A friend of mine introduced me to walking homeless dogs last year. We arrive at 10.30am at the RSPCA (Patcham, Brighton), and they let us out with a dog each. We often choose to take just one dog between us, so that we can take it in turns to hold the lead, banter, and give the dog a better time. The RSPCA site is next to a recreation ground, so we have a lovely little walk. Sometimes we even test our legs and have a bit of a run. Sometimes we have little choice.
I would recommend dog walking to anyone that can get across a field and back, and isn’t afraid of the Canis lupus familiaris species. As well as being brilliant for the dogs, it is also brilliant for children, adults, the happy healthy and the downright miserable. The RSPCA workers are careful to find a dog suitable for each walker and everyone gets something out of it.
If you can’t house a homeless dog, then giving it a walk - and a bit of loving - will help it to get through yet another day in the kennel. In return, you’ll have a lovely time getting out and about, feel great for doing something worthy, and you’ll even get a bit of exercise. You might even be lucky enough to pick up poo. I haven't been that lucky yet. Now that I've said that, there'll be an oversized dog brewing up a massive, steaming pile of diarrhoea just for me. Crossed fingers not.
Pooing aside, and perhaps inclusively, every dog that you walk will be different and you’ll get to experience the joys of the playful, the fast, the slow, the shy, the attention seeking and the downright easily distracted. Not knowing what to expect is part of the fun.
Of course there are dangers involved with seeing homeless animals; you sometimes want to take them home.
This Sunday, I took My Geek dog walking for the first time. We didn’t come home with a dog, but we did come home with a cat (following a house inspection to check that we’re not a kebab house). The little cat is called Poppy. She’s lived at the RSPCA since she was a kitten in June 2007. She is now hiding in a box in our kitchen. It’s a very scary world for her, but hopefully it will get less scary as time goes by. She has a real home now, with people who will love and care for her.
I hope we get to go dog walking again soon. Fortunately (or unfortunately), our tenancy agreement prevents us from housing every homeless animal that we see. We're only allowed one cat and we have reached our contractual limit.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Monday, 14 January 2008
The Random Doubts of Walter Mondale
I have a very old friend called Mondale and he's been blogging since June 2004. Hooray for him. I used to sail with Mondale. It was years and years ago, for years and years. Last December Mondale included an entry in his blog to tell his readership about mine. It's here if you want to see it:
A bit about me on Walter Mondale's Blog
I've decided that it’s about time that I returned the favour.
What Mondale didn’t tell his readership, is that - as well as sailing incompetently together for almost a decade - we also wrote each other letters. They weren’t love letters, so don’t get any ideas. Mondale was too good to waste on lust, feuding, a broken heart and then trying to forget forever.
I have just dug out a bag from the back of my wardrobe, and found an array of letters from Mondale. They were distributed amongst many other letters, some from people that I can no longer remember and others from people that I’d forgotten and have just been reminded of.
One thing’s for sure; I could not forget Mondale. The first letter from Mondale is from when he was 13 years old. It goes like this:
EXCERPTS FROM WALTER MONDALE’S YEARS AS A TRAINEE BLOGGER
November 1986
“To Emily
I don’t spend 24 hours a day ramming my index finger up my snout! (contrary to popular opinion). You are about to get (if you haven’t already) a very stupid letter from my mum. As for the 50p, that’s enclosed! I’ve padded the letter up so any thieving Postie doesn’t get any ideas. Sorry about the handwriting, I’m in the car.
Mondale
You Owe Me 50p for my sponsor form. Soon as Possible.”
I wonder why Mondale sent me 50p when I also owed him 50p. Were we that fucking stupid?! Royal Mail must have loved us. The fact that we're not living in supported accommodation today is an achievement for us both.
Now, I will give you the chance to see how Mondale grew into the fine blogger, and expert on politics, that he is today.
January 1988:
“Yo Emily!
Did you see that thing about the Beano and the Dandy that other day, Good wasn’t it. I’ve just had cross country today! You could drown in the mud at our school it’s really bad! I normally get the 22mins (standard is 25) but today I got 30.54! Mr **** had a go at me saying that my attitude was all wrong today and trying to gob on each other and warring. So what? This a piece of contraband school Paper from my formroom! Me and my mate Dave got dragged out of Assembly because it was our turn to do litter duty! Thanks everso much for the pressies. The kittens don’t like the silly string James gave us ‘cos it frightens them. A kid was pushed THROUGH a window in a MOBILE! In a fight at our school on Wednesday! He’s o.k, in fact he just got up , shook the glass off and walked away!
See ya later
Mondale
X country course enclosed”
March 1989:
“...I HATE SCHOOL / GCSE’S
I have to add that that is a mild exaggeration upon the truth of the matter, but you know what I mean. Being Head Boy isn’t too bad it a bit like being an MP, you never seem to do anything, no one knows exactly what you do (myself included) and no one really cares, oh yes I almost forgot, a good example must be set almost all of the time, (I allow myself the odd deluge into good fun everyday that I can!) So l end up as a perfectly ordinary person despite the stain the establishments (School/GCSES) are placing upon me by hacking away at my sanity with wet fish slices!
If this seems like a completely mad letter that’s probably because it is a completely mad / insane / lunatic letter...”
September 1989:
“Emily!
Yeah!, its happened, College is, on the whole, quite a laugh. After 2 days I’ve met the College Stone Roses posse, Mark, Mark, Danny and someone else who I think is called Ian but I’m not sure.
Politics is fine, thats where the “Posse” hangout quoting Michelle Shocked lyrics to Mrs ****, who is not very impressed...
... Well I’m fine dans le moment. Here my timetable:...”
October 1992:
“...life at **** University is absolutely tops!!! Lots of glamorous Gals (well, lots of babes!) a lot of good ole boys!...“
November 1992:
“Oh dear! My poor girl! Ems, I’ll have to explain about life here at **** University with lots of maps too, in fact this whole letter is going to be choc a bloc with maps and accompanying commentary!...”
November, 1993:
“I’ve got a job as a steward at Twerton Park, home of the Gasheads (That’s Bristol Rovers to you and me!) £12 for 4 hours work, not bad and I get on telly each week (I stand right near the corner flag in an orange jacket so each time there’s a corner or incident, I’m on TV) and I watch some football.
I should be working on one of 3 essays due in a week or 2 but it’s a toss up between Weimar Germany or liberal party in Britain 1885-1914! DULLSVILLE
Today has been great for personal hygiene, I’ve had a shower (essential Sunday practise) and also hovered and tidied my room and changed my bed. STEADY ON OLD BLUE!!
Them boys left my gaff a smelly shithole!
Sometimes the things I do astound me!”
February, 1994
“...I’m meant to be getting on with some essays today (How did Hitler consolidate popular party support 1933+, or something about racism in Britain or some shit about Victoria England) so in the best tradition which has got me through my GCSE’s And my Levels and probably my degree too – I’ll write to emily!...” This was followed by a diagram of Mondale’s room.
And from this century:
Summer, 2001
“I love summer, I love all seasons but right now I am blissed out. I sit in my back room, door open to my little yard full of herbs and shrubs with a few flowers, gentle breezes wafting in to take away the cigarette smoke, the radio is offering up a delight of piano sounds and all is well in the world!
I’m sure I sound like a frightful 1920s type but was I ever anything else?) but listening to the Proms is one of my rare pleasures. I don’t sit nightly and tune in and musical taste wise I am quite a tart but Radio 3 is something I have taken to. Beautifully spoken people talking about beautifully spoken things, beats the hell out of other radio stations!
Ah, such are the joys, of course there are other joys too but here, now, they are the joys I am indulging in!
The night turns from blue to dark, have beer, tobacco and a good chair to sit in. I was going to watch some TV but I can’t be fucked! TV sucks 90% of the time.
Ah well, I do hope you don’t think I’ve lost the plot! (I suspect you don’t care either way!) It’s just, well allow the diagrams below to illustrate my midsummer mentality...”
THE END OF THE EXCERPTS
It’s a shame that I rarely receive letters anymore; I do love a good letter.
Mondale’s scripts were always brilliant; full of friendly banter, wonderful witticisms and the best diagrams that anyone has ever made just for me. The full flavour of Mondale’s correspondence is lost because I’ve chosen not to publicise his private life too much, but I do hope that you enjoyed the above.
Now you’ve seen the past, check out Mondale’s modern day writing. I believe his entry on bollards is the most popular right now. You can find them all here:
Mondale's Blog
This one’s for you Mondale...
A bit about me on Walter Mondale's Blog
I've decided that it’s about time that I returned the favour.
What Mondale didn’t tell his readership, is that - as well as sailing incompetently together for almost a decade - we also wrote each other letters. They weren’t love letters, so don’t get any ideas. Mondale was too good to waste on lust, feuding, a broken heart and then trying to forget forever.
I have just dug out a bag from the back of my wardrobe, and found an array of letters from Mondale. They were distributed amongst many other letters, some from people that I can no longer remember and others from people that I’d forgotten and have just been reminded of.
One thing’s for sure; I could not forget Mondale. The first letter from Mondale is from when he was 13 years old. It goes like this:
EXCERPTS FROM WALTER MONDALE’S YEARS AS A TRAINEE BLOGGER
November 1986
“To Emily
I don’t spend 24 hours a day ramming my index finger up my snout! (contrary to popular opinion). You are about to get (if you haven’t already) a very stupid letter from my mum. As for the 50p, that’s enclosed! I’ve padded the letter up so any thieving Postie doesn’t get any ideas. Sorry about the handwriting, I’m in the car.
Mondale
You Owe Me 50p for my sponsor form. Soon as Possible.”
I wonder why Mondale sent me 50p when I also owed him 50p. Were we that fucking stupid?! Royal Mail must have loved us. The fact that we're not living in supported accommodation today is an achievement for us both.
Now, I will give you the chance to see how Mondale grew into the fine blogger, and expert on politics, that he is today.
January 1988:
“Yo Emily!
Did you see that thing about the Beano and the Dandy that other day, Good wasn’t it. I’ve just had cross country today! You could drown in the mud at our school it’s really bad! I normally get the 22mins (standard is 25) but today I got 30.54! Mr **** had a go at me saying that my attitude was all wrong today and trying to gob on each other and warring. So what? This a piece of contraband school Paper from my formroom! Me and my mate Dave got dragged out of Assembly because it was our turn to do litter duty! Thanks everso much for the pressies. The kittens don’t like the silly string James gave us ‘cos it frightens them. A kid was pushed THROUGH a window in a MOBILE! In a fight at our school on Wednesday! He’s o.k, in fact he just got up , shook the glass off and walked away!
