Heaven Is A Place, Where Nothing Ever Happens

Listomania #1: Four Rubbish Sports

2009-11-08T17:00:00.002Z

1. Rugby

As The Eleven O'Clock Show once put it: rugby - either you like it, or you think it's a bit shit. Either way, it's a bit shit. Rugby is not only a phenomenally dull spectators sport, but also almost wholly devoid of skill. As the useless wimp who was always picked last for games at school (Ok, that might have been me) will tell you, if you don't fall into a certain catagory, you cannot play rugby. If you're built like a brick shithouse or are able to run like a Thompson's gazelle, you're on the team; if you possess both of these qualities then you'll be a bloody world beater. Because that is all rugby is - pure physicality. Show me a rugby player who weighs 7st wet through and is as quick as a beached whale and I'll change my mind.

And by the way, when William Webb Ellis picked up the ball during a game of football and ran with it, some saw it as an inspired action which gave birth to a new sport. Others, like me, thought the prick should have been booked for a deliberate handball.

2. Boxing

Since when has two men beating each other up been a legitimate sport? Much like rugby, physical power, and not skill, is the overriding factor, and any sport which favours the advancement of men stupid enough to risk brain damage has got to be suspect. And, since so many fights involve the participants prancing around and eventually being awarded wins based on points issued by judges, it basically amounts to an exremely violent version of Strictly Come Dancing.

3. Formula One

The formula in Formula One is simple: driver + amazing car = success. With the exception of Michael Schumacher, it is almost possible for one of the chimpanzees from the PG Tips adverts to win an F1 championship provided you put it in the best car. How else do you explain drivers who have done bugger all for years suddenly coming good? (Take note Jensen). Would it have something to do with their new cars being Kitt from Knight Rider?

4. Athletics

A controversial one admittedly, since the participants in this case are without doubt some of the finest physical specimens of humanity on the planet, but that doesn't change the fact that their sport is bloody boring. And, yet again, largely without skill when it comes to track events.
The mother of all boring athletics events is obviously the Olympics, which is watched by the viewing public for a total of 9 seconds during the hundred metres, after which they switch over to Emmerdale again and forget about it for another 4 years.

Gandalf's Back! Conveniently

2009-10-17T10:53:00.002+01:00

Life, to some people, is a quest. A quest for knowledge; answers to some of the most burning questions that still endure today. Is the physical world merely a projection of our own making? For what purpose was Stonehenge really created? Will there ever be a workable Middle East peace process?* It is in this post that I shall provide the answer to a question as important, and much-posed, as these.

People who know me well enough will be able to recount to you a story which rocks the very foundation of Nerdishness to the core – I walked out of the cinema half way through The Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring. When I divulge this information to those new to such a concept (i.e. that LOTR is shite), I am invariably met with the same response. “Why??!”, they wail, with a look of slack-jawed, glassy-eyed horror and confusion, as if I’d just barged into their house, urinated on their sofa and stamped on the hamster. And that is the question I shall now answer: what possessed me to commit such an abominable act, the strongest statement you can make against art of any kind. Cinema’s equivalent of spitting. That’s right, I spat in the face of J.R.R. Tolkein. Figuratively, of course. I’d never do that literally; the man was a war hero for God’s sake. Have some respect.

The answer, despite all that elaborate bullshit build-up, is fairly straightforward. I don’t like Lord of the Rings because it’s all too easy. Yeah, that’s it, that’s why I have a problem with it. By easy I mean easy – anyone could have written it, and lots of people probably did but never got published. Or they did get published, but their book is languishing with all the old Reader’s Digest collections and charity shop throw outs on the shelves of your local Wetherspoon’s pub, occasionally thumbed through by some pisshead who’s just staggered out of the bookies for a pint or seven while he waits for the 3.30 at Chepstow. You know the one – the guy who decides he has to talk to you about his childhood even though you’re only in there for a quick lager and a read of your book before you go to the train station.

