Adventures in Knobtwiddling

Playing With Fire

2011-10-04T22:18:00.011+01:00

So, in one of the many newsletters I’m signed up for, but generally ignore, comes the invitation of do a Firewalk in Edinburgh – as in, walking across a bed of hot coals, like a semi-naked guru in an old anthropological film. My friend Eva, on the same mailing list, then texts me to pretty much inform me that I am going and she’s booked the tickets. And thus it was I found myself in her car, heading to that scary and unknown place, where ghouls and demons dwell, The North.

We decided to take a few days to do the trip, so first stop was the most gorgeous and delightful City of York. Somehow I’ve managed to live here 16 ½ years and never stop off in this fairy tale city, and I’m so glad we did. A good stroll and sumptuous dinner later, we stopped for the night in the cosy enough Hotel Noir, after getting wonderfully lost in the dark on our way home (Rome Without Baedecker!)

After a fairly early night I dreamt that I’d set off a burglar alarm. I then became conscious and found it was the hotel fire alarm at a mere 7am (on a holiday morning! Sacrilege!) This kinda got us out of bed, so after breakfast I thought I’d climb the Minster tower. It was till too early so I took a little stroll around town and got caught up in a wonderful shop called Demijohn’s that sells homemade oils and vinegars, whiskies and gins. Delightful! Somehow, during the conversation with the sales guys, it came up that we were headed to Edinburgh for a firewalk and it was pretty much at that moment that I realised what we were going to do. That very evening we were to trip the light fantastic over a bed of genuinely (very) hot coals.

By the time I had purchased numerous delicious little bottles of wondrous unctions, I’d missed the opportunity to climb the tower, as we still had a five hour drive ahead of us.

So we hit the road northwards again, stopping and the fabulous Angel of The North – always a glorious sight, and though we’d been promised endless and tedious rain all day, we seemed to be pushing it away ahead of us which made the drive a real joy. We took the A roads along the most wonderful route through the rolling hills of Northumberland, an area I’ve never been through before. It’s absolutely stunning. We also accidentally stopped at the most beautiful view. Just before three we realised we should stop at the next pub to get some lunch before they all stopped serving. So we pulled in at an unpromising looking establishment, parked up and then turned around – the view was just wonderful – endless open space, scudding clouds, bright, bright sunshine. It was all there. And the pub turned out OK – decent food and a table put there just for us, overlooking the vista.

On our way again, we found our guesthouse in Edinburgh – I won’t rant about how feeble the place was right now as there are more important things in life to talk about, but suffice it to say if this were a more usual “my holiday” missive, this rant would constitute a significant part of it.

To cut a long moan short, we parked up in the advertised “parking facilities” – a meter 2 ½ blocks away, dumped our belongings and jumped into a cab over to the Salisbury Centre (I kind of hippyish esoteric centre that seems to exist because people are nice – honesty box for the tea and coffee etc), where the walk was to take place. Eva and I were the first to arrive (not comforting) and I wasn’t really sure how to feel. We had had such a lovely day, and here we were contemplating hot coals and burnt soles and it was difficult to get my head around it all.

Shortly thereafter, a couple arrived and it turned out that the guy had done it before, and had blatantly lived to tell the tale (and was back for more) so I took that as a good sign. Eventually a group of about 12 or 13 gathered, the two instructors arrived and we got started.

First we had to build the fire. They had a van load of Silver Birch – which burns at 1,200 deg F, and we formed a chain to get the logs from the van, through the house and out into the backyard, which had the lushest, greenest (and comfortingly dampest) grass ever. I took this as another good sign, something to cool the tootsies down with. Once the logs were assembled, we all took part in the lighting process, spending the best part of an hour getting it going and just talking quietly. After a time we went back inside, leaving a seasoned firewalker to tend the fire.

Once back inside I was expecting a lot of meditation and so on, but all we really did was talk – but it did bring the group together into the same space and just being present in the moment. A good energy developed in the room, and strangers were starting to feel comfortable with each other. At one point we took a break to go and see how the fire was doing, and we spent quite some time gathered around it while the dusk turned to night. But it was still too young, so we went back inside, where we were pretty much surprised into breaking an arrow – on our throats.

The arrows are made of American Cedar, especially used for the lovely scent they give off when snapped. Proper archery arrows, a few had been lying on the table and we’d passed one around, but I for one hadn’t really twigged what they were for. Then all of a sudden, while waiting for the fire to get to the required coal-phase, one of the leaders, Sutra, said something to the effect of “lets break some arrows” and he and Brice (the firewalking teacher) demonstrated.

The tip of the arrow is placed in the soft hollow of your throat, with the shaft horizontal, parallel to the floor. The feathered end is placed against a board with a notch in it to hold it in place. The board is held in place by the instructor. Then the person breaking the arrow prepares themselves to make the horrifying decision of literally walking into the arrow with enough force and decisiveness to break it in two. To me, this looked like the most terrifying and impossible thing to do – your throat is such a vulnerable part of the body, and it looked like it required more strength of character than I possess.

But then Eva just stepped up and did it, and walked with no fear or hesitation, straight into the arrow and snapped the thing right in two. After several more people did it, and survived in hale health, I manned-up and stepped forward to choose my arrow. I picked a red shaft with blue and yellow flights. I must confess to dithering somewhat about my choice to delay having to actually place the thing in my throat, but eventually the arrow chose me and I was committed.

Placing the tip of an arrow in the hollow of your throat feels something like submitting to a particularly angry dog. It might choose not to tear you to shreds, but its capability to do so is undiminished. The other end is placed in the notch on the board and Brice braces himself to hold it in position. The group does a bit of chanting and you stand there making up your mind. Once made, and you have committed to taking the step into the arrow, you breathe deeply and slowly, and then you just do it. The snap of the shaft is like gunfire in the small room (your own arrow sounds much louder than anyone else’s), and then all resistance disappears and the broken arrow falls to the floor.

The feeling afterwards was quite overwhelming and I must confess to shedding a few tears. It was an incredible feeling of lightness and burden-lifting that I was almost dizzy from it.

After that, hot coals were a doddle.

As soon as the arrow breaking was done, the fire was ready. We took our shoes and socks off inside and all went out and gathered, barefoot, around the fire. Even though it was a chilly evening, the fire was hot enough for us to take our jackets off. The bulk of the silver birch was now red hot coals, with a few flames still flickering in unusual colours – pinks and greens as well as the more usual blues and yellows..

Brice spent about 10 minutes preparing the walking colas – the fire is spread out into a square that will take at least three strides to cross. The bulk of the coals are kept in a heap on one side to keep them smouldering and retaining their heat. Some are then spread into a blanket for walking on. He taps them down to make a fairly even surface (you don’t really want to be tripping and falling face first into them!), during which they slowly start going dark (a loss of about 200 deg F). The lush, damp lawn was particularly comforting under my feet at this point…

A few more taps with the rake and they fire was declared open. Lord knows why, but I stepped forward first. Standing at the edge and looking at the short, yet endlessly long, distance to the other side, I was now committed. I think this qualifies as one of the biggest “moments” in my life. You can’t help but be totally and utterly in the present moment. I imagine this is what it must feel like just before you jump out of an aeroplane, or bungee jumping off a bridge across a raging river.

I did have to ask the group to chant to give me the final impetus to get me moving, and then suddenly I just stepped forward and walked across 1,000 deg F Silver Birch coals.

And then I was on the other side, completely unscathed, and flooded with every good chemical the body produces. Not even a tiny pinprick of a burn. It was astonishingly easy, once the commitment was made. And it really felt like walking across a bed of slightly warm cotton wool.

After this, everyone walked, most more than once. Friends, partners, strangers walked across in pairs. One woman even danced across. And when the coals got too cool, Brice raked out fresh coals and we could all go again.

The result? Relief, liberation, and the wiping out of a substantial part of the resentments I have harboured for many, many years. And dirty, but unburned feet.

2009-03-07T16:18:00.017Z

My HoliGroundhogday

Tuesday 10th Feb, 5.15 AM. I land in Dubai on my way back from South Africa. A flight that improved immensely after I handed this note to the air steward, she sniffed the air, and took pity on me…

In Dubai airport, I meet Colin and we jump in a cab. We’re on our way to Beirut, but flying from a different airport. We’re flying from a different Emirate, in fact, Sharjah – a dry country. Possession of alcohol is a jailable offence. Our flight is at 7.50 AM. I have a bottle of wine with me, purchased, as one does, at duty free in Johannesburg. It’s most of an hour’s drive to Sharjah, during which the dry status of the place becomes clear to me.

As the double-domed, single-minaretted mosque-esque airport hoves into view, I mention that I have this bottle of wine. True to form we feel it’s a terrible waste to throw it away, so risk incarceration and search out a nice corner in a carpark hedge and proceed to neck it (thank god for screw-tops…). Around 7AM we think we really ought to go check in.

7.05AM, and we’re told in no uncertain terms that check in has closed and there’s no way in hell we’re getting on that plane. Much arguing later we’re still nowhere near a check-in counter. A couple of other people have made a similar mistake (probably without the wine, though), but no amount of begging, cajoling or other attempts at persuasion can change the mind of the stony-eyed woman in the elaborate grey veil.

We then refer back to the airline agent. “Tomorrow’s flight is wide open, Sir. We charge an extra 100 Dirhams to book here, why don’t you go home and book online?”

Already having lost one flight’s worth of money we appreciate his point, and head back into Dubai, in morning rush hour, with a Sri Lankan lady cab driver, dressed in an elaborate blue veil. Apparently it’s compulsory uniform for female cab drivers in her company. It takes a long time. A very long time. A huge amount of time-spent-in-traffic later, we sneak (I’m not really supposed to be there, what with fraternisation between the sexes very much frowned upon and fornication being downright illegal) back to Colin’s “cell” in “Alcatraz” – a very large and slightly unnerving development of residential apartments, whole swathes of which are unoccupied, nodding to Security Man on the way in. He clocks the backpack and wheelie bag.

We give up and get some sleep.

What is there to do in Dubai? Certainly a lot less than there is to do in Beirut! So,we do as the locals do, and go to the Mall. Exiting past security sans luggage, we drive into the sunset, off to the Mall of the Emirates to watch people fall over on the indoor ski slope whilst sipping £7 pints. An absolutely luscious (alcohol-free: SOOOO many places don’t serve alcohol at all) Persian dinner followed, and then it was time to book our new flights for the next morning. Could we get connected? Could we fuck. Neither the free nor the pay wifi could get us online.

Never mind! The flight is “wide open”! We’ll just bite the bullet and pay the airport surcharge… We’re going to Lebanon!

[Notes on the Mall of the Emirates: (1)The ladies toilets have a full lounge facility. I’m reliably informed the Gents do not.

(2)” Mall Walking” is an accepted form of exercise (it seems ludicrous until you think that in summer it reaches 55° Celsius with 80% humidity)]

And so, to bed, sweet dreams of Lebanon gracing the night…

Wednesday 11th February, 4.30 AM. The alarm(s) ring(s). Yay! We’re on our way to Beirut. Enthusiasm for getting out of Dubai defeats any inclination to stay in bed. On the way out the door - backpack and wheelie bag in tow – we nod to the (same) security guy. We trek on foot to the local mosque, where cabs are apparently more plentiful. It is dark and we pass lots of “worker accommodation” where the underclass of Pakistani labourers are “housed” (6 to a room, some hot-bunking). Hundreds of men are streaming out of the buildings and getting onto buses bound for whatever health-and-safety-free, in-serf-like-bondage job they’re here to do. The muezzin are calling and we’re chiming in, trying to attract a taxi. Eventually we get one, do the classic Dubai U-turn (there’s very few opportunities to turn left or right out of the often 5-lanes-a-side roads, and U-turns are the accepted way of turning around, with inside lanes provided for the purpose) and off we go! To Sharjah! And thence, Beirut!

6AM and we are well in time for check-in. We waltz smugly up to the counter and ask for two tickets to Beirut, please. The (same) guy struggles to look us in the eye as he tells us the flight is full. Yesterday it was “wide open”, today it is full. We can go on the standby list but tickets are triple the price. We opt not to go on the list. We do, however, opt to buy a ticket for tomorrow right then and there, screw the surcharge. We can still do ONE night in Lebanon.

Another taxi back to Dubai (by now we’ve spent almost a flight’s worth of money on fruitless taxis to Sharjah and back) and in we waltz into Colin’s block, with backpack and wheelie bag, once again past the same security guy (who is fortunately turning a blind eye to all my comings and goings). We nod sagely at him. He stares at us, trying to compute.

Still, we now actually have a ticket to Beirut. We spend the day on the beach, which is very chilled,

Note the Desert Cool bag…

and head for the Malaysian (I think) area, via what I like to call “Muscle Alley”. If anyone has ever been to Trade, you’ll know there’s that passageway between the bar and the dancefloor where all the Muscle Mary’s stand against the walls and you have to run the gauntlet of them to get to where you want to be. Well, there’s one particular street (more of a motorway, actually, it has about a zillion lanes) which is just lined with these skyscrapers, all of them glitzy, many of them unfinished, and they’re just so imposing it feels like running the gauntlet of Muscle Alley.

Once we bail from (yet another) cab (it’s the only way to get around) we stumble upon an internet café. A decision is made that since we’ve only got one night in Beirut, let’s just book ourselves a nice hotel and be done with. The “let’s just turn up and see what happens” approach is no longer so appealing. A tediously slow connection eventually provides us with a Deluxe Sea View Room in the Palm Beach Hotel, With Luxury Spa Bath. Happy, we go find ourselves a very random bar, manage to avoid the Indonesian covers band due to play later, and eat some very odd Thai food.

We go to the base of the Burj Dubai to gawp at the tallest building in the world, but the weather has come up and we can barely see it. Luckily you can see it from afar, no sweat.

And so another day not in Beirut draws to a close.

Thursday 12th February, 4.30AM. The alarm(s) ring(s). Enthusiasm for another trip to Sharjah Airport is not quite as evident as it was yesterday. Nevertheless, we now have flight tickets in our grubby paws, and we have a Deluxe Sea View Room With Luxury Spa Bath awaiting our pleasure. Once again we pass Mr Security Guy. Luggage, as always, in hand. By now he’s barely raising an eyebrow. We joke about him setting his watch by us, but we’re going to fool him by not coming back this time! Snigger and chuckle… We have tickets and we’re on our way! We walk to the mosque in the dark. We witness the I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening-in-the-twenty-first-century class system in action once again. We sing along to the muezzin to hail a cab. We get one. The cabbie moans about having to drive back in the morning traffic {it’s particularly bad on the way into Dubai from Sharjah, and Dubai cabs can’t pick up passengers in Sharjah, so he has to drive back empty}. We fail to care.

We get to Sharjah airport. Miracle upon miracle, we actually manage to check in! We have boarding passes! We have allocated seats! We are going to Beirut! It’s all worth it in the end!

And all continues to go well. We manage to ascend the escalators with no hindrance. Even the queues for immigration are short. With glee we approach the immigration officer (another steely-eyed woman in an elaborate grey veil). Mr Bremner hands over his boarding pass and passport. I let my gaze wander about the room. I think how glad I am that I don’t have to see this goddamn shitty airport again.

“Excuse me, Sir,” the elaborately grey-veiled woman says, “but your passport seems to have expired.”

And that was the end of Beirut.

All that anger management therapy seems to have worked. Colin got away with being called a cock and buying breakfast.

Remember kids, always check your passport before attempting to travel! It might cost you two flights to Lebanon, one flight back from Lebanon, and one Deluxe Sea View Room With Luxury Spa Bath in The Palm Beach Hotel, Beirut.

* * *

At this point going back again to The Cell, and passing that damn security guy once again was simply NOT an option. Turns out he could have set his watch by us. So, while trying to locate another internet connection to book ANYTHING that’ll get us away from Alcatraz, we randomly saw an ad for new resort opening in another emirate – on the other side of bloody Sharjah - that was doing good deals for the opening week, and booked ourselves in there…

Although it was not QUITE Beirut, Ras Al Kheimah was at least different, and very educational. This is what Dubai was like not very long ago – sand, sand, sand and more sand, with the odd settlement here and there. Like, really, it’s a desert. All there is, is sand. And super-giant-enormous billboards promising fabulous new developments. Marinas! Golf Courses! Wonderful, luxurious homes! Communities specialising in Ostentatious Displays of Wealth! Glamorous western families horseback-riding over a perfectly manicured lawn(?)! And behind the billboards, just sand. We travelled there by rickety public bus, an event in itself. There are two single seats up front for single female travellers – fortunately I was Ostentatiously Displaying My Fake Wedding Ring, and could sit with Colin. Oh yes, and there were lots, I mean lots, of camels.

The place we stayed eventually was just such a billboard come to life. Something rather elaborate built out of absolutely nothing. Not really my thing, but if you’re going to have unchecked development in a pristine environment, I guess the desert is the best place to do it. It’s not like you’re chopping down ancient woodlands or anything. One does have to admire the human endeavour in creating these places once you’ve driven through sand for an hour and a half. How exactly they picked this particular piece of sand rather than any other to develop a huge resort, who knows. But they have certainly managed to build it.

Still, like most other things in Arab World, it was ever so slightly tacky and designed precisely to assist all comers in Ostentatiously Displaying Their Wealth. By this time we, of course, no longer had any Wealth to Display, ostentatiously or otherwise, and had to make do without a sea view… Only the picture of the dome ceiling was taken in anywhere near our room.

And again this funny transport rule applies. The bus from Dubai cannot pick people up in other emirates, so it goes back empty (you can tell they don’t suffer a shortage of oil). And there is no bus from Ras al Kheimah to Dubai, so we had to get yet another cab. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated proper public transport before. Having taxis, even though cheap, as your only form of transport is quite tiresome.

Truth be told, it was an awesome adventure. Even the groundhog day effect was endlessly entertaining, and it was good to see more of Dubai than I’d planned to, and it’s all about the company anyway. It was fun!

Dubious Foreign Product of the Trip:

Now let me explain as far as I understand – I could be totally wrong…

On the way out to SA I stopped over for one night in Dubai and we went to the Creek. It was the most charming part of Dubai I’ve seen (it’s a big enough river to make you feel comfortable in the desert), and is a bit Ye Olde Worlde (for Dubai, that is, so less than a century) and there’s a touristy “traditional village” you can visit. In one area they were performing a Bedouin (I was given to understand) marriage ceremony, and I couldn’t understand why all the women had huge moustaches (the light was dim…) Turns out they’re these almost full-face metal masks, in the shape of the yellow felt mask on the doll above. I don’t know why they wear it, but they do.

Anyway, after seeing this, we come across a stall selling these DOLLS!!!!! She speaks when you press her hand. We asked the vendor what she said, and he translated it as something like “I am nothing, I have no choice, I am the slave of god”. Of course the ardent feminist in me was horrified (so was Colin, to be fair) – I mean the DOLL is wearing a MASK!!!! Kids play with this stuff!!!!! This is Barbie! (although Barbie is hardly an example of responsible toy-making). Traditional dress is all very well, but there’s something about the mask that made me want to scream and shout and rip all those little yellow bits of felt off every doll in the shop.

Turns out she is actually a character in a Simpsons-like Emirati family, so all may not be lost, but still. I was shocked.

Best Foreign Sign of the Trip:

Best Foreign Cool Cultural Thing of the Trip:
You can leave your bags in the coffee shop at the airport and both go to the bathroom and come back and find it all there, untouched. Which is really very nice. You can also tell they don’t really consider themselves at any risk from terrorism.

Best Foreign TV of the Trip:
Camel TV. Yip, a whole channel (Colin assures me, he has personally done the research) dedicated entirely to footage of camels wandering in the desert, set to traditional music. No talking, no presenting, no program beginnings or endings, just camels wandering. Schweet!

The End

Mugged

2008-03-28T16:22:00.001Z

In The Parallel

2008-01-18T02:26:00.000Z

A little bit of messing around to the start of Phillip Neil Martin and Luke Vibert's "In the parallel". Reflections from the catwalk at the RCA fashion show January 2008...

Letters from The Sea - Part VII - Corsica

2007-05-13T00:56:00.000+01:00

Hi all

One more sleep and I'm home! Of course, now that the weather has settled into marvellous mediterranean sunshine, I'm kinda sad to be on my way home. But I think the feeling will only last as long as I'm on land. As soon as I'm on board again I'll be ready to tear my hair out...

Anyway, once gain sipping capuccino, this time in the pretty little town of Ajaccio on the island of Corsica. Only french place I've ever been served within a minute of sitting down, and quite liking it! The ship is berthed right in town, about a half a minutes walk away,so no shuttle bus hell, and it looks quite pretty with the mountains of the interior looming behind it. Unfortunately my camera battery just died and I didn't bring my charger...

Anyways...

Not much to tell about Corsica except that the men are absolutely BEAUTIFUL! I've always gone for skinny white boys, but ten months of screwing a Turk may be changing that. The young men here are swarthy and dark with really striking features. And it seems they turn into really characterful old men. Not very friendly, mind, but let's not forget they ARE technically French. Oh, and apparently Napoleon was born here. Would love to settle into a nice ocean-facing restaurant for lunch, but the ship sails at 1PM in a last-ditch effort to pump money out of the passengers. Tomorrow is Palma and a changeover of punters.

I've met some pretty decent people on this ship, I have to say. If I was staying on board I've identified a couple that would definitely have become close friends, and plenty more that'd be more-than-acquaintances, but seriously, I miss you lot! And the best people I've met (also more my age) are the director and two other people involved heavily in the production shows - and they're all based in London! Micha Borghese is the director (he did the airial show in the Dome) and his resident director and costume designer, with whom I've shared a number of bottles of wine, live in East and West Dulwich respectively, so about 5 minutes from me.

So, off to see if I can find somewhere to send this from...

Lots of love
Dxxx

Letters from The Sea - Part VI: Tunis, Naples, Livorno and Villefranche

2007-05-13T00:20:00.000+01:00

Pretty, pretty Villefranche

So here I sit in a Salon de The in the most gorgeous and charming Villefranche - a lovely little town on the French Reviera. It can only be described as "delightful"! Terracotta houses lining a lovely bay, 16th century citadel, little boats bobbing up and down, and two big cruise ships anchored some way into the sea - it was also quite fun that the only way off the boat is by little boat... And YAY!!!!! The sun is shining at LAST! Was planning to go to Cannes to get a photo of something I failed to photograph when I was last there, but missed the train station, and when I turned back and could finally see it from a distance, looked at all the people waiting on the platform and thought, the last thing I really want to be doing is hanging about trying out sunday public transport in France, so have now been sitting here for a while being charmingly ingored by the French waiters.

View from my Salon du The

By now I'm desperate to be home. I am SO bored I am no longer able to give a flying f*** about seeing the same resident singers over and over again, singing off the same "safe" playlist. I mean, they're lovely people, and great singers, but jeeeeeeeeezzzzzzz. Give me some variety! One of them did "Same Jeans" by the View the other day and it went down a storm! Everyone loved it. But it was pretty risky. I'm so glad it worked out cos that means they can venture into slightly less safe territory. Especially since the ship is aimed at 35-55 years olds... (Not that it's succeeding that well, everyone seems more like 65-85 to me...)

Anyway, only 4 shows to go! And all of them are proper "production shows" with dancers and acrobats and stuff, so much more fun for me.

So, backtracking a bit...

The morning we arrived in Tunis, I didn't even get woken by the anchor-lowering process... Had been up till about 5 AM having my ears bent by one of the dancers. See, the crew bar shuts at one. But everyone buys a stash of at least another three drinks just before closing, and we sit and nurse them till we're chucked out at 2. Then there is a general movement up to the Players Bar & Casino where a cheesy disco continues until the punters all finally stagger to bed, any time between 2 and 4AM. We can drink here at hefty discount. When that finally shuts, we either go to someone's cabin who has a stash of beer in their fridge, or we go to Plantation, which is the 24-hour burger bar, where LUCKILY they serve no alcohol. I'm always happiest in the morning when the latter course of action is taken, as it usually means an end to the alcohol consumption for the night. My first few days I was quite good, but lord above, one does need an escape from the dullness of life on board a ship, and since the poker night I don't think I've been to bed before 5... Except last night, but then my alarm was set for 7.30 so I could go on the trip up Vesuvius... I've sworn I will not set foot in Crew Bar after work tonight, but hey, late night's are my time of day and somehow I think it'll be hard not to... Wish me luck!

So Tunis was a non-event for me, and the weather sucked again, and my mood was awful and I had nightmares when I tried to get some kip around lunchtime, and all I wanted to do was GO HOME!!!! And we spent the whole afternoon setting up the band in Crew Bar for a party last night - which shouldn't really be a problem, except Crew Bar is on deck 2 midships - the lift only goes down to deck 4 - and all the gear is scattered between the various venues in the ship, which are generally on decks 7 and 8. So you can imagine how many times we had to trek up and down the stairs in order to get all the bits we needed... It took HOURS! Thankfully there are four stagehands who did most of the heavy stuff, but jeez... What a dull afternoon...

So the crew party was kinda fun, and I managed to drag myself out of bed to get on a coach to Mount Vesuvius. It was well worth it, and I was SORELY tempted to buy some of the souveneirs... I've seen some tacky stuff in my time, but OH-MY-GOD I've never seen anything quite this bad. A vast array of tacky little creatures carved from black lava, and then painted in GLITTER of all things!!! So imagine: two little bunnies hugging each other around a red-glitter heart. A tortoise with a green-glitter shell. An enormous roman soldier with all different colours of glitter festooning his person. I SO wanted to buy one, on the one hand, but SO couldn't bring myself to encourage that kind of industry in the end...

Bad Picture of Mount Vesuvius

The crater of the volcano

Then spent the afternoon wandering around in Naples, which was loads of fun! Insane traffic - crossing the road is an art: find a local and put him between you and the traffic and walk when he does. It works very well - I remember having to do something similar in Bangkok. It's got quite a buzz about the place. Feels vaguely dangerous, with some rough looking characters wandering around. The kind of place in which you expect to be pick-pocketed. And remind me never to wear a crop-top in Italy again. The men were SO leery and lecherous. Ugh. But still, it had that properly Italian look to it, castles and all, and I like a bit of edginess, me. And I managed to get connected...

Naples side-street

The Galleria Something in Naples

The we moved up the coast to Livorno, and descended into bad weather and huge swells - apparently something like 4 metres. But my trusty sea-legs did their job and even though the ship was listing at an angle of about 20 degrees I managed to only feel mildly dizzy.

Livorno was a bit of a mission of a day. It's a gateway port to Pisa and Florence, but I was sent into Livornio to try buy 2 multi-cd changers and a DJ thingy with MP3 capabilities. Yeah right. In a dodgy little Italian dock town? With not a single word of Italian at my command? In the piss-pouring rain? I managed to find two electronics shops, but they seem to have been lost since about 1985. SO much for that. Waiting for the once-every-half-hour (read: once-every-hour) shuttle bus was my next fun experience. So, an hour and at least 4 busses going to a different ship later, the queue getting longer and longer, and moodier and moodier, and the rain not letting up, a bus labeled Ocean Village arrives. It drops off 8 people, closes the doors and drives off! By now there were about 100 people in bad moods just wanting to get back to the ship. Another half hour or so later a coach finally arrives to pick us up, and we have to squeeze everyone in like a rush-hour tube. Bearing in mind everyone is fairly elderly and somewhat infirm, this caused much consternation. When we got back to the ship, I went to tell the manager of the shore excursions what had happened,and he just shrugged his shoulders and said "it was siesta time"... might have been nice if someone had MENTIONED there would be no coaches in mother-f***ing siesta time - everyone could have settled into a nice lunch somewhere instead of standing in the pissing rain. So much for customer care - it has been firmly proven that OV only really cares about the folks who go on their seriously over-priced tours. If you choose to be independent, they want you to suffer as much as possible so people are forced to aceed to the organised tours. Oh well.

But that was yesterday,and today all is fabulous. Just GORGEOUS! This pretty much makes up for a lot of the crap days. I love the south of France! so damn pretty...

Anyway, gonna take another stroll, see if I can find an internet caf and head back for work...

Lots of love
Dxxxx

Letters from The Sea - Part V: Naples

2007-05-13T00:12:00.000+01:00

Hiya! finally found an internet caf in Naples, so HELLO!!!!!! I cannot believe how out-of-touch I've been feeling.... There's this massively annoying big red cross underneath the words "internet is not available" on the screens of all the on-board computers...

Since I last wrote, things have been very up-and-down for me. Starting to be so damn BORED I'm losing my mind. The only thing I can find to occupy my mind is eating continuously. The weather has been incredibly crap, so relaxing on top deck with a book is out. This also means that all the comfy indoor areas are occupied completely by passengers, so no luck there. And my cabin is so depressing I really would rather not be in there unless I'm asleep! So I find myself wandering aimlessly around the ship, passing by the Cyber Zone every ten minutes to check if maybe, just MAYBE, they've sorted the connection out...

And of course, the crew bar is another danger... At 85p a beer... And with my poker winnings I now have pounds in cash again, so I can do my share of round-buying... Had another seriously late night on Wednesday, then last night was a crew party, so more lateness, and I'd booked myself on a trip up Mount Vesuvius which left at 8.50 this morning, so I am suffering somewhat! I also missed Tunis completely, yesterday, as I was fast asleep in my dark hole of a cabin...

Crew Bar!

As crew I can pretty much go on any of the shore tours that get me back in time for soundcheck, and Vesuvius was kinda cool. Long trek up the slopes of an active volcano! Last erupted in 1944, and you can see the lava flow where it cooled. It's also the volcano that buried Pompeii in 791AD (or thereabouts). You can see little puffs of smoke coming out of the cracks in the magma, although the actual centre has been "plugged" since the last eruption. And loads of people have houses on the slopes! They all live in daily fear that it will erupt again - there are early warning systems in place...

The outer ring (previous incarnation of the mountain) of Mount Vesuvius and lava flow from 1944. Taken from the side of the current active volcano.

Anyway, gotta go, my battery is dying! DAMN!

Next port is Livorno (also in Italy) and I want to head into Florence, or maybe Pisa... And tonight's entertainment is a Kylie tribute, tomorrow is Elton John.. Whatever...

Love to you all!

Dxxxxxxx

Letters from The Sea - Part IV: Palma Deck Day, and Sex Aboard Ship

2007-05-12T23:40:00.000+01:00

Sweet poster in the M1 corridor

Or so I thought… Now, you gotta remember that my cabin has no porthole. So, hangover included (but the suffering reduced by huge poker victory over Big Man Aussie Comedian) I get up at midday in anticipation of furthering my sleep under the glorious sun, ladle on my hugely expensive sun lotion which takes an hour and a half to become effective (hence the planning needed), gather together my pool needs and in-flight entertainment – book, laptop (I’ve been told that one can usually find random wireless networks in this port, and since the ship’s internet has been down for 2 days solid…), bikini, girly dress, flip flops, shades, towel, and head up to deck 14 for some breakfast and a bake in the sun. And emerge to see the day - cloudy, rainy and COLD!!!! I couldn’t believe it! And there are no other ships (read: unprotected wireless networks) in port either so here I sit in long sleeves in the coffee shop wondering when I’ll be able to talk to anyone ever again…

So today is the start of the cruise proper. The last week was an unusual route, as the ship is generally based in Palma, not Southampton. Tomorrow is a sea day again (please, oh god of the sea, keep it calm and the waves piddly…) and then Thursday we hit land again. I’ll let you know where we are as I find out… there are new passengers on board, so more drills (which I can skip, yay!) likely. Easy day today, just one soundcheck at 5.30 and one show at 9.00. Tomorrow is a long one again – starts with death-defyingly dull sales patter at 11, then rehearsals in the PM and two shows in the evening.

I keep having every member of the production staff, even the costume designer, coming and telling me how grateful they are that I’m on board. It terrifies me to think how bad their experience is in general with sound people! And not just the guy who got sacked this time round, but it seems they’ve just never had someone who actually gives a toss! Astounding… And I’m really NOT that good – I’m just prepared to spend time and effort trying to get it right, and am up-front with people about what’s possible and where the problems lie. It seems to inspire confidence. The actual shows (musical-type affairs) are really quite good, and the acrobats are astounding, the dancers excellent, vocalists pretty fine, and lighting is superb! It’s such a shame they seem to be let down by the sound all the time.

In-between the big shows the entertainment is usually tribute acts - some of them are pretty good too! Tina Turner, for example, is a SUPERB entertainer and George Michael is a great performer. I didn’t like the Robbie Williams guy too much, although he did get the mannerisms right. And then there’re “resident” singers who do sets in various lounges around the place and usually warm up for the tribute acts.

No more minor dramas or exciting incidents to report…

Oh yes, about the boat that was adrift… We slowed down and spent a while in the area it was reported as possibly being in (the exact position was apparently entirely unclear) but couldn’t find it, and the Spanish authorities sent us on our way after a while. Hope someone found the poor buggers!

xxxxx

Much later…Still no net, so might as well continue… I’ve been pondering the nature of sex on board a ship. Tradition holds it that sailors have a woman in every port, or at least a brothel. And not much is different, these days, I find… The kind of guys who want to settle, all seem to have a Philippino wife and child. They obviously met her on board, but now send money back to them and see them twice a year. And they do seem besotted by their ladies, but manage quite fine without them. I wonder what their relationships will be like when they leave ships and they actually see each other every day. I suppose they based there relationship on seeing each other daily in the first place, but they’ve been restricted by work hours and silly, hierarchical rules about who’s allowed in which areas and when.

