June 2004 Archives

30th June 1999, Morningish, Weds. St. Andeol, kitchen. Hyperactively cloudy.

Yesterday was fun. We left at about 12, walked about 1km, got a lift all the way to Monestier. We sat in the park for an hour, playing on the swings, waiting for the bank to open, then went and had some Heineken until the shops opened.

We bought cereal, milk, biscuits, Gran Marnier, red wine and Kronenbourg, and pasta. We had lunch in the park (couscous again, but this time with raisins!) and after shopping started (what we thought would be) the arduous trek home. After passing our 'lucky corner', we succeeded in getting a lift off a serious candidate for 'Miss France' (1999, 2000 and the foreseeable future) who was about our age, a psychology student in Grenoble and told us, as we swung around the tenuous mountain bends, that she had just passed her driving test. Call me a transparent opportunist, but I was considerably more enthusiastic in my attempts at French conversation on the way up with her than I had been with the kind gentleman who gave us a lift into Monestier that morning.

She said she was on her way to meet a friend, so I didn't ask her in for a cup of tea or anything, despite the fact that I wanted to. Gemma burst out laughing at me as soon as the car disappeared around the next corner. Humph.
Anyway, Gemma came up with a chesnut:

"Where charm and good looks fail, a cup of tea and some cookies won't," or something to that effect. I’ll bear that in mind when I get to Warwick in October!

Hmmm.

So I'm not taking my Mum to Greece after all. A few issues and rearrangement of holiday times and voíla! We have an alternate summer plan, one which, unfortunately, does not entail me gaining a tan which beats Krissa's but is still hanging in there for me not to have exceeded my holiday allocation by the time I bugger off to the States.

Which is a good thing.

Honest.

In other news, Polish sausage is still the flavour of the month, my webmail is still porked, Victoria the Venus Flytrap seems not at all well, Khalil and I have been discussing the relative merits of becoming drug smugglers, Krissa and I have been drawing each other stuff, Dave has been so distracted by some floozy that his blog has decided to go blank in protest, and the next two weeks will go far too slowly.

29th June 1999. 0654hrs, Tuesday. St. Andeol, kitchen. Just past dawn.

‘The rising of the sun, and the running of the deer...’
It might be a Christmas hymn, but it sums up my day so far.
The rising of the sun was somewhat muted by the untimely arrival of some cloud, but I still feel good to have seen it. I spotted a reddish animal sprinting down one of the fields on the other side of the village – I took it for a fox, until my sense of perspective (and of location) kicked in and I realised it was a deer. It was too far away to have got anything but a photo of some trees, a field and a reddish-brown smudge or dot, but it didn’t matter- it was still a sight poetic enough to evoke a sharp intake of breath and a glow inside. How many people wake up and see that in the morning?


0710-The sun has outpaced the clouds for now, so I’ve taken up residence on the balcony with my (‘if I’m going to get up at this time where’s the coffee?’ screams my metabolism) coffee and journal.
One of the things about this trip so far is that it hasn’t involved enough early mornings. To me, early mornings and travel go together, an effect of those gut-wrenchingly exciting mornings before I was ten years old, when the family would pack our suitcases in the car and head for Gatwick, bound for somewhere in the Mediterranean – Mallorca, Ibiza or Crete. It seems a shame to have lost that gut-wrench, the extreme excitement that comes with an unfettered imagination and untainted enthusiasm. Being here now, I’m starting to get to feel it again, if only slightly; the effect of building up anticipation for Italy over this two weeks’ break.
‘Italy’ is laden with meaning.
Rome, The Romans, Pisa, Leonardo da Vinci, the renaissance, Sicily and Mount Etna, Pompeii, a football mad population, snazzy dressers, spaghetti bolognese (had to come in somewhere, I suppose), the Punic Wars (Romans again), lire, Latin, too much detail on the Mezzogiorno region from oh-so-many GCSE geography lessons, and crazy drivers in tiny cars. And that’s not all.
Greece is packed with so many associations that it’s hard to describe. I’ve always been interested in Greek mythology, I covered Crete’s ruined palace at Knossos on the theme ‘Labyrinth’ for my GCSE art exam, and the idea of doing a bit of island hopping in the Aegean grabs my sense of adventure by the lapels with both hands and screams, “COME ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!” in it’s face. To put it one way...
We’re bound to have three or four early mornings yet- the overnight ferries from Brindisi in the south of Italy to Patras on the north western face of the Greek coast, and from Athens to Crete, will see to that, but there’s still something anticipatory about a really early morning that defies definition.
0850 – We’re going to Monestier de Clermont again today, to shop for our last few days here, to buy a present for the McCarthy’s but mostly to have a drink at the pub. A rather ominously grey looking cloud has just edged its way over the face of the sun above where I’m sitting in the garden, but I think I can see blue sky behind it, so hopefully it’ll just pass over.
One of my chief worries about coming away was that Gemma and I wouldn’t get on. Thankfully, we’re over six weeks into the trip and apart from one or two occasions when we’ve both been under stress ( possibility of a missed connection, sort of thing), and we’ve both got a bit snappy, it’s been great fun. One thing that does rankle is her indifference and/or lack of urgency. When we discuss what we want to do, (in a country, for the day...) Gemma’s contribution is always ‘I’m not bothered’ or ‘Whatever’. Fine by me – we do what I want to do, but that does make me feel a bit dictatorial and responsible for whatever happens. I came away to do stuff, see sights and meet people. When we only get around to doing one thing in a day because we slept in until 11, or because we didn’t plan what we wanted to do (usually me not wanting to enforce anything) so we end up mythering, it frustrates me. Although if I’m honest, I do like being able to sleep until 11! I wish she’d be a bit more passionate about the fact we’re travelling, we should be seizing each day and wringing the experiences out of every one them. Doing this would probably mean sleeping for about five hours a day though. When we set off from here on Thursday or Friday, we’ll be well rested and ready to paint Grenoble red, or whatever colour they have available and is relatively cheap...
So come dance the silence down through the morning...
The ling.

So it's a run of the mill Tuesday morning.

*yawn*

My Mum was talking to me yesterday about how she doesn't think she's going to be able to have a holiday this year (again), because of her illness and Dad's work commitments. Jokingly, as she does, she asked me if I wanted to go to Greece. I joked that I could call into work one morning and pretend I'd gotten there after a night at the pub, with no recollections. We laughed, and moved on.

I was chatting to Krissa last night and mentioned it.
"You should," she said.
Have I mentioned that I love this woman?

Now I've been saving hard for the move to the US. Once there, things with family will be different. Not less in touch, because this here internet thing works wonders, but more...distant. So I thought...yeah, hell.
Why not?

So I'm sorting it out, and this time next week, I could be nursing an ouzo on the patio of a seafront café while my Mum sunbathes by the sea, absorbing five times more solar radiation than a normal human being should be able to.

Because.

I'm not being derogatory, but Mother Mary may have been wrong. Who knows?The Beatles may have misheard. Knowing the Fab Four, as Mary walked or floated in, music was playing, it was smoky, the boys were having a laugh...she could have been forced to raise her voice over the hubbub and who knows what chinese whispers we've had sung to us.

Poor Mary. It' had been all right for the angels so far. It's one thing to deliver pearls of beauteous divine wisdom to prophets in the desert or to the chap at the head of a procession of nomadic families, or to whisper them in a sleeping ear in the cricket-riven silence of a Cairo night. After being added to the divine wisdom-delivering-posse, she probably wasn't expecting John, Paul, George and Ringo. Poor lass.

So I feel the lady is due some leeway.

'Let it be' is the great pacifier. It is the maxim which leads us to accept that the world is full of difficulty and strife, that nothing is perfect, and that things will come to pass which we cannot control. It helps us to accept these things, and, whilst all this trouble and imperfection and evil is going on, it brings a level of personal peace.

I think it is a cop out. The easy route.
The acceptance of change is wrapped up in 'Let it be', but not the confronting of that which should change, not the objection to evil, not the understanding that the only constant is change and that only in controlling it or directing it or having the courage and awareness of all that change brings in every spinning growing day of this world can we improve things...that isn't there for me.

'Let it change' can be prescriptive, or it can be accepting. If you can look at everything in your world, in your life, in your power, and say, fully and honestly, 'Let it change,' then you accept everything, you acknowledge the driving force of time, but in that you can also come to understand what control you have over what changes happen, and how.

Only the syllable is slightly too long for the rhythm section and it doesn't rhyme with, 'Mother Mary came to me.'