Writing fantasy, you see, is a piece of piss. Easier than making my old music teacher cry (all you had to do was randomly bash the keys on your Casio, or set off one of those pre-programmed backing tracks, and she’d weep like Ellen MacArthur at sea) in fact. The important parts of a story – keeping a reader hooked, coming up with plot twists etc – are simple for a fantasy story writer; when you think it’s getting a bit dull, simply invent a new character, or bring a dead one back to life, or invent a new character specifically to bring said dead one back to life. Easy! What’s that, Gandalf’s dead? Well let’s raise him from the dead and make him even better than last time! Because, after all, we can. The writer doesn’t have to conform to regular logic or science (since fantasy is almost illogical by definition, and pretty much has to regard the laws of science in a contemptuous fashion), freeing him or her up to put down whatever the hell they bloody well feel like on the day. ‘Hmm, this is getting a bit tricky. How on Middle Earth will that character who will eventually be played by Viggo Mortensen ever manage to defeat all those nasty blokes who look like Bruce Forsyth? Erm…an army of ghosts? Yeah, that’ll do. Hey, it’s not like anyone can question it – this is fantasy!’

The fact that a series of stories that could have been written by you or me after drinking a case of lager are more popular than some of the greatest works of literature that have the decency to be set in the real world pains me. Writers who base their stories in reality have a much harder task on their hands; time, space and the laws of physics can’t just bend on a whim when you’re writing The Day of the Jackal, for example (incidentally, that’s 2 Forsyths that have crept into this post by accident).

But maybe I’m a cynic and it’s all just harmless fun which, conveniently for the Tolkein family and the film studios, has the nice side effect of being able to strip nerds of their cash from 50 paces. No, it’s definitely still rubbish.

*No, there won’t. So that’s two questions answered, then.

Album Review: Little Boots - Hands

2009-06-10T22:32:00.011+01:00

The first record to be released from 2009's trinity of Ladypop (La Roux's self-titled album and Florence And The Machine's 'Lungs' follow in the next few weeks), 'Hands' has been a much anticipated piece of work. Much effort has been made by her record company to market Little Boots (Victoria Hesketh to her friends) as another indie darling, playing up her use of an unusual Japanese sequencer, the Tenori-on, and booking her for festival performances all through the summer, but this is largely for show; there is nothing about Little Boots' music that is strictly for the indie crowd. Her music bears close relation to Kylie, and it's not difficult to imagine these songs setting up camp in stadia around Europe in the near future, such is their mass appeal.

It's perhaps no coincidence that most tracks clock in at around the three-minute mark - the widely accepted ideal length for the perfect pop song - and the whole album seems to fly by. There are enough references to hearts to make you suspect she requires the services of an eminent cardiologist, but this serves simply to illustrate where the album is aimed: each song is an exquisitely crafted, hooky Euro-pop work through, from the pulsing 'Stuck On Repeat' to the fragile 'Tune Into My Heart'. Other highlights include the insanely catchy 'Click', which sounds like it could have been recorded by Girls Aloud, 'Mathematics' (love as an algebra equation) and 'Earthquake', which contains a chorus seemingly in existence since the beginning of time which has been waiting for someone to put it down in a studio. Hesketh also doffs her cap and pays due respect to the 80s electronic music which has clearly inspired her by duetting with the Human League's Phil Oakey on possible single 'Symmetry', yet another tune with an impeccably catchy chorus backed by bleeps, glitches and hands-in-the-air-like-you're-in-a-Moscow-nightclub synths.

The album concludes with the surprising hidden title track, a song on which the Euro stylised Little Boots is stripped down to the bear bones of piano and vocal. Sounding like a more conventional Regina Spektor, the song describes in passionate tones the story of a friend requesting that she mend her broken heart, only to be told by Hesketh that "I just don't have the technology". The track has the pleasing effect of engendering the listener with the thought that, should she wish, there is another direction Little Boots could successfully explore. For now though it seems she's content to plunder what could be a rich mine of electropop tunes.

Alan Shearer Is Not The Messiah - He's A Very Clueless Boy

2009-04-03T11:10:00.008+01:00

Ah, football. Football football football. A passion for millions around the world, a sport so infused with romance that, had it been invented in Shakespeare's time, he would have written sonnets about it. Crap, boring sonnets that children in English classrooms would have been obliged to learn, despite being more interested in knifing somebody or talking about how Krystal shagged Kyle behind the Co-Op last Wednesday after school, for £2.75 and a ringtone.