See ya later
Mondale
X country course enclosed”
March 1989:
“...I HATE SCHOOL / GCSE’S
I have to add that that is a mild exaggeration upon the truth of the matter, but you know what I mean. Being Head Boy isn’t too bad it a bit like being an MP, you never seem to do anything, no one knows exactly what you do (myself included) and no one really cares, oh yes I almost forgot, a good example must be set almost all of the time, (I allow myself the odd deluge into good fun everyday that I can!) So l end up as a perfectly ordinary person despite the stain the establishments (School/GCSES) are placing upon me by hacking away at my sanity with wet fish slices!
If this seems like a completely mad letter that’s probably because it is a completely mad / insane / lunatic letter...”
September 1989:
“Emily!
Yeah!, its happened, College is, on the whole, quite a laugh. After 2 days I’ve met the College Stone Roses posse, Mark, Mark, Danny and someone else who I think is called Ian but I’m not sure.
Politics is fine, thats where the “Posse” hangout quoting Michelle Shocked lyrics to Mrs ****, who is not very impressed...
... Well I’m fine dans le moment. Here my timetable:...”
October 1992:
“...life at **** University is absolutely tops!!! Lots of glamorous Gals (well, lots of babes!) a lot of good ole boys!...“
November 1992:
“Oh dear! My poor girl! Ems, I’ll have to explain about life here at **** University with lots of maps too, in fact this whole letter is going to be choc a bloc with maps and accompanying commentary!...”
November, 1993:
“I’ve got a job as a steward at Twerton Park, home of the Gasheads (That’s Bristol Rovers to you and me!) £12 for 4 hours work, not bad and I get on telly each week (I stand right near the corner flag in an orange jacket so each time there’s a corner or incident, I’m on TV) and I watch some football.
I should be working on one of 3 essays due in a week or 2 but it’s a toss up between Weimar Germany or liberal party in Britain 1885-1914! DULLSVILLE
Today has been great for personal hygiene, I’ve had a shower (essential Sunday practise) and also hovered and tidied my room and changed my bed. STEADY ON OLD BLUE!!
Them boys left my gaff a smelly shithole!
Sometimes the things I do astound me!”
February, 1994
“...I’m meant to be getting on with some essays today (How did Hitler consolidate popular party support 1933+, or something about racism in Britain or some shit about Victoria England) so in the best tradition which has got me through my GCSE’s And my Levels and probably my degree too – I’ll write to emily!...” This was followed by a diagram of Mondale’s room.
And from this century:
Summer, 2001
“I love summer, I love all seasons but right now I am blissed out. I sit in my back room, door open to my little yard full of herbs and shrubs with a few flowers, gentle breezes wafting in to take away the cigarette smoke, the radio is offering up a delight of piano sounds and all is well in the world!
I’m sure I sound like a frightful 1920s type but was I ever anything else?) but listening to the Proms is one of my rare pleasures. I don’t sit nightly and tune in and musical taste wise I am quite a tart but Radio 3 is something I have taken to. Beautifully spoken people talking about beautifully spoken things, beats the hell out of other radio stations!
Ah, such are the joys, of course there are other joys too but here, now, they are the joys I am indulging in!
The night turns from blue to dark, have beer, tobacco and a good chair to sit in. I was going to watch some TV but I can’t be fucked! TV sucks 90% of the time.
Ah well, I do hope you don’t think I’ve lost the plot! (I suspect you don’t care either way!) It’s just, well allow the diagrams below to illustrate my midsummer mentality...”
THE END OF THE EXCERPTS
It’s a shame that I rarely receive letters anymore; I do love a good letter.
Mondale’s scripts were always brilliant; full of friendly banter, wonderful witticisms and the best diagrams that anyone has ever made just for me. The full flavour of Mondale’s correspondence is lost because I’ve chosen not to publicise his private life too much, but I do hope that you enjoyed the above.
Now you’ve seen the past, check out Mondale’s modern day writing. I believe his entry on bollards is the most popular right now. You can find them all here:
Mondale's Blog
This one’s for you Mondale...
Sunday, 13 January 2008
The Trip Part Four
The past is here, so read it first:
The Trip Part One, The Trip Part Two, The Trip Part Three
Wednesday 7th November, 2007 - AM
While the internet is a beautiful thing, it also lies. I have lied on these very pages. I have lied about an old man’s use of fuzzy felt and I slightly fabricated the sweet tale of Santa Eulàlia. The internet has sent me to closed or non-existent restaurants the world over, from the depressed London lanes to the officious gun toting backstreets of New York. It has inspired me to drive miles across an island in search of a canoe, only to discover that a ‘no boat hire’ season was in full effect. I have gazed longingly at beached pedalos and cursed the internet. Most entertainingly, the internet has led me to believe that I can steal software and then waltzed me into an eternal stream of pop up windows. A million bouncing breasts and pulsating groins flash at me demandingly on a loop. Look at me! I’m trying not to. Like I said, the internet is a beautiful thing.
On Wednesday, 7th November, I rose early. I rose before My Geek and went to the hotel restaurant alone. Lonely businessmen in suits provided a distorted mirror of my condition. Before long, two cyborgs clumsily landed at the table next to me, with their pitted flesh and binary thoughts. They were a poor replacement for My Geek. They looked nerdier; like poorly formed men that can only engage with their own kind, and rarely with women. I briefly side stared at them, wondering where our communality might begin and end. I had a white heart bleached into the back of my head and an inch long piercing at the nape of my neck. In a semi-slumber, my mind groggily tried to envisage the world of my almost companions and then realised that they probably have no world at all. The Microsoft Conference is their Glastonbury, their World Cup, their birthday and their New Years Eve all rolled into one. I felt safe from being digested and turned into a subroutine. The cyborg zombie geeks only scare me in mobs of 1,000 or more. Their brains may have been exchanged for logical functioning processing hardware, but their bodies remain weak, vulnerable and a blundering impediment.
I had arisen early on a quest; a quest to determine whether the shallow pits of humanity and the polite conversation of Western culture can lead to something beyond the vacuous. Prior to my trip to Barcelona, I had been a part of those conversations. ‘Oh, darling, I’ve been travelling; I’ll guide you to the best places’. Oh, the Ramblas. I could see that they were best avoided from the moment that I vaguely glanced at them. Oh, the stupidity of our kind.
A conversation about Microsoft’s .NET Framework, or the interminable white space issue in Firefox, can be more interesting than the dialogue of a person that actually believes that they, their brilliant self, can enhance your life with their own fantastic array of limited knowledge; “I went somewhere once and I know stuff”. Mostly, it’s just terminally boring. In polite conversation you have to feign interest. You can’t just close the window and watch celebrities taking crack on YouTube instead.
The possibilities in life are infinite and yet we just trudge along in our own pre-determined pathetic cycles. We’re like a pack of dogs; content with chasing our own tails and sniffing our own, or our nearest neighbours, oh so familiarly scented derrières. Okay, you sometimes wear a hat. You card. Okay, you’ve been in a same sex relationship. You fucking champion. Okay, you’ve travelled. I get it. But, think about it; are you, alone, capable of truly independent thought? Are any of us?
Sitges bloody this and Sitges bloody that. It seemed worth investigating just to see whether I would feel like building a model of the place and then kicking it to shreds. If they were right; brilliant. If I hated it; even better. I’m such a contrary motherfucker. Either way, I was likely to win. I had an excursion planned for the day. I even had a printout describing Sitges from the internet. Now, while people may have said, ‘Oh you should go to Sitges’, they neglected to tell me anything interesting about the destination. ‘It’s lovely’ doesn’t really use the full catalogue of descriptive words that our ancestors spent thousands of years developing. Well, blow me down; the internet based data was rather encouraging. It demonstrated that Sitges actually has a few really easy to remember and attention-grabbing qualities that might be passed on as ‘interesting nuggets of knowledge’; if one were to ever recommend or discourage a visit there. If I can remember something then it’s easy to remember; I assure you.
A few days earlier, the investigation had begun. I may have just belittled the oft repeated recommendation of Sitges, but I do take recommendations seriously; even when I only hear them once. I expand my breadth of experience by delving into the lives of others. I see the places that they love, I read the books that changed their life and I dance to the music that makes them feel giddied by their own existence. A new path to follow is like a small gift of life. The best experiences often come from the places that it would be so easy to dismiss. The mind stays fresh and young, and new areas for cynicism can develop well fed.
Sat at a computer with the rain beating hard against my English window, during those pre-Barcelona days, it was evident that something was amiss with Spanish rail. Every time I searched for suitable trains, the website gave me times for 11 de noviembre. I was returning home on the tenth; and the internet was laughing at me. Keen to find the foundations of this mischief, I delved into Spanish websites and, with the aid of a translation tool, came to the conclusion that the Spaniards were working on a high speed rail link from Madrid to Barcelona during my stay. The trains were well and truly fucked. Clever old me had advance warning not to attempt to travel by rail and, more importantly, the reason why. I felt triumphant at working all this out from two poorly translated and barely informative sentences. Sometimes the internet tells the truth in riddles and eventually, despite some doubt, my diagnosis proved correct.
Buses were a possibility, but it was evident that the language barrier could really present a problem, with me ending up lost and crying in the rural heartlands of Catalonia. At the end of the day, I am just another idiot who travels the world eagerly hoping to get by on English alone. I speak four words of Spanish: hola, vale (VAH-lay), grazias, and amigo. I don’t even know how to say goodbye, let alone ‘Where is the bus stop?’ or ‘A return to Sitges please’. The repetition of ‘vale’ (okay) could get me through a relatively long conversation without anyone realising that I have no fucking idea, but no fucking idea only gets you so far. Like its German counterpart - ‘genau’ (exactly) – vale is a term used over and over again, both as a conversational prompt and to express understanding. Whilst mock pretence of understanding can be fabulous - vale, vale, vale or genau genau genau - it’s not really a viable option when you’re lost and scared, or at risk of rape.
On Sunday, my Bus Turistic pamphlet sold me with all its talk of day trips and money off. I was going to Montserrat and Sitges in luxury, with a coach seat, a guide and English pleasantries. At Video Bum Stop, with the laptop pressed hard against a wall that breathed one bar of wireless internet access, I discovered that I needed to be in Catalunya Plaça before the departure time of 9am, but to arrive early to buy a ticket. I decided to arrive at 8.30am just to be sure.
With an exactness that the Germans might hail me for (Heil Fabpants!), I arrived at 8.30am as planned. I circled the square looking for my bus and with no success decided that it was probably still on its way. Down an escalator and under the Plaça, I visited the Tourist Information Office. A visit to the underworld should have allowed me to buy my ticket for the tour ‘in advance’ and provided me with an opportunity to find out where my soft cushioned bus was going to sit its wonderful plump arse. A Glaswegian in the queue ahead of me had forgotten where his hostel was and the singular staff member was in a long-term engagement with a slow-witted retard. What should happen does not always correspond with what does. Nobody said that life is fair.