The guys that DON’T have a Philippino girlfriend often have a girl at home, but that obviously doesn’t stop them having a relationship on board. The on-board girl seems to be reliably informed about the “real” girlfriend though, so it seems to be more of a fuck-buddy situation. And then you get the nicest boys of all, who seem to be so innocent and sweet, but when Matt (my new buddy, all of 22 and a great singer, bless) invited one of this type to come with us to explore Barcelona, the response was “nah… I’m just gonna get a beer and a peep show”. I don’t actually know that many women on board, so can’t vouch for what they do with their sex-lives, but when it comes to the boys, I don’t think much has changed for centuries in sea-farers’ lifestyles.

What would I do if I stayed????? Who knows…the be-uniformed guy who kept finding me when I was lost turned out to be security, not an officer so I lost interest. How shallow is THAT?????? Never knew I had it in me to be quite that snobbish. And the 22 year old – it crossed my mind to try seduce him, he is gorgeous - but that’s all it was – a crossing of the mind. Besides anything else he seems very happy with his girlfriend. I think we’re destined to be good mates. We really get on and it’s more important to stay friends with someone you click with, really.

Matt and Lucy - of the Ain't Nobody song incident...

In the same breath, I have noticed 2 guys with crushes on me. I don’t think they see new blood very often. I’m not remotely interested in any of them, but take it as a compliment. There is a real competition for my time and attention. I wonder how it’d pan out in the long term… But not enough to try and find out!!! I’m ready for final disembarkation already, but am not fussed that I have to stay. I’m doing this for the pay-cheque after all, and the experience is vastly different from anything I’ve done before. Even though they’re trying to be different from any other cruise, the institutionalisation is very obvious and very much there. Rules, rules, rules… This Is How We Do It… No Argument.

Letters from The Sea - Part III: Barcelona and Beating Colin Cole!

2007-05-12T23:26:00.000+01:00

In my wonderfully random status as part-crew, part-passenger, I get to NOT do the weekly emergency drills. This involves dragging the entire crew out of bed, getting them all kitted out in life-jackets and then making them wait around in their appointed positions. A few of them have real things to do – there’s always a pretend fire somewhere – which keeps them occupied for the hour, but the rest, who are on Stair Guide Duty or Muster Station Duty, just hang about being bored and trying to keep their eyes open. Me, I’d planned to sleep through the whole thing then meet up with my new On Board Buddy to head to Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia…. In fact I was awoken 2 hours before my alarm by the excessively noisy anchor-lowering process… Still, I got to have a long, slow breakfast on top deck, with a really quite nice view of Barcelona Port, while the rest were nodding off to sleep with chins resting on life jackets… More and more I am glad this is not a long term thing!

Hooked up with Matt, one of the singers (and quite a good one too), 22 year old from north Wales and missioned into Barna… It’s the second anniversary of Henry’s death today, so I’d planned a little ritual at the church – forgetting, of course that it’s not actually finished being built yet, so no candle-lighting was possible, but managed to find a quiet corner outside to have a moment with thoughts and photos. Sagrada Familia is truly the most beautiful of places, and the only church I’ve thought that, if I was god, I’d live THERE. It’s really a spiritual experience even though it’s still a building site. Gaudi was such a special human being to even have had the imagination to envision such a place… Unfortunately the queues to get up the lift to wander in wonder between the towers was enormous and I had a 3PM soundcheck back on board so we didn’t have time to go up (ridiculously you’re not allowed to walk up anymore, but you have to walk down – quoting “security” reasons – yeah, the security of charging another 2 euros to use the lift…)

If I were God, forget St Peter's... I'd live HERE.

So yet AGAIN the pointlessness of cruising is emphasized. I knew where I was going, and granted I had to be back 2.5 hours before passengers, but it was still a rush just to see this one thing. Matt is staying on for 5 months though, and loved Sagrada F, so I’ve now given him a long list of Things To See in Barcelona every time the ship docks here. As I mentioned previously, you only get to see the edges of things…

I am, however, also becoming aware of just how big a Big Business cruising actually is. There were about 6 or 7 other ships in the section of the harbour we were in, all similar sizes to us, so I’m guessing about 2,000 people on board each. There’s 4 fully functional, newly built, airport stylee terminals, and both Gibraltar and Barcelona had proper, organised public transport to and from the harbour. I imagine most of the ports we’ll be going to are the same. And ships from all over the place! And ours is about the ugliest I’ve seen so far – it’s got a really bulbous front that’s not very pretty – will try remember to take a photo…

Tonight’s entertainment is a group effort from all the tribute acts- George, Tina and Robbie! With band and bad backing tracks.. Still, it’s much easier for me than the full-on shows, and we can leave it all set up for more cabaret tomorrow night, so we’ll be in the crew bar early and there’s a poker game planned.. I KNOW I’ll lose my money, but hey, I do like a game of cards, me! Which means a late night and therefore I’ve planned to not bother leaving the ship in Palma, I’m going to take full advantage of the changeover of passengers and hit the top deck, the pool and a lazy day doing nothing. Only start work after 5PM! Yay!

Backstage with Robbie, George and Tina

Then a sea-day on Wednesday, which is a LONG day’s work (unbelievably dull sales presentations to be babysat and long rehearsals for the evening’s two shows) but then I think we’re somewhere worth seeing the next day. Naples or summat. I’m still not entirely sure where we’re going! I’m keeping the surprise element there just for added interest…

Many hours later…

It is now 6.20 AM and I’m STARVING! Been playing poker since midnight, and while my card-playing friends have gone to bed, I’m too psyched up to sleep… Just won TWO of four rounds of poker – and am £70 richer for my efforts… I don’t really understand the rules of poker that well, I do rely on other people telling me when I’ve got the better hand but somehow tonight it all just went my way… And the best was beating the CRAP out of a huge big giant of an aussie comedian, who relies a lot on obscenities in his act and who took me on as “the bitch” and thoroughly expected to beat me. He went out early in the first game, and when I won, he looked me square in the eye and demanded we all play again so he could beat me. Instead I took his cash off him a second time, and he left the table in disbelief… I also took everyone else’s cash off them, but that gave me very little pleasure. Beating Big Man Colin Cole, however, was one of the highlights of the last few days…

The man is even bigger than he looks in this picture...

Hanging in the crew mess till 6.30 till breakfast starts and then I’d better go to bed at some stage.. Really want to spend some time on the top deck and in the pool tomorrow (today) – only have to work at 17.30… Bugger Palma. Need some time off and I’m convinced it’ll all be the same as the greek islands… Lots of vaguely local restaurants that cater for Full English Breakfasts and present their menus in four different languages. Just wanna bask in the sun and swim in the pool and take it easy…

Letters from The Sea - Part II -Gibraltar

2007-05-12T22:41:00.000+01:00

The Rock and I

Land ho!

So yesterday we sailed into Gibraltar, which was quite cool, actually. The sun was shining, the rock is pretty impressive and it was really good to see some land! I had a couple of hours to disembark (see, I've got the jargon down pat!) and stroll around the town.. And cruising suddenly seemed to make a bit more sense to me - if there's a destination, not just open sea, it is quite a dramatic way to arrive in a country! The down-side, of course, is that you only get to see the edges of the country for a couple of hours, which is a big enough down-side for me to still feel I'm unlikely to do it for real.

An, apparently, historic moment also occurred when the two Ocean Village ships passed each other for probably the one and only time ever just outside Gibraltar. It was weirdly emotional for quite a few people around me - most of the crew all worked on OV1 for years before being moved to this ship (very originally named OV2), and have never actually seen it sailing from a distance - you either see the ship right close-up in port, or you're on board. It was quite touching to see how attached people are to their ships, I must say. I'm vaguely starting to understand how people can settle into this life, but it's not for me... Too easy, too organised and TOO CHEESY!!!!! A lot of the "ents" (entertainment) staff come from Butlins, and it seems they've all been sent on a course in How To Speak With An Annoying Fakely Enthusiastic Lilt In Your Voice. It's that that would drive me more mad than being trapped in a small space for lengthy periods of time. But none of the passengers really seem to mind - probably because they're the type who probably grew up with Butlins and don't know quite how to holiday without someone telling them what to do, and when. Heidi hi! (sp???)

Ships passing in the day

The teensy bit of Gibraltar I did see was kinda weird - England in the sun with a Spanish twist. All the UK high street stores as well as tons and tons of duty-free stuff (fags: 60p a pack, litre bottles of rum, £4.95) but I didn't bother (sorry smokers, I didn't even think to bring you any till I was back on the ship). Had a pleasant stroll, bought a bikini and some shorts (having managed to avoid a uniform in toto I find I'm running out of clothes, even WITH a laundry service. Didn't pack very well....) and got back on the ship. Er, I mean re-embarked. Glad I've seen a bit of Gibraltar, but won't be hurrying back.

Gibraltar - the square at the start pf the duty-free shopping spree

The evening's entertainment was a pre-show singer, Lucy, (who does a 4-song warm up set) and then Jaki Graham. Who? you might ask - as I did, but she's actually the one and only genuine celebrity we have on board, everyone else is a tribute act (George Michael, Robbie Williams, Tina Turner). Anyway, Jaki had a no 1 hit covering Ain't Nobody some time in the 80s. The pre-show warm-up singer, like me, had no idea who Jaki was, nor what her hits may or may not have been. So, no malice intended, Lucy, as her second song, launches into Ain't Nobody. The consternation that THIS caused was quite sensational! Now obviously Jaki can't sing it in her set if it's been sung mere minutes before, and it was HER actual hit! Oops, but hey, the hell that decended on poor Lucy when she finished her set was slightly disproportionate, I felt. Anyway, small dramas make life interesting.

Me and my Booth

We were meant to leave Gibraltar around 6PM last night with a dramatic sunset sail-away. Around 6.15 the Captain makes an announcement that they're "just making a few adjustments to the engines" and we'll "be underway soon". A further announcement, in a similar vein, followed at around 6.30. And 7.00. Eventually at 11.00PM he made a final announcement saying that they're having problems with some propulsion thingy, and we'd leave only when it was fixed, good night sleep tight...

We eventually left around 1AM, so are skipping our next port, Cartegena, and going straight to Barcelona (YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!) Which works out quite well for me - I've got two shows to rehearse today, so am happy to be stuck in the theatre on a sea day rather than a port day.

Love and misses to ya'll...
Dxx

PS the Captain has just announced that we're slowing down to try locate a small boat adrift a few miles ahead of us so we can rescue them! Excitement indeed!

Letters from The Sea - Part I: Southampton to Gibraltar

2007-05-12T22:17:00.000+01:00

OCEAN VILLAGE TWO

So here I am, at very short notice, aboard a cruise ship that seems to be the preserve of the elderly and the overweight. I'd been told that Ocean Village was aimed at a younger crowd. When I mentioned this to the lighting guy, surprised at how old the passengers are, on average, he said this IS a young lot - most cruises cater for the nearly-dead... Already I'm glad for the fact this this experience will save me vast quantities of money in my old age... A cruise ship is really just a badly decorated trap that forces people into a money-spending environment. There really isn't much else to do. The food is all free, but that's where it ends... Surprisingly bar prices are not too bad, cheaper than in the UK, actually, but that's just cos it's duty free - trust me, it's not the mark-up that they've reduced!

Today is (I have to think hard) Friday 27th April and we sailed on Wednesday night. So yesterday and today are both sea days (i.e. no stopping) and we'll arrive in Gibraltar tomorrow sometime. I've always cursed the Med for not having any decent waves, but right now I'm blessing it and hoping and praying (I seem to have found religion all of a sudden) that we get there soon - I'm having a touch of trouble finding my sea-legs on these Atlantic swells... Spent most of yesterday feeling VERY green and am keeping myself to foods that will be least revolting to throw up... It's not the nausea that's the worst, actually, but the weirdness the motion creates in your head. Lying down is actually fairly pleasant, but once on your feet... And tipping forwards and backwards is OK too, it's when that movement combines with a side-to-side roll to make this gravity-defying SWIRL... THAT'S when it gets to me.

Naturally there is a lot of sage advice going round from old hands, and the ship's doctor is my new god, so I will, no doubt, survive... They also put a million sick-bags in handy places around the ship. Fortunately I've not had to avail myself of their use yet, but I'm glad they're there.

ANYWAY! Enough about illness... The work is better than I expected, in that the standard of the shows is actually quite high. Great acrobatics, half-decent singers and dancers. And the show is very, VERY raunchy... I reckon the medics were hit up for a viagra or two last night... The old dears were getting a bit hot under the collar... I'm in the main theatre and the gear is fairly decent, although the rig itself is a bit pants. Everybody thinks I'm a goddess and the cast are begging me to stay, but there's not a hope in hell. 2 weeks will be QUITE enough stuck in a space this small.

Crew-wise, there are around 600 in total. The system seems very racist to me. All the lowly jobs are done by Indians and Philippinos, who also share cabins on the lower decks. Middling jobs are done by East Europeans. Anyone who's Western and white seems to have nice jobs and be on higher decks, and we all have cabins to ourselves. The cabins CAN accommodate three, but god knows I'd go insane. It's barely big enough for one! But it appears that most crew don't actually work for the ship as such, they're all from agencies who set the wages in India and the Philippines, and at £25 a day it's a LOT more than they'd be earning at home. The other Techs are on about £57 a day (so now I understand the flinch when they realised what I was gonna cost them), but if you consider that they have NO expenses WHATSOEVER, except for the crew bar, they're all squirrelling money away like mad. I've spent about a fiver since I've been on board.

Speaking of the crew bar... It's a nasty dark hole in the middle of the ship, and the stench of years and years of badly air-conditioned smoke overwhelms you two flights of stairs up. But beers cost 85p, spirits and a mixer 90p and a large glass of wine £2... So you can't really complain. Unlike most other cruise ships, crew can drink in the passenger bars at a hefty discount, but it seems most people choose not to. But it's fun and everyone mixes down there, so I see why. Also everyone (excecpt me,it seems)smokes like chimneys and fags cost £1 a pack of 20...

Finding your way around is pretty tricky... One corridor looks pretty much like another. But I'm slowly learning my port from my starboard, for forward from my aft, and words like "midships" and "embark" are flowing more and more easily off the tongue.. On deck 4 (of 12) there is a crew corridor known as the M1, that runs the length of the ship. It's fairly helpful that the staircases that come off it are named alphabetically (crew bar is down staircase Kilo. First thing I learnt) but I'm still getting very very lost. A rather charming be-uniformed sailor-type keeps finding me and pointing me in the right direction - I may choose to continue losing my way for a while longer... ;-)

One corridor looks much like any other... And all the carpets are this bad!

Cabin-wise I've landed a very average crew cabin... It's in the middle of the ship, so no porthole and I find it a bit disconcerting to always be either in the pitch dark or in the rather ugly electric light. If I were on for longer than 2 weeks I'd be investing heavily in lighting! But I am ETERNALLY grateful that I have it to myself... Oh and it also gets cleaned, and my laundry done etc etc. Quite happy with THAT arrangement!

Erm... A space meant for three!!!!

And, on day three, they've still failed to issue me with a uniform, which I am naturally rather pleased about. Hope it stays that way! And my status is somewhat confusing. I'm part passenger, part one-stripe officer (I expect salutes on my return) and sometime crew. It gets a bit confusing. The ship operates cash-free, everything you buy etc is put onto your cruise card and you pay the bill later... Clever... Especially since the normal cruises are an entire week long... But when it comes to me I have to explain myself all the time cos I have a passenger card and a crew cabin number.

This is the Maiden Voyage of this ship in it's new form. It used to belong to the Germans and spent a few weeks being re-fitted. So some bits are new (some passenger areas) and some are old (crew areas). There's a number of restaurants on board, which I can eat in (as a one-striped officer) and some very dull shops (blatantly catering for the elderly and overweight). The top deck is open with a couple of pools, and an outdoor bar. It would appear the sewage system is also a bit old, if the smell in the midships lift shaft this morning was anything to go by!

Anyway, after Gibraltar it's Palma, and then we get into normal cruise routine, which I don't know what it is yet. Naples has been mentioned, but I don't know where else we'll go. The ship is based in Palma, Southampton was just for the re-fit.

Anyway, hopefully will be able to communicate tomorrow in Gibraltar - old hands advice is, when we're in port, to sit on the top deck and see what wireless can be found. I's WEIRD being this out of touch!

The Doncaster Rovers Faithful Footie Fans Foray, 2006

2007-01-04T13:13:00.000Z

Diva Hell (Jaguar Wright and Dwele show)

2006-12-23T22:05:00.000Z

At last i'm home sitting in blissful silence with a long-dreamed of bifta in hand and a hot bath waiting. I can't be arsed with this shit anymore. Jaguar Wright was diva till the bitter end (and fuck did she go on for AGES. She must have been on stage for over an hour and a half and then wouldn't put her shoes on till she'd washed her feet - her poor tour manager was scurrying around with wet towels, while her brave, brave band (I hope she's paying them well) sat shivering in a taxi waiting, and waiting, and waiting...) And the club had 400 people in it when she went on stage. There were maybe 50 when she left.

Dwele was fine, but then, on a stage already FULL of massive keyboards, an oversized drum kit and unnecesarrily large bass amp, they then spring an 8 piece band on me for the opening act! I must confess to having had a fag-and-a-cry break when I couldn't find a particular lead I needed and folks were getting impatient with me - that's after not being able to get stuck in to setting up earlier because everyone wanted me to be doing things that weren't really my remit to do, and Jaguar was cursing and swearing about being "forced" to set up her own gear (er.. she sings. She has no setting up to do. The band did it and while they would have preferred not to, they didn't really mind, AND they hadn't forwarded a stage plot anyway AND I had explained clearly to the promoter that I do NOT do backline, mostly because I don't actually know how. At least I had everything out of flightcases and on the stage!)

She stormed into the office(just off stage) and called the promoter (who was on his way to fetch them a keyboard they had failed to request) and screamed so loud I could hear her in the DJ booth. She then stormed through the club making really nasty comments insinuating that setting up backline was some kind of low-life dock work (all backline guys I've met, while being serious drug-takers, have been very clever people) and then her engineer was trying do to a multitrack recording at the same time, on his own, so spent ages trying to get THAT set up! Suffice it to say doors were half an hour late. With a queue outside in the cold.

To add insult to injury, she proceeded to spend five minutes on stage gushing about Spreading the Lurve and how Nothing Was Possible without the help of all the Behind the Scenes People. Two-faced cow.

http://www.jaguarwright.com/

BIG CHILL VID - at last...

2006-11-06T04:18:00.000Z

Ok, so It's taken me a while... Really it's because I've been striving perfection. What I have in fact come up with, is, I am sad to say, not my best work.

As a sound person I am deeply ashamed of the soundtrack, but YOU try editing in iMovie with a consciousness of sound quality! You've got to export it into a better audio editor so that you can do the most BASIC things, but in order to do so you are forced, in a very, very annoying manner, to export it under a fixed range of settings, ALL of which are set at "medium quality sound". Sucks ASS!

I cringe everytime I see a little blue bar crossing before me with the word "Converting..." under it, followed by a very similar blue bar with the words "Compressing movie..." beneath! This poor soundtrack has been through this process a few times.

The appalling tweety bird loop was also an in-iMovie edit. I wash my hands.

And worst of all, although this is somewhat representative of the Big Chill experience, there are no photographic records of the very best bits! Ed is entirely missing from the video record, but he really was there, promise. And the SUPER-BEST bits, climbing the oak tree with a bottle of whisky (and a number of other things),walking (seeming) miles up a (seeming) mountain to go swimming in the quarry. And it looks like it was overcast all the time, but actually we had some fantastic sunshine!

And, yeah, like, it's a bit long, and you probably really did have to be there, but hey, here it is.

Last Night My Bath Sang To Me

2006-08-23T14:11:00.000+01:00

Ok, so there's a drought on. Glad there wasn't one when I lived in Brixton! The Bath (with a respectful capital B) in the Brixton flat is the one and only reason I moved in and dealt with Life on Coldharbour Lane for as long as I did.

Firstly, the Bathroom (with an equally respectful capital) was the size of most London bedsits (with lack of respectful capital). Secondly, it had stone flag floors, gloriously huge sash windows, nicely trendy fittings, three white walls and one wall of exposed-brick with fireplace.

Then, there was The Bath. It was magnificent! It sat squarely (or rather, ovally) in the middle of the room. It was Big. It was Deep. It was Wide. I used far more than my fair share of water. You could sit in it either way, as the taps came in over the side. So on a sunny day, you could lie facing the window, enjoying the blue sky (luckily the angle was low enough to avoid seeing the elevated railway), or on a nasty day, you could just as easily turn your back on the window, and look at the rest of the room. The lack of taps poking over one end also meant that sex-in-the-bath was a more comfortable option than usual...

So. Life on Coldharbour Lane eventually becoming unbearable, I had to move. And my current Herne Hill abode is way superior, in all but one aspect: the bath (no cap). The bathroom itself is very pretty, with nice tiles and pebbles and candles for decoration, but the bath.... It's very average. Size-wise it's OK - I'm short so am always happy to have my toes reach the other end so I can prop myself up when reading, but the sides aren't level so the only place to wineglasses and tea-cups is on the corner beside your head. But this space is already occupied by shampoo bottles and a plethora of other products, so all kinds of re-arrangements are needed for Complete Comfort in Bathing.And then there's the hot water issue. It is limited. And I like to use it all. And that's still not enough.

But last night, I had the most delicious experience. My bath sang to me! T'was a dark and stormy night... And as the wind blew, so the overflow pipe sang mournful, heart-rending tunes! And as the bath filled, so those melodious notes wandered the scale. I feel like the universe just treated me to my own Special Moment...

So come home, Herne Hill Bath! All is forgiven...

My Now Extraordinary Bath

Something serious now - An Open Letter To Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered (and STRAIGHT! (KT)) people - by Mark Gory

2006-08-18T03:31:00.000+01:00

An open letter to Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered people

Just over a year ago, my life-partner Henry went out with a friend to Melville on a "jol". Because I had to work early the next morning, I remained at home with our animals for an early night.

During the course of the evening, they visited a number of bars in the area, ending up at a well known watering hole, where they were approached by one Mzwai, who offered them a taste of "liquid e". Neither Henry, nor his friend had any experience of this substance, but proceeded to the car outside, where Mzwai passed round the drink.

At no time did he explain that the combination of this substance, otherwise known as "G" or "GHB" was lethal in combination with alcohol, which they had both enjoyed earlier in the evening.

Both Henry and his friend passed out in the car.
Mzwai disappeared.
When HenryÅfs friend came to some hours later, he discovered Henry's lifeless body in the back of the car. The combination of alcohol and GHB had caused respiratory failure.
He drove home at speed and attempted to overdose himself. Luckily for him, friends came to his rescue.

After a fruitless search of hospitals and mortuaries the next morning, I found Henry's body in the back of the parked car. He had been there for 8 hours.
The police eventually arrived, and removed the body after I had identified him.

Henry's family arrived from Pretoria the next day, and started demanding"his" ("sy goed") possessions, his car. A number of items were removed against my will.
Henry had not gotten around to making a will, so I was not in a position to claim the estate, or so I thought..

The catalogue of horrors that followed, involved my being subjected to the family looting our home, demanding possessions (like the green bath mat !!) that were either not "his" at all, or jointly owned.

I was forced out of our home, which was sold from under me notwithstanding months of legal wrangling between the family appointed executor, and my own attorneys.

To be brief, I ended up in the High (Supreme) Court in Pretoria on 16 March 2006 where I was obliged to prove that Henry and I had enjoyed a life partnership, and that we had exercised a duty of reciprocal care one to the other, as if we had been married, were that legal instrument available to us at the time.

His family and their appointed executor opposed the application. All other respondents, including the minister of Justice, chose not to oppose the application.
I petitioned the Minister of Justice and the Court to declare the Intestate Succession Act (1987) unconstitutional, and to change it to include reference to same sex life partners where spouses were mentioned. This would make the Act consistent with the Constitution, and effectively, our relationship would be legally recognized, I would be declared his spouse, and heir to his estate.

I was successful !! I won my home back, all Henry's liabilities, all the removed possessions (besides his car, still not handed over) and, most importantly, the change in the law which will make it impossible or illegal for surviving same-sex spouses to be subjected to the same nightmarish experience of being ejected from their homes, at the same time trying to mourn the loss of the person they loved more than life.

The support of the press, television, and radio media has been astounding, particularly from far flung corners of the globe _ just doing a google search reveals nearly 10 pages of listings regarding the case, and an outpouring of support from places I never dreamt possible _ with one exception _ the South African Gay/Lesbian press and media.

While the story has been reported on in great detail by the mainstream South African press, "e" channel 7 o clock news (2x!), and every local radio station, there has been a deafening silence on the part of those who purport to reflect LBGT people and their concerns.

South African LBGT people live in the most constitutionally progressive country in the world bar none.

While much is made of the struggle for dignity and equality by "struggle" heroes against the scourge of apartheid, very little is acknowledged by the LBGT minority themselves.

The Intestate Succession Act (1987) which I (with the most able assistance of my legal team) have succeeded in changing, is the last of all the laws that discriminated against same-sex couples. In the last 11 years, all "gay" discriminatory laws have been successfully challenged, including, Marriage, adoption, The Pensions Act, The Medical Aid act, Insurance, you name it.

LBGT people are now acknowledged to be the equal counterparts of heterosexuals in the eyes of the law. (ref my judgement).

My question is this ; do LBGT people care enough about their own lives to establish and cherish what has been done on their behalf by a very select few people ?
Do they even know or value their rights under law in South Africa ?

I know some do, but the massive majority take these things for granted. Next time you're in America or Britain, try and change the law, or even get married (for real!!). See how you do, just as an example.

In the interests of justice, my own lawyers and advocates were prepared to act on a contingency basis. This made it possible for me to pursue the matter without having to find in excess of a half a million rands.

Fortunately, they obtained a cost order against the first three respondents, which, if upheld by the Constitutional Court, will be paid out in another 8 months or so.
In the last 16 months, my legal team (a small two woman practice) has suffered
very real financial hardship because I was not in a position to pay them. I fought this on grounds of principle, and for no financial gain whatsoever, so did they, but telephone bills and bonds have to be paid!..

That's what it costs to change unjust laws _ do people know or care what has been done on their behalf ?

To add insult to injury, the police docket is closed as an "overdose" and Mzwai is still doing the bars and clubs, peddling his drugs with impunity. Who knows how many others may have died?

Predictably, the bar concerned denies and wrongdoing, and continues to trade as if nothing has happened.

I urge the "gay press" in South Africa to pay far greater attention the real issues, which, although less fun than parties, parades and social stuff, are life and death issues won at great cost to us all.

It really is time for each of us to acknowledge how truly fortunate we are.

On the 24 August 2006 at 10h00, 11 Constitutional Court judges will gather at the Constitutional Court, the highest Court in the land, to both consider and confirm the judgment passed by His Lordship Judge W.Hartzenberg in GORY vs KOLVER NO. If the judgement is confirmed, the Intestate Succession Act will be changed in Parliament.
If you cannot contribute to the cost involved, however modestly, please try and be there. If it's not possible or practical for you to be there, at a very minimum, please pause and acknowledge what is happening on your behalf at that very moment.

The complacency must end now.

MARK GORY
gorymark@yahoo.co.uk

From Knobtwiddler: If anyone would like to donate to the legal fund, please contact me separately for details on how.

RANT!!!! Knobtwiddler takes over Radio Otherfunk..

2006-08-15T01:09:00.000+01:00

If you can bear a Knobtwiddler-rant, have a listen... There's some good tunes too!

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Big Chill 2006

2006-08-14T15:23:00.000+01:00

GROUP HUUUUUG!

Big Chill 2006

Well, as per, the Big Chill did exactly what it said on the tin. The usual crew was out in force – Ed, Char, Larry and my good self, as well as new additions to the family, Dawn, Darren, Lynda and Blair. And, remarkably, I actually PAID for a ticket, which is very unusual for me, and you know what? It comes with the added advantage of not having to work AT ALL for the entire time! Why’d I never think of this before?

Arrived late afternoon on Thursday, to find Ed had once again chosen a prime camping spot (good to have someone around who gets there early enough to bag a goodie) and that Char and Larry had got there before us even though we were half be hour ahead of them at some stage. I blame it on my conservative driving since I still don’t trust my beloved-but-ageing car after the last towing incident (God Bless the AA!)

We tried the camping area over the hill this year – a good choice I feel, rather than the easier-to-access-but-tends-to-get-too-busy field we have used in previous years. Only hassle was the distance from the toilets and the rather inadequate number of the same, and for a festival renowned for it’s clean toilets (seriously, the festie site toilets were pretty damn good! One could actually have sat on the seats most of the time, if one had chosen to) the camp toilets sucked ass. Literally. The shit was piled so high in some of them there was a real danger of being sucked in by the vacuum created by whatever bacteria was using up all the oxygen… Luckily there was a nice embankment where a girl could go feel the breeze on her fanny and have a comfy bush-pee. There were pretty impressive showers, though! I’ve never really bothered with getting clean at festies, but now I’ve discovered that the joy of the morning shower applies to festivals days as well as normal days, I’m a convert. The water was warm, there was enough pressure to get the shampoo out of your hair, it’s actually quite nice not to be a smelly person…

ED AND I GET DOWN TO SOME PIE-EATING

As usual, the music was average to middling overall, but a few stars did shine out - Ursula Rucker in particular. The girl gave a performance that could have started a revolution had the audience not all been so, well, chilled… Revolution? Ah. Maybe tomorrow…

URSULA TRIES TO START A REVOLUTION

Friday night Coldcut were fabulous and Sunday Bent were about the best we saw, but hey the Big Chill is less about the actual music than having something musical going on in the background to boogie to wherever your wanders happen to take you.. I like that about BC – Glastos is all about missioning form stage to stage trying to fit as many bands as possible in.. BC is just about hanging out with your mates and happening upon some good music as you go.

Lost Vagueness with their rather silly Wedding Chapel was a bit disappointing, especially after PunchDrunk’s astonishing madhouse/circus/freakshow/asylum last year.

But the absolute highlight of the whole weekend was The Climbing Of The Great Old Oak Tree. After Saturday night’s festivities, we were slowly assembling at home base when Ed bounced up and said “let’s go climb a tree!”.

Ok, yeah, why the hell not? So 6 of us went trooping over the hill again, to the tree Ed had spotted as a good climber. It was. Only needed a small leg-up, and then the rest was easy, the branches growing around the trunk like a staircase. After we’d got up and comfortable, we realised we had no refreshments of any kind, nor music, so the mighty Ed volunteered a trip back to base camp and returned with little iPod stereo thingy, an uncracked bottle of scotch, a good supply of weed and a little baggie with little pink pills in… Needless to say, we got VERY comfy up that tree and spend about two or more hours up there, popping halves, necking scotch, skinning up and chatting to people passing below us…

Eventually even our comfy oak got a bit uncomfy and we headed down, and then up another hill to a public footpath that took us to the most refreshing, gorgeous swim in an old quarry. Superb! Sunday morning was SO hot, and we were SO wasted by this time, the swim was incredible. It did only come after a very, very, very long walk though! Christ, Dawn and I had to call a halt and sit down for a while after getting almost to the top of the hill (the festival site is in the Malvern Hills) for a heart-rest and a joint..

QUARRY SWIMMING ROCKS (pardon the pun...)

The music Sunday night was a bit disappointing – we tried almost all the stages for a last breakneck boogie but it didn’t happen. We did, however, adopt one of our Saturday-at-Fat-Tuesday festie friends for the day on Sunday. CJ and co were of the can’t-stop-dancing types and he kept us all going all day.

CHAR GETS DOWN TO SOME SERIOUS BOOGIEING (sp?)

Superb festival, my fourth, and the best so far.

YAY for the Big Chill!

Couldn't resist this... The Internet Truly is for Porn!

2006-08-09T16:46:00.000+01:00

What I Did Last night

2006-07-17T18:05:00.000+01:00

What I Did Last Night II

2006-07-15T04:54:00.000+01:00

Rome to Paris - My (Almost) and (Actual) Holiday

2006-03-08T17:52:00.000Z

My (Almost) Holiday

For reasons too long to explain (and you KNOW how much I love a LOOOOONG explanation... Brevity has never been the soul of my wit...) I had the opportunity of meeting friend Gilda and a hire car in Rome, both of whom needed to get back to Paris over the course of five days. Never one to turn down the chance of travel (never mind my favourite activity of all, The Road Trip, especially with one of the few people I travel very well with) I jumped at the chance, hit the Ryanair and Easyjet websites and booked virtually cost-free flights to Rome and back from Paris. Virtually cost-free in terms of actual cash, that is, but in terms of pure nightmare travel-hell... Allow me to elaborate (Tim, this is where you can skip to the end...)