The world's biggest sporting obsession can inspire the sort of logic-free thinking not witnessed since, well, since the 'Great British Public' last decided to vote in their hundreds of thousands for another mindless pop star to trundle off the Simon Cowell-powered conveyor belt.
The mode of thought I am talking about is perfectly encapsulated by the Geordies this week (it's always either the Geordies or the Scousers), and their jubilant celebratons at the news that Big Al Shearer is finally in his rightful place ~~at the right-side of God~~ in the Newcastle dug out. He is the man to save us, they say, and if he can't do it then nobody can. So that's that cleared up then: nobody can.
The problem is that the Newcastle fans really really want Shearer to be their saviour; they paper over the obvious cracks (i.e. it's apparent from his Match Of The Day punditry that he knows about as much about the tactical side of football as a stapler) and convince themselves that love of the club and a hard work ethic - qualities Shearer has without doubt - are enough. But they're not, as the Premier League and the higher echelons of football in general has shown time and time again. Quality will out, and no amount of careering around a football pitch until you're throwing up your own pancreas from exhaustion will dictate otherwise if you don't have the ability. Shearer has motivational skills for sure, but that doesn't make him a good manager, and willing it doesn't make it so. In the words of Peter Kay's creation, the wheelchair-bound Brian Potter of Phoenix Nights, "I wanna moonwalk son, but life's a shit-house".

The football wasteland is littered with illustrious names who have endeared themselves to clubs and fans with their performances on the pitch, but ultimately failed in the dugout. Just ask Glenn Hoddle (he walked on water as a player at Tottenham, but sank as a manager), John Barnes and Tony Adams, to name but three. The truth is that managing a football team and playing for one are two very different things; as a player you are concentrating on the game and the players around you, and have no time to pick up on subtle tactical issues. And most footballers, with the possible exception of Graeme Le Saux, have a brain the size of gnat's bollock.
Managers require an analytical brain, one open to possibilities and quick to see patterns and faults (this of course, has it's exceptions too - see the likes of Phil Brown and the ProZone crowd, who wouldn't notice if Ghengis Khan ran on to the pitch and slaughtered all their players). This possibly goes some way to explaining why, very often, the best managers were not necessarily the greatest players themselves. Arsene Wenger, Carlo Ancelotti, Marcelo Lippi, Louis Van Gaal - not exactly the world's most famous footballers, but certainly excellent managers with proven records.
The sad fact, however, is that romance often overrules these ideas, as it has done with the gullible Newcastle fans and Alan Shearer. They fell for it with Kevin Keegan (revered as a God despite never actually having won them a trophy, and having the notable distinction of taking them 14 points clear at the top of the league at Christmas, before blowing it) and they're falling for it again. But I suppose that's what the romance of football is all about - hopes, dreams, and laughing at other people's misfortune.

The Cult of The Television Presenter

2009-03-25T21:11:00.006Z

In times of economic woe, certain facets of life prove difficult to swallow, as the necessities of budgeting throw light on areas not often questioned. We are required to cut back on our frivolous lifestyles now so commonplace in the West and, inevitably, charity also suffers. One area curiously exempt from this lately was the recent Comic Relief appeal (it raised yet another record amount, perhaps in fine testament to the nation's ability get a sense of perspective at least some of the time), despite the usual gaggle of unfunny turns from celebrities in full cross-dressing mode and the customary guilt inducing footage of African poverty. I suppose nothing quite renders a viewer so punch-drunk as the sight of someone like Andrew Marr in a corset immediately followed by the sight of emaciated children.

I, like many people, I suspect, avoided the whole thing as I normally do, but largely to side-step any feeling of nausea brought on by the multitude of that scourge of modern television: the presenter. Not exactly a threatened beast this one, to put it mildly. This is my main objection to the whole spectacle, and it is only exacerbated in the 'current financial climate', to put it in modern parlance. You could say I find it difficult to objectively watch Jonathan Ross, knowing full well that he is being paid something approximating £125,000 per week to upset old men in the name of comedy, and have him demand that I "do something funny for money". Unless this means getting paid to shoot Jonathan Ross, I'm afraid it's unlikely.