I headed back up and shortly noticed my tour advertised at a bus stop. As I walked up and down a little, pondering and wondering at the lack of bus, I developed a slow building feeling that wrongness was afoot. I hadn’t had the chance to formulate my worried or confused expression, when a kindly old man stole my thoughts and stopped me. In Spanish, and then in very broken English, with the aid of the index finger pointing device, he managed to relay that the bus left at 8.30am every day, and not 9. I had missed it by a whisker. The internet had lied.
The lying bastard internet; you got me again you fiend. I thanked the man and smiled, not allowing him to know of my internal upset. With my packed lunch in tow, I felt marginally deflated, like the rose tint had already been stolen from my already precious day. It was 8.50am. Perhaps I would brave the commoners’ bus after all. Shall I, Shan’t I? The thoughts ran through my confused head. I had plans for exciting cable car rides the next day, set by My Geek’s limited availability. This was my last chance. I felt a little robbed, a bit tired and overly emotional. Vale, Vale, Sitges, Amigo, Vale. The public bus alone was not selling itself as a good idea. I was half way into town, with no information or map; I would have to walk back to the Bum Stop and make some hard decisions. Yes, whether to take my AK47 or my land mine detector.
At the hotel, I picked up my third free map of Barcelona (they turn into shreds if you dare to even look at them) and details for the public bus to Sitges and a walking tour of Barcelona. I felt a little gloomy as I reached Plaça Catalunya for the second time that morning. It was decision time. The walking tour it was. I was too scared to bus it alone. I was too scared to take the public bus to a town somewhere along its route, and chance finding myself in a hole, far away from my hotel with no ability to converse with the natives. I wouldn’t even know where to get off. Perhaps language is important after all.
I still felt torn about the following day; an afternoon with My Geek or a day out somewhere new. He didn’t care so much, but I did. I wanted to spend some time with him in the real world of the city, and not just sleep with him in the stale air of the hotel, but I also wanted to go on the tour; I had psyched myself up for it. To My Geek, Barcelona was just an amazing MSConference and a mediocre hotel. He is a geek after all, and what’s does ‘a different cultural experience’ mean to a fully fledged nerd?
Thin people are ones, fat people are zeros, and if you use Photoshop to slim down the fat people, then we are all just the same. In the geek’s mind, the world is just one big operating system and anything that does not follow a simple logical routine does not compute. ‘U R THE 1 2 MY 0’ might slip through as a sexual fantasy subroutine, but beyond that the geek mind can’t really ‘do’ people, let alone society. Cultural details elude the geek; they are not logical, serve no purpose and do not satisfy the semi-autistic mind. I am being hard on My Geek, but the Microsoft Conference of Barcelona was brainwashing him with success. This paragraph is his punishment for allowing himself to be evangelised. The last word of the previous sentence is Microsoft’s terminology and not mine. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I decided to hedge my bets, to abandon My Geek for the bus tour the following day, and hope that he would develop some cultural awareness and abandon the zombie fest for a few hours that afternoon or on Friday instead. I felt much better with a new plan in place and the rising sun started to warm my cold little fingers and nose. I was going on the free walking tour; new sights, a little company and perhaps a little fun. I had a new plan. I am a little geekish too.
I plan. I want to live my life instead of standing still in directionless indecision, and if that requires planning then I will arrive with a vague schematic of the where, when’s and how do you do’s. For more reassuring detail, I’ll cajole My Geek into being in charge. Several hours later I am presented with a 50 page document, with options and maps. Plans are wonderful things, especially when someone else has done all of the hard work. A little advance preparation enables new experiences and gives the gift of great things on the horizon to look forward to. The idea of wasting life is horrific to me. Plans add a little extra. A few printouts of places, event and restaurants can enhance your holiday experience ten-fold. A well considered list can enable you to eat well for a week, or more, after just one visit to your local shops. A little research can take you on a free walking tour of Barcelona. A little research on the internet, can lead to disappointment.
Have I told you that the internet lies? I am a fully fledged internet junky, but even I have times when I doubt its merits. At Plaça Reial, I sat at the fountain and looked at my watch. A scrappy online entry had told me that the only free walking tour in Barcelona would convene at the water feature at 10.30am every day. On my way to the meeting place, I saw fat people in football shirts; fans in search of early morning lager and BSE fried sausages. They wore blue tops emblazoned with Carling. They advertised cheap beer instead of their team, which I found both confusing and sad. I thought that they might be English. I was wrong. There had been a clue earlier in the day. Carling is a Canadian beer, but they weren’t from there either. The square was quiet, with a few whispering tourists enjoying the peace.
Plaça Reial, the Royal Square, named after Ferdinand and Isabella, is just to the east of the hustle, bustle, pickpockets and fast food outlets of La Rambla. A tired old fountain filled with still stagnant water sits at its heart. Palm trees host green parakeets that chatter and go about their elegant parrot-like business, safe from the night madness in their lofty nests. In the early morning it is quiet, but in the heart of darkness it becomes a drunken club land; a home for petty thieves, drug dealers, knives and fists. It is a beautiful square for crime. Of course, I would later find out that Gaudi left his mark, even here. The fountain is filled with his piss.
A small group of young Americans on their ‘year out’ stood to my left, and a bright studious girl was reading a French novel to my right. It felt like they might be convening, but at 10.40am, I started to question whether the tour would actually happen. Had the internet duped me twice in one morning? Eventually, I plucked up a little courage and asked those that were conversing in MSEnglish if they were waiting for a tour too. It was like intruding on a backpackers’ love in; two girls, two boys and the smell of upper –middle class sex. Anyone not sharing their view of the world was somehow inadequate. I felt that. It was an experience that I felt at university sometimes, and when I say sometimes, I mean often. I was surrounded by those that are born into wealth and snobbery for three sad years of my life.
How do such people instantly recognise each other and know who is worthy and who is not? They always have me pegged from the start; before I even utter a word. I have a northern English attitude towards money and little regard for frivolity, superiority or a know-it-all attitude, but I don’t dress in a flat-cap and cover myself in soot. Can they tell, before I even utter a word - in my mostly southern English accent - that if someone explains something very obvious to me, I’d rather be polite and feign ignorance, than relay that I’ve just been told something that I already know? I am a person that will encourage a stranger to go into increasingly basic detail about a topic that I am more than fully aware of, rather than be impolite and suggest that I already know anything - at all in the whole wide world - that they might be able to share with me. Can they instantly tell that I don’t have public school training in ‘how not to act inferior’? Is it in the way that I hold my nose? Should I hold it higher? Should I focus my eyes more, and take away their hazy glaze? May be I should, but I have no desire to. I’m best off away from their kind, because they’ll never see me for what I am. They have no interest in what I am.
The Americans said little, carried on making eye contact with each other, and held a flyer aloft. The Free Walking Tour was included on the flyer and it wasn’t just a crappy entry on a poorly designed website. Hooray! There might be hope. An attempt at friendly banter failed and I returned to fidgeting and swinging my legs against the fountain’s side. At least my feet were off the ground. The company that I’d been looking forward to was poor, even from a voyeuristic perspective. It was me, four wealthy young Americans, a quiet Greek girl learning French, and a middle-aged Russian with terrible halitosis. Our host, when she apologetically arrived, after being held up by trains, was a bright, friendly, slightly chaotic Brazilian in her mid-twenties. She was on permanent vacation in Barcelona and this was her first week of guiding the tour, or perhaps she said that every week. The Russian was desperate for her attention and I moved away from the slipstream of his unbrushed teeth.
The tour – it really did exist - began with the tale of the Gaudi street lamps of Plaça Reial, and neglected to mention his piss in the fountain at all. To decorate the two lampposts in the centre of the square, Gaudi took inspiration from the Greek God Hermes; the god of merchants, messenger of Zeus and patron of the Catalan business community. Two snakes twist up a messenger’s staff and a winged helmet sits at the top. Wing helmets were used in medieval times to escape from muggers, but unfortunately fell from fashion in the late fifteenth century. Generally people don’t notice the lampposts in the square, and Gaudi’s true legacy is his rancid old piss.
The dialogue soon left Antoni G, and Barcelona’s culture and history, and drifted into an appraisal of the lesser spotted football hooligan. I soon discovered that Glasgow Rangers were the team in town. The clue had been at the Tourist Information Office. One of the American girls was keen to tell us that Glasgow is a working man’s town and is very different to Edinburgh; this makes them much more committed to football. She had the tone of someone who is an expert on the Scottish way of life, with a firm belief in her knowledge. The ancestral pride of a British descendent should not be underestimated, but I fear that she was no cultural expert. She later told us about George, the Patron Saint of Ireland. The football fans had been up until late, singing, shouting, fighting and keeping the hostel dwellers awake; she’d been fucking all night and was tired. She had no interest in what I had to say. After issuing the first two words of a sentence, I shut my mouth and it was as though those two words had never happened. What would I know? I was a mere peasant with the education of a hazelnut.
I mean, I had no idea that Saint George is also the Patron Saint of Catalonia. See ya later Saint Patrick; Georgie-Boy is going for World Domination at the behest of a bittersweet, wise American gal. If England and Catalonia weren’t enough for his dragon slaying blood, Saint George also offers his patronage to Aragón, Canada, Deptford, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia, and Serbia, as well a whole bunch of cities, numerous professions and, most oddly, disease sufferers. In Barcelona, Saint George or Sant Jordi’s day is celebrated on the 23rd April as ‘The Day of the Rose’. Akin, to Saint Valentine’s Day, romantic gifts and cards are given, the national dance of Catalonia, the Sardana, is performed throughout the day in Plaça Sant Juane, and bookstores and cafes host readings by renowned authors. Inside the Palau de la Generalitat, which is open to the public for just one day, huge displays of roses are shown in honour of Saint George. I think they celebrate Saint George a little better than we do. In England, George gets so little attention that a campaign has been set up just to get the day recognised. Patrick is the real winner.
The walking tour took us through the Bari Gotic area of Barcelona, and while it wasn’t the most informative of excursions, we were shown where to buy pastries and chorros, fashionable shopping streets, and most interestingly the Jewish Quarter.
The Jewish Quarter, ‘El Call’, is in the heart of Barcelona, between Plaça Sant Jaume and La Rambla. It is comprised of small winding streets, and feels a little like a medieval maze. Historically, the quarter was bordered off from the rest of Barcelona, but - despite this separatism - the Jews were respected for their financial expertise (Christians weren’t allowed to lend money), understanding of the law, and their learned persons. Practicing the Jewish faith required bible study, which ensured a high level of literacy. For many centuries, the only University in Catalonia was Barcelona's Jewish "Escuela Mayor o Universitaria".