I was flying early Sunday morning the day the clocks go forward. So, working the Saturday night I decided it was easier just to stay up and slowly wend my way to Stansted Airport after work, as there was one less hour to kill and I'd get there just about in time for check-in to open. Arriving at work with suitcase and boasts of my forthcoming adventure, my spirits were only slightly dampened by the extraordinarily appalling music issuing form the cheesy-house DJ's dreadful collection. I was also most entertained (in a get-me-out-of-here kind of way) by a certain freak who claimed to know me (not impossible, I always forget the busboys, barbacks and even barmen who've been through Neighbourhood and have embarrassed myself before...). I played along for a while ("so what are you doing now?" etc etc, trying to sound like I care) until he lifted his shirt and rubbed his belly at me... (it wasn't a very nice belly either....) At this point I decided I didn't really care if I knew him ever and spent the rest of the night avoiding him, not always entirely successfully. The belly-rubbing was repeated several times during the course of the evening, but fortunately I get to hide behind a very solidly constructed concrete DJ booth.

I did not, however, avoid embarrassing the headline DJ. I'd seen the posters saying "Kate Lawler", and having heard the name SOMEWHERE before assumed she was some big-name DJ. So when I went up to introduce myself as I always do, I asked if she was Kate. She looked at me like I was some kind of complete fool and was very taken aback. Anyway, it was only an hour later that someone pointed out to me she had only won Big Brother last year... How the fuck am I supposed to know????? I don't watch that shit.... Oddly she turned out to be the best DJ of the night, but that's only in comparison with the crap that went before... HOW glad was I to switch on the lights, turn off the decks and GET THE HELL OUT ON HOLIDAY!!!

After a fairly lengthy but very uneventful sojourn on various forms of early morning public transport, I arrive at Stansted around 6.30 AM. Check-in queue is short, "ROME" is emblazoned upon the jumpy TV screen behind the check-in desk and all is seeming very worth while indeed. Haven't seen Gilda for most of a year, am excited to be on my way to new parts of Europe, the queue is moving and all is well.

Boarding pass in hand (god I love my UK passport! Ta, Steve...) I exchange my weekend's wages for Euros and laugh off the offer of free re-exchange on my way back "Trust me, I'll be spending it all..." and prance through security to find some brekkies in the departure lounge. Since my gate is clearly marked on the boarding pass I neglect to look at the departure information boards and get in a not-overwhelming queue for coffee. Only then do I hear the announcement "Will all passengers on cancelled flight 3004 to Rome please go to Zone F for re-scheduling". Horror creeps up from my stomach and explodes in my brain. Still coffee-less, I fight my way out of the departure lounge to the non-departing Zone F to be confronted with a WHOLLY overwhelming re-scheduling queue (shoulda stayed in the coffee queue a bit longer - refreshments entirely unavailable in Zone F....)

It is now close to 8.00, I've had no sleep and all is seeming Not Well At All. Behind me in the Zone F queue a particularly upper-middle-class accent is launching into complaints mode. Turns out he plays with/drives for/is something to do with Dave Gilmour, whom he is meeting in Rome and "without me there is no show!" Now, I understand his feelings, but, serously, without ME there is no road trip! Like I give a shit! Like Ryanair gives a shit! Like anyone in the queue gives a shit about anything else besides their very own cancelled flight! And, really, if you do need to get someone somewhere in this world with a reliable arrival time, why the hell would you book them onto Ryanair? So the upper-middle-class accent proceeds to make endless calls, waking poor sleep-deprived tour managers etc, asking them to call Ryanair and "tannoy me out of the queue". Poor sod. Naturally no tannoying-out-the-queue happened and he did at last shut up and accept his fate. Don't think I could have been held responsible for my behaviour if he's carried on much longer. Sleep-deprived me has less patience than well-slept me, and that's not much to start with...

AAAANNNNYYYYYWWWAAAAAAYYYYYY. After a coffee-and-breakfast free hour or so in this new queue, my options turn out to be: flying to two alternative places in Italy, both very far from Rome, or the same flight the next morning. Tired, moody, pissed-off and dying for a fag I opt for next morning and run outside for a smoke.

So that means I have to return to London in ignominious defeat for the rest of the day. It's now heading for 10AM and I traipse the many miles to the coach station (Stansted Express wasn't even running, goddamn nightmare Engineering Works on the goddamn line) only to realise I've changed all my money into Euros.... Traipse all the way back to the Bureau de Change, feel a complete idiot and change a bit of cash back into pounds... I bravely tolerated her triumphant smile as she charged me for the re-exchange...

My (Actual) Holiday

So, Monday morning I am once again trawling London Transport at 5.30 AM and this time successfully make it onto my flight. Arrive in a Rome that is gloriously warm, sunny and thoroughly summery. Yet another coach-trip deposits me at Station Termini and there, lo and behold, is my fabulous friend Gilda. How bizarre to be meeting her in Rome! I only ever see her in Joburg. So a quick catch-up-accino later we head onto yet more public transport to go fetch the car. Not bothering to work out the bus ticketing system I get on without one and we meet a Nigerian who carefully explains How Not To Get Caught, and I don't. Very handy. We then switch to a tram and actually buy tickets, but this takes an extra 20 minutes as the MACHINES DON'T WORK! Anyway, this gets us to the car (a cute-enough-for-our-purposes silver Corsa), we consult various maps and then we're ON OUR WAY!

The plan was to spend Monday in Florence (how this translates out of Firenze is beyond me) but since we're now a day and a half late we head straight for Volterra, a tiny Medieval town in Tuscany, where we are to stay with Rachel's aunt and uncle on an olive farm. On the way we pass through Sienna, which we were later told is actually very beautiful, but the parts we passed through prove that all those Johannesburg "Tuscan Villa" developments are not actually that far off the mark... HIDEOUS!

Volterra is a walled city (er... tiny little town...) with no cars allowed in during the day, and thank god we had a hand-drawn map from Rachel's aunt to find our way. Every road seems to lead to Pisa and none to Volterra. We chuckled at the landmarks on the map until we realised that the Esso station with a mirror opposite was actually incredibly accurate and we found our way with very little hassle. Stopped at the (only) supermarket on the way for ingredients and, dusk fast approaching, went in search of the farm. Came round a corner and were totally flabbergasted by the most BEAUTIFUL cemetery - every grave and memorial plaque had a little twinkling light. Soooo gorgeous, and after a very hassle-full couple of days it was exactly the sight I needed, a place so peaceful and pretty.

Still following the map (next reliable landmark, three green dustbins) we eventually make it off the tar and on to a"rough" (sic) road. This is followed by a "rougher" road and, just past the "new house", a "very rough" road... They do say that the best 4x4 is a hire car.... Reminded me of the poster just outside the Kruger Park in SA where the address of a particular restaurant was "Under the Big Tree". So good to be in place where directions don't involve road names or junction numbers!

By now it's just about dark and we pull up to the house with just enough light to see where we're staying for the next two nights and go up to meet our hosts, Jane and Felix. They have the most beautiful, proper Tuscan house, roaring fire on the go and enough cats to make anyone feel at home. A glass of wine is pressed into our hands on arrival. We have a separate little place all to ourselves with giant, shuttered (obviously, WE'RE IN ITALY!!!) windows opening over the loveliest, barely populated valley. The kitchen and bathroom are under the bedroom and accessed by the steepest set of stairs ever (careful when you're drunk, kids!). Used to be a dove cote (or some such animal housing) in a previous existence with little arched ceilings etc. Totally lovely!

Gilda and I cook them a storming meal, and we have a great evening around the dinner table. Our hosts are fabulous company. The grappa comes out and Jane and Felix go to bed. Gilda and I sit up on the balcony and finish the grappa. Then we go downstairs to our place and finish the wine. Then we run out of cigarettes. City girls that we are, we decide there MUST be SOMEWHERE we can get fags at 1AM and jump into our 4x4 and go charging around Volterra and environs in search of that most elusive of things, an open shop. Even the Esso opposite the mirror is closed. An hour or so of fruitless driving later (Gilda is SURE we will find a ciggie machine on a roadside somewhere "there are machines everywhere in Italy!" and I am CONVINCED we'll find an open hotel...) we realise that we are, in fact, in the Tuscan countryside, not the centre of Johannesburg, and retreat to the farm to open the next bottle of wine... We rescue a half-smoked fag from the ashtray and share it's disgustingness.

Next "morning" (closer to "midday") we emerge and go for a stroll around the farm. Absolutely GORGEOUS. It's on the slope of a very steep valley and the spring flowers are bursting out EVERYWHERE... Yellow flowers and white flowers and purple flowers and little tiny blue flowers that shine like little tiny lights when the sun hits them at a certain angle. Just glorious! A while later we pop back into our Loggia for some breakfast (proscuitto, mozzarella with TASTE, vine tomatoes, with TASTE!)

Then we go explore the town. We re-trace all our steps of the night before, park up outside the town walls and walk in - the first thing we find is a bloody fag machine! It hadn’t occurred to us to actually go INTO the town, we thought we’d try the mountainsides instead…

Volterra is the kind of fortified hilltop town where they still religiously (excuse the pun) ring the church bells every hour. A very pleasing habit, except at 5AM. They've picked up some islamic habits round here! No cars allowed, lots of schoolkids, no adults – wondering what do people DO here? Hunt down the piazza for coffee only to find this is the only European town where there is not a single restaurant/coffee bar on the entire central square.

Having just eaten breakfast we weren’t hungry, until MUCH later when we’d been walking for hours, with the day getting colder and colder, when, naturally, everything was closed again…. This siesta thing - thought it was only in hot places. Volterra in March is bloody freezing when the clouds roll in.

We thought it would be amusing to go to the Museum of Torture. It wasn't. The place was filled with genuine torture implements from down the ages, from head-crushers to racks, to starvation cages where people were left to starve until there putrified bodies dripped out, from impalers to spiked chairs, shoulder disjointers to breast manglers, it was a very disturbing experience indeed! Then on to some slightly disappointing ruins in the park on top of the central hill, where we inadvertantly interrupted a romantic tryst... Eventually we give up on food and go shopping instead: I get some tops, Gilda a gorgeous bag. Gilda has pecorino and honey chocolate (mine was just a praline thing but yummy) and we buy a bottle of grappa to replace Felix's (the best grappa we’ll ever taste, according to the suave Italian salesman. He forced us to taste several even though it’s the last thing in the world we want to have passing our lips… I couldn't really taste the difference as I was trying to swallow without tasting anything at all, so just took his word for it and bought the stuff.) Food-wise we resorted to the supermarket again and came home to make carbonara instead… While in Rome... And bought five bottles of the most divine olive oil, hand-pressed on the farm (a decision I was to regret after losing the car and traipsing around Paris public transport with 5 heavy bottles!)

After recovery from a late lunch we headed back into town for Wild Boar and Olives, and met two Italian boys on the way. Bumped into them after dinner again and went for drinks. The first place they took us to was a bloody Irish pub! In Volterra! The LAST place we remotely wanted to drink in, so asked if we could go somewhere else, hoping desperately for some cutesy Trattoria or summat. What we got was the only other open bar in town, the Internet Cafe... Which was less disappointing when we looked through the glass floor and found we were sitting above an ancient artesian well. So that was cool enough, and after one drink and some stilted language-problem conversation, headed home for the rest of the wine (we DID think to buy fags this time...)

Too few hours later and the alarm was going off. We had decided we really MUST be on the road by 9.30. We set off at 12. It was an epic 8hr drive- over the Simplon Pass (through the Alps!) into Switzerland, where we were staying with Olivier (an old Alchema friend) and his girlfriend Caroli. Unbelievable amount of snow, totally glorious with the melt setting in and waterfalls everywhere, including frozen ones! So special. Stopped for snowball fight but way too cold so we were on our way pretty quick. The daylight stayed with us all the way and hit the road overlooking lake Geneva at sunset – so beautiful with sun setting behind mountains that fall straight into the lake. Super special. Met Olivier at “the airport next to the bus station on the main street of Lausanne” (didn’t quite believe it but there it was, an airport in the middle of the city like it was a sports field or something).

Lausanne is a small city without terribly much requirement for parking spaces. But there was a football match on that night and there was NO parking anywhere. Olivier finally spotted the tiniest spot which we laughed at the possibility of fitting into. So we handed him the keys and witnessed the most AMAZING parking manouver (STILL don't know how to spell that word...) EVER! OK, it was about a 20-point turn, but when he finally had it in the space, there was less than 30cm to spare all round the vehicle. Astonishing!

We then settled into a FABULOUS Cheese Fondue (include cherry liqueur to dip your bread in so it explodes in your mouth beneath the cheese) and a good catch up, and took in the beautiful night view over the lake and all the pretty lights around it… Awkward moment (happily resolved) when Caroli kind of asked whether we wanted to sleep together (when are people going to stop thinking I’m gay??????) and Gilda heard in her voice that another bed was actually available, so grabbed it – just as well as I woke at 4AM and read the rest of the night.

Went to see Olivier’s studio in the VERY EARLY morning before a 9AM leave for Paris… Not making the same mistake again...

The studio was surprisingly amazing! I’m so used to people’s bedroom studios that to find a mate who has a live room, a vocal booth, control room (well fitted out), a large lounge area, store room AND fully equipped kitchen, was a great pleasure and surprise. All built by his good self, really fabulous. Very proud of him!

It was absolutely pissing down with rain as we left Lausanne – could barely take in the lake view as it was totally enshrouded in mist, as we emabarked on the least pleasant part of the journey – driving through TIPPING rain on narrow motorways through what just has to be the DULLEST part of France… Verging on ugly it is boring boring boring. Only enlivened by the partaking of a MASSIVE feed at a motorway stop, although not quite a great culinary experience it was memorable in being exactly what was needed.

Arriving in Paris we had to play all kinds of illegal parking games to get anywhere near our hotel. I stayed with the car while Gilda went in to negotiate with the classically unpleasant and nasty Parisienne. She had loads of problems with the old cow and took ages, while I sat nervously watching four (yes, FOUR!) policemen approach the car in a pincer movement. Racked my brains for my Standard 7 French, and managed to formulate a half-sentence about my friend being inside the hotel and please please to give us 10 minutes, and was just practising it out loud when a white unmarked car pulled up and all four cops jumped in and roared away! Saved by the Paris Riots!

Naturally, we totally forgot to fill the car, so started the car-returning process with trepidation – and there’s no petrol available in central Paris (yeah let’s just knock down a couple of grade 1 listed buildings to stick a shell garage in), so we bit the bullet and accepted we could either spend our entire evening losing our way through rush hour traffic to find petrol or just pay the double-price asked by Avis. Couldn’t find the Avis office at first (it was in a piss-soaked alleyway underneath a bridge surrounded by construction hoardings) and when we finally DID, the “estimated cost” of €395 for the ten days suddenly escalated to €750 . 4 hrs late was another whole day’s charge. Ok, fair enough. Then they’d neglected to mention that VAT was not included. Then there was a limited mileage thing, which they’d also failed to mention to Gilda and Joao when they rented it in the first place, and then some random “airport/railway station “ surcharge. Plus the petrol. Anyway. So we resorted to that time-tested method, LOTS OF BEER, to steel the nerves before failing to negotiate our way out of any one of the additional charges… So our afternoon on Paris was spent in a railway station bar and an overheated Avis office…

Walked back to the latin quarter via a quick sqizz at Notre Dame and then had to find an internet café to do very boring bank things to recover from the method we had to use to pay for the extra car stuff, which took another hour’s walking around, after which we could FINALLY relax and enjoy the last couple of hours of being in Paris, in the dinkiest resturant just near the Pantheon. Has exactly 5 tables and is run solely by the proprietor with two guys in the “kitchen” (more like a galley in a very un-generously sized boat). Much free sangria comes your way while waiting for a table, and when you eventually do get one, the wine comes in pitchers, the tables are well-used and rickety, the fare simnple and utterly delicious and the attempts at communication with the proprietor hilarious and incredibly good-natured with more free Calvados at the end. So damn fantastic! Made all the avis nonsense worthwhile and I found myself forgiving Paris.

Attempt at and early night (1AM) and another 5AM alarm clock to experience, once more, the pleasure that is Easyjet…

The strange world that is low cost flight travel – I quickly zipped past the elegance of Charles de Gaulle main terminals and into the shed at the back with low cost flooring and bare light bulbs. Low cost staff, massively over-eager security check (first day on the job) and a wide selection of exactly one (naturally overpriced) café with not even enough French pride to serve a fresh pain au chocolat… Get what you pay for I suppose! Even the announcements are done in a stumbling bumbling manner, even the French ones...

So, a MASSIVELY enjoyable holiday - thanks muchly to Jane and Felix and Olivier and Caroli... And to Gilda who had to do ALL the driving since we never managed to get me insured...

Institute of Groundskeepers Show at Windsor Racecourse

2005-09-10T15:52:00.000+01:00

Well, once again a simple job turns into a mini adventure…

I find myself in the English countryside (verging on idyllic were it not for the sounds of the motorway nearby) in an area that has genuine bunny wabbits chasing each other’s tails through daisy-and-buttercup-filled meadows, narrow country lanes etc etc blah blah blah. I find myself working at the Institute of Groundskeepers Annual Exhibition, looking after the speeches in the “Main Arena”. I think the maximum audience count was about 30 today (seating provided for HUNDREDS…) Average age of exhibitors and punters about 95, about three other women on the entire site. It’s an exhibition about grass cutting machines and sports surfaces and tomorrows debate (it lasts three days) is “Natural Turf v Artificial Turf”. Yup, greatly interesting if you happen to run a racecourse, but hey, I don’t.

It’s all “happening” (I use that word with great sarcasm) at the Windsor Racecourse, and thanks to the exhibition, and Windsor being a really touristy town, the ONLY accommodation I was able to find at short notice was at the not-so-local Youth Hostel (12 miles away and nothing resembling public transport).

So I booked a “private room” (at huge expense in youth hostel terms) and made my way after a 2 hour hair appointment that turned into four hours (yes I redid the extensions, this time found myself an African woman who sewed them in instead of the hideous glue that failed last time, but on African Time) in a panic trying to get the last train that gets anywhere near this place.

Finally got to the hostel just before it closed down for the night and was shown to my “private room”. It was simply a dorm that I had to myself, so six bunk beds and no-where to sit. Nevermind, there were the tables and chairs outside in the dark country night. It is really quite beautiful there really, in the middle of woodland, very little in the way of light, owls tewitt-tewoo-ing. Seems the hostel culture is an early-night one, and everyone else was in bed by 10.30, and with the nearest pub a mile and a quarter’s walk away, I decided to go to bed too. I have to say that this is the earliest I’ve been to bed since I can remember. Something about being in the country with no light or noise, and no television, makes it quite easy to do.

Turns out the Youth Hostel is on Millionaire’s Row out here in the country, and I have since walked passed the house of the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne. The one whence Sharon’s jewels were stolen and he had the quad bike accident. There are massive dark gates (with devil-like spikes on them) and big notices up about 24 hour surveillance with direct links to the central police station etc etc. Apparently Noel Gallagher lives round here too.

Day Three:
Anyway, so the exhibition is, on this, the third day, hotting up. Today’s topic for the lunchtime debate: “Playground Insurance and Inspections: Don’t waste Your Money”. I can’t wait! And I’ve just witnessed the demonstration of a new-fangled grave-digging machine. Thrills are abounding…

On the other hand I have had quite a nice time after hours. You leave the exhibition site by boat, with glorious views of Windsor Castle, then, after 2-3 hours of wrangling with public transport (mostly waiting for it, not actually being on it, so shopping can be fitted in in-between) to the nearest village, there’s the half hour walk down past Ozzy’s house to get back to the hostel. Since the weather has been perfect, the stroll down the single-track country lane has been wonderful – although yesterday I hit country-road rush-hour, which is actually quite terrifying. There are no pavements and the road really is a single track and people scream down these tiny roads in their very expensive cars and near-accidents between cars coming in opposite directions are frequent, and I had to choose several times between nearly being run over and jumping into a bramble bush (Famous Five stories come to mind – I was wanting to make beds out of heather and tarpaulins. I was just missing Timmy the dog.) I chose nearly being run over every time.

Tour Diary: Hood

2005-07-10T15:29:00.000+01:00

THE BIGGEST DESK I HAD ALL TOUR

THE LITTLEST DESK I HAD ALL TOUR!

Left home fairly early after a after a failed trip to Wales with The Bug (thanks, Clutch Direct) and missioned by several means of public transport to The Lakeside shopping centre (a monstrosity of chain stores) to meet the band, who were driving from Leeds. I was wandering around, trying to find something edible (for less than a tenner) in the place, when Chris called to say they were waiting for me in the parking lot. So, carrying my laptop backpack, my gig back over my shoulder AND my clothes bag (I’m going for two whole weeks, I’m GOING to take sufficient potions and creams to make myself feel better after not enough sleep, and that gets heavy – although not as heavy as it gets with the left-over beer rider packed in!) I set off to meet them. Little did I know that the architects of the place conspired with evil corporate chain stores to not let you out, ever. True as, I could not find the exit! I consulted several of the You Are Here maps, and followed the trail perfectly, only to find the exit was non-existent and the maps were part of the plot. Eventually I begged two girls handing out pamphlets to tell me the way out. They seemed to understand my predicament immediately and pointed me through a fire exit that led out through a loading bay… It was really terrifying being stuck in there, especially knowing we were cutting it fine for our chunnel-train-drive-on-stay-in-your-vehicle-only-toilets-at-each-end-of-the-train-the-queue-too-long-to-contemplate-45-minute-mind-boggling-yet-uncomfortable-trip-on-a-train-under-the-sea booking. But I worried unnecessarily – various members of the band were equally trapped, some having gone in search of a toilet, Gaz in search of something to relieve the immense pain he was feeling from the night before…

Back on the road and the tour actually started for me. Got to Folkstone to do the chunnel thing, and I was very excited, images of Eurostar comfort in my head. Was mildly disappointed to find you just drive your vehicle on in a long line behind the many, many other vehicles, and then sit in it until you come out the other end. No glamour at all. None of that pint-on-the-ferry action at all, but it’s seriously efficient! It’s some ridiculously short time in a dark tunnel, like half an hour or so, and you’re in Calais, off that little British island and onto a continent I have explored too little. Very excited about seeing three new countries and new parts of ones I have seen (goddamn I wish they’d stamp your passport sometimes – although not after visiting a Dutch city, that would be just too scarey).

Another several hours later and we’re lost in the tiniest of Belgian villages, trying to find this festival we’re playing at. It’s so small we’re convinced for a minute there must be two towns of the same name, and we’re at the wrong one. Now, we’re travelling in a Sprinter spiltter van. It’s very long and it’s a fairly acceptable shade of dark blue, and it looks comfortable at first glance. But trust me, reclining seats would be a nice touch, and it has a stereo too difficult to work and the ventilation in the back is poor. It is also very difficult to manoeuvre around hamlets whose roads have not been widened since mediaeval times.

After many semi-helpful hand gestures from the friendly natives, and the first of many calls to promoters for directions, we arrived at the Rhâââ Lovely Festival in the minute human settlement of Fernelmont.

And it was lovely – non-profit group of the nicest people on earth putting on this festival in the church-hall-cum-primary school of this teeny village, with a marquee for a second stage and camping facilities and everything. We were pampered from the start, Fred checking up on us all the time, good food, accommodating vegetarians properly (four of the band are veggie - a concept not truly understood in Spain, we were yet to discover…) and what appeared to be a very sufficient supply of Silly beer. Note to self: stash beers if you’re headlining. There’s NEVER any left when you get off stage.

So we whiled away the hours, waiting for our turn on stage. Durutti Column were on before us, and seemed to not get the whole idea. As far as they were concerned, it seemed, they thought this was THEIR gig, and just played on, and on, and on, and on… At first everyone was excited to see old heroes do their thing, but it turned out sounding like a bunch of kids in a music shop trying out guitars. And apparently they were really snooty and insisted on four star hotel accommodation while everyone else spent the night in an old farmhouse (smelling of shit, and with rubber (??) sheets, granted, but it was a non-profit thing and the farmhouse certainly LOOKED fabulous. Horses and everything).

The gig itself was a bit scarey for me. We officially had a 40 minute soundcheck just before we went on, but what with DC noodling away for hours and the crowd getting more and more impatient (Belgian beer is VERY strong and makes people shout very loudly…) it turned into the most cursory of linechecks and then we were on. Not having seen the band for a month didn’t help either and my nerves were a bit frayed. Things settled in fine, though, and the crowd were rapturous and I got my confidence back and all went as well as was possible under the circumstances.

After just about no sleep at all (we were leaving early for Berlin and someone had magicked a case of Troublette Beer – gotta love the Belgians – back to the farmhouse), Fred (who actually hadn’t had any sleep at all) woke us up with coffee and croissants and sent us on our way. “Just to the end of the road and turn left, you’ll be on the motorway”. Yeah, right. After 45 minutes of fruitless driving around (and around) the motorway constantly in sight but no means of actually getting onto it, we bit the bullet and went down a no-entry, one-way-in-the-opposite-direction slipway and were on our way.

After another long ol’ drive, Berlin arrived. Not sure if we were in East or west Berlin, but either way it was not the most inspiring city to drive through. Dull, lifeless block after block of characterless apartment buildings, not helped by it being a Sunday and not many people being around. Found the Magnet Club (Best Club in the World, it was decided later) easily enough (thanks Andreas for impeccable directions) and were met by the friendliest and most helpful people in the world, in close competition with the Belgian lot. Turns out Falko is a close friend of Joao (they played in a band together) and so knows Gilda really well and all! Seriously small world!! Couldn’t believe it! So, had the honour of seeing Joao’s ex-band play, sadly without him, in their native environment.

The Hood gig went extraordinarily well. The crowd were fantastic, they had to come on for a second encore (this happened quite a few times on the tour - European crowds are just so much more enthusiastic than UK ones) and after the Best DJ in the World played a set of great magnificence – including a Hood track, which freaked Chris out a bit, hearing it loud on a lovely system, sitting by chance in a perfect stereo sweet spot. It was an incredible experience, actually, hearing it like that. Changed the way I saw the band, anyway. Left-over Troublette Beer (by now re-christened Trouble Beer), Berliner Beer and a spliff courtesy the DJ helped.

The hospitality was impeccable. Welcome snacks on arrival (much needed after the endless drive from Belgium – UK promoters TAKE NOTE!!!) and endless beer and various forms of soft drinks (NOT Tesco’s own brand…) and a decent Thai meal later in the evening. The hotel was pretty decent too, three to a room and own bathrooms, nice and clean etc. Good place to stop if you’re in Berlin, called the Transit Loft (and conveniently located a mere two minute’s walk from The Best Club in the World).

Next day we got a small lie-in, and then it was my turn to brave driving the van. It turns out to be a doddle to drive on the motorway (it even gets up a pretty decent speed) but a bloody nightmare to manoeuvre in small European streets. Still, I did the drive to Hamburg happily, and after being stuck in small Red Light district streets (bloody one-ways!!!!!) for only a short time, we arrived at the tiny Salle St Pauli venue. We were well early, but were in need of a new kick drum. The Berlin guys sent us to a specific drum shop, but we couldn’t get a response on the phone, so Steve (drummer) and I went on a mission to find another. Seems it’s difficult to buy single drums – drums shops only want to sell complete sets. Three drum-shops later (with cab waiting outside, dashing us from shop to shop) we persuaded one to give us a good discount on a whole cheapish set and we dashed back to the venue. Besides the concern about unnecessary expenditure (not that we had a choice, it was the whole set or nothing) it was a nice sounding kick and I was very happy to work with it.

Again we were treated very well and had lots of snacks and beer and a good pasta for dinner, and the show was great. No support or anything, so the small stage didn’t need to be re-arranged at all (thank goodness) and it sounded fantastic. Almost everyone really enjoyed the show, except Chris who was so cramped he couldn’t bend down to pick up his guitar lead when it came out mid-song. Apart from that, though, it was an excellent night: the crowd was incredible and one guy who’d been at the Berlin show appeared again – and begged them not to make him wait four years to see them again. It also being my birthday, we all went out on the town for a beer or several. It’s a funny old area – lots of over-dressed prostitutes (jeans and puffer jackets seems to be the uniform, even though it was warm) and dinky bars all over the place. And then it was home to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hotel, an institution with individually decorated rooms and smelling-of-piss shared bathrooms (Europe does seem to have a sewerage problem...) Gaz and I had the Greek Room, Rich and Chris shared the Honeymoon Room (big red hearts, netting over the beds, pictures of Liz Taylor and various husbands on the walls) while Steve and Mark had the best. They had the honour of The Jungle Room – gold satin sheets, dark green walls, a real stuffed baby crocodile on the wall and a giant jungle-flower lampshade.

So. A good night’s sleep later we were off to Utrecht in Holland. A very long drive later we discovered our thus-far impeccable directions led us to the venue from Amsterdam (north) while we were coming into the city from the west. Mapless, we called the promoter who directed us quite well (we only had to do one impossible 3-point turn) until we were within sight of the venue. At this point we were faced with a narrow one-way street in the opposite direction to the way we needed to travel. But the Dutch have got it right (god I love the Dutch!! Not only do they produce the best looking men in the entire world, but they live really sensibly!) and there’s almost no vehicular traffic and we just thought, fuck it, go down the road. It worked, we came across neither traffic nor police, and we were at the Venue.

Ekko is a great place. Very nice sound system, extremely helpful, friendly and patient in-house sound people, and I had a brand new, first-time-out desk to use. Dinner was sauerkraut (with bloody great horrible bloated raisins in it, which I naturally fished out with extreme care), fried potato balls and some fold-over cheese thing. I enjoyed it, but poor Richard hated it – he’s a veggie who doesn’t really eat many vegetables. He suffered more than most for something to eat the whole way. We even had time to go for a walk through the falling dusk – Utrecht is a very attractive city. A smaller, cleaner Amsterdam (with convenient, if less ubiquitous, coffee shops and pretty canals) and a city I think I could live in.

Yet another sensational show, and ridiculous merchandise sales later, and we were given a print-out of how to find our hotel. So following these accurately, we came across some serious roadworks that blocked the way almost immediately. We pulled over to contemplate our situation when two guys on bikes actually stopped (WITHOUT our asking them) and offered to help us. Again the Dutch impress! When was the last time a Londoner ever OFFERED to help anyone??!!?? So with new directions in hand we were off. Found the hotel easily enough and then Chris and I spent about 45 minutes trying to park that bloody great big van in those bloody teensy Utrecht streets. No easy task, I assure you, and we ended up leaving it poking out halfway across a street, but had no choice and certainly no desire to search any further. After all, there was a nice bit o’ Thai stick and some local Dutch Orange to try out!!

The hotel was adequate, no shared bathrooms, but the shower/toilet/hand basin room occupied about the same amount of space one normal toilet would take up, so it was impossible to dress in there (slightly awkward for me, sharing with blokes all the way) and the whole bloody room gets soaked as soon as you switch the shower on. At least it didn’t smell of sewage… Still, it was a good bed and I certainly needed one by the time I got into it.

Next day we set off for the Domino Festival in Brussels, on what was to be the first zig of a really silly zig-zag between Holland and Belgium. We were playing the Ancienne Belgique, a purpose-built arts venue with dressing rooms the size of a small studio flat (internet laid on) and a fantastic hot dinner in the canteen – (hot dinners were to become scarce later on, so forgive the obsession with food). The venue was fantastic tech-wise, great equipment, excellent monitor engineer, and everything just worked. There must have been over 300 people at the gig and it was pretty sensational.

We then returned to our fabulous Sheraton hotel rooms where the linen was crisp, the pillows plentiful and the shower, well, perfect.

The main shower head had two settings: Shower and Massage. There was also an additional shower-head, the loose type you use to wash your hair, and the tap for filling the bath. I had the main one on Massage (and it really WAS a massage) as well as the secondary shower on, and, all the while apologising to future generations for using up far more than my fair share of water, proceeded to pummel myself with jets of water for much longer than was necessary to get myself clean. It was perfect, and I slept the sleep of an innocent babe with all that bed-linen action going on…

Breakfast was of the same standard as the shower – ridiculous, in fact. I drew the line at getting my personal waffle prepared for me (but only ‘cos I’d over-done the buffet already). We only had to check out at 1PM, but, as luck would have it, we actually had to bloody leave, for Holland again, at 11, so had to tear ourselves away from all that heavenly luxury – Best Bed in the World, Best Shower in the World and Best Breakfast in the World… Sigh…

And so we hit the same road we’d travelled the day before and zagged back past Utrecht up to Haarlem.

Now Haarlem is the prettiest little town, all cutesy canals and mediaeval bridges, but the venue wasn’t the best. Again everyone was lovely, but the room was an odd shape, the mix position was far too close to the stage for my liking and the monitor engineer didn’t really understand the requirements of the band. The venue manager was great, though, and was one of the people I liked the most the whole trip. We also played after a proper Jaaaaaazzzzz Band, and a lot of the audience were there specifically to see them and so left after they played. We ended up with had a small audience in a difficult room, with bad monitors… The first show that was just plain Not Great. But after 5 incredible shows I guess we had to have a downer…

Still, we had hotel rooms the size of apartments, and enough beer and Thai to console ourselves (my room even had a balcony from which to peer down at the locals cycling home on those cutesy Dutch bikes with no gears - it’s no lie that the Low Countries are low – and listen to the church clock chiming the early hours of the morn.) The shower, while warm and with enough pressure to get the shampoo out of your hair, simply did not match up to the pleasures of the night before… But at least there was plenty of space in the bathroom to get dressed, unlike the previous Dutch hotel.