Once, not so long ago, it was almost a requirement of a television presenter that they actually had to possess a depth of knowledge on the subject of the programme they were presenting - David Attenborough, for instance, has a degree in Natural Sciences from Cambridge - but this seems to have long since flown out of the window. Now we are subjected to the likes of the blustering, witless Kate Humble at every turn, or the endless parade of lobotomised and supposedly hilarious mannequins on T4 on a Sunday afternoon. Try stomaching Alexa Chung at 1 o'clock in the afternoon when your Jaegarmeister induced hangover has just kicked in and you regret reheating that kebab. Personally, I blame the BBC - the necessity for continuity (oh for the heady days of Phillip Schofield in the broom cupboard) has spilled over to commercial television as it's cheaper to let Steve Jones witter on for 20 minutes than to actually do something terribly bothersome like, erm, I don't know, commission some new programming.

The truth is that genuinely good television presenting has an important role in providing the link between the viewer and the 'expert' in, say, a programme attempting to explain some difficult concept, but all too often today we have presenters for presenters' sake. As an example, take a popular reality show, such as the recent Dancing On Ice. Is it really necessary to have one person providing the links and another performing some completely superfluous task like prompting judges? I smell a gravy train.
The sad fact is that many children today actually aspire to be television presenters, knowing full well as we all do that all you need to make it is a lovely head of hair, shiny teeth and a sackful of youthful colloquialisms (Fearne Cotton, I'm looking in your direction). The prerequisite of possessing some kind of field of expertise has long vanished, and your slot 'broadcasting' to a demographic of youths with fresh air blowing between their ears and a copy of Glamour in their grasp awaits on E4. Just leave the real work to us, thank you very much, Vernon Kay.

Matt Bregazzi Challenges Conventional Wisdom Part 1

2008-11-24T12:17:00.002Z

I've decided that I'd better actually update my blog if I'm going to have one at all, so I thought I'd use it in the manner most people on the internet do: as a soapbox to broadcast my own half-baked opinions. Some will be controversial, some will make me sound like a dickhead, but I've got to get this stuff off my chest, and I'm sure you'd rather I did it this way than by cornering you at a civilised dinner party or formal function when I've had a few drinks. Wine then whine is my usual modus operandi.

On Muhammad Ali, "The Greatest"

I'm not sure where to start with this one, so I'll simply begin with this: boxing is shit. Sorry to anyone who likes nothing better than to stay up until 4.30am on a Tuesday morning to watch Sugar Daddy Killer King fight some other ludicrously named multi-millionaire street brawler, but it's a load of bollocks.
And the best person ever at said load of bollocks is Muhammad Ali. This, it must be noted, is not a point that is in dispute; I'm perfectly able to accept that he's the greatest fighter of all time and yada yada yada, it's just that it's like being the greatest at doing that trick where you flick a beer mat off the table and catch it. So you can beat people up better than anyone else? Well whoopee shit. Being the best at a 'sport' where the participants sling punches at each other and get so tired they end up in each others arms is hardly something to go down in history for. The whole reason they're in the ring anyway is because they have to fight for their living as they are unable to earn money by conventional means owing to all that fresh air wafting around between the ears. Which leads me on to my second point..

I'm a bit tired of hearing that Ali was "smart". No doubt most people are aware of the famous interview on Parkinson where Ali claimed he was smarter than the host and read lots of books etc. Presumably he was talking about the Noddy series of books. Any man who is as smart as he claimed to be really would be writing books, doing research or designing grand concepts instead of climbing into a ring and brawling with another "genius". And besides, if he was that smart he'd have realised boxing does some serious lasting damage to the brain. But he wasn't, so he didn't.

No offence.

Dan Aykroyd's Wine

2008-09-21T17:27:00.005+01:00

Well, I think it's about time I continued my tales from the True North (strong and free, as the Canadian national anthem goes).
I believe I left it last time from our trip to the top of the CN Tower, which is from whence I will proceed. Don't worry, the language won't be this flowery and poncy all the time, I promise. Anyway, we had a very nice meal in the 360 Restaurant (so called because that's the number of degrees by which it rotates over the course of 71 minutes - fact), and decided to retire early as we had a long day ahead of us the next day...Niagara Falls day!

