Everyone knows that Santa lives in the North Pole with his little elves and travels in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer. But in Belgium they believe Saint Niklaus is from Spain and arrives in a steamboat manned by black slaves all called "Zwarte Pete" (Black Pete). Children fear the Zwarte Petes as they are the enforcers of the "naughty or nice" policy that the jolly bearded guy subscribes to. Kids run the risk of a severe thrashing from Zwarte Pete if they appear in the naughty section of St. Niklaus' twice-checked list...
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That thing about "say a lie enough times and it becomes the truth" that Goebbels or Kaiser Soze or whoever said generally winds up being used by obnoxious middle-ground liberal types to condescend to the overly-religious or folks who don't believe in global warming, but in the case of London's burgeoning population of "Pakistani street gangs" it's sort of true. You see, there really isn't one. There are plenty of Tamil and Bangladeshi gangs with colourful names like the Tooting boys who get lumped into the general rubric of "pakis" by your average racist, which eventually filters its way up into the mainstream media to mixed levels of caring. For our second foray into Britain's gangtopia, we decided to sidestep this little lingual hotspot and focus on the guys running the heroin trade in which these smaller "Pakistani" gangs dabble: The Turks.
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Riddarfjärdens Royal Ballet School is the toughest dance school in Scandinavia. Students have personal mentors that push them to the limit, both physically and mentally. Even warm-ups can be brutal. Half the students drop out after the first year because they can't take the pressure. Class is in session from 8 AM to 5 PM, six days a week. Those who get through the three years are almost guaranteed a place at the best of the best of companies in the world.
I just graduated from a school nearby and I used to sell hash to the dance kids at parties. I met up with ballet girl Nor, fresh out of the school, and I asked her to tell me some stories about what was going on there...
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In recent years a slew of devices have arrived on the market that allow women to piss standing up. The products, which basically amount to plastic and cardboard funnels that fit like guacamole against the ol’ pink taco, can be a godsend for gals who want to drunkenly spill urine on the side of a Volvo when they can’t hold it until home—just like one of the guys.
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Recently after performing on a stage, attempting 'comedy', I asked a couple of male buddies in the class for some feedback. Feedback was thus: "Can't tell you much dude. Didn't hear a word you said as I was staring at your erect nipples the whole time."
Now whilst I didn't appreciate the objectification (well maybe a little bit), I did appreciate the frank discussion that followed. Ladies, this just in: apparently men are concerned when nipples aren't in their erect state ...
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