27th June, '99. Sunday 1930hrs. St. Andeol, kitchen. Stormy.
The day before yesterday, Friday (get brain in gear, Stuart) I walked to Gresse-en-Vercors. Partly for the walk, partly for supplies. We had begun to run low in the essentials – bread, milk, cereal and BISCUITS.
2025hrs. Less than an hour after I started writing this entry, and our valley is totally transformed. Wraith-like tortured clouds scud up the valley and the dolomites are lost to view. Rain thunders down and our familiar surroundings are reduced to grey shadows of their former selves. The fierce winds lash the rain onto the roof, mimicking the thunder. We are in the heart of the storm. I’m counting the houses that are struck by lightning – two, three...
Gemma is out in it, under the eaves of the house. I was with her, but decided to go out from under the roof into the garden to look around, (make that four houses) got wet and came in. Gemma has just followed suit! Tea’s up, radio’s on, and the kitchen is toasty warm. I’ve changed out of my jeans, and my khaki trousers remind my of the pub in Marrakech – they’re stained with red wine where Madalin knocked the table. They also have a square rip in the crotch, sewn roughly up. I think I’m going to have a scar from the manhole drop incident. Not exactly one I can get out for the family to coo at, though. I’m not entirely sure I’m ever going to see it, considering where it is...

Anyway, I was writing about walking to Gresse-en-Vercors. It’s nearer than Monestier de Clermont, at about ten and a half kilometres, compared with Monestier’s 12½km. Friday was very hot in the sun. I set out at around 12ish, and after following a road which existed solely for house access, rather than the more sensible option of the road out of the village, I found myself following a track which was supposed to be the piste, or path for Gresse-en-Vercors, but wildly varying in the directions it chose to take. After about quarter of an hour’s beating through heavy brush, trees, brambles and scree, all on dangerously steep slopes, I cut my losses and headed for the road, emerging onto it about two minutes’ walk from the house. I arrived at about two fifteen, to be confronted by, as it is in most French villages and small towns, a hugely prominent graveyard. Past that, and Gresse was a lovely little town. I think a good indicator of the size of a town or the size of the area it serves is the height, girth and ornamentation of its church tower. Even without walking through the town, it was apparent that Gresse was much larger and in better repair when the church was built. The life blood of Monestier is its road. It runs from Avignon to Grenoble, and the inhabitants may complain about the amount of heavy traffic pounding through the town, and campaign for their ‘La Grande Deviation (Vite!)’, but if the lorries take it, then it’s likely the tourists will take ‘La Grande Deviation’ as well. There are ‘gîtes’ in all the small towns, but Monestier and Gresse-en-Vercors have the only hotels in the area. Gresse doesn’t have the major road, and the difference is startling. I was in the shop (note ‘the’) for ten minutes, hopping up and down and making loud noises before the chap came out to take my money. He didn’t look too bothered, either. ‘Laissez-faire’ is French, after all.

It’s something I’m beginning to notice as we travel around. From the happy tourist facade of Alicante which deteriorated inside of a block into a building site the length of the esplanade, to the mixed blessings of tourism in a place like this area of France. There is the way the area is on its own, the way the area is portrayed and the tourists expect it to be, and the way the area is after the tourism. These are all drastically different...

Geography, it would appear, is a hard habit to break. The rain has abated, the wind ceased to be quite so forceful. There is one, completely flat layer of cloud in the valley, which is at the height where the grass dies out and the bare rock begins. It’s strange looking out of the window, and knowing that there’s more valley and cloud above this base. It’s so flat, it’s like the whole valley is underwater, and the cloud base is the surface of the water, the mountains just blurry shadows above.

I’ve finished another book; Paul Theroux’s ‘Jungle Lovers’, and started a business revolution book – one man’s De Bono-ised view of the way business have to be in the 90s. It’s quite interesting, if a tad repetitive: Crazy times call for crazy organisations. If (Rudyard Kipling here we come) I get out of Warwick with a degree of some description, if I don’t have any sponsorship obligations to fulfil, if I do, that I fulfil them, if I’m not too laden with student debt, if the opportunity exists and I’m capable (strange thought), I’d like to start a business – preferably in renewable energy, or whatever area I grow into over the run of the course. If (just to reiterate) I do, then this book will be a great help. Hmm. Bit contrived. Saint Andeol has so far proved to be a great move. It has provided a bit of stability after a hectic month, without removing us from the travelling mentality completely – we still have to speak French if we’re to be understood. As for understanding – no chance! The local accent not only changes the way the words are said, it seems almost incomprehensible to us. If only everyone were as clear as Radio ‘Energie’ (the jingles and adverts, and even their playlist has becoming annoyingly familiar!) or the Moroccans with their French! The Moroccans seemed to apply that quality of careful pronunciation that most people do to their second languages. The Moroccans thought WE sounded French – how much more of a linguistic compliment do we need?

After tonight’s dramatic storm, we plan to have another lazy (ish) day tomorrow and then go for a little shop on Tuesday, just to tide us over till Thursday, and to get a bottle of something for Philip and his above-drinking-age family.
Today I’ve read ‘Tom Peters’ Seminar’ and Gemma and I went for a walk across the village and up the seemingly little hill where the local karate club trains. From the village side, it is little. Behind the trees on the other side, it drops.
And then some.
It has a really spectacular view. It’s possible to sit on the edge and dangle you legs over (so I did) which makes you feel like you’re hovering above the landscape. There were some large insects flying around sipping nectar from the wild flowers up there. We mistook them for hummingbirds until we got a closer look at them – they were really strange.
If the weather is fine, I shall go up there tomorrow to write – a letter, or whatever.

It is raining, and strong gusts of wind are teasing the tops of the trees outside the thin windows of my parents' house. It is great weather for sailing as long as you don't mind the rain, and it is the day of the Round The Island Race. Because conditions have been conducive to speed, the sails of every tint and size passed Ventnor hours ago, and the sea is salt-green and grey tipped with blown white spray.

The tree outside my old window has been brutally shortened. Fresh cut pale yellow wood stands out starkly as I look down to the garden. That tree held generations of wood pigeons who used to call in the morning and I would lie still, silent and comfortable in my bed and listen to them while the light strengthened around the curtains. I heard their hooting calls again this morning, but they have moved to another tree across the street, and the sound was muted by the wind.

My Mother is not well; she has not been for over three and a half years. Her indomitable spirit has coped through the pain of fibromyalgia and the energy-sapping frustrations of ME for all that time, and she is still so quick to laugh. Keith is exhausted from work - he is newly qualified as a teacher, and works long hours both in the classroom and assisting the organisers of the course he recently completed so ably.

So things are quiet here in this old house. It is a grey and rainy Saturday afternoon, and I am at home.

The Autoblography Summer Festival 2004 will come to an end today at approximately 3.30pm British Summer Time, marking seven full days of fun and frivolity.

If any of the participants want to get another post in, come on - quickly, quickly!

A big thank you to everyone who took part, commented, read the posts, and mistook people for me.

Whatever passes for normal service will be resumed on Monday morning. I'm off home to the Isle of Wight this weekend.

That was good, wasn't it?
We might have to have a Winter Festival too.

I spent the day on a training course today.

That was fun.

Allow me to introduce you to Captain Tourettes. He sat opposite me muttering swear words under his breath every 30 seconds.

Oh! And here’s his sidekick Nutjob Bobby! Bobby told me all about being in the army, being homeless for ten years and doing six years in Parkhurst for GBH, while I was trying to enjoy my lunch. I was also privy to inside information on the building site accident that buggered up his back, his sexuality, the knee injury that forced him to leave the army, and his former crack and heroin habit. And let’s not forget the graphic demonstration of the fight that got him slammed up – “So I just walked up to him right, and grabbed him like this and BOSH – nutted the fucker. Broke his nose I did. Then I really got stuck in – broke him in about sixteen places.”

THANKS BOBBY! That really put me at my ease.

The course didn’t teach me much, but my fellow students were a real education.

I'm might start a comic strip called Captain Tourettes and Nutjob Bobby. That'd be cool. I can't draw though. Anybody want to have a crack?

So due to my monumental failure to successfully woo[1] any nice women in ages, I have come to the conclusion that women are attracted to guys who lack integrity. Now I have taken pride in my integrity for many years - till now...

After a discussion about women and how they like bastards[3], I have decided to become one. So after a little inventive discussion with Jess down the boozer I now have an ex-wife from Aberdeen with two kids and a wife in Bristol with one kid.