It was all going terribly well until it all went terribly wrong. I’m talking about the Jewish Quarter, not the tour; that did neither. In the fourteenth century, under rising anti-Semitism, the Jews were persecuted during civil conflict, suffered horrible massacres, and were finally forced out under the Hitler-like regime of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492.
It’s surprising how much of the Jewish Quarter has survived, and history is what makes it so distinctive. One of the reasons that the streets in the El Call are so narrow, is because while the Jewish population was on the rise (and they were until the thirteenth century), they were still limited to the same geographical boundaries. They built new properties in the space that remained and their walkways became thinner and thinner.
In Hove, my home town, where people once drifted from tall room to tall room in their mansion like houses, more and more people now squeeze into flat conversions; half a floor of a detached house each, including servants quarters and attics. Meanwhile, gardens and grand causeways are lost to a glut of people wagons, four by fours and ostentatious sports cars; a multitude of personalised travelling boxes on wheels, spewing pollution and stealing space.
The geographical boundary of the sea, the Downs and the poverty belt – god forbid living in Whitehawk, Mouslecoomb or Portslade – keep the numbers up and the prices rising. Two retailers specialising in champagne have just opened establishments within a stone’s throw of our street, and yet our homes are so small that I type with a washing machine spinning violently behind me and a bed full of dust mites shitting twenty times a day by my side. Champagne and oysters, indeed! We are like rich Jews, enjoying the giddy heights of prosperity without the luxury of space; voluntarily imprisoned in a geographical detention centre for idiots. We opt to live like this when the Jews had little choice.
Some Jews did give up their religion to live without persecution, geographical imprisonment and finally eviction, but being forced to give up your religion to live peacefully - in the part of the world that you know as home - isn’t really a choice. It’s iniquitous from whatever religious or non-religious stance you might hail. Covertly placed in one of the El Call’s narrow streets is the Main Synagogue of Barcelona. It sits at the corner of Marlet and Sant Domènec del Call, and is one of the largest synagogues in Europe. You could quite easily walk past it without knowing; it lives in a basement.
While the Bastardilica and the Cathedral slowly gained stones year on year, the inconspicuous synagogue lay abandoned for centuries. For many modern years, it was used as a storage space for electrical materials. People did just walk past it without knowing. Its rediscovery occurred in 1995, when the property went up for sale. An historian, Jaume Riera, identified the building as a synagogue and the Associació Call de Barcelona decided to save it. Today, it is functional and open for all to visit. One gets the impression that Jews are welcome in the city these days, but as I am not a Jew and I have never experienced persecution, I don’t want to assume. What looks good on the surface may be rotten inside.
Although our delightful Brazilian guide had been enthusiastic with regard to the Jewish Quarter, her knowledge – as for the rest of the tour – was limited. Outside a furniture shop at 10 Carrer de Banys Nous (The Street of New Baths), she explained to us that most Barcelonans in historical times had been bereft of their own washing facilities, and had used communal baths instead. She also declared that some still take communal baths today, but she seemed a little confused.
It was only on returning home, that I discovered that the bath inside the store was a mikvah; a Jewish ritual bath. I didn’t actually see the mikvah, because although the tour guide had tempted us with false knowledge, she hadn’t actually taken us in. She suggested that, because the shop owner might be disgruntled by the never ending stream of snooping tourists, we could all visit later at our own leisure. Personally, I didn’t go back to the store to feign interest in overpriced furniture and half glance at history. I’d rather be rude in a group. That’s what tour guides are for; to justify bad-manners and nosey behaviour.
The last stop of the tour was my favourite. By following our leader we had arrived in a beautiful dead end square. We stood at the entrance to the square, and it felt as though we’d been transported into a peaceful medieval retreat. The tour guide said not a word about why we had gone there, and just left us agog in silent staring. It was as though we’d all become transfixed by the simple sight ahead of us. To the left of the square, a group of gently bronzed boys played football with makeshift goalposts and simple rules, and to our right, their black haired sisters skipped and whispered in small smiling groups.
Medieval stones lay beneath the square and built the walls around it. It was like an idyllic playground and the children seemed at harmony within it. No crossed words, no fisticuffs and no abandonment. No child stood alone, rejected by their fickle peers. We remained mesmerised until the pupils were called back in to study. The guide said nothing. She hadn’t been waiting for the children to finish before moving into the square. She’d had no intention of enlightening us with some half-baked fact. Perhaps she’d just got lost and felt drawn to watch us stare. There is something very beautiful and captivating about children playing their normal everyday games in an enclosed medieval square. The free walking tour had occupied me for one hour instead of two, but the internet hadn’t lied and what do you expect for free?
The Trip Part One, The Trip Part Two, The Trip Part Three
Wednesday 7th November, 2007 - AM
While the internet is a beautiful thing, it also lies. I have lied on these very pages. I have lied about an old man’s use of fuzzy felt and I slightly fabricated the sweet tale of Santa Eulàlia. The internet has sent me to closed or non-existent restaurants the world over, from the depressed London lanes to the officious gun toting backstreets of New York. It has inspired me to drive miles across an island in search of a canoe, only to discover that a ‘no boat hire’ season was in full effect. I have gazed longingly at beached pedalos and cursed the internet. Most entertainingly, the internet has led me to believe that I can steal software and then waltzed me into an eternal stream of pop up windows. A million bouncing breasts and pulsating groins flash at me demandingly on a loop. Look at me! I’m trying not to. Like I said, the internet is a beautiful thing.
On Wednesday, 7th November, I rose early. I rose before My Geek and went to the hotel restaurant alone. Lonely businessmen in suits provided a distorted mirror of my condition. Before long, two cyborgs clumsily landed at the table next to me, with their pitted flesh and binary thoughts. They were a poor replacement for My Geek. They looked nerdier; like poorly formed men that can only engage with their own kind, and rarely with women. I briefly side stared at them, wondering where our communality might begin and end. I had a white heart bleached into the back of my head and an inch long piercing at the nape of my neck. In a semi-slumber, my mind groggily tried to envisage the world of my almost companions and then realised that they probably have no world at all. The Microsoft Conference is their Glastonbury, their World Cup, their birthday and their New Years Eve all rolled into one. I felt safe from being digested and turned into a subroutine. The cyborg zombie geeks only scare me in mobs of 1,000 or more. Their brains may have been exchanged for logical functioning processing hardware, but their bodies remain weak, vulnerable and a blundering impediment.
I had arisen early on a quest; a quest to determine whether the shallow pits of humanity and the polite conversation of Western culture can lead to something beyond the vacuous. Prior to my trip to Barcelona, I had been a part of those conversations. ‘Oh, darling, I’ve been travelling; I’ll guide you to the best places’. Oh, the Ramblas. I could see that they were best avoided from the moment that I vaguely glanced at them. Oh, the stupidity of our kind.
A conversation about Microsoft’s .NET Framework, or the interminable white space issue in Firefox, can be more interesting than the dialogue of a person that actually believes that they, their brilliant self, can enhance your life with their own fantastic array of limited knowledge; “I went somewhere once and I know stuff”. Mostly, it’s just terminally boring. In polite conversation you have to feign interest. You can’t just close the window and watch celebrities taking crack on YouTube instead.
The possibilities in life are infinite and yet we just trudge along in our own pre-determined pathetic cycles. We’re like a pack of dogs; content with chasing our own tails and sniffing our own, or our nearest neighbours, oh so familiarly scented derrières. Okay, you sometimes wear a hat. You card. Okay, you’ve been in a same sex relationship. You fucking champion. Okay, you’ve travelled. I get it. But, think about it; are you, alone, capable of truly independent thought? Are any of us?
Sitges bloody this and Sitges bloody that. It seemed worth investigating just to see whether I would feel like building a model of the place and then kicking it to shreds. If they were right; brilliant. If I hated it; even better. I’m such a contrary motherfucker. Either way, I was likely to win. I had an excursion planned for the day. I even had a printout describing Sitges from the internet. Now, while people may have said, ‘Oh you should go to Sitges’, they neglected to tell me anything interesting about the destination. ‘It’s lovely’ doesn’t really use the full catalogue of descriptive words that our ancestors spent thousands of years developing. Well, blow me down; the internet based data was rather encouraging. It demonstrated that Sitges actually has a few really easy to remember and attention-grabbing qualities that might be passed on as ‘interesting nuggets of knowledge’; if one were to ever recommend or discourage a visit there. If I can remember something then it’s easy to remember; I assure you.
A few days earlier, the investigation had begun. I may have just belittled the oft repeated recommendation of Sitges, but I do take recommendations seriously; even when I only hear them once. I expand my breadth of experience by delving into the lives of others. I see the places that they love, I read the books that changed their life and I dance to the music that makes them feel giddied by their own existence. A new path to follow is like a small gift of life. The best experiences often come from the places that it would be so easy to dismiss. The mind stays fresh and young, and new areas for cynicism can develop well fed.
Sat at a computer with the rain beating hard against my English window, during those pre-Barcelona days, it was evident that something was amiss with Spanish rail. Every time I searched for suitable trains, the website gave me times for 11 de noviembre. I was returning home on the tenth; and the internet was laughing at me. Keen to find the foundations of this mischief, I delved into Spanish websites and, with the aid of a translation tool, came to the conclusion that the Spaniards were working on a high speed rail link from Madrid to Barcelona during my stay. The trains were well and truly fucked. Clever old me had advance warning not to attempt to travel by rail and, more importantly, the reason why. I felt triumphant at working all this out from two poorly translated and barely informative sentences. Sometimes the internet tells the truth in riddles and eventually, despite some doubt, my diagnosis proved correct.
Buses were a possibility, but it was evident that the language barrier could really present a problem, with me ending up lost and crying in the rural heartlands of Catalonia. At the end of the day, I am just another idiot who travels the world eagerly hoping to get by on English alone. I speak four words of Spanish: hola, vale (VAH-lay), grazias, and amigo. I don’t even know how to say goodbye, let alone ‘Where is the bus stop?’ or ‘A return to Sitges please’. The repetition of ‘vale’ (okay) could get me through a relatively long conversation without anyone realising that I have no fucking idea, but no fucking idea only gets you so far. Like its German counterpart - ‘genau’ (exactly) – vale is a term used over and over again, both as a conversational prompt and to express understanding. Whilst mock pretence of understanding can be fabulous - vale, vale, vale or genau genau genau - it’s not really a viable option when you’re lost and scared, or at risk of rape.
On Sunday, my Bus Turistic pamphlet sold me with all its talk of day trips and money off. I was going to Montserrat and Sitges in luxury, with a coach seat, a guide and English pleasantries. At Video Bum Stop, with the laptop pressed hard against a wall that breathed one bar of wireless internet access, I discovered that I needed to be in Catalunya Plaça before the departure time of 9am, but to arrive early to buy a ticket. I decided to arrive at 8.30am just to be sure.