So after an adequate breakfast (again it paled into insignificance compared to the morning before) we once AGAIN took the same road we’d done twice already and zigged south again to Belgium, to pretty, quaint Brugge.

Another purpose built arts venue with excellent facilities (including “people” to unload the van) and the most enormous stage that just made me want to do ballet on it (I did try, to everyone’s horror). We had a wonderful DnB system and I was very happy after the soundcheck. I did have to laugh, though, when one of the local techs came and asked me if we wanted the stage raised! Seems it has the ability to move up and down as per request.

Dinner was fabulous – we were taken to a very good restaurant and had excellent Thai stirfries and some seriously cheesy four-cheese pasta and yummy cherry beer (gotta love those Belgians again! They’re so damn good at beer!)

After dinner I took a turn at manning the merchandise stall for a while, and had a real giggle at one couple. They only spoke French so I had to guess, but from what I could figure out, the guy was a HUGE Hood fan. His girlfriend was obviously being introduced to the band and he was taking her through the merch, album by album, playing air-guitar and air-samples as he went along. He then made her go to a cash machine and they returned to buy four albums and a T-shirt. About twenty minutes later they were back AGAIN, and he made her buy ANOTHER CD! I think it was a pretty new relationship, as she obviously wanted to be impressed by him, but by this last purchase she was seeing an obsessive side to him that she probably hadn’t seen before – poor girl hadn’t even seen the band play yet!

From my perspective the gig went very well indeed – that DnB rig was just sensational, every nuance of Chris’s voice was clear as a bell and I was very excited afterwards. Unfortunately the band didn’t enjoy it as much (again the monitor issue was at the forefront - it’s very difficult to explain the band’s unusual requirements to a monitor guy with whom one doesn’t share a language) but the audience certainly loved it.

More tiny streets and difficult parking ensued, before we got to our hotel. We had been asked to check in before we arrived for soundcheck, but since we were late and had got stuck in traffic (and hail and snow) on the way in, we’d gone straight to the venue instead. So the promoter had organised with the hotel for the keys to be left in an electrical box just off-street. Bizarre way to check in, but the hotel was quaint as anything. Each room was completely different – one had two rooms plus a bathroom, Gaz and Mark were stuck with a good room but a bathroom across the hall, while mine and Steve’s produced the Most Disappointing Bath in the World. It was Big! It was Deep! It was accompanied by a Giant Bathroom! But it took about an hour to run an inch of water (making so much noise I was sure I was waking the entire hotel) and then it had this funny indentation in the middle, so the part you actually sit in was shaped like an egg-timer. This doesn’t appear to be a problem until you actually get INTO it. The narrow bit just seriously restricts your washing action and doesn’t let you splash that inch o’ water over yourself very easily.

A truly disappointing experience, especially when measured against my bath at home and a long line of good showers… The real sheep-skin mat did kind-of make up for it though, along with the bright pink monogrammed sheets.

Next morning we had to head for France at 7.30, so bloody missed breakfast, which was only served from 9.00 at the patisserie round the corner. When you want a late breakfast, they stop serving at 9.30, but when you want an early one for a change, they don’t serve TILL nine. Goddamn. And all those lovely pastries! What a thing to miss…

Still, we did find one place open so managed to bag some croissants and coffees (and merely drooled at the chocolate selection) and jumped aboard for France. Another long, long drive. And after all those pretty little Dutch and Belgian canal towns, it was a shock to the system to get into a real city again (Mulhouse – no I’ve never heard of it either. It’s near Strasbourg) with shady characters and bloody ROADWORKS!!! They seem to be digging up the entire bloody Europe. This is not a phenomenon reserved to the UK. Bizarrely we were staying at the Bristol Hotel, which was one of those places that look very luxurious when you walk in, all marble foyers and everything, but you notice the lack of the last two stars when you take off your shoes and the plush-looking carpets turn out to be about a millimetre thick. Nevermind, I had a single room all to myself and it was nice to have just a few minutes of space and time all for ME.

The gig was in a very odd venue – strange shape, sound system looking (and sounding) like it had spent many a year in muddy fields at illegal raves, and a dinky little stage. Being a Saturday night it should’ve been busy, but what crowd there was just seemed to dwindle as the night wore on – and we were only on at 11.30 or some such late hour. And while dinner was yummy (hot stew and couscous, lots of cheeses and breads, quiche, fruit etc) the beer supply was terribly short of the usual European standard – 6 large bottles between 6 of us! THAT was gone long before the show… Still, the show went well enough and Matt Elliott (an old friend of the band’s) and Chris Cole (Manyfingers) were also playing (they’d been at the Rhâââ Lovely as well), so we had new blood to chat to, and it was a late one before falling into my lovely lonely bed. Except that the bed was freezing and there were no spare blankets, and the shower, tempting though it appeared, only warmed to a luke-warm temperature after about five minutes, thus only serving it’s cleanliness purpose, and not it’s more important function of getting one cozy and warm enough to sleep in a cold room on a cold night. The night was peaceful enough until the hotel phone rang. The only way to shut it up was to knock the receiver off the hook (I got such a fright! The noise had to stop IMMEDIATELY!) Trying to think through the fog of I-Need-More-Sleep, I explained the situation to myself as Richard having organised a wake-up call for us all. So I spent the next five full minutes fighting with myself to stay awake, eventually forcing myself up. At this point I checked my own phone and discovered the time to be 05.49. Fuck knows why the phone had rung, but that feeling of being allowed to go back to sleep should be bottled and sold. Reminded me of the time, on an archaeological dig when I was at university, that I’d woken up thinking it was dawn (it was getting light on the other side of the ridge) and since it was my turn to get up and make the morning fire, I convinced myself it was time to get up and so set about collecting wood, making fire and getting the coffee on. After a while it was lighter, but the colour of the light was all wrong. Turned out it was the bloody MOON rising, not the sun! By which time Annalize had crawled out of her tent and we got the 5 litre box of wine out of it’s hiding place (nice try, Professor) and drank until it really was morning. I wasn’t very good at my job next day, it has to be said…

Anyway, so after another hour or two’s sleep and a tolerable breakfast, we all gathered in the lobby being very annoyed with Rich for taking forever to get down, after telling us all what a hurry we were in. Twenty minutes later he ambles in, poor guy having been locked in his room! He simply couldn’t get the door open (well, that’s his excuse anyway. Me, I suspect a catnap.)

And on the road once a-bloody-gain. And this time to Grenoble (which I have actually heard of…)

So. Another long drive, interspersed with a game of footy or two at the petrol stations (only excercise we got all fortnight. The routine was this: sleep (or read for ten mins before falling asleep) in the back of the van. Almost total silence. Stop for petrol: pile out and run around after a football like fools for 10 minutes. Pile back in. Chit chat for 5 minutes. Read. Fall asleep. Hours can pass in this manner.) At one stop, a new member of the band was acquired: Bella! Oh, what a glorious sight! So proud! So noble! She looked so good on the dashboard!

I woke up somewhere close to our destination and was blown away by how gorgeous it was! Grenoble is built in a valley where three different mountain ranges meet, and there was fresh snow on the higher areas. So pretty! Only spoilt by hideous French city-building. They do have some of the ugliest outskirts of towns that I’m aware of. Great big old warehouses with great big old signs and billboards everywhere. Or maybe French cities are no uglier than any others, it’s just that the ugliness is exacerbated by the beauty of the surroundings…

We were playing at the university, and although the welcome and hospitality were again second to none, my heart fell through my shoes into the floor and down to hell beyond when I met my nemesis… er… mixing desk.

I was in digital hell. All I had to work with was this dinky little Yamaha 16 input desk, that I’d never seen before, am thus not familiar with and so was terrified to use. Complicated by the fact that my babysitter was also not familiar with it, and we had about two words in common, I was not confident going into the show. And my worries proved to be very founded… With an analogue desk, every button, knob and switch you ever need is right there in front of you. With digi desks, it’s all pretty much menu-based and you need to press two or three buttons in order to make a generic button become the button you want it to be. And those buttons are all in different places on different digi desks, and called different things, and each digi desk has it’s own protocol for the user interface, so although the functioning is similar in all, it’s not intuitive AND I BLOODY HATE THE BASTARDS!!!! So, while I kind of got away with the front of house sound, the stage sound was appalling. Sorry guys…

The hotel was in town, near the restaurant we were taken to for dinner. Note to self: when in France, make sure you actually SEE the local delicacy before ordering it. Never forget their penchant for raw meat and offal… Anyway, the Hotel de l’Europe was an interesting, somewhat aged building. Chris, Gaz and I were sharing, and the ‘corridor’ leading to our room was actually a skywalk. A narrow strip of flooring that made a bridge over the four-storey drop below us. Something like what Frodo et al had to cross in the mines of Moriah. Only with less fire beneath (there was a very noisy cage full of budgies, but they were hardly the scarey types…).

So Mark (who’s room was on the ground floor) stayed for the by-now obligatory left over beer rider/spliff consumption session (it was a worry by this time that the party room and my room always seemed to be one and the same) and we planned his spider man-like escape leaping from balcony to lower roof top etc. He was convinced he could do it, and while I was humouring him, I also kept one hand at the ready to grab him just in case he did actually decide to try it… Our balcony was rather special though, with view up to the mountains, with an old fort and everything, and down to the cobbled town square, with huge fountain and everything. Really rather pleasing. When it finally came time for Mark to try find his way home (it took a while to convince him that his room really was on the ground floor), he bravely stepped forth into the internal workings of the Hotel de l’Europe. The last we saw of him was the taking of a wrong turn… No-one knows how long it took him to get home in the end (not even Mark) but it appears that somehow he did actually make it, because he appeared all showered and pretty in the morning.

Grenoble was the end of Phase Two. So far the whole thing had been organised by Andreas. Phase Three was Spain, organised by the mighty Jesus. He’d also organised us a driver, French bloke by the name of Cedric (and a fine driver he was too), who came to meet us at Grenoble so he could drive us to Bilbao the next day.

And so, to Spain! A ten hour drive with a deadline: you HAVE to check in to Formula One hotels before 10 PM, or you need the credit card the booking was made with to open the door. Since the credit card the booking was made with was not one that belonged to anyone in the vehicle (don’t think there’s a credit-worthy one amongst us), we had to get there on time, and so were cutting it fine by only picking the gear up from the venue at 12.00…. nevermind, with Cedric at the wheel we could all relax a bit and get some extra sleep.

Being in a van as much as one is on a tour like this, there is a certain limbo-land that you sink into where time is a bouncy, flouncy, unreal thing; and all the popes dying and wars being fought and royals getting married are not part of your reality but that of another planet. On Planet Blue Van, these things are irrelevant, and all that counts are toilet stops, the next sandwich and that god-awful vending machine coffee. You forget there is anyone else in the whole world except for the seven people in the van, and your frame of reference comes to exclude all things outside the tinted windows…

So when we finally found our Formula One hotel with a mere three minutes to spare, Bilbao (or Bilbowels, as I came to fondly call it) was a shock to the system. Now Formula One’s have never been an example of State of the Art luxury, but SURELY it is possible to improve them just a teensy bit? Oh, please, God of Hotels? I imagine most people have had the misfortune to stay in one of these, but in case you haven’t (or have removed all trace of the experience form your memories) allow me to describe:

The rooms are the same price for 1, 2 or 3 occupants. There is a double bed (definitely not even a queen size) and a single bunk above it. The single bed is not made up, and you have to do this yourself. I’m not averse to making my own bed, but seriously, to achieve this feat you have to be about two foot taller than I am. To tuck the sheet in on the far side, you either have to be 6 foot 6 and stand on the double bed to reach, or (if you’re five-one) you have to stand with left foot on the ladder, hold yourself up on the side of the bunk with your right hand, right leg swinging free, and try manipulate sheets and blankets with your left hand. I’d rather the beds were made when I got in, myself…

And then there’s the ablution facilities… Toilets are self-flushing (every time you open the door, so when you enter and when you leave) and everything is moulded in one unit with handsoap, hand dryer and toilet paper tucked away in moulded compartments. The showers are equally made-in-one units, with a half wall between the actual shower bit and the ‘dry’ bit to change in. Except there are no hooks to hang your clothes on (and the showers are in the corridor opposite the rooms, so you really do have to get dressed) so everything has to go on the floor, which gets wet, ‘cos the half-wall doesn’t really block off all the water. So once you’ve manouevered yourself into a position to start actually showering (it takes ages to get the logistics right), you press the tap head and water comes out. For all of twenty seconds. Then you have to press it again. And again. And again. It is a VERY unsatisfying experience to shower in this stop-start manner! Although the water was warm, the colours were not inspiring, the round-edged moulded plastic interior quite un-fetching and then there’s the muzak… Whoever decided to pipe this stuff through (at great expense, no doubt) should be put up against a wall and shot. Cos not only is the music unbearable, they overlay tweeting birds on top! Un-fucking-believable!

Transkei New Year 2004/2005

2005-01-10T15:43:00.000Z

Hey all, adventures have been abounding. I’m now back in Pretoria at my parent’s place, so prepare for stories…

Having left Brixton at 1PM, spending three very bored hours in Athens airport, meeting my parents for a coffee at Johannesburg International, then jumping into friend-Henry’s car for another 11 hours (at one point driving between two electrical storms, one on either side of us), I finally arrived at Khululeka in the Transkei at midnight the next day after a 36 hour trip. It was a real head-spin, but there we were in lovely warm weather, having driven through some seriously rural Africa, under glorious stars and a rising mostly-full moon, the last 9 kilometres turning into about 30 (we lost our way in the dark on the dirt roads, Henry’s car gallantly taking on what may have been a doddle in a 4x4, the instructions to ‘keep left at the fork’ being misinterpreted - they did NOT mean turn off the nicely graded dirt road as soon as you see a crummy, potholed, not-nicely graded road-that-ends-in-a-river turning off to the left, they actually really did mean wait till the nice road forks into two nicely graded dirt roads and THEN keep left…) but there we suddenly were in a place with no mains electricity, candle light only, a complimentary pot of very pleasant local pot happily making the rounds, friends Gilda and Joao to meet us and a local Amapondo band (including 7 dancers) playing. What a fantastic arrival! It was pitch dark by then so we didn’t really have an opportunity to inspect the general surroundings, but just before I eventually went to bed I walked round the back of our thatched round traditional hut (to partake of the complimentary pot in a solitary contemplative fashion), and there was this spectacular, lush, green, tropical valley bathed in the light of an almost-full moon and I found myself being very, very pleased to be there.

Woke in the morning to an even better surprise. The stoep (veranda) of the main house has a view directly over the mouth of the Ntafufu River, with the rolling hills obligingly dipping down to reveal the wild, utterly undeveloped river-meets-sea bit and my breath was duly taken away. The ‘resort’ (it resembles no other resort you’ve ever been in but I don’t know what else to call it) sleeps about 24 in total and is run by a family who also have a house there. Most accommodation is in the main building, which also has a nice big kitchen and pantry, a huge dining/lounge/party room and the aforementioned stoep. There are then another three traditional huts and a bed or two in other areas. They also have a large boma (covered area that has only one real wall, the rest is open with a low wall) a bit away from the rest and this is where you braai (barbeque) and just hang about drinking beer and talking late into the night… In front of the main house is a terraced lawn area and then it turns to tropical jungle all the way to the sea. Rainwater is collected in a dam, which is used for showers as well as a covered collection container, which is used for drinking. It’s the only water I drank while there and it was delicious, and washing one’s hair in rainwater is simply amazing – so SOFT after London’s hard limescale-filled nonsense! Two other friends of Gilda, Johan and Mignon, were also there and Gerolf (one of the owners) suggested we all go down to the sea. Naturally we jumped at the plan, but you cannot drive all the way, you only go as far as a rickety jetty some way up the river where the ‘ferry’ meets you. But he can only take 4 (we’re told) and since we were six, two will have to walk and we will find someone down there to ‘guide’ us. It’s a lovely walk! proclaims Gerolf. Sounds great! we reply.

So we get to the jetty and see the ‘ferry’. It is a rather small row boat and there is absolutely no way four can fit in, so the lads all volunteer to walk and the girls take the boat. But the ferryman only has home-fashioned oars, which are extremely heavy (you could build a house with this timber if you had enough) and the width of the wide oar bit was, well, very narrow and thusly totally impractical for any kind of speedy rowing. We’d also been told that it would be nice if we walked a bit further down the river bank to the last place it’s possible to then get on the boat, as it is quite far down the river to the sea and it’ll make it a bit easier on the ferry guy. So we did, and this is where we found two little local kids (can’t have been more than 5 or 6) who we all thought were the ‘guides’ and said cheers to the boys.

Squishing through mangrove roots and thousands of little tiny crabs we girls finally manage to get onto the boat and the ferry guy starts rowing. Very slowly. Well, he was actually rowing quite fast, but our progress was extremely slow. Which wasn’t a problem, really, as it was stunning to be in the middle of this huge river with both banks completely unspoiled and no sign at all of human intervention besides a few fishermen on other boats. We were admiring the millions and bazillions of different coloured crabs on the banks when we went close enough and generally having an adventure. But it was really slow going and we began to feel sorry for the ferryman so Gilda and I took a turn at the oars. It was really hard work but fun and we got some distance behind us before we handed the oars back to the bloke. Of course we did not have a mutual language either, so sign language was the order of the day. After we’d been on the boat for over an hour we were laughing and saying how the boys must have been there for ages already and wondering where we were (we had the water and supplies).

Eventually we get to the river mouth, which is quite silted up, so jumped out at a sandbank telling the ferryman we would walk back, not to worry about coming to fetch us. Later we were to be very glad he did not understand us…

After leaving the boat we realised we had to cross bits of river in any direction we chose to go and had no idea where to look for the guys. So we chose one bit that looked VERY deep until the local we thought was standing up to his neck in water turned out to be kneeling. There were about 6 other people around in this vast area of sandbank/river mouth and it was so calm and peaceful I cannot describe it. Having successfully negotiated the river we climbed over the dune to meet a herd of long-horn cows just chilling on the beach. A whole herd, lying there in the sand, chewing their cud as though the world belonged to them. Which, round there, it pretty much does. There were a couple of kids keeping half an eye over them (they weren’t going anywhere, trust me) but no sign of our lads. So we decided to go to the end of the promontory and cross the river again to get to the beach proper as we’d seen some life there in the distance, maybe it was them. So we strolled around the edge and as we came over the hill, there they suddenly were, trying to cross over to our bank at the place we planned to cross to theirs.

It took about a second to realise they were NOT smiling and had, in actual fact, only just arrived. The 10-15 minute ‘lovely walk’ ended up being a two-hour bundu-bashing session with no path whatsoever, mangrove swamps, thick jungle, chest deep pools, thorns, mosquitoes, snakes and every other thing you’d like to imagine in a tropical jungle! Turns out the kids had absolutely no idea where they were going and, being five, could easily go where three adult men could not. The only reason the guys knew they had spotted a snake at one point was when they suddenly disappeared in the direction they’d just come from. They all had nasty scratches, torn and bleeding feet (they were all wearing flip flops) and swore they were taking the boat back, no matter what.

Luckily we’d brought enough water and plenty mangoes (from the several wild trees growing in the grounds of Khululeka) so we had a munch and a laugh at our various adventures and then headed out to the beach proper. I cannot remember being anywhere more beautiful. It was hazy and overcast (but very hot) and the beach is completely and utterly unspoilt. Not one piece of litter, not even anything washed up by the sea, and by this time not a single other human being to be seen. It was incredible. Huge dune behind us covered in thick vegetation, fantastic wild waves crashing all around, and just us alone in the world. We had an excellent swim for the longest time then headed back to our promontory in the hope our ferryman would re-appear. Fortunately he had not understood our instruction to leave us there (or else knew we would regret the decision totally and stayed anyway) and he valiantly rowed around to come fetch the first three. This time the river had risen with the tide so he rowed us round the sand bank (we wished we’d walked as it took half an hour in the boat and we could have walked it in under 5 minutes, but again communication was a problem) while the three who were waiting for the second trip watched our painfully slow progress with no-doubt sinking hearts, knowing it would be at least two hours till they saw him again…

Again we couldn’t let the poor guy do all the work (he was really very thin and didn’t have a spare bit of body fat to burn) so Henry and I took a turn and then Henry decided it would be easier on his own so I sat back and enjoyed the trip. We passed very close to a fisherman and his girlfriend with a speedboat collecting bait for the next day, and Mignon smiled nicely and asked them could they PLEASE fetch our ‘stranded’ friends out at the river mouth. They said they would but we didn’t see them leave (we rounded the next corner very shortly thereafter) so we weren’t sure. After the ferryman FINALLY got us to where we could walk again, we tried to communicate to him to not go back, but since we were walking and there was a mangrove swamp between us and the river we didn’t know if he’d understood. We walked back to the jetty and kicked back there to await their arrival. After a very long time (in speedboat terms) we started to worry about where they were. I then went out onto the jetty and hailed a different passing speedboat (complete with little terrier standing on the tip of the bow, ears flat on his skull from the wind) and explained the situation and speedboat man agreed to go have a look for them, but about 2 minutes later they arrived – they’d been fetched immediately but then waited for the dude to finish collecting bait before he brought them back. Apparently they passed our rowing boat guy who had started on the way back to fetch them and he was just all smiles when he realised he didn’t have to go back…

So, adventures all round.

And that was just the first half of day one.

Dubai

2004-09-10T14:54:00.000+01:00

DUBAI 14-16 September 2004

So the Stateside Hombres dragged me to Dubai. Kicking and screaming, of course. No, really, I was, the moment I strolled into Heathrow Airport, nicely on time, the required two hours before take-off, and realised I hadn’t brought my passport with me. It dawned on me as I was approaching Zone C check-in. I think I did actually yelp, and while kicking myself was a bit difficult while running back to the tube station, I’m sure I did slap myself about the head a few times, before screaming down the phone (what did people DO before mobiles?) to my flatmate to PLEASE PLEASE get my passport from my room and meet me at Green Park (why didn’t I say Hammersmith? By the time I thought of a sensible station to meet at, she was already on the tube…) An agonising 16-stop journey later, I meet Edel at Green Park, the Angelic One clutching my passport, and an even more agonising 17-stop (there’s an extra stop at Terminal 4 in this direction) journey back (complete with calling the check-in desk every two stops to update them on my location), I finally get back to Heathrow. I call the check-in desk, sprinting as fast as I can with heavy bag thumping around my shoulder, as soon as I have signal in the airport and she tells me to stop running, they’ve closed the gate. I’m too out of breath to cry and stumble into the completely empty check-in area when MIRACLE UPON MIRACLE!!! “they’ve been held up for another reason! Get on that buggy and they’ll drive you to the gate”. God bless the invention of the wheel – the gate was MILES away and the little buggy is so cutesy and travels so much faster than an unfit me with heavy bag in tow. I’ve always wondered how you get to be driven around on one of those, and now I know. They have a cutesy hooter too, which makes people jump… Tee hee… If I hadn’t been so desparate to get on the plane I might have enjoyed the trip.

As it happened I rushed onto the plane only to meet Stu, one of the band, hovering at the door undecided as to whether he was getting on the flight or not. Now it is already 10 minutes late, and as I get to my seat, my triumphant arrival is somewhat spoiled by Stu deciding to GET OFF the plane at the very last minute – he’s left his asthma pump behind and doesn’t want to risk going without it. So he gets off, and the plane dithers another 20 mins before it takes off. We thought nothing of the extra delay at the time, but little did we know…

The Gulf Air flight was almost empty, so all remaining 8 of us (down from the usual 11) got to stretch out and sleep luxuriously on several seats each, and woke up to sunrise over the Saudi desert. Sunrise was spectacular and once it was light, all you could see for ever and ever was sand and more sand and more sand. There are tiny little human settlements every now and again, all very symmetrical and very modern looking, and quite often there are big black circles in the sand. I assume they have something to do with oil, although they didn’t look like any form of liquid, and some had slices out of them like pie-charts. The desert is also cut through by very long, very straight, very lonely roads, and then there’s just more and more sand. Only two colours are visible- the (sand coloured) sand and the (blue) sky. Very annoyingly we had to change planes in Bahrain for the final leg (less than an hour) to Dubai. As we approached landing there was more evidence of human activity – more perfectly symmetrical, modern looking roads and developemnts, and what looked like a highway of pipes, I’m assuming for oil, but they seemed a bit exposed, especially in the current climate. It was also 32° celcius at 7AM.

Leaving Bahrain we flew out over the sea, where the desert dunes seem to continue under the water in great big sand banks that turn the water several shades of blue and green, truly beautiful.

Landed in Dubai minutes later and soon realised that not only were several suitcases missing from the bulk, but also ALL the instruments. Guitar, bass, snare, kick pedal, Milf’s records… Blaming the airline for being crap, we wait another hour or so trying to trace the luggage when it comes to light that all the missing items are still in London. When the band checked in, all the luggage went in under only two names. One of these was Stu, who had decided to get off the plane. Naturally no airline is going to fly with luggage belonging to a passenger who has got off at the very last minute, so the extra delay was due to them having to find all the luggage under Stu’s name and TAKE IT ALL OFF!!!!!

Eventually we get to our hotel, which also has the club we’re due to play at that evening. Luckily there is a house covers band that have been playing there for the last five months, and they bent over backwards to help us, and lent us all the necessary instruments. Bless them, they were really, really helpful! So after lunch we all dispersed for a while until our four o’ clock soundcheck. Well, we might all have dispersed but not all of us came back. Chalks (bass) had failed to take note of the fact that we had crossed a few thousand miles and was still on London time. Slept through attempts to rouse him and strolled in at “4.30”. Which was actually 7.30, by which time we’d given up and soundchecked with the house bass player instead (I did resist the temptation to mention that even if it were 4.30, he would still have been half an hour late…)

By the end of the soundcheck my heart had sunk to severe techy depths. The mixer was ON the stage, behind the speakers and right next to the bass amp. So not only did I have no idea what it sounded like out front, but any sound at all was obscured by the proximity of the bass amp. The venue was called the Rock Bottom Café, which could have been a Hard Rock anywhere in the world, and so audience space was kind of inbeween tables. So while I could easily jump on and off stage during soundcheck, I knew this would be very difficult during the show (and it was). Also the mixer was upright against a wall (I HATE mixers being placed like that. You just KNOW the sound was an afterthought..) and consequently had every lead hanging down over the knobs in swathes of jungle-like cable-overgrowth. I ended up tying them up into pony-tails to try access the channels I needed behind them. Soundcheck was pretty stressful – the room was very poorly EQ’ed and I was not confident at all going into the show. But as they say, bad soundcheck, good gig, and the old adage was proved correct once again (I do have faith in it!)

We were out there for the venue’s 8th birthday party, and the line-up for the evening consisted of a number of DJ’s (all playing a hideous collection of chart hits and student stuff) interspersed with the house band “Solidaz” (bunch of Kiwi’s all decked out in their gold and silver disco suits in honour of the occasion) and later the Statesides. They were also giving away free drinks to ladies (something called a Bullfrog – disgusting concoction of tequila, gin, vodka, barcadi, blue curacao and red bull) and people were seriously pissed from a fairly early stage of the evening. The gig was fabulous in the end, even if I was very stressed (I really struggled to get out front, and was mixing on my knees with a bass amp in my left ear) and everyone LOVED it. The audience was entirely made up of western ex-pats who do, pour souls, seem to be pretty desperate for good live music. They occasionally get the superstars out there, but not a reglular fix of smaller bands. The only entertainment, it seems to me, is drinking and shagging. There’s no drugs, just cigarettes, alcohol and sex. The Kiwi boys (who live in the hotel) organised a huge party in our honour (or that was their excuse, anyway) after the club closed at 3AM – tons of JD, lots of random hangers on and ridiculous debauchery. In true rock’n’roll style it spread out over three floors of the hotel and ended sometime after breakfast had started. Me, I forget what time I got to bed, my last memory being being swigging out of a port bottle with one of the Kiwis. I was VERY grateful to find myself alone in bed when reception called at midday to wake me up… Mikey gloatingly pointed out that I had commented (much, much earlier) that he was pissed… At least he remembers…

Luckily a buffet lunch was being served at about the time I made it downstairs and a bit of good food and bad coffee stopped my head from spinning too badly and I managed to get across the road to the shopping centre to buy a pair of trainers I’d been eyeing the night before. Dubai is weird. Inside, you could be anywhere in the world. There’s almost nothing to point you to the fact you’re in either a desert or an arab country. The air-con is too cold and everything is western in the hotel. But as you walk out the door you are slammed by a solid wall of heat and humidity. The air is almost wet. Risking life and limb to cross the 8-lane road, you’re inside again – an air-conditioned shopping mall that, once more, could be absolutely anywhere in the world. In fact, almost everywhere I went I felt like I was in a brand new airport.

Later in the day we were treated to a beach resort at a $1000-a-night hotel and driving there took us through a large part of the city. There is absolutely no sense of history whatsoever. Everything is brand new, and the landscape is completely and utterly flat. There is not a mountain, hill or even a mound in sight – it is all flat, flat, flat. There is almost no greenery (I guess it is a desert, after all), only sand sand sand (and concrete). The only things that rise above the flat (and rise they most certainly do) are the ultra-modern buildings and towers of various sorts. Seems in all that space, upwards is the only way anyone wants to build. In fact, they have started construction on what will be the highest building in the world – when it’s completed in 2007 it will be something in the region of 740m high. Yep, that’s _ of a KILOMETRE up into the sky! Real bugger if the lifts don’t work! They’ve also started work on “Dubailand” which is basically one mother of a shoppping mall – it will cover 2 BILLION square feet when it is complete, and “The Palm” group of man-made islands (in the shape of a giant palm tree big enough to be visible from space) is being complemented by “The World”, another group of man-made islands in the shape of the world map. Each island will be purchasable for private occupation and will be themed according the part of the world it represents. The world’s first underwater hotel is also on it’s way. Seems the place is so damn full of money all they can to is build the first, the highest, the best, the biggest. I find it all quite sickening, actually.

The uber-posh beach resort we were sent to was right next to the 7-star hotel that looks like a sail . There are two hotels in this one resort and at first we were at the wrong hotel (security were getting a bit edgy, we didn’t quite fit the usual description of 5-star mega-monied guests) but eventually got sent off to the right one (we weren’t, however, allowed to use the water taxi on the fake Venice-like canals) and were ushered through “Are you the band?” “Oh, the band! Welcome!” etc etc. Our only bit of glamour for the day… Of course it’s always foolish to mix the riff raff with the hoy paloy and a certain member of the group (who shall remain unnamed) had to be asked to stop putting the waiter’s tray (on which drinks were served to all on the beach) down his shorts. This was after he’d tried bribing the unbribable waiter to let him take it home (we found out later, on the plane, that he had in fact successfully managed to nick an ashtray…)

The sea is about as warm as the air, but at least there were quite good waves and the loveliest breeze was blowing, and as the beach wasn’t very busy and the drinks were very expensive, the afternoon passed without too much incident in a lazy, sunny, hungover, beachy kinda way. Only mishap was Milf’s brilliant idea to go swimming with three hundred dollars (US) in his pocket. The sea got a good tip… After watching the sun go down we all trooped back through the posh, plush, ridiculously luxurious hotel. The aforementioned but unnamed tray thief took it into his head to smuggle a hotel towel out, and stuffed it down the front of his shirt. This pregnant look flumouxed the staff, who all just looked confused, and he got passed almost everyone until we got outside to get a cab. At last one security dude had the sense to question what exactly it was that he had stuffed down his shirt. Don’t think they’ve ever been confronted by the likes of The Stateside Hombres before!

Back to the shopping centre over the road from our hotel, where Nugsta bought his FOURTH pair of trainers in two days (he has a separate suitcase just to pack his trainers. Worse than any girl I’ve ever seen, he had four suitcases and bags for a one-night trip! And as his was one of the sets of luggage that only arrived just as we set out to the beach, he’s naturally HAD to go shopping to buy something to wear on stage…). Dinner in the airport-like food hall and then we all gathered in reception to drink sambucca shots and argue about who owed what on the mini-bars that had been plundered the night before.

After sorting all that out (it took a while), we piled onto the hotel bus to be taken back to the airport. All was just going so well, when Babbat couldn’t find his ticket. No way were they checking him in without it and panic ensued until someone intelligently thought of calling the hotel to ask them to look in his room. After the second phone call to check if it was there they eventually did send someone to go look, and there it was, sitting snugly by the TV. The Gulf Air guy chased the rest of us through while poor Babbat waited outside for the hotel driver to bring it to him.

Luckily the driver found him easily and Babs came sprinting through at the last minute and once again disaster was averted by a matter of minutes.

So, two near plane misses, a $300 donation to the sea, a ludicrously silly party, a great gig and a bunch of lost luggage later, we were back on our way home. Amazingly, no incidents worth writing home about happened on the way back, and it was only when looking through my bag for my passport at Heathrow that I realised I’d been carrying a dirty, smelly, much-used hash pipe through four sets of customs in two arab countries… GULP! Remember kids, check your bags for offending items before you leave home!