Not bad that. Four pints and I've had sex at least three times with two women from different parts of the country, gotten hitched twice and in the eyes of a lot of people round these ere parts I'm the biggest bastard on the block. Mind you in terms of woo success rate it's a big improvement - even if it's all virtual..

[1] A term applied to convincing a potential lovemate that you're a good bet through gentle courting. Not to be confused with pulling[2].

[2] A term applied to blatantly trying to get a shag in a pub somewhere when wearing the old beer goggles.

[3] This was the term I used to describe men with no integrity after about four pints of loverly ale.

I mean Cliff Richard is bad but isn't this a teensy bit drastic?

23rd June ’99, Wednesday, 1440hrs. Sunny. Chalet, Saint Andeol.
Okay! Bit of a backlog. On Friday, our thirteen minutes changeover was achieved because the other train was late as well, and the next change was a more-than comfortable half-hour break. We arrived in Grenoble at around 2350, and were thankful for booking a hotel close to the train station (if a little expensive at 190F).
The additional cost was more than made up for by the en-suite shower and TV! Watching a late-night French-dubbed episode of the X-files, we fell asleep. Next morning we woke to a magnificent view of the Alps from the hotel window, and Grenoble. Despite only being in it for a night, it struck Gemma and I as a really nice town. Electric trams, refreshingly modern, slipped quietly past the water fountains through which ran a man and his young daughter on a tricycle, playing just outside our hotel and the station. Add to that a clear blue sky and the sight of distant snow and you have something approaching our impression.
We caught the 10 o’clock train to Monestier-de Clermont, the nearest town of any size to Sant Andeol, and arrived at around eleven, bracing ourselves for a 12 ½ kilometre uphill struggle with our bags and a couple of day’s worth of food and shopping. After about 1km, we stopped for that most serious of reasons – LUNCH> Which consisted of couscous, crisps and water, but was very nice all the same. After finishing my crisps, I stuck my thumb out at the first car for around twenty minutes, which duly stopped, startling Gemma who was still eating! We bundled in, and got a lift as far as St. Guillaume, at around the 7kilometre mark. Not believing our luck, we thanked the chap and turned our attentions to the remaining 5, rather more vertical kilometres. After about one and a half of them, we stopped for a dink and so Gemma could finish her lunch. I went for a wander. After about two minutes I heard a car, and yelled for Gem to stick her thumb out. The sounds of an engine revving down reached my ever-so relieved ears as I bounded back the way I had come. That lift got us all the way to St. Andeol, and the Vallier’s house – the key holders.
We were shown up (very up) to the house and let in. I was pleasantly surprised to see the size of the place – three floors and a cellar, a large (necessarily terraced) garden, piano, guitars (as yet unused by us) and one reasonably stocked bookcase (thank god!). The electrics were on, but the water wasn’t. We hunted for about two hours for the mains valve without joy. The younger Vallier had no idea where it was either. We found it after a phone call from Philip, the owner, who is currently in Dubai.
When I turned it on, water began to gush with alarming force from three places in the cellar ceiling. I switched it off and assessed the damage. A couple of pipes had ruptured their joints, and another had completely come away. The Winters are harsh up here, it seems.
Our total water consisted of the remnants of the drinking water for the day, and a bottle of Aquarius. After filling up a few pans despite the deluge in the cellar, Monsieur Vallier came up to see, and contributed a couple of 10 litre bottles. The next day being Sunday, no plumber could be had, so we survived on our supplies. Monday (when we’d planned to go to Monestier to get a week’s food) the plumber, a carpenter and M.Vallier senior appeared. The plumber, after much seemingly heated debate with M. Vallier, sorted out our problems. The carpenter did some work on the external stairs, and left. By the time they’d gone, it was too late to go shopping. (We reckoned about three hours to walk down, and four to walk back).
Yesterday we went. It took us about two hours (with a short lift) down, and about ten minutes (with one big lift from a very fit girl with a big dog) back up. I spent the evening doing some Greek from a book I found in the house. I’ve always wanted to learn either Latin or Greek, and I had to choose, so I went for Greek, seeing as it promises to be more useful imminently!
Today, I got up and moved the bench from the cellar into the garden, and started reading a new book- Kingsley Amis’ ‘Take A Girl Like You’ (after having already read Aldous Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ and Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s ‘For The Good Of The Cause’, and numerous Garfield books!)
The scenery round here is breathtaking. The house is on a glacial kame terrace, under a continuous series of rounded mountain peaks that form an escarpment over eight miles long on one side of what was once a glacial valley. Even now, in late June, patches of snow cling to the earth, in rock crevices or shaded areas. The slopes are heavily wooded, and the views from each side of the house stretch for miles. In the distance over more hills, permanently snow-capped mountains can be seen. It’s fantastic. It may be June, but out of the sun it’s still quite cold – especially in the house. Basically, I’m stopping writing and going back into the garden.

We were well set up in our resting place for the next two weeks. The marker between two Interrail tickets - a wonderful chalet on dramatically sloping ground in the tiny mountain village of Saint Andeol. The village had no shop, no bar, and consisted of about ten or fifteen steep-rooved houses dotted around the elbow of a hill at the end of a u-shaped valley bordered with alpine trees and flowered meadows, lined with jagged peaks.

Sometimes it terrifies me how much that google 'knows' about me:

Google search for 'relly'

This is because I spew out a non-too-selective lot of bile and crap in my blog and have been doing this in one form or another since about the tail end of 2000.
However, my blog has stopped being the medium of expression for me that it once was - I used it as a way of saying what I'd done and keeping up to date with other people's news after we had left uni and gone our seperate ways - and now I feel the urge to delete (or archive offline and then delete) lots of my posts from way back when.

I wrote about my depression as a depressed person would, you know in a kinda depressing way. I wouldnt want someone to dig it up in 5 years time and say 'jesus!'. Because obviously depression is indicative of a messiah figure.
I wrote about boyfriends, and anger, and old jobs and hopes that are now dead.

Now I wish to refine my writing. I love it but I have fallen out of practice into laziness, through laziness into not bothering, through not bothering into just not able to express myself creatively anymore. My well has dried up. Real life has stymied my creativity and cynicism, derision, fear, loathing, experience and hearsay (yes, the band) has stopped me reaching out and trying to 'be'. I don't bother to write. I find it hard to write for pleasure these days. I feel that I can't. I compare myself to others and fall short. I'm ashamed.

I marry the man i love next month (30 days time in fact) and I know I owe it to him to be more than a lady who lunches, or temps, or sits on the sofa all day. Just I'm a very bitter person when it comes to 'trying my best'. That is a whole other story. But it is why I must out the old and in the new. I feel very lonely and memories alone are not good company.

While my past writing about my life in 2000-2003 is doubtlessly 'a record' I increasingly have come to feel it is more like dried flowers: a reminder of something that was once alive, but not a true representative of the beautiful creation that the flowers were. You would not dry a poppy and say 'this is a poppy', it is a reminder of the poppy and the memories that the poppy evokes. Even if to you the poppy is the last remnant of a trip to the fields of Ypres to a passer-by it is just a dead poppy. This dead poppy is found by a passer-by on the web, taken out of context. I wish to write honestly but not personally as I have come to consider it as a hinderence. I feel the internet stifles honesty as much as it allows us to share experience.

I have perspective. My blog is not as horrific as the fields of Ypres. My experiences won't educate future generations. No-one needs to sap my strength and drink from my past misery and disappointment. I will share only what i feel is my best. I will delete all else. Learn from my mistakes. Write with thought and clarity and not emotional outpouring. I alone stand to decide the fate of the information. Internet, you may have these thoughts to share. I will keep the others. I don't want to preserve all my poppies.

Right.

Anna’s asked me to write about the Solstice & Bob Dylan. More of which later.

Stuart’s asked me what I did in Australia (and no I didn’t skin a camel). More of which later.

Bearmaster has asked me to write about my wooing techniques. More of which now. He obviously needs a few pointers.

Wooing is simple in theory. All you need is a guitar, a camp fire and the ability to play said instrument. Cool tattoos don’t go amiss either, but they’re optional and more painful than learning to play the guitar. It is an established fact that (most) women find tattooed musicians irresistibly attractive. Unfortunately, in this country, the opportunity to get a camp fire, a guitar and a group of single women all in the same place at the same time rarely crops up.

And therein lies the source of my woe. I’m fairly determined not to whinge too much about my single status in Stuart’s blog, but seriously – why do the pubs in London have such a problem with me trying to light fires on the tables and indulge in a little bit of wooage?