With an exactness that the Germans might hail me for (Heil Fabpants!), I arrived at 8.30am as planned. I circled the square looking for my bus and with no success decided that it was probably still on its way. Down an escalator and under the Plaça, I visited the Tourist Information Office. A visit to the underworld should have allowed me to buy my ticket for the tour ‘in advance’ and provided me with an opportunity to find out where my soft cushioned bus was going to sit its wonderful plump arse. A Glaswegian in the queue ahead of me had forgotten where his hostel was and the singular staff member was in a long-term engagement with a slow-witted retard. What should happen does not always correspond with what does. Nobody said that life is fair.
I headed back up and shortly noticed my tour advertised at a bus stop. As I walked up and down a little, pondering and wondering at the lack of bus, I developed a slow building feeling that wrongness was afoot. I hadn’t had the chance to formulate my worried or confused expression, when a kindly old man stole my thoughts and stopped me. In Spanish, and then in very broken English, with the aid of the index finger pointing device, he managed to relay that the bus left at 8.30am every day, and not 9. I had missed it by a whisker. The internet had lied.
The lying bastard internet; you got me again you fiend. I thanked the man and smiled, not allowing him to know of my internal upset. With my packed lunch in tow, I felt marginally deflated, like the rose tint had already been stolen from my already precious day. It was 8.50am. Perhaps I would brave the commoners’ bus after all. Shall I, Shan’t I? The thoughts ran through my confused head. I had plans for exciting cable car rides the next day, set by My Geek’s limited availability. This was my last chance. I felt a little robbed, a bit tired and overly emotional. Vale, Vale, Sitges, Amigo, Vale. The public bus alone was not selling itself as a good idea. I was half way into town, with no information or map; I would have to walk back to the Bum Stop and make some hard decisions. Yes, whether to take my AK47 or my land mine detector.
At the hotel, I picked up my third free map of Barcelona (they turn into shreds if you dare to even look at them) and details for the public bus to Sitges and a walking tour of Barcelona. I felt a little gloomy as I reached Plaça Catalunya for the second time that morning. It was decision time. The walking tour it was. I was too scared to bus it alone. I was too scared to take the public bus to a town somewhere along its route, and chance finding myself in a hole, far away from my hotel with no ability to converse with the natives. I wouldn’t even know where to get off. Perhaps language is important after all.
I still felt torn about the following day; an afternoon with My Geek or a day out somewhere new. He didn’t care so much, but I did. I wanted to spend some time with him in the real world of the city, and not just sleep with him in the stale air of the hotel, but I also wanted to go on the tour; I had psyched myself up for it. To My Geek, Barcelona was just an amazing MSConference and a mediocre hotel. He is a geek after all, and what’s does ‘a different cultural experience’ mean to a fully fledged nerd?
Thin people are ones, fat people are zeros, and if you use Photoshop to slim down the fat people, then we are all just the same. In the geek’s mind, the world is just one big operating system and anything that does not follow a simple logical routine does not compute. ‘U R THE 1 2 MY 0’ might slip through as a sexual fantasy subroutine, but beyond that the geek mind can’t really ‘do’ people, let alone society. Cultural details elude the geek; they are not logical, serve no purpose and do not satisfy the semi-autistic mind. I am being hard on My Geek, but the Microsoft Conference of Barcelona was brainwashing him with success. This paragraph is his punishment for allowing himself to be evangelised. The last word of the previous sentence is Microsoft’s terminology and not mine. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I decided to hedge my bets, to abandon My Geek for the bus tour the following day, and hope that he would develop some cultural awareness and abandon the zombie fest for a few hours that afternoon or on Friday instead. I felt much better with a new plan in place and the rising sun started to warm my cold little fingers and nose. I was going on the free walking tour; new sights, a little company and perhaps a little fun. I had a new plan. I am a little geekish too.
I plan. I want to live my life instead of standing still in directionless indecision, and if that requires planning then I will arrive with a vague schematic of the where, when’s and how do you do’s. For more reassuring detail, I’ll cajole My Geek into being in charge. Several hours later I am presented with a 50 page document, with options and maps. Plans are wonderful things, especially when someone else has done all of the hard work. A little advance preparation enables new experiences and gives the gift of great things on the horizon to look forward to. The idea of wasting life is horrific to me. Plans add a little extra. A few printouts of places, event and restaurants can enhance your holiday experience ten-fold. A well considered list can enable you to eat well for a week, or more, after just one visit to your local shops. A little research can take you on a free walking tour of Barcelona. A little research on the internet, can lead to disappointment.
Have I told you that the internet lies? I am a fully fledged internet junky, but even I have times when I doubt its merits. At Plaça Reial, I sat at the fountain and looked at my watch. A scrappy online entry had told me that the only free walking tour in Barcelona would convene at the water feature at 10.30am every day. On my way to the meeting place, I saw fat people in football shirts; fans in search of early morning lager and BSE fried sausages. They wore blue tops emblazoned with Carling. They advertised cheap beer instead of their team, which I found both confusing and sad. I thought that they might be English. I was wrong. There had been a clue earlier in the day. Carling is a Canadian beer, but they weren’t from there either. The square was quiet, with a few whispering tourists enjoying the peace.
Plaça Reial, the Royal Square, named after Ferdinand and Isabella, is just to the east of the hustle, bustle, pickpockets and fast food outlets of La Rambla. A tired old fountain filled with still stagnant water sits at its heart. Palm trees host green parakeets that chatter and go about their elegant parrot-like business, safe from the night madness in their lofty nests. In the early morning it is quiet, but in the heart of darkness it becomes a drunken club land; a home for petty thieves, drug dealers, knives and fists. It is a beautiful square for crime. Of course, I would later find out that Gaudi left his mark, even here. The fountain is filled with his piss.
A small group of young Americans on their ‘year out’ stood to my left, and a bright studious girl was reading a French novel to my right. It felt like they might be convening, but at 10.40am, I started to question whether the tour would actually happen. Had the internet duped me twice in one morning? Eventually, I plucked up a little courage and asked those that were conversing in MSEnglish if they were waiting for a tour too. It was like intruding on a backpackers’ love in; two girls, two boys and the smell of upper –middle class sex. Anyone not sharing their view of the world was somehow inadequate. I felt that. It was an experience that I felt at university sometimes, and when I say sometimes, I mean often. I was surrounded by those that are born into wealth and snobbery for three sad years of my life.
How do such people instantly recognise each other and know who is worthy and who is not? They always have me pegged from the start; before I even utter a word. I have a northern English attitude towards money and little regard for frivolity, superiority or a know-it-all attitude, but I don’t dress in a flat-cap and cover myself in soot. Can they tell, before I even utter a word - in my mostly southern English accent - that if someone explains something very obvious to me, I’d rather be polite and feign ignorance, than relay that I’ve just been told something that I already know? I am a person that will encourage a stranger to go into increasingly basic detail about a topic that I am more than fully aware of, rather than be impolite and suggest that I already know anything - at all in the whole wide world - that they might be able to share with me. Can they instantly tell that I don’t have public school training in ‘how not to act inferior’? Is it in the way that I hold my nose? Should I hold it higher? Should I focus my eyes more, and take away their hazy glaze? May be I should, but I have no desire to. I’m best off away from their kind, because they’ll never see me for what I am. They have no interest in what I am.
The Americans said little, carried on making eye contact with each other, and held a flyer aloft. The Free Walking Tour was included on the flyer and it wasn’t just a crappy entry on a poorly designed website. Hooray! There might be hope. An attempt at friendly banter failed and I returned to fidgeting and swinging my legs against the fountain’s side. At least my feet were off the ground. The company that I’d been looking forward to was poor, even from a voyeuristic perspective. It was me, four wealthy young Americans, a quiet Greek girl learning French, and a middle-aged Russian with terrible halitosis. Our host, when she apologetically arrived, after being held up by trains, was a bright, friendly, slightly chaotic Brazilian in her mid-twenties. She was on permanent vacation in Barcelona and this was her first week of guiding the tour, or perhaps she said that every week. The Russian was desperate for her attention and I moved away from the slipstream of his unbrushed teeth.
The tour – it really did exist - began with the tale of the Gaudi street lamps of Plaça Reial, and neglected to mention his piss in the fountain at all. To decorate the two lampposts in the centre of the square, Gaudi took inspiration from the Greek God Hermes; the god of merchants, messenger of Zeus and patron of the Catalan business community. Two snakes twist up a messenger’s staff and a winged helmet sits at the top. Wing helmets were used in medieval times to escape from muggers, but unfortunately fell from fashion in the late fifteenth century. Generally people don’t notice the lampposts in the square, and Gaudi’s true legacy is his rancid old piss.
The dialogue soon left Antoni G, and Barcelona’s culture and history, and drifted into an appraisal of the lesser spotted football hooligan. I soon discovered that Glasgow Rangers were the team in town. The clue had been at the Tourist Information Office. One of the American girls was keen to tell us that Glasgow is a working man’s town and is very different to Edinburgh; this makes them much more committed to football. She had the tone of someone who is an expert on the Scottish way of life, with a firm belief in her knowledge. The ancestral pride of a British descendent should not be underestimated, but I fear that she was no cultural expert. She later told us about George, the Patron Saint of Ireland. The football fans had been up until late, singing, shouting, fighting and keeping the hostel dwellers awake; she’d been fucking all night and was tired. She had no interest in what I had to say. After issuing the first two words of a sentence, I shut my mouth and it was as though those two words had never happened. What would I know? I was a mere peasant with the education of a hazelnut.
I mean, I had no idea that Saint George is also the Patron Saint of Catalonia. See ya later Saint Patrick; Georgie-Boy is going for World Domination at the behest of a bittersweet, wise American gal. If England and Catalonia weren’t enough for his dragon slaying blood, Saint George also offers his patronage to Aragón, Canada, Deptford, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia, and Serbia, as well a whole bunch of cities, numerous professions and, most oddly, disease sufferers. In Barcelona, Saint George or Sant Jordi’s day is celebrated on the 23rd April as ‘The Day of the Rose’. Akin, to Saint Valentine’s Day, romantic gifts and cards are given, the national dance of Catalonia, the Sardana, is performed throughout the day in Plaça Sant Juane, and bookstores and cafes host readings by renowned authors. Inside the Palau de la Generalitat, which is open to the public for just one day, huge displays of roses are shown in honour of Saint George. I think they celebrate Saint George a little better than we do. In England, George gets so little attention that a campaign has been set up just to get the day recognised. Patrick is the real winner.