Barcelona & Sonar 2004

2004-06-10T15:47:00.000+01:00

Barcelona Tales

Leaving London is always such a good thing to look forward to, until you face the hell of getting to Heathrow by 5.30AM. Not being one to waste valuable holiday beer money on over-priced airport cabs, I have devised various methods of getting myself on early planes over the years, but following on the tail of a 26-hour gig, this time was particularly unpleasant. Still, I did get myself there, and taking in the grey skies and distinct November-like chill in the June air, I think I would have done another 26 hours without sleep just to get somewhere where summer takes itself seriously and fulfils its warming functions with pride, dignity and a sense of self-worth.

Needless to say, summer in Barcelona does just that, and a much happier sky awaited me there. First glimpses revealed Barcelona to be a city encircled by hills, the blue skies only mildly marred by the fog of city pollution that nestles cosily within them. The trip into town is very easy, taking only about 20 minutes, and I got chatting to an English girl who was meeting up with friends for a week. Now I am the kind of traveller that hates to be identified too easily as such, and therefore hide in toilets/corners/remote areas before pulling out a map. I almost never ask for help and would rather traipse around unnecessarily for hours than be revealed as ignorant of my environment. This girl (never got her name) was the opposite. She had her giant map completely open, destination and current position viciously circled and was struggling in a very American Tourist fashion with a suitcase that must have held clothes for two months. Since she was sitting next to me, I managed a good tube-stylee over-the-shoulder-read of her map and got to Placa de Catalunya without any unnecessary traipsing.

The main reason for being in Barcelona at all was the Sonar Festival of Advanced Music and Multimedia Art. Not working this one, just playing. As the name may or may not suggest to you, this is a festival of largely electronic music and visuals, that ranges from the very experimental and highly chin-strokey in the day, to full-on raves at night. Sonar is not the usual camping-in-a-field hippy-dippy-crusty festival. Sonar By Day takes place in and around one of the contemporary arts museums (don’t ask me which) just off the main drag on the old city, La Ramblas. There are at least four stages that I remember, three outdoors, one indoors, and a record fair where labels/industry people have stalls and do business. Unfortunately for the poor stall holders this was in a basement and so unpleasantly hot I kept well away (and I’m really on the wrong side of a mixing desk to deal with this side of the industry anyway). There are also the requisite bars, inadequate toilets (will any festival ever get this right?) and thousands of people milling about in a bright, bright, sunshiny day mood. Sonar By Night is in a completely different place, in an industrial area that is quite difficult to get to if you can’t find a cab, and trust me, there is a business opportunity for someone here. THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH CABS IN BARCELONA! Someone, please go get rich and sort some more goddamn cabs out! Anyway, this is out in the styx ‘cos it goes on till 6AM and a big portion of it is open to the lovely clear skies.

Checked in to my just-about ok Hostal room (it’s amazing how my standards drop when I’m paying for my own accommodation) and picked up my “accreditacion” (that’s a pass to all events) with ease, being treated like the VIP I always knew I was. Then found friend Joana and we did the only thing there was to do right at that moment, which was find a little table at a lovely tapas bar, on a Placa surrounded by old terracotta Barcelona buildings (and modern Barcelona graffiti), sun twinkling through the shady trees, a random and very beautiful sculpture of a little boy kneeling down, totally absorbed in what he’s looking at on the ground, and order in ice cold cerveza, gazpacho, and yummy snacky tapas. Perfect!

After a tour of the extensive Sonar By Day facilities (and not having to stand in the very long queue to get in (it always serves to have the magic pass (thanks, Jo))) we went for a cup of tea at the home of Georgia, who is one of the people who make Sonar happen, where Jo was staying. Our route, though, went via the Boqueria Market, and I had my first sight of this wonderful place. Beautiful brightly coloured fresh, fresh fruit and veg, everything the right size and colour, no weird treatments to keep them fresh, and meat stalls and fish sellers and lots of hams and chorizos and cheeses to die for. I really wished I had self catering accommodation, as it would have been wonderful to buy stuff to cook there. Next time… There are also little tapas bars dotted around and the fruit stalls cut up all kinds of fruit and sell it in boxes with a fork, so you can eat it as you stroll. This turned into a daily ritual. Café con leche and really really really fresh fruit for breakfast! Now that’s a good way to start a day. Also started another daily ritual of a glass of freshly squeezed kiwi juice. You gotta try it!

Leaving Jo to chill at home, I went for an explore down La Ramblas. This is a pedestrianised street, where cars are barely catered for, and is like many a touristy stretch with café after café and souvenir stall after souvenir stall, but it also has flower sellers and bird sellers and a huge number of human statues and artists selling their wares. Everyone’s hustling for a buck and range from being really crap to really quite OK. The only street performer I ever gave money to was a puppeteer who had the cutest marionette frog playing a grand piano. He was excellent, and required a bit more practice than painting yourself gold and posing as Che Gevara (what a way to make a living – all that paint and make up in a Spanish summer) so he got my Euro…

Down the sea-side end of the Ramblas was something a bit special. A bunch of Tibetan Monks were “making” (not sure what the verb should be here…) a Mandala. I was absolutely awestruck by the patience and beauty of it, never having heard of this before. What happens is they set up a raised square, about 16m2 and have chants playing inside this Tibetan tent. There is a template drawn out on this dais, and a monk works all day, sitting cross-legged, filling in the design with brightly coloured powder. The design is incredibly intricate (and every little thing has symbolic meaning) and I think they remember the colours to use by heart. They scoop some powder into a long thin brass conical thing, with a hole in the end and a serrated top-side. They then use another conical thing to rub across the serrations, which makes the powder flow out in a very controlled way, and they use this to colour in the patterns. It is astounding to watch, the tiniest details, and they never make a mistake. When I first saw them at it, they had completed the central square metre. I checked up on them daily, and by the time I left Barcelona 8 days later, they had done the next 6 inches all the way round. There was a LOT more to do! And apparently, when they’ve finished it, they have some kind of ceremony and then sweep it all away. Something about remembering the transience of all things. Not sure on the details on this, someone with a bit more knowledge of Buddhism, please feel free to inform me!

A further stroll towards the sea took me to the statue of Christopher Columbus, pointing out to sea. He’s supposed to be pointing to America, but symmetry required him really to point to Libya, but I’m sure no-one is much worried by that. He stands atop a column, something like Nelson on Trafalgar Square, but this column is really over the top. The decoration is extreme, almost to the point of kitsch, with Angels rejoicing, laurel wreaths in hand, divine beings playing trumpets, frills, curls and other sillinesses, and a Don Quixote look-alike sitting at the base in an uncertain pose. This passionate, emotional and utterly Mediterranean column does contrast rather favourably with the grim, austere and disciplined, stiff-upper-lip column that Nelson stands on!

There is a cable car that runs from one of the hills closest in to town (Montjuic) to the beach. It has a couple of towers along the way that you can go up, even if you don’t get on the cable car. Saving the actual ride for another day, I went up the central tower just to get a good look at the city. And what a view! Sea on one side, city on the other, you can see the streets marked out by lines of trees, and see all the landmarks. Gaudi’s half-finished Sagrada Familia Temple stands out tall among the city blocks, as well as several other towery buildings that are not quite so attractive. Barcelona is building it’s answer to London’s gherkin building, and phallic as that may be, this one bears even more of an unmistakeable resemblance to, well, a rather large willy. Phallic symbols are obviously not a feature consigned to the stone-age past. So with views out to sea, and over the city, the tower rocking gently in the breeze, I spent ages up here, just looking looking looking. And noticing that sirens round here sound like pee-pah pee-pah horns, rather than weeeee-oooooh weeeee-ooooh wails like London. I notice this because Brixton Police Station is round the corner from my house. It is a very busy police station. So busy, in fact, they have no time to investigate crime. Instead they send out wailing cars out every few minutes and probably just drive round the block a few times to look good. And to be able to say they’re really busy investigating bigger crimes than the ones perpetrated against me. (Do I sound bitter?)

On my descent it was time for the England v Switzerland match, which I watched in the company of some Swiss. They were touchingly honest about the crapness of their national team and took their 3-0 thrashing with admirable good humour.

Just enough time for a quick shower and scrub up and then the Sonar Launch Party. Used to walking just about everywhere when I’m away, and having checked my map (in the privacy of my room), I figured it was close enough to get there by just after midnight. Roots Manuva was due on at 00.30 (none of this namby pamby 2AM closing time rubbish in Spain, even midnight is relatively early to arrive at a venue). Naturally I wore my cutesy new shoes. The walk turned out to be horrendously long and very uninspiring (most of it was through deserted industrial estates) and when they laid out the modern bits of the city, they decided to go for a grid system. Nothing wrong with that in itself, but instead of just having nice square blocks, they cut all the corners off. So instead of walking a nice straight line down the pavement, you have to walk all the damn corner bits as well (see my nice red line!! That’s me walking!). And so my pleasant evening stroll was horrible, ugly, long and my feet were in un-danceable shreds by the time I got there. At about 1AM.

But all was made up for once inside. The performances were running late and I got there just as Roots came on, with a full backing band which is apparently the first time he’s performed with one. They were ace and I had an excellent time. Then hooked up with Joana again and met a few cronies with whom I then spent the rest of the evening.

The venue, Razzmatazz, was fantastic, really big dancefloor with bars down either side and a wide balcony going all the way round. There was also another flight of stairs that led up to a huge outside terrace, where I spent most of my virtually crippled time. Late into the night Vitalic came on, and we made the effort to go inside only to be rewarded with disastrous sound. My guess is Vitalic was doing something odd the crew were not prepared for, cos the rest of the night the sound was perfect, (he had enough electronics on stage to do many strange things) but it was pretty damn ugly. Took them ages to sort it out and kinda killed the set for me. So more terracing until time to go. The utter lack of cabs was ridiculous but it was so late the morning Metro was already running so we got one of the super-efficient Barcelona tubes home. Quote of the night from random clubber: “it IS 1992 and I AM 25…”

Next morning I checked out of Shit Hotel No.1 and went to meet Charlotte. Now Charlotte is a friend of Joana’s who I had never met before. She works for Soma Records up in Glasgow, and I had co-incidentally done sound for one of their bands at Neighbourhood a few weeks before. At that gig I met Dave from Soma and we struck a deal for Charlotte and I to share a Not-Shit Hotel room for two nights that the company would have to pay for anyway. So first time Charlotte and I met was in the hotel lobby, and we clicked immediately. After checking in and chilling and getting some lunch we headed for Sonar By Day. After losing each other and Jo and frustrating attempts to find each other in the crowds and heat, we made an executive decision to head out and save ourselves for Sonar By Night. So took a stroll down the Ramblas, checked in on the progress of the Mandala and stopped in at an exhibition about Micronations that was also part of Sonar.

Now that’s an interesting one, people who’ve declared their own teensy nations. The Principality of Sealand, for example, is an old man-made island fort thing in the middle of the north sea that was used as a fort in WW2. Looks kind of like an oil rig but no towers. They have their own passports (apparently recognised), postal service (with the collaboration of Royal Mail) and the guy in charge (the self-proclaimed Prince of Sealand) occupied it in 1967 and runs a functioning economy as an internet service provider. Apparently you can go visit. Strange. Weather probably sucks, though. Check it out… http://www.sealandgov.com

Other Micronations are less physical, there’s the State of Sabotage, and a nation called NSK which is apparently a State in Time. There’s also one which lays to claim to all borders as it’s physical land. Very odd, and I wish I’d got more info. Something to google when there’s nowt else to do…

Had pleasant dinner at trendy restaurant then went back to hotel to crash and gather strength for the long, long Sonar By Night ahead… A Kevin Costner movie dubbed into Spanish (a great improvement, actually, you don’t have to listen to his inevitable god-awful Truth, Justice and The American Way speech) hastened our exit out the door and after hassles getting a cab we finally made it Sonar By Night. Skipping the vary large riff-raff queue (as is only fitting) Charlotte and I met up with Joana who greeted us with the words “you gotta come check out this PA!!!”

First room we went into was the main room. A super-giant hangar-like building. Stage at front, bumper-cars at the back (sore knees!) and inbetween a pretty damn fine sound and light show. The PA company got this one JUST RIGHT! The sound was perfect. I would have expected it to be Wembley Arena-like in there, but it just WASN’T. It was clear as a bell and perfectly under control. The lights (and slightly retro lasers, but hey, you gotta love lasers! Especially on that scale) and projections were just as excellent and I was gobsmacked. Straight to the bar for refreshments and more friend-making, then a quick look in at the outdoor stage before adopting our weekend-long spot at the left front stack. Danced the proverbial night away to Mr Richie Hawtin (looking like something out of a gay Hitler-youth porn flick) and Ricardo Villalobos and Matthew Dear. Charlotte and I tried to make our escape around 5AM, ostensibly to avoid the cab queues, but only managed to emerge at 5.30 by which time everybody else had the same idea. It was only at this point that I noticed there was a third huge hangar-like room in the complex that I hadn’t even realised was there.

So we followed the directions of a local working the gates to try find the train station. He actually sent us in completely the wrong direction (go OVER the bridge! He said. The cab driver we finally found almost an hour later said it was actually turn RIGHT at the bridge.) Now I didn’t believe Charlotte (who grew up in Madrid) when she’d said earlier that day that the Spanish will often just say anything to get you out of their face when you ask them directions or tricky questions. Now I do. It did actually happened more than once – cab companies, cab drivers, security people, hotel concierge’s, shop assistants all lied (blatantly and with a lovely smile) to me at some stage. Just to get me out of their hair, and in some cases, I suppose, to have a laugh.

When we got back to the Not-Shit Hotel around 6.30, we were absolutely starving. Breakfast was to be served 7-11. Acknowledging with no guilt whatsoever that there was absolutely no way at all we would make it up before 11, we decided to sit out the half-hour till breakfast started. After only partially succeeding to stay awake on the couch, at precisely 7 we pounced on the dining room. The staff were NOT impressed ‘cos they hadn’t actually finished preparing everything yet, but we felt a fuck and climbed into an excellent breakfast. Only thing that was rubbish was the very lukewarm tea. WRONG!!! AND there were no tea & coffee making facilities in the room. What’s THAT about? Even the crappest hotels in the UK have some semblance of tea/coffee making in your room. Anyway.

Saturday afternoon we dragged ourselves out of bed around 1.30. The weather was dodgy so Charlotte cancelled her beach plans and came with me to Park Guell, which is the park designed and built by architect and genius, Antoni Gaudi. Originally intended to be a utopian community, he only ever built two little ginger-bread houses and it became a public park instead. It is on the slopes of a hill and so has various levels and the whole place is just an explosion of fantasy. Imagine some rich dude turns up on your doorstep and says, “here’s a large amount of money. Please build you wildest dreams on this nice bit of hillside”, cos that’s pretty much what seems to have happened here. Nothing is ever just a straight line or just a surface or just a colour for this man. Every inch of every little thing has colour, texture, unusual angles and innumerable other unlikelynesses. Quite over-awing, actually. There is an open placa area that is edged by a very famous, very long squiggly bench covered in mosaic, where we stopped for a bread, chorizo and manchego cheese picnic. Even the simplest food in Europe is gorgeous. No formed-from wafer-thin, water-and-cereal beefed-up ham here. Why the UK tends to eat in such an Americanised, formed-from pre-packaged convenience-food way when we have Europe on the doorstep is beyond me. On our way to catch the end of Sonar By Day we were waylaid by an exhibition of photographs of Salvador Dali and his wife Gala and friends, and so never made it. It did, however, inspire me to decide to get out of Barcelona for a day later in the week and go to the Dali Museum in Figueres. What a character, and you can just see in the photo’s how much he and Gala loved each other.

Having made plans to meet up with various people for dinner, we swung by our not-shit hotel for a couple of hours before heading to Barceloneta (the dock/beach area) for a very, very fine, non-touristy paella. Half way through a very civilised dinner, the city goes completely mad! Fireworks then more fireworks, ocean liners tooting their horns (I’m sure they’re not actually horns, and I’m sure one doesn’t ‘toot’ them, but I don’t know what to call them), cars on the road hooting. All echoing off the surrounding hills. And just when you think it’s all about to stop, it all carries on instead. Must’ve gone on for about an hour! On asking the waiter what it was all about, he said it was a celebration of the summer solstice. ‘But that’s only in two days time!’ we exclaim in wonder. Waiter shrugs and says, ‘so we start two days early’ as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. I LIKE these Spanish! (Catalans, really, but for purposes of ease and simplicity, I’m just gonna call them Spanish.) Muchos Fiesta!

After another endless, interminable and very very frustrating wait for a cab, we got to Sonar By Night JUST as Massive Attack came on. Once again the sound was perfect and we adopted our left-front-stack position. For me the show was perfect. I’ve only ever seen them live once before, and although there were moans about vocalists having changed, for me it made not the slightest little bit of difference. The songs were all there and beautifully executed, so I was just the most happiestest bunny.

Carl Cox had done the dirty at the last minute and cancelled, so Miss Kittin took the stage instead and did a fine job of keeping us on our feet before Jeff Mills took control. I popped in to the other hangar for a quick peek at Kid Koala, but it was a bit slow for me in there so immediately returned to the main room. We’d arranged to go to another party in town around 3AM, so said goodbye to Mr Mills and headed off. Luckily at this time people were still arriving so there was the occasional cab around, and outfoxing the cab queue with a smart (let’s wait on the OTHER corner) manoeuvre we were dashing into town quite quickly. After 10 minutes in the very very over-crowded way-too-hot venue, however, I packed it in and went home. Couldn’t face trying to keep a group of three people together in the crush, and Massive Attack were so good I didn’t need any more, so went back to the not-shit hotel to soak in a hot bath and re-live my day. Lovely.

Sunday, and Sonar was officially over. I think I like this Thurs-Fri-Sat festival thing (as opposed to the Fri-Sat-Sun thing) as you get a long lazy Sunday to recover. So after a long, lazy Sunday get-up (neither of us remotely made it for breakfast) Charlotte and I checked out of the lovely Not-Shit Hotel and I checked into Shit Hotel No. 2, which was more of a prison cell than a hotel room, but at least it was clean and had a balcony (albeit such a small one that if you lean on the railing your arse is well inside the room). Charlotte was on her way home today, so we met for long, lazy Sunday brunch of tapas, fresh orange and café can leche. And when the Spanish say ‘Fresh Orange’ they mean just that. They squeeze it in front of you. Unlike ordering ‘fresh orange’ in an English pub, where you get some hideous bottled thing ‘made from concentrate’. A big moan I have with the UK. Although the opposite can be said of milk. Europeans seem to actually LIKE UHT milk. What’s THAT about? People prefer it because ‘fresh milk goes off’. Weird.

So, after sad farewells to my new friend, I spent the rest of the day high. Really high. I took both the cable car trips, one up Montjuic and the other from another part of Montjuic across to the beach. Went and sat on top of the castle on top of Montjuic and did one of my very very favourite things to do: sit on top of a castle on a hill and watch the ships go by with the wind in my hair (Lisbon and Istanbul also have this wonderful facility). The Mediterranean Sea is indeed very pretty to look at, all those shades of blue, but it really is a bit of a boring old sea. No waves to speak of and it barely even smells of the sea! It’s a big warm puddle, but a very pretty one. The Castle itself houses an incredibly uninteresting collection of military artefacts and some mange-ridden wild cats. The best part (apart from sitting on top of the world) is the actual cable cars. They are open-sided, seat four, and you have to be all responsible ALL BY YOURSELF and not fall out. In the UK there would have been all kinds of disclaimers, instructions on how to sit down, seat-belts with more instructions on how to use them and the sides would have been glassed in with un-openable windows. The more I think about it the more I think joining the Euro and becoming more European would be an excellent thing for the UK. The current tendency towards American mental attitudes is not the way forward in my opinion.

The beach being a bit not-the-nicest-beach-in-the-world, I didn’t stay long and got the bus (did I mention that the tubes and busses are AIR-CONDITIONED!!!! What an absolute pleasure. You don’t have people’s sweat rubbing off on you as they shuffle past to exit the bus. Another thing London could well take note of. It is obviously NOT impossible to air-condition the tube) and went back to my cell for a pre post-Sonar party nap and to watch Spain v Portugal.

Bit sad that Spain lost (was hoping for a Taksim Square style celebration when Turkey beat Japan in world cup) but nevermind, and headed off for the party. Jo said to be there at 11. I was fashionably late and got there sometime after midnight, by which time there were about 10 other people there, none of whom I knew so got myself a stiff rum and coke (it is cost effective to drink spirits in Europe, I have discovered. 3 euros for a beer a bit smaller than a half pint, or 7 euros for a very generous unmeasured glassful of rum. I stuck with the rum) and found a pleasant beachside spot to await the arrival of people I knew. A much-depleted crew turned up eventually in drips and drabs, and we stuck around for an hour or so then chucked it in and went back to Jo’s place for tea and a spliff, a far better proposition. Couldn’t really be dealing with another party – even I, dear friends, have my limits. Didn’t stay long, though, and went back to cell block H to have another toke or two with my arse inside the room and most other bits outside on the teensy balcony. With three and a half days left in Barcelona, it was time to think about Art.

Had planned a Picasso Day for Monday, but the museum was closed so decided to head for some more Gaudi instead. First stop was, of course, the Sagrada Familia. I won’t even attempt to describe it except to say that what has been built already is astonishing, and the ambition and vision for what the finished church will look like is breathtaking. Again no surface is untouched by decoration and symbolism. If I were god, I’d choose this church for my homebase. It is a glorification of the natural world and is filled with light and joyous symbols – no hellfire and brimstone here. The structure copies nature (pillars are trees and exist at odd tree-like angles) and the gargoyles are not scary nasty demons and dragons, but happy snails and seashells and lizards you’d want to make friends with, and there’s baskets of mosaic-covered fruit exploding from the tops of towers. Only 2 of the facades are currently complete – one side depicts the birth of Christ and was completed by Gaudi himself before he died, and the other side shows the passion, by another sculptor in his own style, but after Gaudi’s intention, which is quite extraordinary. I thought it was beautiful. 8 towers have already been completed, representing 8 of the apostles. There are to be another 4 apostle towers, four evangelist towers (higher than the apostle ones), a Mary tower (higher still) and then the highest tower of all, the Jesus tower in the middle.

The whole place is colourful and bright and on the scale of the ancient cathedrals of Europe, just a lot more fun. They hope to have it finished by 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi’s death, which means it will have taken about 140 years to build, on the same time-scale as other great churches. Very impressive.

After climbing to the top and looking around some more I found myself a very special bench in the Placa de Gaudi opposite the church. It was breezy, sunlight dappling through the jacaranda trees (in full bloom, made me miss Pretoria!), not many people around and I had a view of one the facades with four apostle towers through the purple flowers. Lay back and finished the joint I’d saved from last night, having semi-religious thoughts. How could Gaudi not get into heaven? This church is the most glorious tribute to a god I’ve ever seen. It’s not a threat to keep people subdued like most other religious architecture, more of a celebration of the earth and it’s existence. A kind of “thanks for this pretty nice world, dude, here’s a little something I made for you in return”.

And they’re going to finish it! When the Jesus tower is done it going to be the tallest church in the world. Spectacular, and I can’t wait to see it finished. And while I was lying there thinking this doesn’t get much better, the bells rang! Now this could have been a recording, because the guide said nothing about bells and most churches do like to boast about their bells, but even this was happy and if it was a recording it was a damn fine one! Played a kind of jaunty christmas carol-like tune. Nothing sombre at all.

Tuesday was Picasso and Shit Hotel No. 3 Day. Dumped my gear at the new place which was less shit to look at but was ON prostitute corner. Even at 10.30 AM while I was hunting down breakfast, all the girls are in one spot, chatting happily waiting for custom. Really strange that they were all so concentrated on that spot, and there be no vicious fights for the best place. I didn’t really notice any others around in other areas (I can be a bit blind about these things, though).

The Picasso Museum was sensational. Went and sat in a (bright, sunny) park afterwards to digest what I’d just seen. Never having studied art history (a large gap in my education I’d like to fill one day) I was just amazed at the things I’d been seeing in this city. Sorry, Gilda, but this is what’s missing in the southern hemisphere, the incredible sense of human history. Africa has a sense of geological history which is difficult to beat, but when it comes to art, Europe has it all, I’m afraid.

Had an early night in honour of the next day’s trip out of town, but that was the exact opposite of what everyone else in the neighbourhood had in mind. This room was on the first floor, and between the girls, their pimps and their clients, I had a pretty noisy corner of Barcelona to try sleep through and was grateful I understand neither Spanish nor Catalan. And a zillion kids on the streets with firecrackers (this summer celebration thing seems to on after the solstice too…)

Up early to get the train out to Figueres (about 2 hours out of Barcelona) and my neighbourhood of vice was dead quiet and sleepy while the rest of the city was bustling on it’s way to work, although the morning shift of girls were in place as usual. The tubes in Barcelona are cool. Not just literally with all that lovely air-conditioning, but the map has little lights at each station which flash when you’re approaching a station and go out when you’ve passed it, and there is an indicator to say which side the doors are going to open. Perfect for me cos you look less like a tourist when you don’t stand waiting at the doors on the wrong side. Didn’t like the advertising though. At least in London ads tend to be quite wordy and give you something to read while waiting, and if you want to avoid them it’s easy to not look. In Barcelona they have giant TV screens with ads, so everyone is locked into watching these as is the human wont when faced with moving pictures. And it only costs 1.10 euros for a single ticket that takes you anywhere in the city. Busses were also the same price and air-conditioned and moved. In fact the whole city moves really well, the roads in the new bits are so wide I didn’t see any traffic jams at all (I really am staring to think like a driver again…) Even the on-board buskers seemed to be better musicians and less junky-fied than London freaks who wander through trains with a bad guitar and a MacDonald’s cup (and smelled better, too, but this is perhaps a function of their air-conditioned work-environment). And there was a constant work-force out cleaning and mopping the platforms. Nice! Although passengers on the morning tube were every bit as silent and untalkative as London morning commuters.

Obviously missed the train I was aiming for and spent a very boring hour in the station waiting for the next one (I’d already gone through the barriers and couldn’t leave to go for a stroll, which annoyed me). But, once aboard, and despite the lovely air-conditioning, this train had the hardest seats EVER, cunningly disguised by a thin layer of fabric that belies the hardness hidden beneath. Honestly, it was like doing a catholic penance or something. ‘Say 4 Hail Mary’s and get the train to Figueres’. I realise that I have bad posture, but the angle at which these seats try to prop you up comes straight from the Inquisition chambers.

Arrived at Figueres early afternoon and Dali Day took shape. And turned out to be my favourite day of all. As moving as was Sagrada Familia and as special as was Picasso, Dali, Dali, Dali… What can I say. His portrait of Gala In Spheres made me cry – his love of her literally SHINES out of every drawing and painting he did of her (there were many) – and is my New Favourite Painting (toppling a Picasso, funnily enough, the moon-faced woman). Figueres being right close to the French border, two French school trips were going round the museum (which was built by Dali himself, so the word ‘museum’ conjures up all the wrong images, this is more of a playground) at the same time as me and the kids were absolutely fascinated. No-one looked bored, they were asking questions and loving all of it. Quite nice to see – and no wonder Europeans tend to be very well educated and fairly broad-minded. Imagine the influence of growing up with Gaudi AND Picasso AND Dali AND Miro (I didn’t get round to a Miro Day, unfortunately) as a regular school trip. Wish I’d had that. But anyway, I could follow the hand gestures from the tour guide, so tagged along a bit and saw stuff I wouldn’t have noticed without his help.

Left the museum feeling a bit breathless, it was all just SO AMAZING!!! He was just so, I don’t know, CREATIVE! I look at every single thing he produced and think, I could NEVER in a MILLION YEARS have done that! Some art you look at and think, well, if I’d that idea I could have executed that too, but with The Greats you just know that there is a very fucking special talent at work here, from both the ideas side and the execution of it. Was in dire need of a chilled Cerveza afterwards, in the suitable medieval streets around the museum, to contemplate the wonders of the world.

I wish I’d made decent plans before leaving home as it would have been nice to stay in Figueres overnight (they were building the rig for a festival that night as I left, GUTTED!) but did another two hours penance back to Barcelona and went to say goodbye to the Mandala instead.

Back to London on Thursday with the firm thought that I could really, really LIVE in Barcelona. There’s enough going on, has enough venues to probably get enough work, I’ve met a few local music industry bods, it is absolutely BEAUTIFUL, the weather’s great, there’s good beaches further up the coast, there’s hills and castles and art and it’s not as ridiculously expensive as London. I’ve been searching for a place to move to, and so far nothing really appeals more than London, especially for work. But I reckon another two years or so here and Barcelona may well be The Place. Want to go and have a look at Madrid as well, but Spain feels like a really good option.

Brixton, Mon

2004-05-08T09:05:00.000+01:00

Brixton, Mon

I haven’t been on a travel for some time, but having moved not more than a mile from my previous flat in, Balham, I feel like I’ve moved to a different country. Locationally I am pretty close to central London, but culturally, I have moved to a little urban island in a sea of concrete, bus lanes and grotty high street shops.

Ok, so things about Brixton.

The sun, remarkably, shone the other day, and my flat (it is beautiful) has a balcony on the top floor. The landlord (whose room has the balcony) is in Singapore for an indefinite period of time. So my other flatmate and I took advantage of a) the sun b) Damien’s sojourn in the far east and hung out on the balcony (perfect for English-style balcony-tanning: no building opposite is tall enough to look in, and the division between us and our neighbours (who I doubt we’ll ever meet, on either side) is so high and solid they’d have to get a ladder to look over) and as loud as we had our own summer vibes playing, equally as loud were the cars on the road: Saturdays with sun seem to be the time the boys with cars get on the road and trash their sound systems. There’s also a self car wash directly opposite (just beneath the awfully hideous council block that is my view. Locally known as the Barrier Block due it’s immense function as a 6 story windowless barrier against light, happiness and the possibility of growing up in any kind of socially adjusted manner) where guys caress their cars, take off their shirts and compete for loudness and a good wax finish. The guys were playing lovely, sunny reggae and, and let’s face it, there is no better music for a sunny afternoon. But it does result in this mad soundscape, as you lie there in the sun: too lazy to get up and turn your own music off, you have this 360° blue-skied, hot ‘n’ sunny soundscape of Summer Urban Living. A far cry from quiet, leafy Balham.

My flat has the front door actually ON Coldharbour Lane. No defence at all. No little picket fence, no steps, nothing. Just a glass door (I know! Who has glass front doors!) opening directly onto the main drag of Brixton. We have no ground floor area, just an entrance that leads straight up the stairs to my floor. The flat has three levels. My level is my huge gigantic room and the huge gigantic kitchen (Carla, your bitchen would die of apocalyptic jealousy if it saw my current kitchen and bathroom arrangements). Above me is Myriem’s (huge gigantic) room and the (huge gigantic) bathroom, with free-standing bath in the middle of the stone-floored room (DELICIOUS to bath in). Above her is Damien’s slightly smaller huge room (some space is taken up by his balcony, en suite bathroom and walk-in cupboard). There is no lounge, but we all have giant rooms, and the kitchen is really the social space: it is big enough for table and chairs and all. And the best cooker I have ever ever seen or used, let alone lived with!

Anyway, so back to the front door being on the road. So people like to buzz the buzzer for whatever reason, and I had one scary confrontation with a completely unreasonable person and his bicycle, and occasionally you need to ask a homeless person to move out your doorway so you can get in, but I’d just started feeling safe when someone decided to put a concrete block through the front door at 1.30AM. Lucky there is plywood behind the glass bit, so they would have cut themselves to shreds to try push it in any further so they gave up. So now we have a new front door and are getting an alarm. Feels a bit like home… But I won’t be scared off that easy – the cool stuff way out-weighs the un-cool stuff.

Brixton is a very black area: Jamaicans and Africans and people from all over the world. The accents are really exciting. There are several markets here, mostly selling fish, meat or vegetables. The quality is excellent and the prices fabulously low. You can buy pigs feet and tails, various cuts of goat and many vegetables I don’t know how to cook. And it’s the only place in London I’ve ever seen a proper sized avocado - although something that would have been one of several dozen on Loren’s grandma’s tree costs £2.50 for one here. But it tastes GGOOOOODDDD. The supermarket avo’s here are generally picked way before they reach maturity and then go rotten in a day if you leave it a fraction too long. The market stalls also have a noticeable South American streak, although I never see any South Americans around. You don’t notice that many whites around on the streets either, but when you go into one of the many trendy cafes around, the contingent is there. All pubs have variations on the Jerk Chicken theme on the menu and the take-outs sell curry goat and plantain.

The very first time you ever get out at Brixton station, a culture shock slams you straight in the forehead. Within seconds you’ve re-assessed exactly how important your business is here, you’ve clocked the location of your mobile phone (and probably moved it inside a swathe of winter coat), hidden your wallet and are clutching onto the strap of your bag. By the time you’ve walked to the corner you’ve had at least 2 offers of drugs and one person has wondered “wha’ YOU lookin’ at, ‘ey?” cos you caught their eye by accident. Shortly after you look up and see the road name: Electric Avenue, and realise THIS IS THE ROAD EDDY GRANT WAS SINGING ABOUT!!!!!! And you start having a proper look around. And I doubt if it’s changed all that much since he was writing about it (at least I like to think it hasn’t!). Probably more cops around, but the same myriad of butchers and veg sellers - you can’t buy kiwi’s on this market, but you can get yams, giant avocados and a vegan Rastafarian “sip” (soup), as well as loads of fish I don’t know yet, cuts of red meat I hope never to get to know, and chicken (heads & feet included) at prices that mean you’ll never buy meat at a supermarket again. The Halaal butchers all seem to sell pork and play hip-hop and try chat you up as you walk past, but they give you a bargain for a nice smile. Life is out on the streets and it is NOISY! Music is largely reggae/dub and hip-hop, R‘n’B and a fair dose of Gospel, blaring from the incense seller’s stall. Never yet heard Robbie Williams or Westlife on these streets!