What a bunch of bastards.

And Anna. Aaaaaahhhh. The lovely Anna. I know nothing about the Solstice, but congratulations on having your last exam on it anyway. Nice. As for Bob Dylan, I understand he was a poet of some kind? Actually, now that I think of it, I have a question for you – did Bob write “All along the Watchtower”, or was it Jimi? Please tell me it was Jimi so I can feel justified in laughing at that busker the other day.

And finally – on to Stuart’s question.

What did I do in Australia?

I spent a lot of time around camp fires playing my guitar.

If it wasn't for the fact I get married in a month I'd happily be a spinster with cats. I have two already. Fizz is 10 months old, a cream and brown flecked tabby with go faster stripes and a head for heights. Emily is about 3, and is a big fat black and white tea cosy with a rattling sinus when she sleeps. She lives to eat and sleeping is a good pastime to, well, pass the time between the fricassee of rabbit and best tender lamb.

My cats live well. They live a life that men slave 60 years for (or 10 in the city). Their food is brought to them, regularly, its always the best available and there's always plenty of it. They cycle between the squidgy sofa cushions, the window sill sun spots, the bed and under the desk. Occasionally this is broken up by a snooze on the fax machine.

Fizz intersperses this with the gentleman's sports of hunting, fishing and shooting - the toy mice, the food out of nearly closed drawers and 'around the flat at high speed' respectively; Emily is how I imagine Queen Victoria was in the Brighton pavilion, ie, available for consultation on matters of state only. As lowly commoners and household staff we do not have the opportunity to explore her opinions on the current affairs of the day but we are granted an audience to tickle the royal belly if Fizz isn't too close by.

Fizz is, in many ways, the thorn in Emily's side. Sometimes literally if we can accept the claw as a suitable thorn substitute. She likes a good fight and tumble with Emily. Emily likes peace. However they do curl up together in a chair and they seem to gossip about goings on. My partner once remarked how nice it is that they live lives seperate to ours. We can be sat on the sofa watching telly, coaxing a purr from Emily, and Fizz will skip past travelling from the study to the kitchen glancing over as she goes to confirm our presence.

They do both have a habit of skulking in cupboards and sometimes springing from tumble dryers and baths, although Emily's 'stealth' days are somewhat over. Unless disguised as a bean bag with ears it is hard to imagine where lumbering sloth will become a skill in the battle against the mighty Fizz for the 'top off the milk'.

As you might have guessed I'm somewhat fanatical about my feline friends and I make no apology for it. They might disregard our hard work, certainly I hear no cries of delight ellicited from the 'season's choice' limited edition flavour of Sheba (creamy chicken and tender asparagus) and they might hog the best spot on the sofa but at least this is consistent. If you sent your cat an invite to your wedding you know that it would regard it with lofty dismiss. It is, after all, not a rubber mouse. The hard bit is when some of your human pals do the same - 34 rsvp's missing with 2 days to the deadline left! Perhaps I should have included a rubber mouse?

Beverages are here people.

The Euro Coffee Shop open for one day only. We are now serving.
First up, is our resident gloating Scot Gordon who wishes for French Coffee. Does anyone know what Cointreau is? It's got me. Here's to France falling at the next hurdle.

Then along comes are patriotic optimist Adrian who would like a Snowball in Hell English Chance-a-chino. Afraid we're out of those as England are so blatantly going to beat the hell out of everyone I thought it wouldn't be necessary to restock. Would a Milkshake do? I could perhaps bribe you with extra mashmallows?

The Lord of the Manor was next up, asking very politely for an Italian Café Coretto. With it I give you lots of luck, Italy need a miracle to go through to the quarter finals.

Another Italian, lolly wanted a Tottispresso. I don't like the sound of that, spitting in your face. I must say it does redeem itself slightly, it is incredibly handsome...

The Paranoid Donkey is taking the plunge and going for something from Croatia. Sorry, Anna, I've no more clue than you as to Croat (?) drinks, so since you specifically requested something black and alcoholic and I am running out of time, how about a very strong Black Coffee with a shot of Vodka? Original I know.

My my, these handsome Italians are popular, Lily requests a Mocha. Now that I can do and I might just make one for myself while I'm at it.

Then comes the Bride to be and, going back to her roots, the lovely k requests a Greek coffee. Which apparently is just like a Turkish coffee, only with years of animosity and strife. You go girl. Anyway, the Greeks are doing pretty well for themselves at the moment, reaching the Quarter Finals ahead of Spain.

Last but not least comes shivery, who being are resident alcoholic, asked for a small glass of port which, given that Portugal have gone trough, is perhaps to toast their progress.

Woah - late comer - it's Flairy who, we all know is in love with Golden Balls himself and she duly requests a traditional English Coffee. There you go girl. Just in the nick of time.
Drink up Ladies and Gentlemen, and perhaps a toast to Engerland stuffing Croatia this evening?

The entire class, all 30 of us, were squabbling and calling out to the teacher. She had inadvertently let loose the news that one person in the class had scored 100% in the final school test, the results from which went forward to what we all referred to as 'Big School'. We were all eight and nine years old - it was not a decorous hubbub. The teacher had to raise her voice in order to hush everyone.

When she said my name there was a hot staring silence in the room. And I have to say, I loved that feeling.

When we all took what seemed to be the terrifiying step and turned up on our first days at middle school, there were hundreds of children, some of them as old as 13 who seemed enormous.
And other clever children.
From other schools.
But we all worked (or were made to), and another order emerged, and the order only emerged because it was part of the structure imposed by the school in order for them to judge performance, but even inside that structure, there were areas where I considered myself to be the best.

Then there was another step - to High School were there were a thousand pupils and we shrimpish thirteen year olds were towered over by post-adolescent 18 year olds who drove cars and smoked legally in the school grounds.
And there were other clever children.
From other schools.

Now each of these steps are exactly the kinds of moments in life that people point and start talking about fish, ponds, and their relative sizes.

Big fish, small pond, little fish, big pond...

And at each stage within the boundaries of the schools, that was the pond. It was scarily large, but you could see the edge, even if it was a long way away.
Each time that a step was taken from one pond to another, a question was asked that each of us answered in our own way, and the result of that answer was manifest in the way we grew up in those spaces.

What you gonna do about it, huh?

Many of us don't see the edges any more. There might not be an edge.

But still.
What you gonna do about it?

Good Morning

That's right. It's Monday morning. And it's Coffee time.
Today's theme is, suprisingly enough, football and more specifically Euro 2004. So [if you have the energy] pick your participating country [list here] and a drink from that country if not, anything's accepted! and I shall be serving at around 4pm.
Orders please Ladies and Gentlemen.

Right, so I've just been over to the lakes on my new motorbike. All is good with it, it does what I want it to - good milage, lots of luggage space, reliable. It has two aluminium flightcases as panniers, and another one bolted to the luggage rack for more storage space. It's everything a chap heading off round the continent would want - but..

I'm noticing a trend. You see this bike is a Honda Dominator- ita a big off road beasty. It's a big bike, it looks really imposing. People look at it and think "Coo, that's huge for a bike, much bigger than that little sports bike next to it." It sounds impressive, its got 644cc of single cylinder thumpyness to get out of it's twin exhausts. People think "Coo, that sounds like a really meaty bike comming round the corner.." I ride it and it's got enough grunt to burn up most cars, and surprise some of the sport bikers at the lights.

All in all it *should* be instilling a sense of awe into people, making me into some kind of motorbiker chick magnet or at least getting a little look of envy from people.

So why in gods name do people keep asking me to bring them pizza and fries? I mean the other night I pull up at the traffic lights and some pissed up twonk stumbles over and offers me a fiver for one of the pizza's I *must* have in the box. This weekend, I turn up in the lakes to see some friends and the first thing they say is "Did you remember the free garlic bread?" I go to ambleside and get some odd looks from a group of bikers and I can see what's going on in their head..

"We know it looks like a big bike. We know it sounds like a big bike. We can see that no pizza's went into the little box on the back. Do we wave our hand at the biker, or do we ask for a pizza?"

I am not a pizza delivery boy!

G’day

Peanut here.

Stuart has, rather foolishly, invited me to guest on his blog. I’ve been slightly railroaded in to this by a certain young man bearing the moniker of “bearmaster”. I’m not entirely sure whether he & Stuart know what they’ve let themselves in for, but I’m in now, for better or worse, so here we go.