Before we booked our trip to the Falls, we had the aforementioned unenviable task of collecting the money transferred by Ben's folks to tide him over whilst the bank made the necessary arrangements regarding replacing his cards etc. Word of advice: never, ever, EVER, have your card stolen in North America. Or anywhere, come to think of it, but especially not here. Tracking down money over here seems about as easy as collecting 100 gold tickets in the Crystal Dome finale of The Crystal Maze (how many times did anyone ever actually do that??), not counting all the little bastard silver ones that were blatantly abundant in that thing. We were redirected so many times to different buildings in Toronto that at one point we began to believe that the money would only be handed over as a reward for some complex orienteering exercise, or in exchange for the Arc of the Covenant.
Anyway, to cut a (very) long story short, we eventually tracked down the cash, booked our Niagara Falls extravaganza and jumped on the tour bus, driven by the irrepressible Barry McDermott. White hair, comb-over (artfully done, I must add) and black pencil moustache; the man was a consummate pro from beginning to end. I'm mulling over whether to crown him the first inductee to the Jolly Boys Hall of Fame. Which reminds me, I've left out our visit to the Hockey Hall of Fame, but you lot would probably find that boring anyway. But I digress. First stop on the tour was a winery just outside the town of Beamsville, Ontario, owned in part by none other than screen legend and Saturday Night Live alumnus Dan Aykroyd! Supping some rather fine wines, including the famous Canadian ice wine, I added to my tally of wine tasting on several continents. Feeling somewhat half-cut, we boarded the bus again; next stop Niagara Falls.
Perhaps one of the most famous boat rides in the world, the Maid of the Mist was the part I was particularly looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. We were taken about as close as it's possible to go to the Falls themselves without dying or something, although there comes a point where you can see absolutely bugger all apart from spray, hence the name of the boat. It really is quite a moving experience to be honest; a monument to the unrelenting power of nature, and how that power can at times be the most threatening yet beautiful thing you've ever seen. Nature should be respected; it doesn't have to be loved, but a bit of respect wouldn't go amiss every now and then. Of course, another thing which should never be underestimated is the unrelenting power of humanity to cheapen the beauty of nature by putting a great big fucking casino right next to it, and tarting the whole area up like Blackpool. This we discovered when the town by the Falls was lit up like an English seaside town on a saturday night - the only thing missing on the scene was a hen party from Burnley dressed as tarts and vicars.
After the meal at a nearby hotel restaurant, and a bit of time admiring the illuminated Falls, it was back on the bus to Toronto, where we returned at nearly 11pm after a 10 hour day out. A great experience which really should be done by anyone living in or visiting Canada I would say.

I'll end it there for now, as this has been a quite excessive post this time, but I'll warn you - there is a lot more to come!

The Ted Rogers School of Management

2008-09-16T22:06:00.004+01:00

Right, here we are; first post from Canada. I'll start, as is customary, with the flight. Not too bad (plenty of leg room for once), but no personal entertainment system. One bonus point though was the fact that the in-flight meals did not resemble the contents of the male toilets at Scream on a Friday night, in smell nor sight. So that's ok.

Arriving in Toronto fairly comfortably, we made our way to our lodgings for 3 out of our 4 nights here. On reflection, the hostel guide which Ben read on this here t'interweb should be taken down for recommending the place. Not good. Slight bonus was the view of the CN Tower from the balcony, but then that's like saying the food was good at Auschwitz. Which I'm sure it wasn't, but you get the idea. No offence intended, by the way.
We quickly dumped our stuff and headed for a local bar, where we had a pitcher of Steam Whistle beer each (said beer will crop up in the next post), and I got the guts to go over to a girl who looked like Ugly Betty, just to ask for her photo. She agreed, and we bought her and her friend a drink, the good sport that she is. I know that sounds bad; me going up to some random girl and calling her Ugly Betty, but I explained that it was a misnomer anyway and she was fine with it! Honestly, I'm not an uncomplimentary arsehole! Much.