The walking tour took us through the Bari Gotic area of Barcelona, and while it wasn’t the most informative of excursions, we were shown where to buy pastries and chorros, fashionable shopping streets, and most interestingly the Jewish Quarter.
The Jewish Quarter, ‘El Call’, is in the heart of Barcelona, between Plaça Sant Jaume and La Rambla. It is comprised of small winding streets, and feels a little like a medieval maze. Historically, the quarter was bordered off from the rest of Barcelona, but - despite this separatism - the Jews were respected for their financial expertise (Christians weren’t allowed to lend money), understanding of the law, and their learned persons. Practicing the Jewish faith required bible study, which ensured a high level of literacy. For many centuries, the only University in Catalonia was Barcelona's Jewish "Escuela Mayor o Universitaria".
It was all going terribly well until it all went terribly wrong. I’m talking about the Jewish Quarter, not the tour; that did neither. In the fourteenth century, under rising anti-Semitism, the Jews were persecuted during civil conflict, suffered horrible massacres, and were finally forced out under the Hitler-like regime of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492.
It’s surprising how much of the Jewish Quarter has survived, and history is what makes it so distinctive. One of the reasons that the streets in the El Call are so narrow, is because while the Jewish population was on the rise (and they were until the thirteenth century), they were still limited to the same geographical boundaries. They built new properties in the space that remained and their walkways became thinner and thinner.
In Hove, my home town, where people once drifted from tall room to tall room in their mansion like houses, more and more people now squeeze into flat conversions; half a floor of a detached house each, including servants quarters and attics. Meanwhile, gardens and grand causeways are lost to a glut of people wagons, four by fours and ostentatious sports cars; a multitude of personalised travelling boxes on wheels, spewing pollution and stealing space.
The geographical boundary of the sea, the Downs and the poverty belt – god forbid living in Whitehawk, Mouslecoomb or Portslade – keep the numbers up and the prices rising. Two retailers specialising in champagne have just opened establishments within a stone’s throw of our street, and yet our homes are so small that I type with a washing machine spinning violently behind me and a bed full of dust mites shitting twenty times a day by my side. Champagne and oysters, indeed! We are like rich Jews, enjoying the giddy heights of prosperity without the luxury of space; voluntarily imprisoned in a geographical detention centre for idiots. We opt to live like this when the Jews had little choice.
Some Jews did give up their religion to live without persecution, geographical imprisonment and finally eviction, but being forced to give up your religion to live peacefully - in the part of the world that you know as home - isn’t really a choice. It’s iniquitous from whatever religious or non-religious stance you might hail. Covertly placed in one of the El Call’s narrow streets is the Main Synagogue of Barcelona. It sits at the corner of Marlet and Sant Domènec del Call, and is one of the largest synagogues in Europe. You could quite easily walk past it without knowing; it lives in a basement.
While the Bastardilica and the Cathedral slowly gained stones year on year, the inconspicuous synagogue lay abandoned for centuries. For many modern years, it was used as a storage space for electrical materials. People did just walk past it without knowing. Its rediscovery occurred in 1995, when the property went up for sale. An historian, Jaume Riera, identified the building as a synagogue and the Associació Call de Barcelona decided to save it. Today, it is functional and open for all to visit. One gets the impression that Jews are welcome in the city these days, but as I am not a Jew and I have never experienced persecution, I don’t want to assume. What looks good on the surface may be rotten inside.
Although our delightful Brazilian guide had been enthusiastic with regard to the Jewish Quarter, her knowledge – as for the rest of the tour – was limited. Outside a furniture shop at 10 Carrer de Banys Nous (The Street of New Baths), she explained to us that most Barcelonans in historical times had been bereft of their own washing facilities, and had used communal baths instead. She also declared that some still take communal baths today, but she seemed a little confused.
It was only on returning home, that I discovered that the bath inside the store was a mikvah; a Jewish ritual bath. I didn’t actually see the mikvah, because although the tour guide had tempted us with false knowledge, she hadn’t actually taken us in. She suggested that, because the shop owner might be disgruntled by the never ending stream of snooping tourists, we could all visit later at our own leisure. Personally, I didn’t go back to the store to feign interest in overpriced furniture and half glance at history. I’d rather be rude in a group. That’s what tour guides are for; to justify bad-manners and nosey behaviour.
The last stop of the tour was my favourite. By following our leader we had arrived in a beautiful dead end square. We stood at the entrance to the square, and it felt as though we’d been transported into a peaceful medieval retreat. The tour guide said not a word about why we had gone there, and just left us agog in silent staring. It was as though we’d all become transfixed by the simple sight ahead of us. To the left of the square, a group of gently bronzed boys played football with makeshift goalposts and simple rules, and to our right, their black haired sisters skipped and whispered in small smiling groups.
Medieval stones lay beneath the square and built the walls around it. It was like an idyllic playground and the children seemed at harmony within it. No crossed words, no fisticuffs and no abandonment. No child stood alone, rejected by their fickle peers. We remained mesmerised until the pupils were called back in to study. The guide said nothing. She hadn’t been waiting for the children to finish before moving into the square. She’d had no intention of enlightening us with some half-baked fact. Perhaps she’d just got lost and felt drawn to watch us stare. There is something very beautiful and captivating about children playing their normal everyday games in an enclosed medieval square. The free walking tour had occupied me for one hour instead of two, but the internet hadn’t lied and what do you expect for free?
Friday, 11 January 2008
Gig Review: It’s the Stuff of My Addiction
I went to see a Brighton band called Creature last night. You can listen to their music online, and in preparation for the gig, I did. Their recorded output certainly drew me in and I was intrigued. What a result; they truly came to life as a live outfit and had me totally enthralled.
I suggest listening to this song and imagining that the musicians, and most importantly the singer, are all in absolute emotional agony:
Creature - Stuff of Science Fiction
Or why not catch their next show to get the full live experience? The pain levels are so much more intense live. Oh yeah baby, give me that pain. I'm off to slit my wrists.
I suggest listening to this song and imagining that the musicians, and most importantly the singer, are all in absolute emotional agony:
Creature - Stuff of Science Fiction
Or why not catch their next show to get the full live experience? The pain levels are so much more intense live. Oh yeah baby, give me that pain. I'm off to slit my wrists.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Pan’s People
If you read the following, your reward is in the final two paragraphs. When I think about what happened last, all of the other words mean nothing. It's sequential but not truly connected.
Following the invitation of a local friend, I attended a dance aerobics class last night.
The class meets bi-weekly in a ballroom, where my friend attended a wedding as a child. Some fifty odd people were in attendance and the room was heaving. Bridal gowns and ceremonial suits had been replaced by an array of overfilled tracksuit bottoms. A brightly coloured sea of closely cut tops moved across the room and settled into a scattered distribution of gently bobbing waves. Glasses of champagne were offered on arrival. But that was just in my imagination. Instead, wealth was redistributed as we walked past a table, a cashbox and Maid Marian’s thieving fingers.
The babbling sound of gathering women filled the room. Then silence.
A perfectly toned, excessively bronzed man, climbed aboard his disco themed stage and we rose to our feet in worship. All hail ‘The King of Cheese'. The distorted cry of a permanently beached whale bled into the room and took the place of his every word. And in his wisdom, he wore tightly clad clothing, clenched his sinewy muscles, and where his clothing stopped, displayed a thin layer of richly marinated overcooked skin.
Our god for the night was in place. All hail ‘The King of Cheese'. A never-ending blast of hard thumping disco hits played relentlessly in his honour. A DVD of extreme sports glared brightly out, with images of surfers and people that can.
This was the world of dance aerobics and life in hyper drive. Disorientation came quickly and I experienced the confusion that semi-torturous sensory overload can inflict. The King of Cheese snorted a line of pure amphetamines. He was the God. He was the King and I was hoping. I was hoping that it wouldn't be too bad. I had already been banned from one aerobics class.
As the first beat of the drum machine pierced my eardrums and ricocheted off my heart, the disco diva charged resolutely into his chaotic routine. This is a routine known only by The King of Cheese, and by a few select girls that have been granted real-time access to his single-track mind. I blinked repeatedly and tried to focus. It did nothing. Every time that I came close to mastering the ability to synchronise a single limb with the patterns made on stage, the routine changed and I blinked again. I was at risk of losing it and reverting to silly and childishly unacceptable behaviour.
‘F&*f, Lor$f, oo~l, from the beginning, D*%g’
‘From the beginning’ was the only comprehensible instruction that The King of Cheese ever gave, and the distorted sound of caterwauling and feedback from his microphone headset seemed to resemble that phrase often. It seemed to be important and yet I had no notion of what it referred to. ‘From the beginning of what?’ I wanted to shout unintelligibly back. ‘F&*f, Kor£f beginning, J&*f?’ ‘Are you dying up there? Do you need help?’
In a lame attempt to catch up and rejoin the beat, I unwittingly tried to do two moves simultaneously, not really knowing what either of them entailed. With arms thrashing and legs akimbo, I nearly became entangled in my own limbs.
I had no idea what on earth I was supposed to be doing. My ungraceful flailing branches, no longer affably co-ordinated arms and legs, had become a potential weapon. The impending danger that I might wipe out a good proportion of the class in one dramatic ungainly move, loomed heavy in my mind. The instructor itched his leg and I copied him. It was my first, last and only successful act of repetition.
Grasping at straws, I stupidly took to the premature notion of ‘I can do this’, as the instructor began to jump up and down on a single chosen spot. I delighted in my ability to do the same. ‘Can’t we just do this for an hour?’ I thought. Truly, I felt quite pleased with myself for just being able to bounce into the air and land again. I was happy each time that the instructor returned to this activity; it gave me a feeling of accomplishment.
It was only when we’d jumped up and down for the fifth time - as the routine looped round in its haphazard fashion – that I realised that I wasn’t doing it properly at all. Any feeling of accomplishment was dead. The whale’s distress call was telling us to do something specific with our legs: in, out, up, down. I was never quite sure. I just threw them around, hoping that at some point my actions would be in synch with someone, somewhere - anywhere - in the world.
The hour ended and I made it through without maiming anyone or being sent home in disgrace. Hooray for me. I have a low embarrassment threshold so all was well in Planet Fabpants. As my friend and I were positioned at the front of the hall, I do wonder how many people tried to follow my lead, and what the fallout truly was.
I went to the gym today, and I could feel that the dance aerobics had left its mark on my body. I guess that the journey served its purpose and gave my muscles the workout that they need. That was yesterday and this is today:
The wind was so fierce, as I cycled home, that spray from the sea spat at me from some 350 feet away. Minutes later, as I put away my trusty old stead, I noticed that some sea foam had blown inland and settled by our garden shed. The bubbles sat in a condensed ball and lay at rest on our pebbly path. They had travelled way up high, and climbed over a row of imposing five or six storey homes. 1000 feet or so away from home they looked relaxed. They deserved a break. We all deserved a break.