The problem is that I haven’t the slightest clue what to write about. It doesn’t help that I’m writing this at 9.00 pm on a Sunday and I’ve been drinking since mid day (I would like to point out that this is not a usual occurrence, but I had little choice in the matter since I live with a bunch of Australians).

I could write about the fact that I’ve been drinking since mid day, and all the amusing things that have happened, except it hasn’t really been all that interesting.

I could write about my teenage angst. Except I’m not a teenager, and I don’t really have much angst. I have a good job (for a Charity, but I don’t like to talk about it) and I live in a nice house (albeit with a bunch of Australians). I have my own motorbike and kind of my own car (I paid the most recent insurance premium – that makes it mine in my book).

I could write about the fact that I’m single and a bit fucked off with it. But the logical argument is that I should be out there meeting chicks instead of in here writing about how I can’t meet any chicks.

I could write about the glory days. My 7 years spent as a guitarist in a punk band. My year travelling in Australia. The days when Pearl Jam were cutting edge rock’n’roll. When I was 15 years old with no responsibility and a fit girlfriend. But that was all so long ago.

So tell me. What the fuck do I write about? I’m a blogging virgin, and I need some guidance.

So – post a comment – tell me what I should write about and I’ll give it a bash. Keep it clean though please kids.

If you want to read something interesting, either tell me what you want to read about, or read Captain Chaos (Ms)’s posts.

She funny.

And a little bit scary…….

It's not usually advisable to discuss religion, but hey, we're all adults right (ok, not you, but most people!)?

Laura Schlesinger is a US radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show.
On her radio show recently she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance.

The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, penned by a US resident, which was posted on the Internet.

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is: how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2. clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, as we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Intriguing stuff huh. Right, which one of you sinners wants to burn first?

Would you do it?

Topical, but my profound apologies to any football widows out there! I love a bit of it I do!

Today's Times has an article in which "The Plain English Campaign" defend the language used by football commentators saying "[they] do a very good job and make relatively few errors for the amount they say". The article then goes on to print some of the better colemanballs...

"The World Cup - A truly international event"

"That shot might not have been as good as it might have been"

"Nobody could have counted the number of moves Alan Ball made. I counted four or possibly five"

All John Motson

"He sliced the ball when he had it on a plate"

"He's treading on dangerous water here"

"He really has gambled all his eggs"

"I never comment on referees, and I'm not going to break the habit of a lifetime for that prat"

All Ron Atkinson

"If England get a point, it will be a point won as opposed to two points lost"

Mark Lawernson

"Football's football: If that weren't the case it wouldn't be the game it is"

Garth Crooks

"Southampton have forced Manchester United into a lot of unforced errors"

Steve Claridge

"Thistle need to score at least once if they want to win this game"

Sandy Clark

"The most vulnerable area for goalies is between their legs"

18th June 1999, 1525hrs, Friday, Partly cloudy, Between Biarritz + Toulouse.
Yesterday was interesting when we got to Biarritz at around 8ish. I met a Swiss guy, Andreas (another one) and yet another Canadian girl ( NOT complaining, she’s gorgeous), Amanda in my room and they, Gemma and I went out for a pizza and a drink, and then came back to the Hostel bar (!) for another. It was fun, and it’s about time someone took the piss out of us for our accents! We got up and breakfasted together (coffee! Hurrah!) and then said our goodbyes.
On reaching the train station, we sorted out a route to Grenoble today and found we had an hour (ish) to play with, so I went back to the hostel and emailed home and Sharon.
1800hrs, Between Toulouse and Nîmes.
We’re now uncertain as to whether or not we’ll make Grenoble tonight – our next change gave us just a 13 minute margin, and this train left Toulouse half an hour late. Nîmes, where this train ends, is in our Lonely Planet, so no huge panic there, it’s just frustrating to know that we may have missed being home and dry in St. Andeol tomorrow night by only a few minutes.
1830hrs – Spotted Carcassonne! Seems weird to see something familiar.

I know Steve Lamacq or somebody usually compéres these things, but I was here first, so you're stuck with me, and there's no way some skinny cider-drinking indie bod is going to turf me out of my own site.

(Although it would have been cool, wouldn't it?)

Anyway.

For your entertainment and possible enjoyment (which is never guaranteed round here anyway, come on), this coming week, Bean Diddler Productions Presents:

The Autoblography Summer Festival

Relly

Relly is an unabashed and kick ass young lady with two cats, a fiancé, and a growing penchant for long-term strategy computer games, which she plays on her GameCube. She likes salted popcorn. If I had to choose a post of hers which sums up her joie de vivre, her glamour, her doeverythinginlifeallatonce-ness, it would be this one. I know Relly from Warwick University, where we both studied very hard and got degrees did student radio at RaW.

Hanni

Hanni erupted onto the web in November, and since then appears to be en route to taking it over. Her blog brings to the fore the very latest in UK sport and world news, as well as online trends and up-to-the-minute linkáge. She has been a past regular at the Coffee Shop Of Your Very Dreams, and seems keen to serve coffee on Monday!

Captain Chaos (Ms)

The Captain is one of the very many scourges of the Funjunkie Forums. She's not promising anything for the coming week, but might drop in with some random nonsense if she can. CC doesn't blog, but like much of the FJ massive, in her spare time likes to strap herself to things with wheels and launch herself down very steep hills.

Ewano

I'm not sure of what to expect from Mr. Ewano. While I commend his approaching blogging 'without boundaries', I am beginning to get very wary of the fact that he claims to have a battle plan. Another funjunkie and forumite, Ewano is a Ninja in his relaxing hours, and a white chocolate addict the rest of the time.

peanut

Peanut is the third summer festival blogger to erupt from the funjunkie forums. Peanut works for a Charity (I've no idea if he likes to talk about it), claims to be a shrinking violet, and is renowned as a useful source of salt and carbohydrates for training athletes, although should never be eaten during exercise as he is a choking hazard. This could be the start of a new blogging experience for the young leguminous dry-roasted one, but we'll just have to see.

Rosie

Rosie is the fourth funjunkie to enlist for The Summer Festival, and completes a comfortable majority for the forumites. Rosie is frequently afflicted by The Horn, and her ambition in life is to be the future Mrs. Angelina Jolie. People frequently sing the songs of up-and-coming pop combo Outkast to her.

Ladies and Gentlemen...The Autoblography Summer Festival...is now on.

17th June 1999, 1250hrs, Thursday. Intercity between Madrid and Hendaya.< br />This is our last day in Spain. We got up around 7 – so unlike us as to be worrying, packed, washed and left Hostel Mondragon. We caught the metro to Chamartin station where we bumped into the Italians from Morocco. We hadn’t really talked much, so we bought some playing cards, a couple of pastries and sat and munched those while discussing which card games we knew.
Madrid has been interesting. Whilst we’ve been tired all the time – not just due to the tail-end of our bug, which is still hanging on for dear life, but also due to the stifling heat which peaks at about 38C in the afternoon. On Tuesday we slept in until around 12, because we were exhausted. We got up leisurely, dressed, and headed for the USIT unlimited student travel office to buy our second interrail ticket for Italy and Greece. I got ticket no. 90, and the display told me they were currently serving no. 54. My number came up about 45 minutes later, when I was politely told that I still had a hundred turns to wait. After three hours of ‘Viva’ – German MTV, we discovered that buying our ticket in Spain cost about £40 less than in the UK. It being about 1730, we couldn’t really do anything else that day apart from go and sort out our supplements for this train into France.
< br />Yesterday we got up at about 10am and went to ‘El Palacio Real’ –the Royal Palace - which was free for us that day. Incredibly impressive inside and out, it was 17th and 18th century decadence in one, hugely ornate dose. There were over a hundred enormous chandeliers, no two alike. Massive painted ceilings, depicting the Greek and Roman gods in each room. Huge gardens, an interesting old Royal Pharmacy and a photographic exhibition with a 3D ‘Spanish Guinea at the turn of the century’ photo show. We wanted to move on to the Prado or the Thyssen-Bornemisza afterwards, but after writing postcards and a short letter home each for Father’s Day, we didn’t have enough time, and so we went to the Atocha train station, which has a huge rainforest-like station.
By 5 o’clock, we’ll be in France.

Well, it looks like we'll have a right mixed bag o'guesters here next week for The Autoblography Summer Festival.

Cool.

Again, if you fancy a week of using this here webloggity thang for blurbling about Monster Munch, peas and gravy, international politics or the strange yellow stuff growing out from underneath your bathroom rug, then email me at:

kidsturk at vmail dot virgin dot com

...for username and passwordy goodness. Anything goes, people. There's no limit to what you can do if you want to, and there is no way in hell that a local council petition can stop this festival from going ahead.