And then there’s the weird candle shop. Inside they have all kinds of potions and incenses and candles: some have African religious overtones, but again the South American vibe is there, with all this really superstitious Catholic stuff: so from candles with bible extracts printed on them that are supposed to ward off evil spirits or attract money, to ‘Africa Power’ giant incense sticks and powder incense with which to catch a husband or curse an enemy, there’s a little something for everyone in here. I get my supply of lemon incense (with no weird overtones of spirits either coming or going) to try combat the William Hill fog from downstairs…

We live above a William Hill bookies and their ventilation doesn’t work too well as I smell fag smoke every morning when I wake up, and invest heavily in incense to try disguise it. People sit there all day and lose their money and smoke fag after fag and are pretty much dead already, the sad bastards. But I get to smell the result, and if I’m sleeping lightly, I sometimes wake up with the racing commentary from downstairs. Not a favourite aspect of this house, but one I’m starting to find half charming, as I am all the weirdnesses of Life on Coldharbour Lane…

There’s someone living in a car two corners down. It is completely not able to move, really bashed up, and I see someone in there quite often, reading a paper or just sitting there. And it doesn’t smell great round it. Poor guy. And if you walk to the station early evening (opposite direction to the lived-in car), everyone’s on the streets and spilling out from the pub on the corner and you run a bit of a gaunlet of avoiding catching eyes, cos if you DO catch an eye by mistake (or on purpose if they’re cute, of course) they’ve ALWAYS got something to say! In fact, everyone’s always got something to say to you as you walk down the street. I was walking round in west London the other day, and it was just so QUIET!!! No interaction at all between people who haven’t been properly introduced. Not so on Coldharbour Lane, my lovely lady!

Two days later.

The Front Door Incident happened on Thursday night. When we called the police on Friday, they said, “is any one hurt?”

“No”

“Nothing we can do, fill in the crime report on our website at www. blahblah and we’ll email you a case number for insurance.”

So today Myriem called them to have a bit of a moan about them telling us to use a fucking WEBSITE to report a near break-in, and they finally came around this evening. We were graced with an experienced policeman and a green rookie policewoman.

After describing what happened, the first thing he said to me was (in his Sarf Lundin, I-been-a-copper-in-Brixton-for-ten-and-a-half-‘ears, luv accent), “I know this sounds ‘arsh, luv, but as far as we’re concerned, luv, this investigation is already closed, luv. Simple criminal damage, luv. I daan’t fink they were trying to ge’ in, luv, there’s just so many…. (conspiring look)… assholes…. round here. They saw a bi’ o’ brick, saw some glass and smashed it. That’s what they do, luv.” Pause for effect. Deep indrawn breath, slight, slow shake of the head. “You made a decision to live on the street with the highest crime rate in London [now that IS news to me. I knew it was rough, but the Most Crime-Ridden Street in LONDON! Didn’t think it was THAT bad...], that was your decision, and I don’t say that means you’re not entitled to a good police service, but we deal with so much of this and we’ll record it, but there’s really not a lot we can do, luv.” So that told me where to shove my hopes that they were going to hunt DOWN the perpertrators and MAKE THEM PAY using the CCTV evidence from the camera directly opposite our front door.

All the while the obviously green female rookie just smiled nicely but she had her moment at the end, when she proudly whipped out a notebook (just like in kids books! PC Plod had one) and wrote down our names etc. Honestly, even cycle couriers and waiters have palm tops, and the British Police actually turn up with a little black notebook! Bless!

Myriem and I nearly died with laughter after they’d gone. Him being so “ah, well, (indrawn whistle) you if want to live on Coldharbour Lane…”; her being so green and eager and the ludicrousness of the situation. But we got some advice on making the door more secure etc, and he convinced us they weren’t really trying to get in, just being assholes, so we’re cool.

But for all that, I am, like, sooooo enjoying living here. I actually hang out with my flatmates in an environment where we all moved in at the same time, and there’s no lounge that we have to fight about how we want to decorate it, and the place is so beautiful as it is – no crap furniture to hide with trendy drapes, no crap wallpaper, no pub carpets. Just wooden staircases, huge sash windows, lovely wooden shutters, newly pained white walls, cream carpets and (did I mention?) huge, airy rooms. Myriem is 27, very petite and pretty. She’s French, both her parents are Algerian. Her father actually comes from the Sahara part of Algeria! The bit with, you know, lots of sand. And his father wore white turbans and flowing robes! (We’ve just had the Atlas out.) And they are often up at the same times as me, so I actually see them. There has even been a three-person bathroom queue at 5 AM. Really good after creeping around late at night, trying not make any noise, for the last 2 years.

She is going out with my landlord, Damien, who is Nigerian/Togoan and who is supposed to be living here, except he got sent to Singapore for three months for work (he’s a hot IT guy, works for Barclays). So I’ve hardly actually got to know him yet. And then Myriem’s best friend from Lyon, Mehdi (Moroccan French), is staying here for two months just cos he felt like getting out of Lyon for a bit. He’s lovely and cooks like a dream and we get on fantastically. And Myriem’s friend Melissa, who’s Zambian, has been around quite a lot. She sings like an angel, smokes up a storm and can tell the story of a disastrous sexual encounter like no-one else. She had me on the floor, barely able to breathe.

Three weeks later

Well I’ve now met ALL myriem’s friends: we had a party for her birthday (no need to worry about neighbours round this neck of the woods!). The house works quite nicley for a party… Must do it again… And we have left-over booze that would supply another one. We made a truly delightful punch (Strawberries and mango! From now on, all punches should have strawberries in them!) which just swung everyone in the right direction together, and dancing commenced. The nationalities present were SUCH a mix: French, Syrian, Nigerian, Swiss, Irish, New Zealand, Danish, Grenada, Ghanaian, Zimbabean, Italian, South African and a late-joining Englishman, (who arrived just as the main exodus had happened and probably thinks I was lying about the swinging party) and the music tended distinctly, and somewhat exclusively, toward the urban, which does make for good dancing, and the Great International Ho-Down got underway – all these men sitting around watching all the girls ho-ing down. Very entertaining! White guys just can’t get away with sitting around perving like black guys can. Black guys get away with it cos they just cannot BE any other way…

Next day, post-party bank holiday was perfect. Myriem’s best friend, Sandra, stayed over and we spent the day hung-over cleaning & three in a bed with take-out food and chick flicks on DVD and eventually getting out on a stunning afternoon to Battersea Park to go rollerblading! What a cool day. And I’ve never roller bladed before and I was fucking ACE! It’s SO much fun! And I only fell over twice. And I went on pavements and roads (with Sandra playing coach, and dramatically stopping traffic with her Advanced Roller Blading Action and waving a bottle of water in the air) and everything.

And so, the Brixton Era begins, and I think that just MAYBE it’s going to be an eventful one. Summer is going to rock this year and now that I am vehicular (having recently acquired my first car in 9 years) {Ohmygoditissodamngoodtohavewheels!!!} summer is set to rock even harder.

Hope this finds you all well (and I haven’t heard anyone say ‘mon’ yet, by the way, very disappointing)

And the lived in car has been towed.

Rephlex Tour November 2003

2003-11-10T15:23:00.000Z

Astrobotnia & Bogdan Raczynski Tour, 1-15 November 2003

Well, I never thought living in England would ever actually make me English, but I fear that day is near at hand. Not only have I become, over the years, very able to converse in depth about The Weather and Public Transport, but I am now also able to participate, with much warmth, in conversations about Traffic. Yes, I am now a veteran of the M25, the much maligned M6, the M4, the M1, the M11 and very many A roads. In fact, I have (after a mere 9 years) finally toured the length and breadth of this island, and been paid for it, to boot!

I have been On Tour. With no less than a variety of Rephlex artists (www.rephlex.com) visiting 14 cities in 15 days, and driving over 2,200 miles. The tour was centered around Bogdan Raczynski and Astrobotnia, with other artists dropping in along the way, including Cylob, the Aphex Twin, Ovuca, D’Arcangelo, Nick and Marcus (2 more Rephlex people whose stage names I don’t know). Now, before setting off, I was not entirely sure what I was letting myself in for. Having spent the last several years actively avoiding the dance scene (you know how I can get when I make up my mind to close my mind) I accepted the job (sound engineer and driver) being fully prepared to be indifferent to a lot of the music, steeling myself to grin, bear it and to be as nice as possible about music I didn’t expect to enjoy. How wrong was I!!!! The tale shall unfold…

First stop - Cardiff

Picked up the 7 seater people carrier at Tower Bridge around midday on Saturday 1 November, chuckling all the while at how 5 of us plus all our bags and equipment really were going to fit into this vehicle – no drum kits! No guitars! No bass amps! Merely 5 people and the artists’ gear – a laptop each and Cylob’s records! I am now a firm believer in the laptop as musical instrument. It’s light, small and very, very easy to lug in and out of a venue… Left Tower Bridge around 12.30, then picked up the spare monitor I wanted to take with in case any venues had rubbish monitoring (a wise decision, it turned out) in Stoke Newington, then straight out to Arnos Grove to Rephlex HQ (Grant and Nick’s front room) to pick up the boys: Astrobotnia (Alexei), Bogdan and Cylob (Chris Jeffs). A brief farewell and then we were On The Road! Driving west, mid afternoon, in autumn, in England. Now I had always known, in theory, (thanks to Miss Turpin, Geography Teacher) that the sun doesn’t really reach the top of the sky in winter in northern climes. In practice, 1 November 2003 was the first time I ever really realized what an oblique sun angle is. It simply means that the sun shines directly in your eyes from the time you head west, till the time it sets. It never really gets off the ground in the first place, and just hangs around slightly above the horizon, then sets far earlier than you think is decent, leaving you with a bazillion on-coming headlights to contend with instead (er.. why not grow big evergreen bushes in the middle of the road instead? But NO! just some barriers that are at the perfect height to NOT block oncoming lights.) And for those who’ve never been on an English motorway, they are BUSY. VERY BUSY. CONSTANTLY. Think the Ben Schoeman in morning rush hour, double it and then add some more. At any given moment you have another vehicle (more often than not a huge gigantic lorry transporting god-knows-what to who-cares-where) in front of you, behind you, to your left, to your right and the diagonal front left, front right, rear left and rear right. The traffic is constant, you have to be on full concentration alert all the bloody time. It’s pretty tiring… And led me to some half-philosophical thoughts about the human need for SO MUCH STUFF!!!

Anyways… So we check into our nice Holiday Inn and head venue-wards, to Clwb Ifor Bach. It’s quite a nice venue, three floors, all doing different things. We were on the top floor, there was a kind of chill-out room with quietish-but-not-bad music on the middle floor and the first was occupied by Welsh Night (you had to say a sentence in Welsh to be allowed in) which was playing the worst selection of 80’s and 90’s pop imaginable. I made one effort to explore the other rooms then retreated back our room. Dark, smokey, loud. Already my prejudices, that I worked long and hard to develop over my two years at 93, were beginning to fade. Cylob played a fine set, followed by Astrobotnia and then the mighty Bogdan Raczynski. My defenses, weakened by the first two, were blown away completely by Bogdan, and I knew I was going to love all two weeks of this!

Night One over, my expectations overthrown, and my enthusiasm mounting by the minute. Until the M4 the next day… But before then we spent the day in Cardiff Bay, an odd little harbour development, reached by driving through an industrial no-man’s-land, which claimed to have the world’s best vanilla ice cream (it wasn’t) but did live up to it’s claims of having a pretty little Norwegian church (now a coffee shop, arts center and potentially the next venue to be used in Cardiff) and we went on a harbour boat tour to the Barrage, a massive structure separating the sea from the river, effectively creating a fresh water lake on the inland side. To keep the water fresh, they pump air through it in big bursts, like a giant farting in the bath. Many cheesy anti-English/pro-Welsh jokes later we were deposited back on dry land and headed for…

Reading
Another great M4 experience. This time we had no sun to contend with, but were given a hard time by the Phantom Roadworks. For those not resident in the UK, Phantom Roadworks are the invisible roadworks that are preceded by huge “roadworks ahead” signs, suitably massive speed restrictions (40mph ON THE MOTORWAY!!! AAArghhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!), enforced by many a speed camera (getting bust is not merely a huge fine, but also three points on your license – lose 11 and you lose the license completely), causing MASSIVE back-ups, that last for HOURS. And then when the speed restrictions end, and the traffic speeds up, you are left wondering exactly where these great roadworks were! Not a road worker to be seen. AND everyone’s heading back to London late on a Sunday afternoon, on the same road to Reading. Needless to say we were late, and the very stoned promoter waiting for us was completely unable to give us directions over the phone. Once we finally made it to Reading, we asked 2 cool looking dudes for directions, and they started sending us to the other side of the country when we were saved by a much-blessed-by-us little old lady who gave us very simple directions to the venue (only about 4 blocks away) which was in directly the opposite direction to where the cool boys sent us. Thanks little old lady!

Reading was immediately a favourite gig. The venue was an old squat that the squatters occupied for so long the council gave them the option to buy it. This they did and turned it into The Rising Sun Arts Centre. Very small, with cutesy little café area that sold tea and coffee as well as beer (a god-send for driver-me) and a whole lot of kids sitting around on cushions smoking massive amounts of weed. It did not look the kind of gig anyone would actually get off their butts and dance at, but 5 minutes into Astrobotnia’s set and the cushions were out the door and the kids were going ape-shit. Superb! Not much for me to do in the way of sound as there was only a small system with not many options, so I settled in to enjoy the tunes.

Being hungry after the show, we stopped at a chippy called Mr. Cod (which we discovered is actually a franchise enterprise as there was a Mr. Cod in just about every city we came to). Now this shouldn’t have been worth noting at all, except the process of buying four fish & chips and one portion of chips was one of the more difficult transactions of the whole 2 week period! Four of us went into the shop while Cylob stayed in the car. Mr. Cod’s confusion started here. Joana ordered her simple portion of chips and paid for it. So far so good. Alexei and I followed suit with a portion of fish and chips each. No problem. Then Bogdan enters the scene with his mad, unthinkable, very unusual order for… TWO portions of fish & chips. Hold on a minute! Stop the world! This was just one too many for Mr. Cod and Bogdan ended up, after several minutes trying to explain that yes, he wanted TWO portions, even explaining that there was someone waiting in the car for the extra portion, having to place the order in two completely separate transactions, ordered and paid for individually, change for the first purchase even being handed over in between the two transactions. I feel Mr. Cod is not going to make it into the running for Businessman of the Year… Anyway, at last we made it to our Travelodge somewhere along a motorway.

Manchester
By the time we left in the morning, the boys had made a good start on the beer. This was in no way a problem until poor Bogdan asked politely ‘can we stop at the next services, please, I really need a pee’. By this time we were on the M25 (hateful road that more or less delineates the outer reaches of London) and all service stops were behind us and the road was far to busy to stop on the hard shoulder. Poor Bogdan! He was pleading helplessly for us to stop when we made it onto the M1 and took the next exit. I’ve never seen three men jump out of a car so quick! The other two were also desperate but left poor Bogdan to do the begging… The place we stopped was absolutely gorgeous! We couldn’t have been more than 100m away from the motorway and we were on a cutesy country lane and I really noticed for the first time how absolutely BEAUTIFUL the autumn was! Red, yellow, orange EVERYWHERE! Red berries on almost every second bush and that lovely country smell of plants beginning to decompose. I made up my mind to be a bit more observant from then on, and was not disappointed. Autumn is a beautiful time in this country!

Hit Manchester and straight to Michelle’s house, where the blessed angel cooked for us all. Then on to Sub-Space, the venue for the evening, and face to face with the sound-guy-from-hell. He was dressed in combats and tight vest top, armed with walkie-talkie and headset, and a stance that - if I were a drunken 18 year old boy in-the-mood-for-a-fight - would make him the first target of my alcoholic rage. What a twat. And he very deliberately locked the door to the amps, grinned at me and said, “you’re not to touch that”. Great! So no control at all over the sound. He was smiling a few hours later, however, when his bar was completely rammed with over 250 mental dancers, on a Monday night. A good night in the end, if somewhat spoiled by Mr. Military’s attitude and some heavy-handed security action, and the last night Cylob was with us for a while.

After another Travelodge night, we moved on quite early to Leeds. To our Posh Hotel experience. Said Posh Hotel (Wood Hall) is a lovely stone building perched atop an oh-so-English hill, overlooking several oh-so-English fields (crammed full of Magic Mushrooms) and a view over an oh-so-English little forest which had it’s very own river along which we went for a long walk – Manchester and Leeds are close enough that we had plenty of time to sample the country delights of Wood Hall before retiring to the hotel drawing room, its fire and comfy, comfy sofas. Curled up with a good book…Aaaaahhhh. Also had the best cup of Earl Grey tea ever in my whole life (I should hope so, at £3 a pot) – beautifully blended, with all the good bits of the taste of Earl Grey, without that soapiness which characterizes Twinings. Yum yum… Served by an old career waiter, order taken by the snooty gay receptionist/concierge bloke, with silver tea strainers in pretty china… I could get used to this! (And the really huge comfy bed with the bazillion puffy feather pillows and the DVD player in each room and the giant flatscreen TV and the posh proper coffee and cafetiere instead of the usual Nescafe sachet…)

Richard (Aphex Twin) and Grant were meant to be driving up from London together and meeting us at the hotel. They were running late so we met them at the venue: the Brudenell Working Men’s Social Club. For those unfamiliar with the British Working Men’s Social Club, allow me to describe. The décor dates from somewhere in the early 70’s, with ne’er a penny spent on’t since. The drinks cost next to nothing and they are usually furnished with red or brown 70’s melamine tables and chairs, threadbare carpets (with fag burns) and mirrors on pillars. This one included washable wallpaper and light fittings straight out of Brooklyn Methodist Church’s church hall. South Africans, imagine the quaint look of a West Coast local in the apartheid years. Non South Africans, imagine that bar in Priscilla Queen of the Desert where the old drag drinks the butch local under the table, shot for shot. The wall to the rear of the stage is dark brown face brick and is the backdrop for the ‘Welcome to the Brudenell’ logo: done in multi-coloured glitter, accompanied by a bright shiny-smiley glitter-sun, a sweet smiling glitter-moon, various (expressionless) glitter-planets and a nice big glittery Christmas star! All of this wonderment was finished off with a number of those airbrush prints so beloved by teenage girls in the 80’s, including the plastic gold frames; and commemorative plates (royal weddings etc) on display above the bar. There was even had a hand scribbled sign up:

TAP WATER
10P HALF PINT
20P PINT
The Brudenell also has to pay water rates!

And this is claimed to be one of the best venues in Leeds… Hmmmm…

Nevertheless, this was to be a night to remember – especially as I had my first sound dramas to deal with. The house guy, who owned the rig, was fabulous and between us we managed to rewire enough stuff to make the gig happen – although ideally this should have been done way before we arrived, at least he was very co-operative, if somewhat under-informed about his own rig.

After the sound was sorted out and the two boys played their sets, Grant hit the decks and what was already a near frenzy turned into a full force hardcore techno rave. On a Tuesday night. In the Brudenell Social Club. In Leeds. Absolutely superb! Quote of the Day (courteousy Grant) “kids today have so much pent-up aggression, they listen to really fucked up music”. And Rephlex definitely cater for them….

Back to Wood Hall for a round of drinks in the posh bar, and a spliff in a posh room. When the non-occupants of the spliff room headed to our own rooms, we decided to stop outdoors, atop the stairs that lead to the magic mushie fields, to finish off the last bifta. Suddenly I find myself mid-air, with the lowest step heading very fast towards my face. Thank god for adrenaline! Somehow I managed to get my left leg out to break may fall and ended with a neat somersault onto the perfectly kept lawn. And a very, very sore knee. The night was spent sitting upright (on many fluffy, posh cushions) with an ice-pack on my knee, watching re-runs of Stargate- 5 (luckily for me I never saw the original runs – what a crap TV show!) on the posh many-inch flatscreen TV. In the morning I could just about limp my way round, and was suddenly very grateful for the automatic car – there was no way I could have dealt with a clutch!

Had an awesome breakfast of much posh-ness and then, the best treat of all, had a full-body salt and aromatherapy oils scrub and an aromatherapy back massage. Yum yum yum yum yum yum….. Highly recommended! The really lovely salon lady also put some oils on my knee. A light lunch at the hotel (which really did have the world’s best vanilla ice-cream, even though it made no claims to) and off we went to…

Newcastle. Another short drive, with detour via one of my favourite things: the Angel of the North. This is a giant iron sculpture by Anthony Gormley with the body of a man and the wings of a Boeing 747. Absolutely beautiful! (see http://www.gateshead.gov.uk/angel/pics2.htm for pics).

The contrast in hotels could not have been more pronounced! The Osbourne had completely tasteless pub-style carpets (mismatching ones in the bathroom), an old motel-style radio fixed into the wall, some really rough characters in the downstairs pub and we were generously given exactly 2 teabags. Nevermind – I got to see friend Nathan and had a decent rig for the first time. The gig was in the Students Union, which is a funny ol’ place, but we had Richard playing as well and it was properly loud. Once again the kids were crazy for it and I had the best time messing with the sound, although dancing was severely limited by injured knee (damn damn damn damn damn!). We finished off the night with a fabulous sit-down Chinese meal, while Alexei slept off the poison-weed they’d all been smoking, in the car…

We left Newcastle quite early (woke up with knee back to it’s normal state of usefulness, YAY!) and headed for Glasgow. This was the prettiest drive of them all – half an hour out of Newcastle and the roads emptied, began to get hilly and the abundance of trees bursting out in magnificent autumn colours was breathtaking. Along the way we stopped at a lovely road-side farm stall and coffee shop for breakfast which was truly delicious and a good break from Little Chef fare. Arriving in Glasgow, we drove past the venue (a deconsecrated sandstone church) and I started to get excited. Checked into our hotel, the long-named Kelvin Park Lorne Hotel (half-way between a Holiday Inn and the Osbourne from the previous night, with pokey rooms but recently refurbished bathrooms, which were lovely except for the brown gunk coming out of the bath-taps. I showered and hoped for the best) and went to see the venue: it was huge, cavernous and generally fabulous and I was very happy to meet the PA crew – they were the same guys who used to bring down extra rig for Mish Mash at 93! We’d always got on and it was great to see them again and knew I was in good hands when it comes to sound. Went for lunch at the (apparently) legendary Air Organic (the food is definitely worthy of legend status) and I went for a desperately needed snooze before soundcheck. Soundcheck over, some of the boys were due in town for a radio interview, so I adopted the first unoccupied person to go and have dinner with me. Going by the name of Robert, he is friend of Joana’s who’d come up from London for the gig, and never have I laughed so much with someone I’d met two minutes before. I officially declare Robert Surname-Unknown one of the funniest human beings alive and probably all the dead ones dead too. An absolutely brilliant dinner which was only improved by the sticky pork and mango salad (again at Air – do not miss this restaurant if you’re in Glasgow – but you’ll have to do it without the company I had).

Then the gig – walking in from the punter’s entrance was enough to give me goosebumps and take me back many years – it was a massive dark cave inside a gothic-feeling church with the highest of high ceilings and the music pumping out at you from the darkness, giving you chills up your spine at the moment you walk through the doors and it hits you full force. There were about 6 lights only, each a scanner with strong narrow beams that change colour and swing through the smoke-filled cave like helicopter search-lights. Oh my god – if I’d been a punter who’d arrived determined not to take any drugs, I would have changed my mind in about thirty seconds flat! Luckily I was working… And again, hundreds of kids going out of their minds screaming ‘HARDER! HARDER! HARDER!’

I loved it… And if Alexei was Newcastle’s super-skunk tragedy, Glasgow was Grant’s nemesis – he spent the last past of the night comatose in a chair in the corner of the secondary room. Bless!

A quick and easy drive the next day to Edinburgh, where we checked into the Jury Inn, and had a bit of a break before a late 10PM soundcheck, during which I went for a long walk (I love Edinburgh! So pretty!), a quick email check and a fabulous slice of carrot cake. The venue was The Bongo Club, and it turned into an excellent gig, but one fraught with sound hassles. Having hung around and checked that all was ok for ages, I thought it safe (and by this time necessary) to pop to the loo. Not to be! While happily ensconced, I hear the music go very, very quiet! Horrible moment! I’m stuck! Rushing back out (and fighting through the massively over-filled dance-floor) I can’t figure out what the hell’s going on! The music is there, just very quiet! House sound-man nowhere to be seen we suffer through about ten minutes of this (Richard and Grant are playing back to back) eventually Richard finds a really obscure ‘talkover’ switch on the mixer which, when switched on, dims the music so the DJ can speak over it – but this stupid little switch is not only very difficult to see in a dark room, it is right next to a really useful knob on the mixer and is very easily switched on by mistake. Mixer designers take note! Phew. This problem now sorted, I am paranoid and go hang out next to the front of house mixer determined not to be caught out again. How wrong! How very wrong! By this time the house guy had returned from wherever he’d been hiding, and he’s in the sound booth with two girls. I assume they are with him. He goes off somewhere, leaving them behind. I find them annoying, but they seem pretty harmless and if they’re his friends, who am I to argue? A few minutes later, they pretend to mess with the sound desk. I look disapprovingly at them and suddenly they look each other in the eye and actually do it! They grabbed every fader and knob they could reach, totally moved everything up and down and switched things on and off until I screamed so hard at them they realized their lives were in danger and ran off giggling! Oh my god was I angry! When the house guy turned up again it turned out he didn’t know them, and had thought they were with me…

Even more paranoid now, I glare at anyone coming anywhere near and exude don’t-come-anywhere-near-this-desk vibes. Hah! The system was still not inviolable! There is a ladder that goes up to the area where the lighting desk lives. Bogdan and the rest wanted it dark in the room, as dark as possible. This had been sorted out before opening. All of a sudden a big bright light goes on, aimed straight at Richard. I leave my precious sound desk and eventually find the ladder, scale it and find ANOTHER punter up there trying to operate the lights! Not being a lighting person I couldn’t get the damn things to go off again and had to go find security to call the house guy to get them off again! Ridiculous! But it was nevertheless a totally brilliant gig (SO SWEATY!) and I fell into bed at 5AM, only to be woken by Joana at 8 to get the car keys to put money in the parking meter. I was still asleep at 11 when I was woken by a phone call saying they were all waiting for me in reception, ready to go…

We had a very long (5 _ hours), but very pleasant (no traffic to speak of and an almost complete lack of roadworks, phantom or otherwise – always travel the M6 on a Saturday if possible) drive to Birmingham. The boys had been in Grant’s car (with GPS – they’d been boasting about it for days) and we got a desperate call as they arrived in Birmingham “ the GPS doesn’t recognize the street address! We don’t know where to go!” Now luckily I had my own personal GPS (with a far pleasanter voice, and available for much more interesting forms of conversation as well) in the form of Joana (she’s an AWESOME navigator) and she gave the panicky dudes directions. Their short-term memories were slightly impaired by that time and it took some patient repeating to get them to understand the ‘go straight until you reach the second roundabout, take the first left and you’re there’ directions, but we caught up with them just at the difficult bit (first left) and we got there together. It was getting late, and we were meeting The Bug (who was playing as well the night) at the venue, and he has quite a big set-up so there was not much in the way of hanging out in our lovely Holiday Inn before setting off for The Custard Factory.

This was an awesome, awesome gig for me. I loved it! Everything was fabulous (except for the lack of anything remotely resembling a house sound person) and I got to do some real engineering – Kevin (The Bug)’s set-up includes four vocals – and Alexei brought me a beer and a shot of whiskey at the PERFECT moment. Sometimes, engineering, you just need that little bit of alcohol at the right time and you get RIGHT IN there with the gig and sink away into the world created by the artist. It’s a favourite feeling of mine, and one that keeps me doing live stuff. Doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, it’s magnificent, and as the techy you get to participate so much closer than an audience member. I was so high after Kevin’s set I wanted to explode. All the other sets were outstanding too and we were all so completely fucking knackered by 3AM that no-one even suggested a late night spliff/beer back at the hotel. Grant and Richard (who was too ill to play) left early next morning back to London.

Next morning was a short (rainy) drive to Nottingham, where we fell into the luxury of a retro-decorated pub with the BEST Sunday roast. Nick (who was to DJ that night) and his wife Hana met us there and we were allowed to use the owner’s facilities upstairs and watched ‘Short Circuit’ completely stoned all afternoon. Which was EXACTLY what we all needed by this day, 9, of the tour. This was a tiny venue (perfect Sunday spot) and there was no driving to be done that night (Alexei and Joana stayed at the pub, Bogdan and I stayed at the owner’s friend’s place) so I had a few beers once the gig got going and got a bit off it and had an excellent dance to Bogdan’s set (I am now officially a fan). I was finally very glad to have brought my own Mackie speaker with, as one of the venue’s had blown and the three that were working kind of needed a helping hand.

Post gig we walked to where Bogdan and I were staying and the host and I sat smoking the last of the weed mixed with green tea as we were out of tobacco. Perfect end to a really good day.

Next day we got up late and headed home to London. By the time we’d dropped Alexei and Bogdan at Rephlex HQ, had a cuppa, met D’Arcangelo (who was to play the last night in Leicester) and finally got into central London, it was already dark and I was pretty glad we had the night off. Sam, bless her cotton socks, cooked and Darren arrived with a big bag of weed and I got a good night’s much-needed sleep.

Tuesday morning was hectic with preparation for the night’s show at Neighbourhood (where I am one of the house engineers normally). Firstly I needed a strobe, which I thought to borrow from 93. Of course it was completely inadequate for the size of the venue, but I did enjoy a scene, much later that night, of the Aphex Twin on his knees on stage, blowing the front row of kids’ minds, hand-operating that little strobe right in their faces! FX was late delivering all the Bug’s hire gear (Kevin was to play this night too, as were Richard (Smojphace), Astrobotnia, Bogdan, Cylob and Sound Murderer). Almost no vocal soundcheck on the Bug’s stuff, a panicky moment trying to adapt Sound Murderer’s US equipment to UK voltage and the doors were open. What a mental night! SO LOUD! I really gave that sound system a run for it’s money and it was SO up for the challenge! We don’t normally even tickle the potential of that beautiful, lovely, gorgeous system, but when Bogdan came on (last on the list, after a fucking SUPERB set from Sound Murderer – I hadn’t heard him say more than two sentences the whole night, then he just took the stage and blew the dancefloor away, me included) and asked “ is that all you can get out of the system?” I accepted the challenge, let him distort it as much as he liked, and spent the last 15 minutes sitting in the amp room babying each of the 12 or so amps individually so that there was maximum level with no damage to anything other than them crazy kids’ ears (myself, I didn’t take out my earplugs for a second)! It was fucking brilliant, but experienced for the first time the conflict of interest between the house engineer and the tour engineer. House protects the system, Tour pushes it to it’s limit. I was both on this night and it was a real divided-loyalties situation!

Other drama for the night was the death of Astrobotnia’s laptop. It demised sadly in the dressing room, but luckily luckily Grant had a bunch of Alexei’s CD’s that he could DJ with.

I took absolute AGES tidying up that night, SO tired! A little bit stoned! And was very, very sad to hear all the comments from bar staff and managers – every single one of them HATED the night, from beginning to end. I was sad, but shouldn’t have been surprised really, as Neighbourhood is normally a scene-to-be-seen, cocktail-drinking, inoffensive-house-music kinda place. There was not a single regular amongst the crowds of raving mad-for-it kids. Oh well, their loss! Grant reckoned it was a party that would go known in Rephlex history, and his is the opinion I care about!

Next day was a potentially nightmare drive to Norwich (some of the roads are one lane only in each direction) which wasn’t too bad, to a funny little venue called Kafe Da – themed on Russian historical figures, complete with some very inaccurate ‘quotes’ from the likes of Rasputin & Lenin and selling many vodka’s. The PA was inadequate again, so out came my Mackie for use as a monitor this time, and we had a good gig. I was just too tired to really enjoy it, but the kids, once again, were so happy. They don’t get much in the way of good gigs in Norwich and the place was absolutely jam packed with very happy punters! What was even more enjoyable, however, was the fabulous rack of lamb at a restaurant called Cinema City (next door a cinema, hence it’s silly name). Norwich is absolutely beautiful, if a little too middle class for my liking, and on our way out of town to our Travelodge (quite a nice one, by Travelodge standards!) we got lost for ages in a really complex one-way system, that eventually took us in a complete circle of the town. Lucky we had JPS (Joana Positioning System) and we got where we needed to be eventually.

Next day saw us heading west again, to Bristol. More dreaded M25 (this one was particularly terrifying, with about 4 near-accidents happening really close to us) and the nasty M4 for the third time. Had to pull over for a cuppa after the M25 just to give my nerves a break! Met Nick and Marcus (who were Djing the night) at our hotel (Holiday Inn Express) after a series of weirdnesses that would continue all night.