Sunday saw us check out the 'vibe' (I'm not a yuppie, honest) in Toronto generally, and we had a trip to the Hockey Hall of Fame to boot. Don't call it ice hockey to a Canadian by the way, or you may get a funny look. Later in the day we got ready for our pre-booked dinner at the CN Tower restaurant, only to find that The Curse of the Towers had struck: Ben's wallet had been stolen. Basically, some shitheel must have lifted it out of his back pocket during the course of our wanderings in the city, meaning he had to cancel his cards and arrange what proved to be a laborious and infuriating persuit for money wired over by his folks. We were not amused. One thing can be said for the UK - if your wallet had been stolen over there you wouldn't have to go through the fiasco that we had to. Even if Britain is expensive and full of people who don't feel like getting out of bed to go to work in the morning, God bless 'em. Anyway, after cancelling Ben's cards we made our way to the CN Tower to beat the curse (2 years earlier our quest for a meal at the Skytower in Auckland was thwarted by (we believe) a mischievous batch of sushi), and enjoyed a dizzying ride up the tower - the world's largest free-standing structure - and a very nice meal.

I'm going to continue this later, as there is exciting stuff to say and I am presently too ill to do it justice. Watch this cyber space.

Toronto Bound

2008-09-12T20:13:00.002+01:00

Well, it's time for another adventure abroad, at the risk of sounding like a children's TV presenter. This time it's Canada, and y'all can follow my progress on this very page, if you so wish. If not then don't worry - it's not like I'll be sending round a team of hired goons to smash your property to little pieces...

First up is Toronto (as you may have guessed by now), then we're heading East to Ottawa, Montreal, Quebec City and then who knows where. So stay tuned for many an action packed adventure, or your money back*.

*I know you paid no money towards this, and that is why you'll be getting non back, action packed adventures or not.

Live Review: Girls Aloud, O2 Arena, Saturday 17th May 2008

2008-05-18T16:05:00.011+01:00

It is a testament to Girls Aloud's wide appeal that this, their second night at London's O2 Arena, should see such a variety of people turning out to see the most successful girl group in British pop history; young and old, male and female; it doesn't matter when a pop show is done this well. This is yet another arena tour for them, and a showcase this time for their 'Tangled Up' album, again made in collaboration with pop hit factory Xenomania.

Beginning with the girls slowly lowered down on wires (ok, not exactly original, but hey), they eventually kick off the show with 'Sexy! No No No', the opening single from the new album. A rousing start is quickly improved upon with a stand out track from 'Tangled Up', 'Girl Overboard' - a mid-ninties house style number which is pretty adventurous from the group who covered the Pointer Sisters' 'Jump' not so long ago (a track which, surprisingly, is still given a regular outing). The new album features heavily throughout the night (which is a good thing since it is their career highlight to date), although the crowd seem to respond less well to the new material than the old favourites; surprising since the album has been out for several months.

New tracks are spliced with a string of hit singles, however (so many, in fact, that there is no room for 'The Show' on the set list), and the girls take it in turns to chat to the crowd; Cheryl informs us in her geordie brogue that "It's DVD nayte to-nayte people!". Pop classics 'Love Machine' and 'Biology' are predictably well received, but a clattering, percussive heavy rendition of new song 'Black Jacks' is the highlight of the show's first third.

A costume change later and it's on to the ballad section, and a nicely arranged and excellently performed cover of Robyn's 'With Every Heartbeat', a song previously covered on Radio One's Live Lounge programme. It is clear, however, that slower numbers are not the group's strong point (not because of a lack of ability to carry them, but simply because Girls Aloud are at their best when getting a crowd to dance), so the final part of the show is welcomed with open arms as it marks a return to the up-tempo tracks. Three final covers frame new and old tracks, including new album highlight 'Fling' and possible future single 'Control Of The Knife', which is briefly segued into Kelis' 'Trick Me'; it's impossible not to read into the fact that it's sung by Cheryl.

One final costume change into day-glo new rave outfits heralds the last track of the evening - crowd favourite 'Something Kinda Ooh' - and the show is over for the night. This was a pop show of the highest order, something that is now expected of them given their recent recorded output, and perhaps the only downside was the decision to include the relatively obvious 'Jump' instead of any of a host of tracks from the excellent 2006 'Chemistry' album; only two selections from the latter record were performed all night. However, with a show so well polished and performed, coupled with the undeniable charisma of the group, it does not significantly detract from what is essentially a platform to demonstrate the way pop music should be written and performed in the 21st century.