So far on the lineup, where everyone is a headline act, (all bookings as yet unconfirmed, no refunds) we have:

Hanni
Ewano
Captain Chaos (Ms)
Relly
Other Artists Welcomed
Plus Supporting Acts tbc

So tune in regularly next week, as the Festival will kick off on Friday afternoon and last for seven, hedonistic, sun-filled, post-crazed days.

Well I say that.
Anything could happen.

So should be good whether you're joining in, or a spectator.

The Lady K and I are guesting over at Uborka next week, and in the meantime, I am thinking of doing something out of the ordinary with the Autoblography.

Maybe some sort of religious discussion forum?
Perhaps I could contact all those spammers, so recently foiled by the righteous crimefighting duo of Blacklist and Hamster, and ask them if they want to take over the entire site for a week and tell us all why generic viagra is so important in their lives.

I could throw open the doors for a guest week, I suppose. But holding a guest week because you're guesting somewhere is a dangerous move. Before you know it, every blogger in the world will be blogging on someone else's site, which would just be...confusing.

Ah, screw it. I'm all for confusing.

A Guest Week!

Fancy a bit of a sojourn into Autoblography Country?

I can promise virtual cake.
Entire mountain ranges of virtual pavlovas and gateaux.

You can do whatever you like with the place, as long as you promise not to redecorate. No pressure, no themes, no baying hordes in the peanut gallery (well...okay, that's a lie) but just kick back, put your feet up, and do what you like.

Tempted?

It was a warm night last night.

For the first time when I lay down to sleep it occured to me that I could open the windows.
It has to get very warm for me to want this because my house is within cowering distance of three main roads - two major A-roads and a motorway. By ten at night the noise is bearable, but when it kicks in again at 6.30am, if the windows are open, I have the UK's awakening industrial behemoth for my alarm clock.
The only trouble is that it's set for half six in the morning, which I think you'll agree is far too early for an alarm clock to be set, even one which consists of thirty thousand vehicles roaring along at seventy miles per hour.

But a stuffy and close atmosphere is not conducive to sleep, so you take the rough with the smooth. I opened the windows a sliver, and hit the sack.
A high pitched whining dopplered past my ear.

Damn.
Insects.

With the special kind of logic which only really works when you're in the early stages of sleep or in that cumbersome process of waking, I reasoned that I didn't have to get up to shut the window, even taking into account the bugs. The noise stopped rather abruptly, anyway.

I'm crap at housekeeping. It's summer. I have spiders. Actually, I thought, relaxing into the pillow, I have lots of spiders. The persistently annoying mathematical part of my brain tried to spark interest in working out how long the midge could fly around the room before being snared by one of my eight-legged roommates, but the rest of my brain gagged it and threw it into a handy hypothetical cupboard before falling asleep.

Hi, Krissa here, bet you were expecting Stuart, eh? Well, it's a package deal, this Auto-Hiboux-aphy thing we've got going here. Without further ado, welcome to... the Rule Britannia Coffee Shop! Run, jarringly, by a Yankee.

Perhaps when Brits think of Britain, they have complex memories and interpretations of their homeland. Me, i think, "Royalty and High Tea!" So what better way to celebrate old Blighty in its hour of need than a room full of unnecessarily Titled People drinking coffee and tea straight from the Colonies, hrm?

For instance, over here? Countess Anna and D, the Count of Mister chat discreetly about their manors over a coffee frescato and a demi-tasse of Kenya's finest roast.

And is that the strapping Sir Sevitz over there, tall black coffee in hand as he effortlessly charms the Lady Green Fairy and her iced lolly?

Of course, the Crowns of Pix take no notice - the Duchess of Pixie daintily sips a mint tea as she regales her distant royal cousin Mistress Diva of Pixelia with tales of Moroccan high jinx. Careful with that iced mocha valencia, the chocolate-covered whipped cream was lashed repeatedly and might lash back.

Quoi, messieur? Oh dear, a frenchman has wandered into our midst. well, Duc Gordon de McLean, perhaps our coffee won't live up to your continental... standards... but i can offer you a cup of chocolat chaud if you'll make nice with les Anglais?

What are those trumpets i'm hearing? Oh, the showy American cousins, they do love a parade. But a bottle of wine? Really? Well, i suppose nothing's too good for Biscuit, the King of Fulminous. And his trusty red-headed ninja, Princess of Punk, Shivery of Timberia? I'll get her a mocha. peppermint. iced. double. This ninja is too hardcore to need any extra words.

Who's our last customer, dashing in with thirty piles of complex math thingies in his arms just as I prop up my tired yankee feet on the counter and suck down an iced americano? Oh! It's my darling prince, the union jack to my stars and stripes! He gratefully takes the double espresso latte from my hands and buries his nose in paperwork, not even noticing the THRONGS of ROYALS in his coffee shop.

Honestly. Why even put on a crown these days? Oh, right, for the free coffee and tea. Well, drink up, brave nobles!

14th June '99. Monday 2359hrs, Hostel Mondragon, Madrid. Still hatless.
We got out of the HI hostel for 10ish and got to the station to catch any non IC, AVE or Talgo 200 trains to Madrid.
There weren’t any.
I had an extended (for 'extended' read frustrating and bloody-minded) conversation with a ticket man who didn't seem to be able to grasp that our Interrails weren't valid for the AVE and Talgo. Then I thought, after repeatedly pointing to the bit on our tickets, and also the thing on his computer screen that he denied was correct, I thought, 'what the hell, if he wants to let us on, let's go on', so we paid the 1500 peseta supplement and boarded the fastest train in Europe. An hour and forty-five minutes later, we were in Madrid.

We've been on the internet and had food (only a McDonald's) and tried to find a cinema without dubbed films without success. We're still not 100%, so any activity that doesn't entail us walking round is right up our street at the moment.

Tomorrow we're going to buy our second Interrail, and go to the Prado museum. It feels good to know that we're going to be here for a while, using up all the time gained in our almost non-stop rush from Imlil in the Atlas mountains. Five days travelling in a row (while ill) is too many!

Fucking hell.

The French pull back to 2-1, both goals in stoppage time.
Kilroy is off to Brussels.
Peter Andre is in our charts.
Big Brother.

It is a dark, dark day indeed in the British Isles. Who will rescue us in our time of need? Who will come to save us from the darkness? We as a nation have great need of a hero, someone bright of eye and light of heart, quick of wit, strong of arm, brave of soul and white of tooth to step up and take on the challenge!

Someone with the strength and wisdom to guide us from the darkness, and lead us blinking into the brightness of a new dawn.

Well I'm only offering coffee, but it's a start.

The Coffee Shop Of Your Very Dreams is back, baby.

Orders please.

13th June 1999 Sunday 2330hrs. Hostel Cordoba. Without Hat
I’m now in a better mood than I was ½ an hour ago. Today Mum rang in the morning to the hostel in Algeciras (where we stayed last night, by the way) and was a bit tearful because she was thinking of us feeling off-colour, and she was upset because we’ve been away for almost a month now. That, whilst touching, really threw me – hearing Mum being weepy on the phone – my homesickness is ever present below the surface, ready to bubble up when called. To top that, in the rush off the train, I left my panama hat, to which I had grown incredibly attached to as a part of our travels and something that made me feel more 'me' out of the hundreds of backpackers we see.
Just as the Canadians need their maple leaf flags on their packs to distinguish themselves from the Americans, my hat was a more subtle (or not so subtle) way of declaring my differential in personality or whatever. I just know I'm really pissed off to have lost it and that I've given my address, phone no. and email address to every station could be handed in to, along with a verbal description if not picture.

I'm a bit more chirpy now 'cos I've spoken to Dave, and had a bit of a grumble, and he's had a bit of a 'You lucky bastard' at me. I guess over the last few days of seemingly non-stop northern rush, I’ve lost the ‘We’re on holiday’ spring in my step.

We’re now a lot better than we were, and for the first time since Imlil we’ve both eaten a fair bit today, if only Pringles, Pistachios, Twinkies and Principe biscuits. We’re debating having breakfast tomorrow. Pleeeease!

