sure have not. If you don’t have anything nice to say… hotpot it is. The great equalizer. Hotpot with Baijiu, which was the great equalizer amongst Chinese poets – most of whom drunk themselves to bottoms of many a lake and river.

Meanwhile, nitwits are thriving. Spina still happily scooping spinaattispoothies there where the sun daren’t shine. Americans once more got over competitive after that whole Brexit pile of shite –there can only be one dumbest of them all- and decided to hire themselves a cauliflower for leader (‘MURICA!). Numbnuts think somehow it’s now possible to grab a hold of a truck and bluntly start plowing through crowds of people. Wilders somehow is still on the scene – and people are somehow still listening to his incoherent rants about nothing. That hairdye must have gone through his brain by now. Nazi-zombies from below the sea. I’ll start on the script right away. The most horrifying things go on and on all around us, and all we care about is thingie not winning some singing show, a bunch of other dumbasses doing a bunch of other things, some other idiot got Jalapenos on his pizza even though he didn’t want to and while we’re all reminiscing on their lavish adventures, China has pumped a range of islands out of the sea. Maybe because they want to smuggle baijiu Caribbean style, but methinks not.

What, then, about the next year. Somehow January 1st is a milestone for many. Everything will be magically different. We’ll battle hunger. We’ll be nicer, and buy less crap. We’ll go to the gym (hyii). If only there was such a thing as a magical-slate-clean-wipe-make-doer. January 1st many pretend that there is, and for a week they manage to behave themselves moderately, only to continue being a sloppy dumbass for the remaining 14 months of the year.

Did you know that Noam Chomsky reads 6 newspapers + 80 articles a day? Did you know that John Galliano used to run stretches next to the Seine every day in order to get inspired? How about Bill Cunningham, who lived decades in a stamp sized apartment in Carnegie Hall, walls lined with filing cabinets collecting each and every photography he ever took, riding a bike every day, exclaiming to the real estate lady who showed him replacement houses cos Carnegie hall was to house telemarketers in office cibucles exclusively: ‘I don’t need a clothes closet, and who needs a kitchen and a bathroom!?’ Speaking of Andrew Carnegie – did you know he insisted on pumping his excess profits back into society by supporting the arts and whatnot – because thought that to be his duty?

Without telling you what to do or what not to do for your new year’s resolution (they can work. Mine worked throughout the year as I made it a very small sacrifice – always a smart trick), let’s all be inspired by Chomsky, by Bill Cunningham, by Sharon Stone whose musical career blossomed by the time she as well in her forties. Let’s start reading more stuff (it’s fun. Books are friends!) and question what we’ve read at the pub or somewhere. Let’s start running; not at one of those treadmill monstrosities at those gym places (yuk), but properly outside. Bonus if you go in winter. Be careful not to break your hand. And why not keep trying to do that one thing, the thing that everyone says we have to let go cos a) we suck at it b) we’re too old for or c) we have no time/place for.


Grace Coddington – if you’re reading this, please be safe. Stay put with lots of blankets and tea and whatever it is you need to stay alive. We need! We need you to thrive for many years to come!


p.p.s: the resolution I’m starting today is learning how to properly finish a piece cos that I still don’t know how to do.

If only Saruman could be Finnish.

My number one just got knocked of his number one pedestal cos guess what – Sir Christopher Lee has brought out a christmas album a wee while back and it is amazing. It’s whatever the metal equivalent of pouring liquid velvet in your ears, cos of that voice. But then with metal. If only Saruman could be Finnish.

That put me straight in a jollier mood. I am somewhat of a christmas freak, not for religiosity per se, but for the cosiness of it all. If you’re lucky it might even snow (not for us sad saps in the low lands, though. A bishop from Spain brings us a round of gifts already on December 5, and there’s usually a festive load of rain come christmas. We’d find ourselves sitting round a fake tree, watching Home Alone where the flakes come down with buckets while outside it pours like during the days of Noah), and snow we like. Taking out the bike, trashing and slashing down a road that looks like a pristine newborn baby’s blanket. Just like Lorelai Gilmore I, too, have massive Snowdar.

Holidays are a time of joy, hope, reflection, heaps of chocolate and for once a wee drink here and there is not so much frowned upon, as well encouraged. ‘Pikkujoulu’ they do here; little Christmas. If you’re lucky there’s fifty of these celebrations crammed within the same weekend. l’Chaim. For our office’s pikkujoulu we had crappy Chinese in a deserted restaurant. The chef cooked according to the Belgian school; he provided us with load after load of foodstuffs dripping and steaming straight from the deep fryer (dumplings, peking duck, apples, uruk-hai, it didnae matter) which did not impress me much despite of the lazy Susan. Still, a nice gesture it seemed. Also there was wine.

The day before the event Empress Oink had instructed us (or apparently she meant to) on the do’s and dont’s of the evening. There were a lot. She tried to point them all out in the most incoherent speech I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing. I knew the Chinese have a knack for holding long, exhausting speeches and my boss insisted to make her countrymen proud. Thirty minutes came and went, confusing looks were exchanged. I had to re-assure with a coworker afterwards on the contents of the seemingly never ending slew of word vomit. Something about toilets, coffee breaks, coffee in the toilet. Something about the others -mates from the other store. there must have been a point somewhere, but I couldn’t decipher it from the gibberish in chinglish.

Thankfully there was wine. A bottle conveniently found it’s way smack next to my plate (terve kaveri!). The bottle did not leave from there, I made damn well sure it wouldn’t. Three glasses sort of made the evening slightly cosy, and also was the location close to home, so I could bike. Cycling clears the head even better, though the contents of that speech still haunt me. I made sure not to make too much eyecontact with the Others (they sat far away, so no worries there), and I want to stop talking about this evening now; it was a while back and there was wine, and that was all there is to it.

Friday is the pikkujoulu with the grownups from school. I know they can tank, and also we did a project on wine, so a little accumulative research is in order methinks. I want to elaborate on Empress Oink and the other fritters at my office so much, but I need to find out first in what way it interferes with my hefty confidentiality paper thing. I shall ask the grownups. They’re grownups, they know what to do.