I poked at them with my finger, just to test if they were real.
Following the invitation of a local friend, I attended a dance aerobics class last night.
The class meets bi-weekly in a ballroom, where my friend attended a wedding as a child. Some fifty odd people were in attendance and the room was heaving. Bridal gowns and ceremonial suits had been replaced by an array of overfilled tracksuit bottoms. A brightly coloured sea of closely cut tops moved across the room and settled into a scattered distribution of gently bobbing waves. Glasses of champagne were offered on arrival. But that was just in my imagination. Instead, wealth was redistributed as we walked past a table, a cashbox and Maid Marian’s thieving fingers.
The babbling sound of gathering women filled the room. Then silence.
A perfectly toned, excessively bronzed man, climbed aboard his disco themed stage and we rose to our feet in worship. All hail ‘The King of Cheese'. The distorted cry of a permanently beached whale bled into the room and took the place of his every word. And in his wisdom, he wore tightly clad clothing, clenched his sinewy muscles, and where his clothing stopped, displayed a thin layer of richly marinated overcooked skin.
Our god for the night was in place. All hail ‘The King of Cheese'. A never-ending blast of hard thumping disco hits played relentlessly in his honour. A DVD of extreme sports glared brightly out, with images of surfers and people that can.
This was the world of dance aerobics and life in hyper drive. Disorientation came quickly and I experienced the confusion that semi-torturous sensory overload can inflict. The King of Cheese snorted a line of pure amphetamines. He was the God. He was the King and I was hoping. I was hoping that it wouldn't be too bad. I had already been banned from one aerobics class.
As the first beat of the drum machine pierced my eardrums and ricocheted off my heart, the disco diva charged resolutely into his chaotic routine. This is a routine known only by The King of Cheese, and by a few select girls that have been granted real-time access to his single-track mind. I blinked repeatedly and tried to focus. It did nothing. Every time that I came close to mastering the ability to synchronise a single limb with the patterns made on stage, the routine changed and I blinked again. I was at risk of losing it and reverting to silly and childishly unacceptable behaviour.
‘F&*f, Lor$f, oo~l, from the beginning, D*%g’
‘From the beginning’ was the only comprehensible instruction that The King of Cheese ever gave, and the distorted sound of caterwauling and feedback from his microphone headset seemed to resemble that phrase often. It seemed to be important and yet I had no notion of what it referred to. ‘From the beginning of what?’ I wanted to shout unintelligibly back. ‘F&*f, Kor£f beginning, J&*f?’ ‘Are you dying up there? Do you need help?’
In a lame attempt to catch up and rejoin the beat, I unwittingly tried to do two moves simultaneously, not really knowing what either of them entailed. With arms thrashing and legs akimbo, I nearly became entangled in my own limbs.
I had no idea what on earth I was supposed to be doing. My ungraceful flailing branches, no longer affably co-ordinated arms and legs, had become a potential weapon. The impending danger that I might wipe out a good proportion of the class in one dramatic ungainly move, loomed heavy in my mind. The instructor itched his leg and I copied him. It was my first, last and only successful act of repetition.
Grasping at straws, I stupidly took to the premature notion of ‘I can do this’, as the instructor began to jump up and down on a single chosen spot. I delighted in my ability to do the same. ‘Can’t we just do this for an hour?’ I thought. Truly, I felt quite pleased with myself for just being able to bounce into the air and land again. I was happy each time that the instructor returned to this activity; it gave me a feeling of accomplishment.
It was only when we’d jumped up and down for the fifth time - as the routine looped round in its haphazard fashion – that I realised that I wasn’t doing it properly at all. Any feeling of accomplishment was dead. The whale’s distress call was telling us to do something specific with our legs: in, out, up, down. I was never quite sure. I just threw them around, hoping that at some point my actions would be in synch with someone, somewhere - anywhere - in the world.
The hour ended and I made it through without maiming anyone or being sent home in disgrace. Hooray for me. I have a low embarrassment threshold so all was well in Planet Fabpants. As my friend and I were positioned at the front of the hall, I do wonder how many people tried to follow my lead, and what the fallout truly was.
I went to the gym today, and I could feel that the dance aerobics had left its mark on my body. I guess that the journey served its purpose and gave my muscles the workout that they need. That was yesterday and this is today:
The wind was so fierce, as I cycled home, that spray from the sea spat at me from some 350 feet away. Minutes later, as I put away my trusty old stead, I noticed that some sea foam had blown inland and settled by our garden shed. The bubbles sat in a condensed ball and lay at rest on our pebbly path. They had travelled way up high, and climbed over a row of imposing five or six storey homes. 1000 feet or so away from home they looked relaxed. They deserved a break. We all deserved a break.
I poked at them with my finger, just to test if they were real.
Monday, 7 January 2008
Winter Wonderland
Would you be jealous if I told you that I went to Winter Wonderland on Saturday? Well, you might not be if I told you that they make you queue. One might think that pre-booked tickets and pre-arranged timeslots would negate the need for a lengthy waiting process and that magical places are designed to keep you enthralled all day. But if you have ever been to an amusement park, then I am sure that you have served your time in pleasure queuing and experienced the annoyance that it brings. Bah humbug, says I.
My dad always told me, in heady days gone by, when the Norfolk Broads froze over and the planet wasn’t well and truly fucked, that ankle support is the most important part of an ice skating boot. I may have borrowed skates from feet far more imposing than my own, but as soon as multiple layers of socks had given my ankle that ‘held in place feeling’, I knew that I was ready to take a fall. I may have nearly broken my back by landing heavily on my ‘not-quite-springy enough’ behind, which has gained more useful padding with time, but my ankles always came away unscathed.
Queuing for a pair of boots is fair enough; don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect miracles. People need skates and skates need people. It’s when the strap of your right boot pops open, every time that you move your foot, that you start to feel that all is not well in wonderland. Your dad’s words echo around your head, ‘Great Harm Come If Ankle Find Freedom’. The version of ‘dad’ that’s seated itself inside your troubled mind only adds to the anguish. Wasn’t this the man that regularly criticised your lazy grammar and your rebelliously slothful drawl?
The second pair of boots generate further delight. The left boot has a broken buckle, and the right boot still pops open. You want to skate and time is of the essence. ‘Fuck a duck, is this really happening?’ your own internal voice says; willing on the escalation of any disproportionate thoughts of unjust worlds and unnecessary distress, rather than soothing your inappropriately agitated condition.
Changing skates in Wonderland is slow process. When you need to change a singular skate you have to change both. The boot exchange centre is staffed by a team of resentful teenagers, for whom language is a mystery and time is an abstract. By the time that you are wearing the fourth pair of boots and there is twenty minutes left of your allocated hour, you don’t care anymore. The fourth right boot pops open, but less violently than its predecessors. No, it’s not offering the support that your imaginary Chinese Imposter Dad has diligently campaigned for, but it will encourage you not to fall. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall.
Twenty minutes later the ‘you that is really I’, had adjusted to the ice, and the substandard boots, and was gaining confidence. I’d adopted the position of a speed skater and glided swiftly around the rink. I’d played mock ice hockey with my patient companion, scored numerous mock goals, and then, at her bidding, risen to the challenge of holding one foot aloft whilst remaining upright. ‘Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall’ indeed. Girl With Ankle Freedom Get Good. Girl With Ankle Freedom Want More. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Get More. With the complex feelings of somebody who has had a lovely time, but has been robbed of their full entitlement, the ‘you that is I’ and my companions left the rink when our allocated time ended. The resentful teenagers at the footwear exchange booth had changed their speed from slow to retardation. Thirty five minutes later, I retrieved the shoes that I had abandoned eons ago and placed my now soggy feet within.
It cost £12.50 for just twenty minutes on the ice, and the time spent queuing was well over an hour. Bah humbug, indeed.
In the darkness, we sat in the Winter Wonderland observation wheel, looking at nothing but the night, and pondered over the fact that we’d have no time to look at the other attractions and stalls. We had an engagement at the IMAX in just over an hour. As the capsule gently rocked and moved effortlessly from its upward rotation to a downward turn, the view abandoned the dark north and gave us south. To the right of us, the London Eye stood in majestic rebellion, with a bright ring of blue neon bulbs glowing in stark contrast to the heavy night sky. Just below us, lay the surreal image of an oversized plastic reindeer erratically bouncing small bemused children over the bare tarmac ground. There glistening beyond, lay the softly lit arena of the open-air ice rink. Brightly coloured people, in miniature form, glided in unity; some alone, some together and some hand in hand. It looked truly magical.
You might be jealous if I told you that I went to Winter Wonderland on Saturday.
My dad always told me, in heady days gone by, when the Norfolk Broads froze over and the planet wasn’t well and truly fucked, that ankle support is the most important part of an ice skating boot. I may have borrowed skates from feet far more imposing than my own, but as soon as multiple layers of socks had given my ankle that ‘held in place feeling’, I knew that I was ready to take a fall. I may have nearly broken my back by landing heavily on my ‘not-quite-springy enough’ behind, which has gained more useful padding with time, but my ankles always came away unscathed.
Queuing for a pair of boots is fair enough; don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect miracles. People need skates and skates need people. It’s when the strap of your right boot pops open, every time that you move your foot, that you start to feel that all is not well in wonderland. Your dad’s words echo around your head, ‘Great Harm Come If Ankle Find Freedom’. The version of ‘dad’ that’s seated itself inside your troubled mind only adds to the anguish. Wasn’t this the man that regularly criticised your lazy grammar and your rebelliously slothful drawl?
The second pair of boots generate further delight. The left boot has a broken buckle, and the right boot still pops open. You want to skate and time is of the essence. ‘Fuck a duck, is this really happening?’ your own internal voice says; willing on the escalation of any disproportionate thoughts of unjust worlds and unnecessary distress, rather than soothing your inappropriately agitated condition.
Changing skates in Wonderland is slow process. When you need to change a singular skate you have to change both. The boot exchange centre is staffed by a team of resentful teenagers, for whom language is a mystery and time is an abstract. By the time that you are wearing the fourth pair of boots and there is twenty minutes left of your allocated hour, you don’t care anymore. The fourth right boot pops open, but less violently than its predecessors. No, it’s not offering the support that your imaginary Chinese Imposter Dad has diligently campaigned for, but it will encourage you not to fall. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall.