12th June 1999, Saturday 1300hrs Maroc, 1500hrs Espana. Ferry. Tangiers. After yesterday’s immense train journey, we were thankful that the youth hostel was open because it was a Friday night. We left Marrakech at 1145 – we reached the country’s only changing station, Sidi Kacem, at 1800. The other train was supposed to be there for 1830. At 2000, there was an announcement to the effect that the train had been delayed, but would now be here in two minutes, and there was a mad scramble for bags and erm, goats to get off the line and into the prime positions on the platform. All this meant that we arrived in Tangiers at around 2315 – way too late, we thought, to get into accommodation for the night.

On the train, I started a conversation with a Moroccan guy of about our age (in French) about our trip, Moroccan football, Manchester United, The World Cup, Moroccan ‘fauxguides’ as hustlers are referred to, and his work in Tangiers during the tourist season. Also in the compartment was a dishevelled-looking old Arabic man, curled up asleep in his djellaba. Gemma joined in the conversation, and we explained about our ‘bad tea’ experience. One moment, the compartment was quiet apart from three people, talking quietly with fluent and rusty school French, the next there was a cloaked apparition standing in the middle of the floor, shouting in Arabic. The old man had woken up and overheard the tale of tea in the mountains, and had gone crazy. He said (via Khalil, the guy I was talking to) that it ran against every tradition of Moroccan hospitality. He was really worked up, enraged even, and Khalil was having difficulty following him in Arabic. If he was a guide, he should have known about the water as well, he said, and he felt deeply ashamed that we would leave Morocco with this impression of its people.

Then he invited us to his house to eat yoghurt to help our stomachs. He reiterated that he was not a ‘fauxguide’ and that he genuinely wanted to make us welcome in his home. We were really overwhelmed but declined as politely as possible. We explained that we wanted to go to the hostel (if it was open) which was near the port. He said that the quickest and cheapest way was by bus straight from the station (rather than a taxi), and that he was taking it – he’d show us the stop...etc. At the terminus Khalil walked up with us to the hostel. (note – ripping off throughout, Khalil and old man standing up for us on the bus)

This morning we arrived at the port around 10ish to the huge array of complicated sailings they have. After a while we realised that the next ferry with the discount for our Interrail was at 1pm. Sitting as we were, in ‘fauxguide’ central, we watched and learned. The forms that had to be filled in, the FGs filled in for travellers, levying a charge each time, sometimes per form. They also took a larger amount that the ticket ‘tax’ off gullibles, then went and bought it with them. There were signs for 20dhm tax on tickets around the port, but it is included in the price, so they were paying it twice- once to the FGs, and once to the companies. A large proportion of them were official public helpers with badges, but even they levied charges for writing forms, for giving information and generally doing their jobs: abusing their positions.

Our ‘official’ chap looked severely annoyed, when we asked, wiser than then we arrived that morning, if we could write our own forms. He feigned ignorance of French, which we’d heard him speak already, so between us, Gemma and I tried English, Spanish, a bit of German and then French again until he gave us the forms and stomped off. When Gemma paid for her ticket in pesetas, the change she was given he suggested be given to him ‘for the service’. When she was actually at the counter, he asked me for a present from England. I told him I’d been in Morocco for a week, and I had run out of presents. It’s pleasant experience to be able to take the piss out of someone who deserves it in another language.

Morocco now lies behind us, and Europe welcomes us back once more. The wind farms of Tarifa on the coast of Spain are visible from my window, and Africa is a hazy shadow over the horizon. It’s certainly been an experience to visit – it would’ve been frightening without our knowledge of French and the practise we had through France.

Morocco is a country of great diversity. Our first taste, in Rabat, was almost half-European, half-Moroccan, as the nation’s capital. Neon signs for McDonald’s greeted us off the train, and skyscrapers stood the width of a road away from the souks of the old city. Marrakech was Moroccan to the core. The Djemaa El Fna and the food vendors crying out as they guessed the nationality of the people walking past... “Engleesh? Feesh and Chips! Feesh and Chips!” “Francais? Escargot! Escargot!” ...nowhere served them, they were like national catchphrases to catch your attention.

The custom of men holding hands or draping an arm over the other’s shoulders to indicate friendship seemed strange at first, but the longer we were there, it seemed to make more sense.

And (almost) always, “Aves-vous les dirhams?” from the children, beggars and women on the street. Even in the mountains we didn’t really escape it – after a cheery “Bonjour” and a cheeky grin came the inevitable question. And yet at other times, like meeting Khalil and the old man on the train, and in Marrakech when we were stopped by an incredibly light-hearted group of friends just for a chat, a comparison of lifestyle, the odd tale and a linguistic joust, the people of Morocco show themselves to be a warm-hearted, friendly, loving people with concern for others a priority. You just need to get past the obsession with money, yours in particular. From what I can gather, they are, above all, a mercantile nation, a tradition that so old that it dates more or less continuously from the Phoenicians, and the money-above-all mentality combined with tourism makes for a hostile manner where money is concerned, but if you attempt to speak a little Arabic, or haggle decently, you stop being looked at as just another cash cow to be milked, and the other side of the national personality begins to show itself.

Morocco is also a country with the challenge of Toubkal waiting still, the promise of the Sahara and my fascination with Arabic, the first non-Latin based language I’ve come across. I want to return, even though I’ve left with a stomach upset and diarrhoea and an empty taste in my mouth due to the attitude to tourists. If I do go back, it should be without my hat, with a better knowledge of Arabic, and a serious tan.

11th June 1999 0830hrs Friday. Hostel, Marrakech (again) – warm. Ugh.
On Wednesday we caught the bus out to Asni and then caught a truck up to Imlil for about 3 o’clock. It was really beautiful mountain country – mountains with the snow still clinging to them, river valleys and small villages perched on the sides of hills so steep it was surprising how they’d been built.

The ‘Club Alpin Francais’ refuge at Imlil was basic to say the least.
Crouch/squat toilets – those I had avoided using so far on this trip – were the only toilets there. Gemma, myself and a new Canadian acquaintance, Jean, went for a stroll out of the village, following the Toubkal path for a little way, hoping that having already been higher, our bodies would adapt to the village altitude more quickly. The landscape was extremely photogenic, but we had to be careful not to be too obvious as we had been reliably informed that the Berbers were one of the peoples that believe having their picture taken steals their soul away.

A Berber, who was apparently just relaxing by the side of the path, invited us to his house for tea. We escaped by saying we would, but later, and carried on climbing.

Jean had arrived in Marrakech that morning and come direct to Imlil on our coach and truck. He was exhausted, because, he told us, he had spent the duration of the overnight train being lectured on how the Western way of life was wrong, and that Islam was the only true religion. He had shared his compartment with five soldiers on their way to a posting in Marrakech. He said he’d been forced to promise to buy a Qu’ran on his return to Canada...it was like one of the travel ‘urban myths’ you hear eighth or ninth person down the line, but the bags under Jean’s eyes weren’t lying. He started telling us about how the soldiers had told him of the proud traditions of Muslim hospitality...and that he thought we should go for tea with the guy from the village, because he might be offended if we didn’t. Gemma and I bowed to Jean’s rather stressfully achieved authority on the matter.

His house was quite big in comparison with the others around it. Inside, we removed our shoes, and were ushered into his living room which had cushions on the floor. We sat, and gawped at the size of his television and sound system, which were hugely impressive. He showed us them with great pride, and also his personal stereo, which had an enormous pair of extremely expensive-looking over-the-head headphones. After mint tea (‘Berber Whisky’) and looking through his photos from being a mountain guide (the belief apparently goes away when money is involved), I presented him with one of the free pairs of headphones that we got given on the Spanish intercity, waxing lyrical on the benefits of the little plastic case for use on the mountain, so he wouldn’t damage his other pair. I could kind of see what was coming.

He asked us if we needed a guide, we said no - one of our party had been before many times and knew the way. He asked us if we wanted donkeys for our bags, we said no - we were leaving our packs at the refuge and taking daypacks. He asked for 20dh for the tea and walnuts we had accepted as his hospitality. Taken aback, I pointed out that I had given him a small gift in thanks for his hospitality…so he went down to 10dh.

Gemma flipped.

She went at him saying that she was offended, if he had come to her house she would never even think of asking for money for a cup of tea...Jean and I looked at each other in awe – Gemma had become instantly fluent in Angry French. We were ushered politely, but nonetheless quickly, out of his house.