Bristol Traffic Weirdnesses:
• An especially butch (and scarey) woman pulled off the pavement on a motorway exit, just behind us and started making frantic, indecipherable hand-gestures. Thinking this was road rage we tried to ignore her till she had the chance to pull up next to us – seems she’d been pushed off the road by the bus just in front of us and was trying to get it’s registration number
• A car had been left in the centre lane of a three lane road with it’s hazards on, causing a huge traffic jam

Bristol Later Weirdnesses:
• A hen-party insisting on getting into the club, even after they were told they would HATE it (they did, and left quite soon)
• A group of kids insisting that Autechre were playing, which was blatantly not the case (they left too)
• A punter who was so disappointed that Aphex Twin wasn’t playing, but came back to find me an hour or so later saying he was having the time of his life and did I have any pills! (I didn’t)
• One guy, whose 21st birthday it was, got into the band room (very drunk, but very harmless) insisting “I know one of you is Bogdan! Which one is it!” And refusing to leave until he’d found out which one Bogdan was. Of course we never told him, and Joana did a brilliant getting-rid maneouver by taking him out to dance

The traffic weirdnesses and proximity of the venue persuaded us all it was wise to walk there, which we did. The venue (called Thekla) is a huge old coal barge, with the best Turbosound sound system, and an excellent house engineer, and the wickedest local promoters and this was, in the end, my favourite night. The sound was awesome, I’d got my energy back and there was one particular square foot of space I adopted as my very own which was the sweetest of stereo sweet spots. Absolute heaven! Definitely the best night of the tour for me, followed closely by Birmingham.

Again the blasted M4 next day, and M25, almost all the way back to Norwich, but stopping in Cambridge. Fabulous Holiday Inn where we just chilled for several hours, and then off to the Boat Race. This is a teensy pub venue with only one room and a fairly OK-ish sound system, and a house engineer who was so jealous I’d been on tour with these guys he kept saying it over and over again! Bless. He had a good night, I think! Even though it was a Friday the venue only had a pub license so we were home and drinking beer in Cylob’s room by 12.30 (Cylob had come up by train to play this one). Unfortunately for Cylob, who was up for a party, the rest of us were knackered and left him to it pretty early.

An easy drive to Leicester next day and more time to hang out in nice enough Holiday Inn rooms doing very little. I don’t think I’ve ever watched as much daytime telly as over the last few days on this tour. Mind-numbing it certainly is, and a great way to switch off for a while. The venue was the Sumo club, which has three floors. We were in the basement and there was the normal Saturday night stuff going on the other two floors – scene-to-be-seen cocktail drinking with mainstream average shit being played by bored DJs who’d lose their job if they played anything different. And then there was the Room of Doom downstairs, which was potentially amazing, but only two of the four Turbosound speakers were working, and there were no subs. Still, it was a great gig – no DJ sets, just four live ones: D’Arcangelo and Sound Murderer in addition to Astrobotnia and Bogdan. The only nastiness was the over-zealous security who very, very unnecessarily rudely told us not to smoke in the very hidden away, far from punters band room, but to make up for it, the gratitude from the punters for some decent music was really quite touching! One does get spoiled in London….

And then it was time to head HOME, and to break up the little family circle… But what a absolutely superb experience! And what a convert I have become! I should write a long paragraph in conclusion, but I’m tired and it’s taken nearly a month to write this much, so that’s all folks!

Portugal, September 2002

2002-09-10T15:54:00.000+01:00

Portugal!

Amazingly enough it is time for yet another Intrepid Travel Tale from Darryn! Yes, as much as last year was my Festival year, this year seems to have developed into Holiday Year.

I must admit that the only reason I decided to go to Portugal at all was to attend Hugo and Jeanine’s wedding. It was never very high on my list of places to visit, but, what with being forced into a decision to head Lisbon-wards, I decided it wasn’t a bad option at all. (By the way, from now on I insist that all weddings I am invited to be OUTSIDE the country I am currently domiciled in, with enough notice to save for the trip. As my friends I am sure you will all oblige this whim.)

Anyways. It turned into a most fabstastic holiday of great holiday proportions. It even managed to feel longer than a week (highly unusual in the world of holidays). Starting with a gorgeous flight – 2PM departure, so head feeling not too bad after previous night’s work/party. Although one still has to get up at 9am to make a 2pm flight. When they gonna sort that bit out? Anyway, my new British Passport (YES, THAT’S ‘MY NEW BRITISH PASSPORT’) clutched in hot hand (you don’t get stamps in the EU, so you have to get your passport all bent and battered to prove you have travelled) I breeze into a lovely window seat, plane almost empty, and get the best view ever. Broad, cloudless daylight, flying parallel to the coast of Portugal, me seated on the right hand side of the plane with a perfect view of the coastline. Such a good view, in fact, I could identify the rivers as we flew over. I love flying by day!

Landing with MY NEW BRITISH PASSPORT was even better than I could have imagined. Yes, they really do let you through without nasty suspicious questioning, lengthy sighs and a begrudged stamp. In fact, they merely glance at the page with your photo, glance up at you, SMILE (!!!!!) and let you through. And, the best is, the queue. Er… What queue? There is none!!!!! What a relief after all these years of fearing Mr Immigration Man. Thanks, Steve!

From the airport I found my way quite easily by Public Transport to Sintra, where the wedding was to be held, and where I had decided to stay for three days. Pleasant room in pleasant boarding house, and a lengthy explore on foot. Lush and green (‘verdant valley’ springs to mind), this area is all hills and vales with slopes sloping steeply upwards and downwards. Ingenious building methods have been used to keep the insides of homes level, while the land they are built on is most definitely not. And those blue Portuguese tiles! All over the place, houses that last saw a coat of paint at least 20 years ago, but those pretty blue tiles in perfect condition. Even street names are done in tiles. Some just small depictions of saints or a small pattern, while other buildings are covered floor to roof. So beautiful (and don’t you dare snigger, Michael! Tiles ARE pretty! You local snob, you…)

Next day I went to see the nearby National Palace, one of two in the area, which was quite cool – very different to other palaces I have seen – extremely beautiful but not quite as sophisticated as some. Think I prefer this type, actually. And then I met up with Michael Pacheco, old Alchemea friend. SOOOOOOOOO good to see him! True host that he is, he’d scored a car for the day and we went straight to a massive prawn-only lunch and did some good catching up over a beer or two. Yum. Yum. Yum. I love Portuguese cooking! I think I ate more fish last week than I have over the last year. Yum.

Cabo do Roca next, the western-most point of continental Europe. Absolutely fabulous cliffs (those easy-to-fall-off kind of cliffs). What a stunning view, we sat up there for ages. I was even welcomed in my new status AS BRITISH PASSPORT HOLDER with the strains of a bagpipe. Luckily for him, the player had sensibly positioned himself well away from the edge of the cliff, or I might have described them as ‘easy-to-throw-bagpipe-players-off’ kind of cliffs. Why, I ask, would anyone want to listen to the bagpipes while standing on the western-most point of the continent???????

Then off to see the Convento du Capulcho (very special Franciscan Monastery), via a random dirt rack that we noticed going off the main road. Having decided to take the high-road at the inevitable fork, we left the gorgeous forest we were in (complete with sun-rays breaking through the trees in that sun-ray way) and drove onto the mostly barren top of the hill. Here we found a deserted possible old monastery (too small)/house (too big)/chapel (wrong architecture) and explored a bit. By the time we were back in the car, we’d put in a pool, a Euphonix (don’t worry about what this is if you are not an audio engineer) and converted it into the most spectacular of recording studios. What a view! Oh, to win the lottery…

Eventually we found the convento we were looking for and had the most interesting tour of the place. It was a monastery for an extreme order of Franciscan Monks – only ever 8 at a time – that functioned for several hundred years. Everything about the place is hugely mystical and symbolic, and built in perfect harmony with nature. Also very very tiny, and the cells they slept in had doors so small I struggled to crawl through. The tour guide was also an historian who researches the place, so it was an extremely interesting couple of hours (you are no doubt aware of my obsession with history…)

By this time it was time to: eat fish again! Yippee yum yum. One big Dourada later, we stumbled around, stuffed to the gills (pun intended) in an area on the outskirts of Lisbon called Cascais, which is on the beach. We even had a firework display further along the coast before settling into a bar for many a beer. Eventually we left at about 4am (licensing laws? What licensing laws?) and Mike drove me back to Sintra where we stopped in the most romantic of places for a smoke. In a town where you can overlook beautifully lit palaces at night, we stopped next to the dustbins outside a railway station. Never let it be said Mike doesn’t know how to look after a girl! (only teasing, Mike, it was the bestest day ever!)

Next day was the wedding. Set in the garden of a beautiful old house at the bottom of the valley, looking up to the Pena (Feather) Palace (a bizarre and gorgeous building that I didn’t manage to see) and the ruins of a Moorish castle (9th century, which I did manage to see) that are lit at night, both sitting very close to each other on the very top of one of the hill-mountains (too big for a hill, but not quite big enough for a mountain. Or maybe it would be a mountain if I’d ever had to walk the whole way up!) What a lovely service (their own vows) and we all ended up bawling our eyes out – the bride, the groom, both sets of parents and at least half the congregation… Then a magnificent meal in a lovely bridal stylee marquee, and a free bar. The London crew were all on one table, the rest of the guests were pretty much family. Our table was (suitably, I thought) closest to the bar, furthest from grandparents. Needless to say we had a great evening, stumbling into cabs at about midnight. I was very glad to be staying in Sintra as the others all had to get back to Lisbon still.

One hangover later, I decide to visit the Palacio Pena. ‘Cannot be missed!’ I am told. Trekking all the way up the hill-mountain (fortunately my head prevented any foolhardy walking up. I got the bus), I flounce out at the appropriate bus stop, all ready to see this great delight. Suddenly I am overcome by a great feeling of deja-vu. The Palace is closed. In Istanbul they close the palaces on Thursdays, in Sintra, they close the palaces on Mondays. Hmpf.

Palaces being open when I want to see them: Istanbul 0, Portugal 0

So I settle for the Moorish Castle, which is a huge ruin on whose battlements you can walk and overlook the invading ships from the south. Sadly there was very little information available about the place, so I just let my imagination go riot. Very cool and breezy up there, in the ruin of a 9th century palace, surrounded by a forest. Top view, too!

Giving up on culture I went off to met the rest of the London posse who were sensibly nursing their hangovers on a beach in Estoril, also on the outskirts of Lisbon, where I finally had some sardines for dinner (Yum again. Why can’t the English cook fish? It’s an island for god’s sake, you’re supposed to eat fish on an island!). Then train into Lisbon to check in to my Lisbon accommodation.

Now bearing in mind it is now 11pm and I am expecting grotsville, we all traipse through the front entrance and our mouths fall open. Lovely marble stairs, relief ceiling (a bit Italian in style) and cage lift. Cool. Then I get my room key, and (still expecting the room itself to be grotsvilla) we all troop up to my fourth-floor-in-a-building-on-top-of-a-hill, romantically decorated room with proper wood furniture (no veneer in sight). With wooden shutters on BOTH floor-to-ceiling windows. Not only do I have two windows, but the room is on the corner of the building, so when the shutters are dramatically thrown open, I have not one but TWO views. One of these views incorporates three (nicely lit) landmarks. The giant statue of Jesus across the river, the suspension bridge that crosses the river, and the cathedral of St Jeronimo this side of the river. And I am looking at all this from the highest point in the area. And this is from MY hotel room! What a pleasure! (the rest were all jealous ‘cos they were staying in boring old holiday inn!). Remember the scene in Room With a View when Maggie Smith and Helena Bonham-Carter get given the room with a view over Florence, and they throw the shutters open? That’s exactly how I felt, except I was looking at Lisbon, not Florence. But Lisbon is not so different from on high: red tiled roofs, church domes, a large river. So, so lovely.

The area the hotel was in is called Bairro Alto, where all the bars are. Tiny streets, many tiny bars, fab area to go out in. A beer or so and a street-score later, we’re back in my room admiring the view once more, with the help of some pretty decent grass. And then they all had to leave, while I could just snuggle into my lovely bed, shutters closed for coziness and maximum effect upon opening in the morning. Perfect!

View from place I was staying: Istanbul 1, Lisbon 1.

Tuesday I spent my day getting lost in the dinky little streets, then meeting up with farewell lunch for the Londoners. Ended up in nastily touristy area, but food good (seafood rice, same same but different to Paella) somewhat spoiled by the endless stream of scuzzy people trying to sell us a variety of stolen goods and hash. I missed my local guide a lot!

After they left, I went to see the studio where Michael works (non-engineers skip to next paragraph). Three studios: Post room with Protools pro control, small pre-production studio with an analogue Mackie 8 bus, and then, the lovely, the gorgeous, the spectacular, in-all-it’s-glory, the Euphonix CS3000. First time I have seen one out of Alchemea, and it looked so at home, so comfortable. I just had to give it a hug. Michael gave me a blast of the vocals he’d been recording the day (lucky bastard!) and I realised (not for the first time) that I shouldn’t be working with beer-sodden cables. So good to see one of the crew actually landing a Euphonix!

More dinner next – not fish but a Brazilian style steak sliced into small pieces that you cook yourself on a hot-rock. Very delicious. Then more drinks in Bairro Alto.

Mike managed to get Wednesday off work (YAY!) so we did some sightseeing together. First, the perfect cup of milky coffee with the perfect custard tart, made in a place famous for them – lovely place too – all blue and white (and more blue tiles). Then the cathedral, naval museum (Portugal was once king of the seas, remember) and my favourite bit: a drive over BOTH bridges. First over the suspension bridge to the foot of Jesus (looks very like the two bridges in Istanbul, but red), then a long drive on that side to get back to the other bridge, which is VERY special. It is the longest bridge in Europe (12 km!!!!!) and snakes across the river. There’s a raised hump bit for ships to pass under (looks like a brontosaurus with it’s head down), as well as a suspension bit at the far end. Exquisite feat of engineering!

Cool Bridges: Istanbul 1, Lisbon 11/2 (sorry Nihal! The 12km bridge has to win this one!)

Stop off for more snacks (I think trying out local food is one of the best things about being in new countries) and a short cable car ride, then we met up with Mike’s friends Inez and Miguel and went out for MORE dinner. Clams to start (you have no idea) and then an Algarvian fish stew. Too good to be true. Late night chats and then home once again to my Room With a View, and sad goodbye to Mike.

Checking out next morning, I realised I had a whole day and a bag to carry, so decided to do only one thing where I could hopefully not have to carry my (lightly packed, but nevertheless) bag all the time. Funnily enough I decided to go for another hill, on which is perched a rather lovely castle. Getting an old-fashioned tram up most of the way, I didn’t realise the steepest bit was still to come, with no public transport to haul you up. Glad I didn’t bring that other, heavy, pair of shoes! But was it worth it! It was a perfect summer’s day, not a cloud in the sky, and I found myself a spot of breezy shade and polished off the last of the hash. Then I just sat and stared and stared and stared. What an amazing view yet again. Breathtaking!

After about an hour of sitting and staring I decided to walk down the hill and eat a pastry at every shop I passed. Bad munchie-decision happens again! As it turned out, the pastries were far too sweet, so I had to give up on that idea half way through the third one, and then I was off the tram-route. So I eventually walk all the way back to the central station, from which I know I can get a bus to the airport, only to find I could have caught the same bus from many a point I had just walked past. Goddamnit!

Perfect holiday, and getting back to Heathrow was only made bearable by not having to face Mr Immigration Man on the way in, and I made it from Airplane to Tube in less than 5 minutes. Hand-luggage only rocks! (So do British passports.)

Great holiday with perfect host (ess): Istanbul 1, Portugal 1

So here I am, back in London, broke and back at work already, thinking only of getting to SA in November.

Lost In Cannes (or Filmaking Hell)

2002-05-10T15:03:00.000+01:00

After a very unexpected “Can you drive and do you want to come to Cannes?” phone call on Friday afternoon from Matt (who I’d met the previous weekend on another film shoot) I somehow wangled it with work (all those bank holidays I’d worked came in handy in the end!) to leave poor, long-suffering-assistant-Ben to deal with it all and bugger off on the Monday. Always amazing how you can wangle the impossible sometimes!

Anyways, prior to leaving on Monday, I had met Huck Melnick (the director) for about 5 minutes on the Saturday, and no-one else, and had very little idea of what I was getting myself into (a situation that has always appealed to me, and generally works out) except that I was going on a film shoot, in Cannes, during the Cannes Film Festival, and the film was to be a short romantic comedy about an actress and wannabe producer who meet, yes, at the Festival. So all excitement (south of France! Summer! Cannes Film Festival!) I acquired the obligatory business cards, new shoes, hair-cut, dye-job and cover at work, and turned up at Tom Wontner’s flat at 4PM Monday afternoon, ready to jump in the car and leave for France. I hadn’t met Tom before, and only later found out that he was the male lead, and had come on board only a few weeks before. At the time he had noticed a rather large gap in organisation and had offered to produce the film. This rather large gap was a rather large omen of other rather large gaps to come – but this all still lay in the future. For now the organisatory gaps had been filled – by Tom himself (another omen!) and he had been lumped with the task of getting 20 crew members and two van-loads full of camera, sound and lighting gear to France, while Huck and Jeremy (Huck’s buddy and writer of the script, and supposed-to-be-co-director-and-co-funder) swanned off to Cannes by plane to do some ‘pre-production’. [Note for those who don’t know: the pre-production stage is when you do things like (a) find your locations (b) get permission to film in them (c) find sufficient accommodation for your crew (d) get some idea of how much it’s going to cost to feed your crew (e) plan out the shooting schedule (f) consult with your assistant director so she knows what’s going on (g) sort out how you’re going to transport your crew etc etc. As it was we arrived to find (a) most locations had not been found yet (b) the only one they had found, they hadn’t asked permission to film in (c) there were not enough mobile homes organised at the campsite we were staying in, “5 minutes walk” (i.e. 20 minutes drive) from Cannes (d) nobody had bothered to find out how expensive food actually is in the South of France in season (e) there was no shooting schedule, in fact there wasn’t even a story board (f) all Kelly (1st Assistant Director)’s shooting schedules that she had meticulously worked out well in advance had been completely ignored (g) there were not enough vehicles (a situation that continued throughout the shoot) and there were not enough drivers for the existing 2 vehicles.]

Anyway, here follows my diary of events, as experienced from my point of view… So if any inaccuracies exist, I apologise and am to blame…

Day 1: Leaving Las Vegas London

As mentioned previously, I arrived at Tom’s flat in central London around 4PM, all ready to jump in the car and leave for France immediately. Poor little me! How ignorant can you be! In fact, we still had to go to Golders Green (north London) to pick up the fabulous High Density camera (apparently something to be excited about if you’re a camera person) and all the other tons of kit that camera people need, as well as our very small pile of sound gear. Alarm bells started ringing when the second vehicle, that is due to meet us at VMI (the hire place) around 5, is still in the garage at 6PM, with no guarantee of being fixed in time for us to go. Eventually (after Matt, Chris (the boom op) Tom and I have entertained ourselves in the reception area of a gear-hire company (not a very entertaining spot, it must be said) for 3 hours) Ben arrives in what is soon to become known as The Bendabus.

The Bendabus is a very ancient, battered (and very loveable, Ben!) Space Cruiser, largely silver in colour, dappled with a lovely rust. By this time Tom, who has been on edge for the last several hours, is about to go mad. It’s 8.30PM (we had (HA HA HA HA HA) originally booked for the 8.15 ferry crossing and Ben still has to re-arrange all his own gear that is occupying a lot of the packing space so we can get his share of the camera gear in. Tom is entirely disbelieving that the Bendabus will actually make it, and much time is wasted considering the option of hiring a vehicle from VMI. Eventually Ben convinces Tom that his vehicle WILL make it, and we then discover that we still have to pick up a whole lot of lighting gear from a different hire company. Of course, Ben had actually just driven past the place (in north west London – remember that Dover (from where the ferry departs) is to the south east of London. Also remember that London is a very very big place), but didn’t know to stop (AAAARGHHHH!!). This company also closes at 9.30. It is now 9.00. So Tom, Matt and I jump into Tom’s vehicle (a ford people carrier, in far better condition than the Bendabus, so much so that it never warranted a nickname) and screech off to Arri’s to get the lighting stuff, while Ben and Chris set off straight for Dover.

We pick up the lighting stuff with minutes to spare and then set off on a serious effort to make the 11.15 ferry, debating all the way the possibility of Ben’s vehicle making it, and both of us making the ferry. Text messages and phone calls fly and we establish, only a few miles from Dover, that we are passing the traffic cones that Ben had only just passed. By now it’s 11PM. A few miles further and we’re all but giving up hope of making this crossing, when we come up to the last roundabout before the ferry. And there, believe it or not, is the Bendabus! They had travelled east and south on the ring road to get out of London while we had travelled west, picked up gear and then gone south and east on the ring road, and we’d caught them up, AT the ferry roundabout! A good omen! Hope and cheers erupt from both cars and we screech up to the ferry and are literally the last cars on. We hadn’t even finished walking up the stairs from the parking deck when the ferry pulls away.

PHEW! Something good has happened at last! Elation abounds but we all realise that haring down through France through the night is not really an option now, so we stop for the night about an hour past Calais. I think this was the moment when Tom realised that his credit card was going to be maxed to the limit - already he was paying for three hotel rooms he hadn’t planned on, and we were barely even IN France.

Day 2: The Incredible Journey

A long, slow day. The Bendabus, which, bless, doesn’t even have a speedometer, is not a particularly speedy vehicle. In fact, it is a particularly SLOW vehicle. It is also a not very reliable vehicle, so it is necessary to drive in convoy, just in case it gets stranded with £100,000 worth of camera gear in the back. The ford was just dying to go faster, but we had to follow rather than lead because it was just too difficult to be in front and not go fast. However, accompanied by the Sounds of the Eighties (courtesy Matt), I had a great time just sitting in the back, watching France roll past… I LOVE road trips! And for me it was a bit of trip down memory lane when we got to the south, having worked outside St Tropez for three months 6 (SIX!!!!!!) years ago. And on the way down a comment was passed that Tom felt he’d been lumped with the logistics, and he hoped (in vain, it later proved) that Huck and Jeremy were doing their bit (i.e. pre-production stuff) in Cannes.

We arrived in Pegomas (the town “5 minutes walk” outside Cannes) where we were being accommodated in a caravan park at about 11PM, with no-one to meet us. They were having dinner in Cannes. Fair enough, we’re big kids and plonked ourselves in a mobile home and went in search of beer. We duly found beer, and also found out how bloody expensive beer is in a bar – 3 euros for a half pint. Funnily, beer is extremely cheap if you buy it in a supermarket. At some stage we bought 52 for about 24 euros. (My usual standard for judging the cost of living in a new country is how much a beer costs ya (I’m not really fussed about bread and milk, somehow!))

The theory was that we were going to start shooting the following day, late afternoon, at the caravan park. Hah!

Day 3: The Long and Winding Road

Indeed it is a long and winding road to Cannes from Pegomas. Typical southern French road – one (narrow) lane in either direction, and my heart begins to sink at the prospect of being one of the drivers. At this stage I still held out hope that there would be another, and so was somewhat comforted by the idea that I would not be alone in the drear of having to cart loads of people around all over the place. Nevertheless I am occupied by the need to remember the route (Tom didn’t know it either) and we drive round and about Cannes for some time trying to find the hotel where Huck, Jeremy and Tom will be staying (the Hotel Shilla, run by the truly lovely and kind Madame l’Amour), as well as the actresses Berry and Anna, and Miriam, officially 2nd AD, but quickly becoming the person who has to do all the shitty jobs by virtue of the fact that she is our only French speaker (she is Swiss).

The day is spent watching Jeremy, Huck and Tom argue over logistics of transport (the hotel lot don’t have a vehicle – the two we have are going to be campsite based) and Kelly (1st AD, who has by this time arrived) trying to bring some direction into the arguments, as she soon realises she can’t actually stop them. The transport issue was quite insane. Several people had arrived by the same flight, but none of them knew each other, so Vanessa (make up artist) was eventually left stranded at the airport and had to get a bus into Cannes after waiting hours to be fetched at the airport (as arranged). She then was left stranded at the Cannes bus station for another one and a half (bladder impaired) hours until someone finally fetched her. Another several timespans were wasted on the issue of fetching the actresses and Agatha (one of the 3 documentary makers who were to make documentaries on the real Cannes blaggers, as juxtaposition to the film itself) who’s trains were cancelled then (happily) re-instated. At this stage I am still excited that I may be able to see some films. Even being stuck on my first car-guarding duty in a particularly ugly car park – perfect view of the rail tracks and the flyover that flies over them – hasn’t dampened my hopes of seeing something of the festival while I’m here. If not in the actual festival (you have to have a pass) at least the free films that are shown on the beach every night at 10.30 (surely we will be finished work by that time on most nights???), and still think Huck is a man to be trusted.

The camera crew have also, in the course of inspecting all their equipment, found out that although they have this super-hot-shit camera, they do not have the super-hot-shit lens that contributes much to the super-hot-shitness of the camera. They hotfooted it to the Sony Yacht (everyone who’s anyone has a yacht in Cannes, with which to try to be more pretentious than the other people trying to be pretentious) to try persuade them to let us borrow a lens, but they failed – I know not why. So now we’re using the super-hot-shit camera minus the hot-shit, and everyone’s somewhat disappointed – not the least me as I’ve been stuck with the car for over an hour while there’s a lovely sunny day going on and the Bullshitter of the Day - one of the documentary makers, who from the start had no intention of actually making a documentary but was there to name drop and tell all about his amazing, unbelievable (literally, on my part) deals with Disney, Miramax and the “Die Hard 4” producers. Each to his own, I suppose. He did end up being a recurring extra in our film at least, and turned out to be pleasant enough when he forgot he was in Cannes! I also got into much trouble for deserting my post in search of a bottle of water, exactly around the time the car needed moving from it’s illegal parking space and someone climbed in through the sunroof (that I’d left open, gulp!) to try and move it, setting off all kinds of alarms. Of course I had responsibly taken the key with me. Still, the neighbours could hardly complain of the horrible alarm sounds – the flyover was still much louder!

The last person to arrive is George (part of the camera crew) and Huck says it’s a “5 minute walk” to the bus station (had I not already learned my lesson???) to pick George up, no need to take the car. It is, fact, a 25 minute walk, and the sensible thing (considering it is now 11.30 at night) would have been to load everyone into the car and drive to pick up George, as the bus station is also directly on the route out of town to Pegomas. So another hour passes in wastedness and poor George has to carry all his gear all the way to the car. Although that probably wasn’t too much of a problem: George is rather a big chap and, incidentally, probably the best car packer I’ve ever met. Not a talent to be sneered at! His other talents include a very convincing Bavarian gay accent.

A fine portrait of George

Anyways, finally I get everyone into the car and head to Pegomas. Naturally I have no real idea where I’m going and I actually head for Nice (in the opposite direction). Much map-and-George consultation later and we finally make it back to camp, where Chris, Matt, Ag and I polish the last of Matt’s weed and get rather drunk. An important indication of things to come. We also set up the first of several sandwich production lines for lunch tomorrow – it is to be a disappointing affair as we don’t have very much in the way of bread. (Matt’s job is to feed us all on a very tight budget…)

So, by the end of the first day’s shooting, we have shot nothing, Matt has not actually left the campsite since arriving and none of us have seen much of Cannes apart from parking lots and The Hotel Shilla – except the camera crew who’ve already been on a yacht. Bastards! Another important indication of likely future events…

The hoped-for, and really-should-have-happened ‘group-hug, team-building’ dinner at the campsite, supposed to have been attended by all the hotel lot, in particular the director and writer, never happened. Yet another tinkle of the little alarm bells that have been going off all day.

Day 4: Location, Location, Location!

Today we shoot. At last something constructive is happening. I am not actually doing anything to do with filming – Chris is still here to boom op – but am happy enough at the prospect running errands and getting to know Cannes a bit.

Location: the Hotel Shilla.
Reason for location: last year Huck and Jeremy had stayed there and it was a shithole. The two girls in the film are broke and need to be staying in a shithole.

So, we happily move in, take over the entire lobby with stuff, dumping toolboxes on Korean antique rosewood tables, piling sharp-edged metal objects all over the newly laid (luckily NOT rosewood) floor, leaving handprints all over the freshly (as in yesterday) painted walls…

We then become aware of two facts:

(1) There are workmen rewiring the entire building (er... a somewhat noisy activity involving hammers, drills and saws – you can see how Miriam’s French speaking job was already going to be hell) and
(2) Nobody had actually ASKED Madame l’Amour if it was ok to film in her hotel – she was paying these workmen for a day’s work that wasn’t done in the end ‘cos we kept asking them to be quiet.

It’s not just alarm bells ringing by now, but the whole bloody town’s church bells have chimed in too.

Somehow, against the odds, we get some filming done. Come lunchtime and the pitiful pile of sandwiches puts us to shame, and we have to buy more in. Isn’t it funny, in hindsight, how the whole future of a project can be predicted in a day? Pissing off the location, not enough food, and a clear indication by lunchtime that Huck, our illustrious leader and director, has not got a clue what he’s doing and is an arrogant arse to boot. Although no-one really wants to say it openly yet, and certainly not to his face (we’ve only known each other a couple of days by this time), the foreboding sense of lack of direction/control/leadership is becoming a slightly embarrassing fog hanging around the Hotel Shilla, that is not being burned away by the gorgeous Cannes sunshine.

Anyway, we get the day’s work done, somehow, taking much much longer than necessary and I do my one run back to the campsite, with all the kids scrunched in somehow. By now it’s been established that they do not want to insure another driver on the ford, and I am it’s official driver. Never will I offer to be The Driver again! Ferrying 12 people and gear round and about Cannes is like taking 20 primary school kids on tour. It’s not fun! There’s always someone who:
• has left something behind
• needs the loo
• doesn’t want to leave yet
• is impatient to leave NOW (usually me!)
• wants to stop for fags
• HAS to get to town to check emails exactly when I’m on my way to the pool

Halfway back to Pegomas, on my one run of the evening, I get a phone call. Come back into town and fetch Miriam. Furiously (I want a swim and dinner as well) I ask why she didn’t get in in the first place – it seems Huck hadn’t thought of that, and hadn’t told her what he wanted her to do.

So I go back and fetch her: she is to be taken to a rather lovely field full of freshly planted strawberries and red poppies, on the same road as the campsite, and tell the farmer that we would like to shoot in his field the next morning (I suppose we should be grateful that we didn’t just turn up and dump our gear on the 5 day old strawberry plants…) It is now about 7PM. We want to shoot there at 9AM the next day. So we put on our best smiles and go ask the farmer. Of course it is a totally futile mission: these are the man’s crops we are talking about! But they kindly send us to another field they know of, where they have seen people filming before.

Buoyed, we head there only to find the property locked up. We manage to get a phone number and Miriam makes the call. The succinct reply was something like: bugger off, I’m never having another film crew on my property again! (has Huck been here before? See, for me, the problem with film crews messing location owners around, is that eventually the world is going to run out of locations! It’s only people who have not been done before that say yes…) Miriam and I then feel obliged to find a field. Luckily we were together as if either of us had been alone we’d have given up at this point. As it was we spent another 2 hours driving around the environs of Pegomas (at least it is a pretty place to drive around) talking to various people until we finally found a lovely sloping hillside and some suckers who hadn’t been done by a film crew yet, and they said fine, we can shoot there. Pretty damn lucky as it was dusk and we were pissed off enough to say fuck it, this should have been organised AGES ago.

Back to the campsite, triumphant in our success, only to have the wind taken out of our sails by the camera crew (how do you know the director will like it? It’s on a HILL? How’s the steady-cam guy, Jose, going to work on a hillside? I think this was about the last time that the director’s wishes were seriously taken into account…) [Note: a steady-cam is a contraption whereby the camera is attached on a harness to the body and then on a hinged mechanical arm so that it can be moved about smoothly by the operator. It is very heavy and the operator cannot really watch his feet as he has to watch the monitor.]

Some steady-cam action

Luckily it turned out to be the perfect location by most people’s opinions, and just as well as we’d otherwise have spent the day driving around the area in great futility trying to find a field to ruin.

Day 5: Field of Dreams

The Bendabus, the field and the camera crew’s bums.

So we duly all turn up at the field, and everyone seems happy. Except for the lack of poppies. The director wants poppies. And since we are still vaguely concerned with the directors ideas (amazing how we are so conditioned to respect a pecking order! Even if it is only there by name, and not earned) poppy wranglers are appointed and on one of my many driving runs later we assault a roadside poppy community and steal them all. This idea was as short-lived as the poppies – YOU try keeping picked poppies alive in scorching Mediterranean heat, on a baking hillside! I did feel rather bad about picking them all, since we didn’t even use them, but this is how things were on this shoot…

After some time I was not actively needed so I managed to escape to Cannes for a bit (one good thing about being the driver) and spend a whole 5 minutes on the beach before rounding up the kids (some of whom had been spending their time in fledgling romances) and taking some back to camp to sort dinner, and the others to the hillside, by now no longer baking and the light failing.