Twenty minutes later the ‘you that is really I’, had adjusted to the ice, and the substandard boots, and was gaining confidence. I’d adopted the position of a speed skater and glided swiftly around the rink. I’d played mock ice hockey with my patient companion, scored numerous mock goals, and then, at her bidding, risen to the challenge of holding one foot aloft whilst remaining upright. ‘Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall’ indeed. Girl With Ankle Freedom Get Good. Girl With Ankle Freedom Want More. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Get More. With the complex feelings of somebody who has had a lovely time, but has been robbed of their full entitlement, the ‘you that is I’ and my companions left the rink when our allocated time ended. The resentful teenagers at the footwear exchange booth had changed their speed from slow to retardation. Thirty five minutes later, I retrieved the shoes that I had abandoned eons ago and placed my now soggy feet within.
It cost £12.50 for just twenty minutes on the ice, and the time spent queuing was well over an hour. Bah humbug, indeed.
In the darkness, we sat in the Winter Wonderland observation wheel, looking at nothing but the night, and pondered over the fact that we’d have no time to look at the other attractions and stalls. We had an engagement at the IMAX in just over an hour. As the capsule gently rocked and moved effortlessly from its upward rotation to a downward turn, the view abandoned the dark north and gave us south. To the right of us, the London Eye stood in majestic rebellion, with a bright ring of blue neon bulbs glowing in stark contrast to the heavy night sky. Just below us, lay the surreal image of an oversized plastic reindeer erratically bouncing small bemused children over the bare tarmac ground. There glistening beyond, lay the softly lit arena of the open-air ice rink. Brightly coloured people, in miniature form, glided in unity; some alone, some together and some hand in hand. It looked truly magical.
You might be jealous if I told you that I went to Winter Wonderland on Saturday.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
There will be no Atonement
Feeling the winter cold, and the need to stay in more, I read The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Now this is a very famous book, and you may know it well. I read it knowing nothing about it whatsoever, as is my shameless desire when approaching all books and films. The less you know, the greater the surprise ahead.
I was surprised. On the front cover of the book, there is a drawing of an old balding man filling an expensive tailored suit. I assumed that The Great Gatsby was such a man, and that the book was going to follow the life of a terribly boring pompous old git, with some supposed nuggets of humour thrown in. I hadn’t enjoyed or seen the comedy in Anthony Burgess’ Enderby books, and - to be honest - I imagined that The Great Gatsby might be in a similar vein. A Clockwork Orange and Earthly Powers are truly fine books, but Enderby just annoyed me.
One should never judge a book by its cover. The Great Gatsby is actually a little gem of a book. It is little, it is easy to read and it comes with a warning that we should all heed. Don’t be drawn in by the razzle dazzle of glamorous, famous and moneyed people, and never aspire to become one of them. They are shallow, vacuous leeches that will bleed you dry, run you down and abandon you in your hour of need. Okay, it won’t be my book of the century, and it didn’t captivate me in the way that John Steinbeck does, but it was well worth the time it took to follow the words within.
Since reading the book, I have discovered that I was well and truly duped by the cover art in more ways than one. The original cover art is apparently as famous as the book itself. Fitzgerald even proclaimed that he had written the piece of art into his novel. No, the original cover art wasn’t of an old balding rich man that belies the story within. It was of two reclining nudes, each sat in the iris of a disembodied eye, and the eyes stare out at you from dark blue skies that lie above the scene of a brightly lit amusement park. I don’t know what impression I would have formed of the book before reading it with the ‘right’ cover, but I may have found myself more tempted to lunge towards its haunting embrace. The book in my possession sat unread on the shelf for a year. And if you’re wondering, the Great Gatsby was 33 years old and no mention is made of premature ageing or a receding hairline.
With an awareness that it is soon to be released in cinematic form, I quickly moved on to The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. As I type, it is snowing, but not settling, and my hands are cold. The Kite Runner reminded me that sometimes in life we can make terrible circumstantial decisions and act in a way that is morally abhorrent even to our own sweet selves. In some instances there can be no atonement. We can’t undo the past. The day that we commit a sin that will haunt us forever, is the day that we start to die a little inside.
Regretful sin doesn’t need money, glamour and fame, and I doubt that they make it any easier to live with. A life of good works won’t undo it either. You just have to learn to live with it - gnawing you apart - and hope that you can get by with it existing alongside you forever. And there lies the fate of the human that travels too far away from its own moral code.
I was surprised. On the front cover of the book, there is a drawing of an old balding man filling an expensive tailored suit. I assumed that The Great Gatsby was such a man, and that the book was going to follow the life of a terribly boring pompous old git, with some supposed nuggets of humour thrown in. I hadn’t enjoyed or seen the comedy in Anthony Burgess’ Enderby books, and - to be honest - I imagined that The Great Gatsby might be in a similar vein. A Clockwork Orange and Earthly Powers are truly fine books, but Enderby just annoyed me.
One should never judge a book by its cover. The Great Gatsby is actually a little gem of a book. It is little, it is easy to read and it comes with a warning that we should all heed. Don’t be drawn in by the razzle dazzle of glamorous, famous and moneyed people, and never aspire to become one of them. They are shallow, vacuous leeches that will bleed you dry, run you down and abandon you in your hour of need. Okay, it won’t be my book of the century, and it didn’t captivate me in the way that John Steinbeck does, but it was well worth the time it took to follow the words within.
Since reading the book, I have discovered that I was well and truly duped by the cover art in more ways than one. The original cover art is apparently as famous as the book itself. Fitzgerald even proclaimed that he had written the piece of art into his novel. No, the original cover art wasn’t of an old balding rich man that belies the story within. It was of two reclining nudes, each sat in the iris of a disembodied eye, and the eyes stare out at you from dark blue skies that lie above the scene of a brightly lit amusement park. I don’t know what impression I would have formed of the book before reading it with the ‘right’ cover, but I may have found myself more tempted to lunge towards its haunting embrace. The book in my possession sat unread on the shelf for a year. And if you’re wondering, the Great Gatsby was 33 years old and no mention is made of premature ageing or a receding hairline.
With an awareness that it is soon to be released in cinematic form, I quickly moved on to The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. As I type, it is snowing, but not settling, and my hands are cold. The Kite Runner reminded me that sometimes in life we can make terrible circumstantial decisions and act in a way that is morally abhorrent even to our own sweet selves. In some instances there can be no atonement. We can’t undo the past. The day that we commit a sin that will haunt us forever, is the day that we start to die a little inside.
Regretful sin doesn’t need money, glamour and fame, and I doubt that they make it any easier to live with. A life of good works won’t undo it either. You just have to learn to live with it - gnawing you apart - and hope that you can get by with it existing alongside you forever. And there lies the fate of the human that travels too far away from its own moral code.
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner
I decided to update my gig book today. It’s been on my mind recently, but I hadn’t realised the last update was in February 2006. My gig book (there are actually a few) is a place where I store gig tickets and flyers that I’ve managed to retain from my little nights out. I am a very sad individual, but I do like my organised nostalgia.
Here are the gigs I found bits of paper for:
2006
2007
After updating my gig book - whilst singing along to Turin Brakes ‘The Optimist LP’ - I decided that I didn’t go to enough ‘non-festival’ gigs in 2007. I did visit Germany twice, Austria, Slovakia, Hungary and Spain, as well as trips to Coventry, Manchester, Norfolk (3 times), The Lakes, and Alton Towers. The challenge is to combine more trips away with gigs. Then I might have time for more live music treats. Or perhaps I should fully commit myself to live music by squatting in the rafters of a gig venue and surviving on dripped sweat and spilt beer. Who needs friends, trips abroad, or even an income, when there’s dripped sweat, spilt beer and live music going to waste?
Here are the gigs I found bits of paper for:
2006
| February 21st | The Cribs |
| February 23rd | Mary Hampton, supported by The Bobby McGees |
| March 6th | Frank Turner, supported by Nothing |
| March 16th | Rock Brighton |
| March 18th | Help She Can’t Swim supported by Joeyfat and Das Wanderlust |
| April 3rd | Oom, supported by Damelza Jennings and Register |
| April 6th | This Lonely Soul |
| May 8th | This Lonely Soul |
| May 16th | Nothing, supported by Black Lines and Ikoma |
| May 18th-19th-20th | The Great Escape Festival |
| June 24th | Gardenbury Mini-Festival |
| July 2nd | Polysics, supported by Quit Your Day Job |
| July 22nd – 23rd | Truck Festival |
| July 28th | The Gin Club, supported by Conrad Vingoe, Kate Walsh and Eleanor Jane |
| August 26th | Reading Festival |
| September 13th | Aberfeldy |
| October 12th | The Holloways |
| October 18th | Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly |
| October 23rd | Puscha, supported by Turncoat, Soundatlas, Daze One and Gentlemens Club |
| November 6th | Six Nation State |
| November 12th | Misty’s Big Adventure, supported by Kates Goes & Restless List |
| November 26th | This Lonely Soul |
| December 3rd | Marowak Records Christmas Party |
| December 14th | Joan as Policewomen, supported by Peggy Sue and the Pirates |
2007
| January 1st | Fat Boy Slim |
| January 6th | The Mountain Firework Company |
| January 13th | Sodastream, supported by Monkey Swallows the Universe and Airport Girl |
| February 11th | Regina Spektor |
| February 12th | Bonnie Prince Billy |
| February 17th | Bearsuit, supported by the Retro Spankees and Das Wonderlust |
| April 17th | Camera Obscura |
| April 20th | Wilf, supported by Illumanti 3 |
| April 22nd | Andy Yorke, supported by Oom |
| April 23rd | Help She Can’t Swim |
| June 12th | Cocorosie |
| June 22nd-23rd-24th | Glastonbury Festival |
| June 30th | Kimya Dawson |
| July 13th-14th-15th | Latitude Festival |
| Sept 14th-15th-16th | End of the Road Festival |
| Sept 22nd-23rd | Truck Festival |
| September 26th | Peggy Sue and the Pirates, This Lonely Soul |
| October 12th | Misty’s Big Adventure |
| October 17th | Globalista |
| October 24th | Jeffrey Lewis and the Jitters supported by Professor Louie |
| October 27th | This Lonely Soul |
| November 20th | Wobbly Squadron |
| November 25th | Babyshambles |
| November 30th | Beans on Toast |
| December 3rd | Viking Moses, supported by Little Wings, Tiger Saw, Golden Ghost & Phosphoresce |
After updating my gig book - whilst singing along to Turin Brakes ‘The Optimist LP’ - I decided that I didn’t go to enough ‘non-festival’ gigs in 2007. I did visit Germany twice, Austria, Slovakia, Hungary and Spain, as well as trips to Coventry, Manchester, Norfolk (3 times), The Lakes, and Alton Towers. The challenge is to combine more trips away with gigs. Then I might have time for more live music treats. Or perhaps I should fully commit myself to live music by squatting in the rafters of a gig venue and surviving on dripped sweat and spilt beer. Who needs friends, trips abroad, or even an income, when there’s dripped sweat, spilt beer and live music going to waste?