That evening we ate an omelette, with bread for dinner. All night I couldn’t get comfortable – in my sleeping bag I was too hot, out of it I was freezing. I didn’t feel too well, either. Determining to keep it to myself if it meant we got to climb, I attempted to sleep. First thing that Gemma said to me was “I’m not well.” Laying in bed whilst the others prepared to go was extremely frustrating – now we wouldn’t see the Sahara from the peak. We decided to go back to Marrakech that day. The effects of whatever we had, if they hadn’t felt so terrible, would have otherwise been funny. I was so weak that I had difficulty raising my hand to scratch my nose when lying down, and rolling my sleeping bag took 20 minutes. The nightmare truck drive from Imlil to Asni is not something I want to remember of Morocco I frequently thought I was going to throw up over the side of the truck, but was too weak to lift myself. We caught a ‘grand taxi’ from Asni to Marrakech, and let me tell you, an air-conditioned Mercedes makes you feel so much better than the back of a truck. Bizarre, really.

We got dropped off at the hostel, literally crawled inside, and went to bed at about 3pm. We got up at about 7am this morning, feeling a little better, and decided to ‘run for the border’ to Tangiers – an 8 hour train journey.

We figure that seeing as Jean, Gemma and I had tea at that bloke’s house the other day, and that it was us three that felt ill, that the water can’t have been boiled properly in his haste to get some dirhams out of us.

We’ll probably stay the night in Tangiers and cross over to Algeciras tomorrow morning.

We had staggered out of the Refuge and asked the guy with the truck when he was heading back down to Asni. He shrugged. Sometime later, when there were enough passengers to make it worthwhile. He offered to go immediately, if we would pay him ten times the normal price. We refused, and sat down in the shade under one of the trees surrounding the square, lying back on our backpacks, panting in the heat, incredibly weak.

People were dotted all over the place, just sitting, not doing very much. Fanning themselves on the terrace of the tiny one-room café, drinking water, just sitting. An old man with a skull cap and a face like tanned leather came up to me where I was sitting and thrust a small silver necklace into my face, giving me his sales pitch in slow, loud, measured French. For me to actually open my eyes at this point in time was a great effort.

"Special price for Berber silver! For you, my friend."
"No thank you."
"It's filigree! Special, rare silver, beautiful."
"No thank you."
"Exchange?" he raised a cream-robed arm and gestured at my soapstone pendant, the cord knot of which was just visible out of my t-shirt. I almost took him up on it. The pendant was from a surf shop in Newport, Isle of Wight, and it had cost me £2. He seemed to think it was valuable...
"No, thank you."
The old man dropped neither his arm nor his gap-toothed smile, standing directly over me, the trinket in my face. He said nothing. I waited for him to go away. He didn't.
"Is there a problem?" I said, sharply.
He kept smiling, and shook his head. He pointed at my pendant.
"Present?"
"Pardon?"
"You give to me as a present?"

I discovered that I was capable of incresed fluency in French too, as long as I was a little angry. Not too angry, you understand, just stern. Here we were, lying like beached whales, panting in the heat and obviously having difficulty even just moving around, and this guy was really pushing me. I understand that he might have desperately needed to sell me something, which might have led him to be more insistent than he normally might have been, but still. He caught me on a bad day.

When the truck driver was bored of waiting for us to pay him ten times the normal amount, he whistled and climbed into the truck. All of the people who had been sitting idly around the square climbed in. He had just been waiting us out.

Down the mountain, we shared the truck with some Americans and some Italians, and a bunch of locals. I hunkered down and sat holding my bag and waited it out. It was very, very sick-making.

"I'm going to be sick." I said.
"It's okay buddy, not long now," said one of the Americans.
"No, I'm going to be sick," I said.
"About fifteen minutes, isn't it, now?"
I almost started crying. I wasn't strong enough to stand up. I wondered what was wrong. Why didn't they understand?
"I'm GONNA PUKE!"
I was hefted to my feet inside of a second, and the fresh air helped enormously as the truck rattled and shook and banged down the mountain track.

Rather than wait for the bus, Gemma and I opted to take one of the ubiquitous cream Grand Taxis all the way to Marrakech, which was only about £2 each. Air conditioning...I can still remember the relief at the stark difference between the metal walls of the radically bouncing truck and the cool, smooth ride in the Mercedes. When we arrived at the Hostel in Marrakech, the taxi driver asked for twice what we had agreed. We didn't even bother to argue with him, and paid him what we had agreed plus a five dirham tip, and just walked, slowly, exhaustedly away.

There was no one in the hostel. We dropped our bags and sat down. At this point we realised we were in full sunlight and literally crawled into the shade.

We slept from the instant we paid through until the next morning, and were woken with the call to prayer from a nearby minaret.

The train station was mercifully close to the Marrakech Hostel.
We were getting out of Africa as fast as those rails would carry us.

But, you know, this was Morocco, so we're not talking all that fast.

Firstly, I would like to echo what Krissa said.

Hatai, Shiv, Dave, Catherine, Jennifer, Anna, Kylee, Lori, Adrian, Daniella, Hanni...thank you.
You have meant that Krissa and I have been able to take the edge off the summer airline price hike and see each other again.
You're superstars.

On my way walking to work this morning, after helping a poor flightless baby magpie to avoid the road, I started thinking about all the things I want to do before leaving this country.

Krissa and I have been reading through forums and boards at the excellent, extremely helpful, and yet prone to animated smileys visajourney.com, and we came across this page last night: The account of the medical and interview at the US Embassy in London for a guy doing the same visa application as me. I read with rapt concentration about the questions asked in the interview, the medical and the procedures, and when the guy's forum posting finished, there was a note from one of the site veterans:

"Huge congrats! I'll bet you're thrilled to bits. Now make the most of the last days in Blighty. You'll miss it when you're gone."

And I thought, wow. There will be a time when I only have a few days left in the UK.

Cor.

What should be on my list of things to do before I leave?

I'll try not to build this up, but last night something happened that I want to get across - if not because of its implications, then because of what happened to me.

I've never had an ECG before. I know what it stands for; 'Electro-cardio Graph', and that was just another piece of Pub Quiz Trivia until last night.

I've been having chest pains for the last five or six days now, left hand side, near the top. You know. Where the heart is. I've been incredibly aware of my heartbeat. It seemed very...strong. Whether that was psychological or not I wasn't in a position to judge. I was scared. I mean, I've really thrown some stuff at my body over the last six years. Caffeine has risen from a nice kick in the morning to a vice, I was no teetotaller at university, the year after graduation I was broke but managed to afford regular nights on various tiles, and since taking this job I have been able to relax with a bottle of wine or so whenever I have felt the urge...

I'm twenty four years old, so it is highly unlikely that I am about to keel over with a heart attack, right?

This is something you can only tell yourself so many times in the face of an intermittent and persisting niggle of pain before you need to hear someone else say it, and believe them. For the last six days I have swung slowly between being rational and being terrified.

What if...?
No.
But what if...?

Needing a rational and calm voice, I called home. My Dad told me to go to Hospital, so I went.

And on my way out of the door, knowing our National Health Service, I grabbed a book. Yesterday in my office someone gave away a lot of books they thought they wouldn't read again. One of the ones I nabbed was Tony Parsons' Man and Wife. I'd not read any of his stuff before. People told me it was heartwarming and funny, and, seeing as Krissa and I are cheerfully striding towards married life, I thought I could do with some light relief.

Sitting alone in the Hospital waiting room, I managed to get a page and a half into the book before having to stop because I thought I was going to cry. The page and a half were describing a wedding, and even if the chance of me having something wrong with my heart was small, at that moment, in that waiting room in that hospital, it was very close. And even though it seems hopelessly overdramatic in retrospect, the thought that I might not get to live out my life with this great love we had found in each other came close to breaking that heart regardless of its condition.

The guy who saw me had the magnificent name 'Edwin Transfiguracíon' on his badge. Blood pressure, okay. Pulse, okay. Temperature, okay.

Off to a staff nurse.
ECG.

She made small talk as she applied the electrode pads to my skin; she joked that my hairy legs and chest made the pads hard to stick down. She asked, and I told her what I did for a living, and her demeanour changed. Her husband had been...severely delayed by the thing my company is responsible for the other day, missing a special dinner. I was wired up on a flat top examining trolley for just a few seconds.

Then the nurse pulled all the wires at once, taking the pads with them, giving me an intermittent wax on patches of my legs and chest. Never tell anyone what you do for a living, I thought.

The ECG went off for inspection, and after mooching round some corridors and a brief physical inspection, I was pronounced fine. It was probably just some internal muscular pain- a strain or pulled muscle.

So there you go.
I was shaking with relief as I called Krissa and my parents from outside the Hospital.

9th June 1999 0105hrs, Dark. Wednesday.
We ate at the Djemaa El Fna and it was so cheap (around £5.60) for six people t