As it turns out, everyone seemed happy enough with the day’s achievements, achieved largely in spite of the evident leadership gap – our director(s) [the “s” in brackets ‘cos Jeremy’s attempts at directing are hardly worth mentioning] still and confirmedly unable to make their vision clear to the people who need to share that vision. We are all starting to suspect that that vision doesn’t actually exist in Huck’s mind at all. Still, not a bad day’s work and the BBQ for dinner went down a treat.

Catch-phrases are starting to set in: “For Huck’s sake, hurry up!”, “Hucking, hell! Get a move on!” but we are still polite enough to not say these things in front of the man himself. This will change.

Huck is starting to be known as “Yuck” (his sense of personal hygiene doesn’t quite meet general modern society standards).

Day 6: Cruising the Croisette

The number of fingers held in the air indicates a how-many-star-fuck-up is taking place. This is a 5 star fuck up

After some “discussion” (i.e. full blown argument) last night, we agree a 9.30AM call time, on the Croisette (the Croisette is the esplanade bit that runs along the beach front). NO problem, we’re up and ready. I accompany the camera crew on the Bendabus to show Ben where to park (already I have an intimate knowledge of Cannes parking lots –very similar, it may or may not surprise you, to parking lots the world over. Except in one point: many seem to have a sound system rigged and they play radio at you. Nice idea, I suppose, but does anyone ever spend more time than absolutely necessary in a car park? Do the French feel the need to escape the sun, perhaps?)

So: we unload the camera gear (they do NOT travel light, unlike us soundies with 3 bags, a boom and a mic – give me sound anyday!) on the pavement, bury the car 3 floors underground, and wait for the others. Now, we know we are shooting on the Croisette, but as the Croisette runs the entire length of the town, this is a pretty vague destination.

I then spent the following hour and a half learning important camera crew jargon:
• Helmet (an attractive girl – I’ll leave you to figure it out… ICK!)
• HCH (High Class Helmet)
• MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck)
• GILF (Granny I’d Like to Fuck)
• And we added, for my benefit, BILF (Bloke I’d Like to Fuck)

As they say, you learn something new every day!!!!!

This educational experience was interspersed by trying to call any one of our three leaders to find out what the HUCK was going on. We could still be in bed! It was a nice street corner, but we’d finished admiring it’s full potential after the first 10 minutes. Watching the copper on the corner agreeing with all the cries of ‘helmet!’ was doing wonders for Anglo-French relations, but that wasn’t really the point. Nice fountain, too, but really, an answered phone call would have been nicer. Especially as we had stuck to the arrangement and were where we were supposed to be. And Yuck had actually walked past us after the first half hour, but had not even acknowledged us, never mind said, sorry, we’re gonna be some time yet. And the French, great coffee lovers that they are, are a bit too serious about coffee in that take away coffee is an abhorrent idea. Coffee should be sat down and drunk at a coffee shop, properly. Of course, with all our gear, and always believing that departure was imminent, we couldn’t go sit in a coffee shop. I’ve never before wished for a Starbucks!

When everyone else finally arrives at 11AM, the delay is explained, and almost seems forgivable. Huck (who is not only not directing, but also acting) was being persuaded to, and having, his hair cut.

Now let me take a minute to describe our director. He’s small and wiry (about my height and half my size) and, well, very very hairy – normally not a problem in a man of hygiene. He has severe duck feet that are always clumping around in little gnome boots and wears a series of odd-coloured baggy linen trousers (you know what linen looks like after a couple of wears – Huck wore his more than a couple of times!) with pockets bulging (this is something that all men do: do they not realise bulging pockets in no way emphasize other bulges and simply ruin their figure?) and a new, brightly coloured, not always matching, shirt almost every day. We know this ‘cos the creases from being in the packet were still perfectly in evidence. His greatest distinguishing feature, however, was the mass of hair on his head. He is balding on top, but has a HEAP of long, matted, dark hair hanging off the back of his head. It looks like it really has been neither washed nor combed since he left school. It’s long and the bits that are not matted up into one great big dreadlock are stringy and wispy and fly all over the place. So much so that we had several giggles about what poor Vanessa (make-up) was going to do with it – rather her than me, anyday!

So, the late start of the day was due to Tom taking a stand and gleefully cutting the mat off. Vanessa was left with only the ear hairs to do…

Huck, pre haircut

Huck, post haircut

Right, so now it’s 11AM and according the Kelly’s painstakingly worked out shooting schedule, we should be finishing up the second shot. We’re still hanging on a street corner discussing GILFs, MILFs and BILFs while Tom circles the block to come pick up the camera gear (why on earth we did this ridiculous vehicle swop, I don’t know!). Eventually we move everything and everyone to the far end of the Croisette and finally start shooting. It’s now 12.30. Hmmm… Only 3 hours late.

Nevermind. As Chris is still around to boom, I think I’ve got it easy and can spend the day checking out Cannes. Ooooooh noooooooo! It’s not that easy! The car is full of £100,000 worth of camera bits that are only insured if it’s car is alarmed. It isn’t. So as they all move further and further away from where the car is parked, I get stuck with car guarding duty. I sat with that damn car for FIVE AND A HALF HOURS! With the beach in sight! With Cannes to be explored! Goddamnit!

At 5.30 I manage to lumber Matt with the car and my day improves. I go find the rest of the crew, by now back at the other end of the Croisette, and next to where they are filming, I see a rather delicious Swede (BILF!!!) giving ‘energy massages’. I decide I deserve one and WOW, it really was energising! Buoyed by this, and by my previous success as a location scout, I join Agatha in the search for a party invite, so we can film at a posh do. Now Cannes during the festival is a place of parties. Getting an invite shouldn’t be too difficult, if you blag well enough. To do the blagging, you need a photo-ID festival pass so you can get into the hotels, where all the film companies have suites to do their business in. Agatha has a pass. Miriam has a pass. I do not. So I borrow Miriam’s. I manage to get past security at the Majestic Hotel. Agatha has her DV camera on all the time (she’s here to shoot a documentary, remember). We go blagging. We fail hopelessly, but do manage to steal a muffin each and get bust filming people without their permission. We do, however, eventually get ONE lead on a potential party, and have to go to another section of the official festival office site to continue blagging there.

More security to deal with. I am ever confident, and try my old “speak to the bus conductor/ticket inspector/security bloke, and look them in the eye. This way they won’t look at your ticket/pass” trick. This always works. And so it did this time, except that there are TWO security blokes, and while I hold the first one transfixed with my eyes and several difficult questions, security bloke #2 reaches round from behind me and checks the picture on the pass. Which is blatantly not me.

The pass is duly removed from my person (with well practised French snootiness and disdain) and, apparently (Miriam found out later when she went back to try and get it) handed over to the police. They take this pass thing seriously, the French do! So now I have to tell Miriam that I’ve lost her pass that she has only had for less than 24 hours (foolishly she still hopes to see some films HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!)

Fortunately for me the pass issue was completely overshadowed in importance by Miriam’s pissed-offness with Yuck (his name has by now mutated to “Muck”). As the official French Speaker, she is charged with keeping the crowds at bay – we are filming VERY publicly, and a scene involving a performance art thing by the lead actress, so everyone’s watching, and looking into the camera and being curious and generally not helping everyone’s mood. It’s hot and the sea is just there! So near and yet so far away! Muck has been unable to tell the camera crew what he wants and mutiny is at hand. Frustration levels have not lowered since the pavement this morning. The focus of Agatha’s documentary has shifted today – she’s started interviewing crew, and realises that there’s far more of a story here than just documenting the festival!

Anna with the flower that she emerges from on the Croisette. Performance art stuff.

Late back to camp, and there is general consensus that we have to go out on the town and get blasted. We all need it! Tom, bless him, who has decided to stay sober the whole time (sensible, as he’s the only one trying to hold it all together, and play the lead role at the same time), agrees to drive us all back in two runs – one at 1AM the next at 2. These turn into a 3.30 and 5AM run – everyone really did get well and truly smashed! A record amount of vomiting was recorded the following morning, Miriam had to be rescued from falling asleep in the toilet bowl, Matt (all of 22, and from Blackpool) was waxing lyrical about how to treat women “show them who’s boss”, Agatha was found on the side of the road, WALKING home, and Chris (who missed his 8AM flight from Nice the next morning) was last heard from saying ‘hey, let’s go to the casino!’. Tom had to baby us all home and to bed, but at least he had the comfort of everyone saying ‘I LOOOOVE you, man! You’re the GREEAAAtesht!”

A mad mad night (how come the only European country that sticks to EU directives about alcohol measures in Britain? Hmmm? In Europe they just pour half the damn bottle in your glass!) but much needed. Nothing like a bit of booze and a common enemy for team building!

Day 7: Happy Campers

The manky caravan

In the light of last night’s immense piss-up/blow-out, today’s call is for 3PM, at the campsite – we’re filming in and around a really manky caravan, about 50m away from our (much nicer) ones, so it’s a pretty stress free day. I am finally booming (Chris did manage to get a later flight – he had to be back in the UK on Monday morning to start work on something called ‘the sex lives of the potato men’. I can’t wait.) but am struggling to keep my balance as it is, nevermind with the addition of a long pole with a dead weight on the end of it.

Other campsite residents find us fascinating – one woman even videoed the whole procedure (I bet her holiday video makes great viewing! Her poor poor mates!) and we generally take it easy. Highlight of the day is Muck (sans shirt! EEEEUUUUWWWWWW! Yuckity muckity huck! Lying in the caravan, apparently half asleep, saying his one line: “she doesn’t want to see you” over and over and over again, in close up. He must have done it 25 times until we collectively decided to cut. The little man is ridiculous and completely egotistical. I’m surprised he didn’t cast himself as the lead, the number of close-ups we did of him by the end of the shoot!

Getting ready for Muck’s marathon close-up

Jeremy (writer) has also started showing an ugly side, not mere incompetence. The way he speaks to the actors is totally unconstructive and his meanness is shining through. He REALLY doesn’t want to hand over any money for crew welfare! Little does he realise that when people work for you for free, as everyone was, all it takes is a decent meal and a case of beer at the end of the day and everyone will do anything for you. Be stingy on the food and beer, though, and resentment just builds.

Anyways, short day and quiet night… We all need this as much as we needed the blowout the day before!

Day 8: MY Yacht

Kelly and Samantha on the Sony Yacht

The premise of the film (called “My Yacht”, by the way) is a wannabe producer meets a wannabe actress, and although he’s really a nice ordinary bloke, he feels he has to impress her by being The Big Producer, and so goes on the blag and pretends to be someone he’s not and pretends he owns a yacht and gets himself invited to parties on other yachts etc etc. He gets found out, she dumps him, he learns his lesson, they get together in the end.

So this is why we need to blag into a party on a yacht (talk about life imitating art…). Sony have been kind enough, in the light of us using there super-hot-shit new camera (minus the hot-shit lens), to let us shoot on their yacht BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 AND 9PM ONLY. Only between 7 and 9. That’s 19h00 to 21h00. What part of this Muck didn’t understand, I don’t know. Of course the 6.30PM call to prepare for a hurried shoot at 7 was probably ill-advised and all excitement drained rapidly from my being when we finally did get into the Yacht-owners-only car park (Miriam doing the French thing again) and we were only allowed a skeleton crew on board. i.e. one sound person only. So Lee (sound recordist, and a damn fine one at that) got to hang out on a yacht, while the “non-essential” (hmpff) crew hung out on the dockside, watching impossibly thin wannabe actresses trying to impress expensively (but invariably badly) dressed producer types, all heading for one or the other (s)wanky yacht party. New Camera Crew Jargon word: LAM (a Look At Me). There are bazillions of LAM’s in Cannes!

The second Yacht scene involved filming Huck and Berry (the other actress) trying to get into a (s)wanky boat party, and being turned away. So we gather round and block the entrance to the Sony Yacht. The Sony party is due to start at 9. We are supposed to finish at 9. It is now 9.15. The captain and Sony guy are getting impatient. Potential Sony guests are not bothering and are heading for other parties. We, the crew, are embarrassed, and try to hurry things along (I think this was the first time we used the phrase ‘for Huck’s sake, hurry up” within Muck’s hearing range). I do my best boom action so far – lying face down in the gutter between the pavement and the sea, underneath the gang plank, with my arm twisted backwards. It did entertain the rather BILFy deckhand on the next yacht, but was not enough to secure an invitation on board. Perhaps I was a bit grubby?

Huck and Berry fail to blag into a party. Berry just LOVES her role as Yuck’s love interest! Fortunately there are no snogging scenes…

French shops are shit. They close for three hours over lunch (when else are you supposed to go to the shops?) and are shut again by 7.30. After the trying day on (or near, for some of us) the yacht we were pretty desperate for a beer. Even the campsite bar was closed and we were forced to resort to knocking on neighbouring camper’s doors to try borrow some, which we did manage in the end. What a weird night…

Catch phrase of the day:

I’m a Professional! Get me out of here!

To Be Continued….

Turkiye

2002-04-10T14:59:00.000+01:00

Türkiye

Istanbul:

Half on Asia, half on Europe, separated by a stretch of sea called the Bosphorus, which itself separates the Black sea and the Sea of Marmaris. And where was I staying? Well, my friend Nihal is a most well connected young lady, and I stayed with her in the most beautiful flat high up on the European side, overlooking the Bosphorus and with a beautiful view over both that and the Asian side. Arrived late at night to many hugs from Nihal and an all-night catch-up session (it’s been 11 months since she left London). We knew we had been up late when we heard the early morning ‘ezaan’ (Moslem call to prayer). Sitting listening on the balcony was amazing: you hear it from all sides (there are thousands of Mosques in Istanbul) but one was really special: the sound comes bouncing over the water from a mosque on the Asian side. All this while dawn is breaking; watching the endless shipping traffic on it’s way from the Aegean to the Black Sea.

Spent three days looking around Istanbul, well at least a tiny part of it. The whole city stretches 200km across (!!!!!) and is home to a population of 12 million people. Did the classic tourist sights: the Blue Mosque, Ayasophia (once church, turned mosque when the Turks invaded Constantinople in 1453, and a fabulous mixture of the two faiths. Christian crosses with Moslem symbols painted over, and the once-plastered-over Christian mosaics now on display again: a fabulous place), the Archaeology Museum and Topkapi Palace (a marvel of ostentation and royal luxury). All interspersed with shopping trips to bazaars, markets and modern shopping centres. Security is quite tight everywhere, and you go through airport-stylee x-rays and metal detectors just to go shopping! And, of course, countless glasses of TEA. As much of a tea addict as I already am, Turkish tea is fabulous. Strong, black, always served in little glasses on pretty saucers and just perfect with two lumps of sugar. Served in any café, but also on the ferries (not in yucky Styrofoam, but in proper glasses) and anywhere else you happen to be. I was enslaved! And that’s probably the thing I miss the most.

After a tuition period in Istanbul Public Transport (there are many and varied ways of getting around) and on the encouragement of an acquaintance of Nihal’s, “you MUST see the other palaces”, and Nihal having had enough of sightseeing (poor girl is NOT a fan of history. Prior warning to any other prospective Nihal visitors: expect to do the sights on your own while Nihal finds a cup of tea somewhere and waits for you…) I decided to be the intrepid traveller and face the rigours of Istanbul on my own. Having successfully negotiated my way across the river to the Asian side (this involved a cab, a bus and a ferry) I decided (again, on the recommendation of Nihal’s acquaintance) to walk to the palace from the ferry stop. “It’s a lovely walk!” he said.

Well, it’s not. Most of it is along a very busy road and there is a huge Military Exclusion Zone in the way. To get around this, you have to walk through a traffic tunnel. Not a pleasant experience. Ever the intrepid traveller, however, I persevered and was happy and very pleased with my intrepidness when I found the palace I was after. Also by this time a nice touristy shop selling ice-cold water was just what I was after. Having found the entrance, it took me a while (I was engrossed in reading the very long list of rules for entering the palace, including that you have to buy a separate ticket (at the same price) for your camera) to realise that it was, well, closed.

Undaunted, I curse a few times, laugh at the situation and head back (by motorised vehicle, this time) to the ferry and decide I will have to make do with the other palace. It is (well, LOOKS) very close to the ferry, can’t take long to get there. Successfully ferrying (and tea-ing) my way across back to the European side, I set off for the palace which looks from the river like it starts just about there. Finding the entrance, I am told by a none-too-friendly security person that the entrance to the palace itself is around the other side. This is an entrance to something else (although it looks pretty much like the palace to me). Can’t be far, she thinks. Now, bearing in mind it is thirty-something degrees and I have just walked for over an hour; another twenty-minute walk takes me to the main entrance. An armed guard moves me along. Undeterred, I remember spotting another entrance a few minutes further along (I’d spotted this on a previous bus-journey passed here). A few minutes BY BUS further along. Eventually I find it, rush up to the gates and it is, well, closed.

At this point I adopt Plan B and have a cup of tea at the nearest café. So much for exploring Istanbul by myself, but at least I had a bit of an adventure figuring out the transport.

Highlights of Istanbul: being totally adopted by Nihal’s sister, brother-in-law and niece (with poor Nihal translating) and treated to all kinds of Turkish delights (no pun intended), and then there was the ‘futbol’. A more football crazy country I haven’t come across. The day Turkey beat Japan in the world cup to go through to the quarterfinals was one to remember… After the match we headed to Taksim Square (Istanbul’s answer to Trafalgar) and there everyone was going absolutely apeshit! Red and white EVERYWHERE and people singing and dancing and screaming and shouting and generally being very, very happy and boisterous. This was the best they had ever done in the world cup before. There was a classic moment when the crowd was moving down a street in one direction, and a tram was trying to go the opposite way. A ten-minute standoff ensued until the tram finally won. The atmosphere was absolutely electric and this was one of my favourite moments of the whole time there.

Cesme

Got a coach down to the Aegean coast, to an area called Cesme (close to Izmir on a map). A 9-hour journey including a lovely ferry crossing (and more tea) and a flirtatiously entertaining befriending of the two waiters who serve, yes, tea, on the bus. During this journey I extended my Turkish vocabulary and grammatical knowledge to include being able to say such fascinating and useful things like “the Black sea is in the North. The Mediterranean Sea is in the South. Japan is in the East” and, “Greece is in the West”. I had to perform this trick many times to satisfy Nihal’s other friends with whom we were staying in Cesme. Also listened to the England v Brazil game on the radio on the bus (it’s easy enough to follow, the Turkish words for ‘foul’, ‘corner’, ‘offside’ and ‘goal’ are: ‘foul’, ‘corner’, ‘offside’ and ‘goal’. Useful. I also lost a 1 million Turkish Lira bet with one of the aforementioned waiters. A million Turkish Lira is worth about 43p on a good day.

Spent a very relaxing week down at the sea doing little besides working on my tan, hanging out at very exclusive beaches and spending the evenings in very exclusive open-air, beachside nightclubs, hobnobbing with the very rich and famous (I met a real-live Turkish pop star!!!) Did I mention that Nihal was a very well connected young lady?

My only problem with this lifestyle was the music. Anyone remember Modern Talking? Really fucking awful 80’s pop duo? Well, take the sound of modern talking, and attach a Julio Eglesias pop video made on a rather tight budget, and remember that the concept of The Band doesn’t really exist (it’s all programmed beats with a solo super-star singer) and you get the idea. Add to this the fact that the Turks are absolutely mad for their local pop and the same shit is played on the telly in the morning (Turkish version of MTV), on the car radio on the way to the beach, at the beach during the day, on the car radio on the way back from the beach, on the telly at home over dinner and getting ready to go out, at the club ALL NIGHT and in the car on the way home… It drove me completely fucking insane and became a standing joke between me and my hosts all week. These Turkish girls: playing a local pop tune is like switching on an on-switch. There’s a western dance tune playing and they are swaying their hips a bit. Let the Turkish tunes start and all of a sudden it’s hands in the air, the belly-dancing moves begin and they all scream at once and they ALL know ALL the words. It is a phenomenon to be witnessed.

Having had lots of prior warning about Turkish men, at first I found them to be pretty alright. Boring (they do love talking about themselves, and ask you questions they don’t wait for you to answer) but more than willing to foot the bill for drinks (important if hanging out in very exclusive/expensive night clubs) and you don’t have to sleep with them if they do. Pretty alright, that is, until I ventured from the protective fold of my Turkish girl friends…

I am an explorer. Lying around on a beach is something I definitely enjoy, but when in a new country, I have to look around. My ability to look very far was inhibited by the fact that I was completely dependent on other people for transport, so I took to exploring the bits around the very exclusive beach where we spent most of our time. The first secret beach I found was lovely and lonely and although I could still hear Turkish Pop wafting on the wind, I felt isolated enough to feel slightly at one with nature. This successful adventure behind me, I explored in the other direction. The direction I chose was Out To Sea, given that the exclusive beach owners cordoned off their exclusive bit of sea with a line of buoys. Don’t draw lines in front of me, I will cross them. So I crossed this line and found myself in the next cove, a lovely totally undeveloped beach, just me and the seagulls and the wind. And the GoatMan. The GoatMan wasn’t unfriendly. In fact he was a little too friendly. After pointing at two of his (many) goats humping each other and laughing, he encouraged me to say hello to one particular goat. I was not at my most confident (all I had on was a bikini, I’d had no plans to meet anyone) so bashfully patted the goat on the head all the while thinking ‘this is not the best place to be in right now’. I didn’t really feel threatened, though, until the GoatMan leaned over and grabbed the goat’s genitals and showed them to me. It was at this point I decided Fuck International Relations, I Am Out Of Here, and swam back as fast as I could. Relating the tale to Nihal, she pointed out that perhaps he was actually offering me some goat’s milk…

Same evening I agreed to go out for drinks with a Turkish guy I met on the beach (who spoke English), more out of the need to have a conversation with someone besides Nihal (who, almost two weeks down the line, was still heroically translating: my smattering of Turkish wasn’t really up to the necessary level for in-depth girly chats!) than any real desire to have that conversation with him in particular. This ended up in an uncomfortable situation on a boat, which I decided to walk (run) away from – luckily I had borrowed a mobile phone and the girls were on their way out in the vicinity and picked me up immediately. No harm done, but pissed at myself for being a bad judge of character, the first thing that happened when we got to the club was a Turkish tour guide started suggesting we spend the next day together. Poor guy didn’t really reckon on me having just had a very bad day with men, and my response may have been a little bit on the harsh side…

Back to Istanbul the next night (same waiter on the coach!) and a horrible night spent not sleeping with a fartous and garlic infested man in front of us. Not only did he smell bad but he hummed while he was awake and snored when asleep. Good thing, though, was we did the ferry crossing at dawn (with more tea), which was spectacular.

Last evening was spent in the company of Nihal’s brother and sister-in-law who took us out for a gorgeous dinner at a fish restaurant.

A truly special holiday. I was treated so well by just about everybody I met, was totally absorbed into their groups (even though chatting was difficult) and was made to feel extremely welcome. Turkish hospitality knows no bounds.

But, back in London now, and back to reality… At least I have a tan to show for it, though, and it was so special to see my friend again!

South Africa December 2001

2001-12-10T15:40:00.000Z

MY HOLIDAY (SO FAR…)

Chapter 1 – Pretoria and Johannesburg

After my very hurried decision to ‘fuck it all’ and get the hell out of cold, miserable London, I spent a very unpleasant night at Heathrow, due to an instruction by the airline to check in at 4.30AM. Naturally nothing actually opens at Heathrow until after 5AM, but I suppose I was at least in the front of the queue… Costa Coffee is the only light in the dark tunnel of a night spent at Heathrow, and much as I hate chains I succumbed to handing over vast sums of money to my corporate masters (I can only be grateful it isn’t a Starbucks as then I would have had to do without coffee at all).

Flight uneventful (Swiss Air’s food sucks, except the cheese and chocolate) and was met at the airport by old friends Henry, Gilda and Marcel. Back to Gilda and Marcel’s (in Jo’burg, which is now ‘Josie’ to the cool) for a few bevvies and a smoke, then slept till it was time to jump into the swimming pool. Of course it has been ‘too cold’ (?!?!?!?!) for the locals to swim, so they thought I was mad (the Brits Abroad, hey!) Then through to Pretoria to sort our visas for Mozambique (a decision to go was made within 5 minutes of landing: “Hi, how are you?” “Fine thanks, how are you?” “Fantastic, thanks. Do you want to go to Maputo?” “When do we leave?”). This could have been a nightmare of hellish queuing but luckily we were spotted by an enterprising gentleman who will stand in the queue for you for an extra 50 bucks. (At today’s exchange rate of R17.27 to the pound, that’s about £2.90…) Visas done we decided to re-immerse me in Pretoria culture and had a few drinks in a bar frequented by gun-toting off-duty policemen and people who are friends with them. All was disappointingly uneventful until one of them decided to jump in their car and do several handbrake turns in the middle of a four lane road. Oh how I miss Pretoria!

Then was dropped at my parents’ (who had no idea I was coming) and they were suitably surprised and it was great to see them.

Next day I explored the outer regions of the ‘largest shopping centre in the southern hemisphere’ to change money (that day I thought I was doing well getting R15.80 for the pound…) and came to grips with the sad reality that ‘shoppertainment’ is a fact of life in the New South Africa.

Following day picked up Debbie from the airport and informed her that she no choice in the matter, we were going to Mozambique (‘Moze’, to the cool) and that we had to sort her visa urgently next morning as it would was Friday and we were leaving on Sunday and embassy is not open on Saturdays. Debs put up no resistance. Again we contacted our gentleman who does the queuing (although this time she was a lady) and were told to pick up her passport at 6PM. Cool! So day spent at Voortrekker Monument and doing a few sights in Pretoria. At 6 we turn up to pick up the passport, but the queue is still as long as it was in the morning. We had to be in Josie shortly, so made the somewhat dodgy arrangement to pick up the passport from her personally on Saturday. We did think twice about doing this, but thought, what the hell, it is insured etc etc and took the chance. Astoundingly, all worked out well, we got the passport (duly visa’ed-up) at a clandestine meeting on the corner of a deserted shopping centre downtown somewhere. The African way of doing things really has loads of charm!

The Friday night we went to Josie (see, I’m cool!) to see Louis Maghlanga (jazz guitarist from Zimbabwe) who was fabtastic (we even did the groupie/tourist thing and took photos with him afterwards and bought a number of CDs). Great night, then back to Gilda and Marcel’s again for a long night of drinking, smoking and uncontrollable giggling.

Chapter 2 - Maputo

Left early Sunday morning for Moze, deciding to take the scenic route (well, the OTHER scenic route) and stopped at Pilgrims Rest (historic old gold-mining town that looks pretty much as it did and makes a fortune selling great food and silly trinkets to tourists, but definitely worth a visit) and then drove to Mac Mac pools for a brief paddle in cold, perfectly clean mountain spring that has the loveliest rock pools.

Headed back to the main road to Moze after that and were amazed and amused to find out that not only is the border now open 24 hours (it used to close at 7PM) but there was…. ALMOST NO QUEUE!!!! (Gilda and Henry have done this before and had to deal with an 8-hour queue…) Not only was there no queue, but the officials on the South African side of things were actually polite! Across no-mans land to the Mozambiquan side and again, they were almost (I mean almost) friendly. Of course no English is spoken by any of the border officials (Moze is an old Portuguese colony) but hand gestures and pointing and things got us to understand that after we have bought the ‘obligatory’ third party motor insurance, we had to take it to THAT counter and show it to the official there. That done (simple) we now have to pay the next fee in Metacais, not Rand. This means we have to go BACK to the guy who sold us the insurance to change money. Then back to the official (who, after having dealt with 2 other people after us, has completely forgotten that we need to pay him still) and a small hand-argument ensued. Easy enough, really and a great introduction to the way things are done in Mozambique!

Got to Maputo (capital of Moze) after dark and drove straight to the backpackers where we had a confirmed booking. Turned out that confirmed as much as it may be, there was in fact no record of the booking and our first adventure sent us far and wide in the streets of Maputo to find accommodation. This accomplished (more sign language, but everybody extremely helpful and friendly) we headed straight for the famed PeriPeri restaurant, one of the only restaurants to have survived the war. Huge numbers of prawns were consumed and even Debs (confirmed vegetarian) tried one and almost liked it. Many 2Ms later (local beer) we ended up sitting on a rooftop having a smoke and admiring the slum blocks of flats that rose way above us.

Maputo in general has been trying to recover from a 27 year war (ended 11 years ago) without much help and with much hindrance (floods last year, for example) so nothing has been painted in the last 40 years except the President’s Palace, the Supreme Court and the central Station (designed by Gustav Eiffel, no less). Debs and I were very happy to have Gilda there to do all the figuring out where we were, and both Gilda and Marcel to do the driving (Gilda being an old hand at this Maputo thang…)

Next day we had breakfast at the once-opulent ‘Continental Café’ and then Debs and I wandered and wandered, trying to find the station and the cathedral. Eventually a local said hello and we asked him where the station was. He offered to ‘escort’ us there, and we ended up spending the whole day with him, seeing some sights, doing the local busses and generally being informed about various aspects in Maputo. Cool day indeed.

By the time we located Gilda and Marcel that evening, they had in turn hunted down an old local acquaintance of Gilda and Henry’s from a former Mozie adventure who goes by the name of Signor Mario (that’s actually Marius, a South African expat who has lived in Maputo and on Inhaca Island for quite a few years). Signor Mario then proceeded to take us under his wing and showed us Maputo in style: great fish restaurant, properly local bars and even a sneaky swim at the very upmarket Indy club (something like a country club with bars in pools, drinks that cost the pool guy’s months wages and a real pool guy to lay out deck chairs in the sun, bring tables over and transfer drinks onto said tables.) Unfortunately we got bust and ended up having to pay US $5 each for the privilege, but it was worth it for the swim (it is VERY hot in Maputo and the beaches in Maputo are too dirty to swim.)

The best thing Mario took us to was the local fish market, fresh fish just off the boats. You go around and choose your fish (remembering to weigh it on the government scale, not the vendor’s) and then stroll twenty yards to a local little restaurant where they cook it up for you. What a feast! Definitely goes into my Top 5 Meals list (funny how all meals that feature on my list have been seafood): Clams to start, a whole crab each to follow, a kilo of prawns and a giant “garouper” (potato bass) – more than enough for 5 people for a total of R100 or about £6. Even Debs got stuck in, if to a slightly lesser degree. Makes a Fillet o’ Fish seem rather, well, vile…

Chapter 3 – Maganeta Island

Originally we had our hearts set on going to Inhaca island, but it proved very bloody difficult to get there, so Mario suggested we go to Maganeta Island instead – not an island island in the sense of surrounded by sea, but you do need to cross a river by ferry (EU regulations nowhere in sight, but we got across fine) to get there and then there is sea on the other side. So when you are on the beach (only 3 huts visible is as far as ‘development’ goes – not a single coke sign to be seen) you feel like the only people in the whole world and can give in to all your desert island fantasies. Experienced the most incredible storm just as dusk was falling – watched it approach and then swamp us completely. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! Naturally the bungalow we were staying in was not exactly waterproof and everything we possessed got completely soaked (including my brand new copy of Lord of the Rings, which still hasn’t dried out completely) but it was just so cool. Late night walk to beach after spliffage and millions of crabs running around and being creepy. They are just so gay! These camp little things running daintily along the beach with always two legs in the air and those funny stalk-like eyes. A bit weird in the dark!

Next morning Debs and I went for the longest of desert island walks and although we smeared ourselves completely with mega-high factor sunblock, we made the small mistake of forgetting that ‘waterproof’ does not mean you can walk in the little waves for four hours and expect to have any sunblock left on your feet. Ah, the Brits Abroad, hey! (I have become an honourary Brit Abroad after this little mistake…) We both have very sunburnt feet, but my feet also ended up swelling up like old ladies in wheelchair’s do. Could barely walk for two days and they still hurt like hell. I have managed to avoid having a photo taken of them, but suffice it to say I have been called The Gout Lady since then. Use your imagination.

Of course we missed the last ferry back off the island that evening, only realising this after sitting there for an hour saying confidently to ourselves “there are lots [about 5] of locals here, of course there is another ferry still!” It was only when the small rowing boat arrived to pick them all up (they were all on foot, we were in the car) that we realised we were in shit. Brave hero Marcel then jumped aboard the rowing boat and went in search of the ferryman on the other side. A very brief negotiation later (Marcel’s opening bid to get him to come and fetch us was about twice the guy’s monthly salary) the ferry was on it’s way and we got back to Maputo no problem. Another evening out aptly concluded by having mad officials to deal with and then back to Pretoria. What’s a trip to Africa without at least one bribe?

Chapter 4 – The Future

Nothing worth telling about having been back in Pretoria for a few days except Christmas shopping has been hell and now it IS Christmas and the Christmas eve family do was OK, especially since I have not been subjected to it for 7 years. There are a lot more babies than there ever were, and spouses! Another famdamily day tomorrow and then I am off the Jeffries Bay on Boxing Day. More beach (in SA this time) and hopefully some loverrrly Knysna oysters (Mmmmmmmmm……) and a chilled time. Then back to Blighty! Buggeration.

Hope you all had a fantastic Christmas (it is weird to have a hot Christmas again, I must say) and enjoy your New Year.

Lotsa love
Darryn