Restaurant Review: La Tasca, Derby

2008-04-26T16:25:00.011+01:00

I tend to approach chain restaurants with some trepidation; there is something decidedly unappealing about sitting down for a meal knowing that you could get the exact same experience in Newcastle, Bristol or, God forbid, Luton. But, being the fair minded chap that I am (a bare-faced lie, as many will be prepared to testify) I decided to give the Derby branch of La Tasca a clean slate before eating there - any preconceived ideas were thrown out of the window. Which, in hindsight, was a pity seeing as I'd only have to go and fetch them for use in this review.
For those unfamiliar with this particular brand, it is a Spanish tapas restaurant with tentacles reaching out across Britain like, well, a squid I guess. Which is a fitting analogy, but I'll come to that later. The interior was a little over the top on the Spanish theme for my liking, and it seems it would benefit greatly from a little more subtlety and warmer decor. In fact, the feel of the place was not too dissimilar to the one you might get from a restaurant where the conversion from a Walkabout bar was only semi complete.

The principle of tapas is, I believe, for the diners to order a selection of dishes and pilfer bits of each for their own plates; this was made easier for our party of around 14 by the three set menus available.
After a short discussion we wisely agreed on the menu which furnished us with the most food (£19.95 per head), and the first course was promptly served - a feat not to be accomplished for the rest of the evening, sadly. Beginning then with bread and olives (not exactly worth mentioning on the menu, surely?), we moved down the menu with an alarming lack of speed. The next portion of the menu to arrive at our tables some 25 minutes later was that incorporating the avocado and spinach salad, Serrano ham and Manchego cheese, and the anchovies, which were billed on the menu as being 'not the salty kind!' (they were salty). At this point it became obvious that the portions were not exactly catering for Henry VIII, and in fact were more likely put together with the participants at Milan Fashion Week in mind.

The first course of king prawns, chicken croquettes, potatoes in a tomato sauce and, particularly, the famous meatballs went some way to making up the shortfall of the entrees, although these too arrived at least another 25 minutes later. I assumed that the Spanish theme was being adhered to faithfully throughout, and that numerous members of staff were taking Siestas at that point.
Finally on to the second course consisting of, amongst other things, skewered chicken, chorizo and a potato and onion omelette. The latter, however, was fairly bland and uninteresting, but this was not true of the food overall; plenty of the food on offer was of a decent quality, just sadly lacking in amount. It should also be noted that we were served free jugs of sangria to make up for the wait, which was a nice gesture, but I'm quite sure we would have preferred the food sooner anyway. In the end, for all the comment on the matter, I am loathe to blame the waiting staff for the delays; they were nothing but helpful and apologetic throughout, and I suspect the cause lay in the kitchen. In summary, if you are prepared to wait for your (fairly decent) food, then by all means give La Tasca a try. Although if it is Spanish you're after I suppose you could get an easyJet flight to Zaragoza and still have your food in front of you a lot quicker.

African Nights (and days..)

2008-04-02T17:50:00.004+01:00

Check me out, I'm in South Africa.

Writing from possibly the greatest hotel I have ever had the privileged to stay in, just outside Hermanus, near the cape. This place shits all over Hotel Babylon; golf course, spa, pool, luxuriant grounds and rooms are what it's all about. But you know me, I'm all about the luxury and the high class living. Yeah, I said it.

So I've been in SA for about 4 days now, and I must be doing alright because I'm not on an operating table having bullets removed or anything, so I'm fairly pleased. Flights from Manc to Dubai and Dubai to Johannesburg were fine thanks in part to Emirates' magnificent in-flight entertainment system. Listening to the best of Steven Wright's stand-up is a good way to alleviate tension ("I bought some used paint the other day. It was in the shape of a house").

Waited around in Jo'burg for a short while, trying not to look like easy targets for robbery or, er...target practice. Met the bride-to-be briefly and then it was off to Cape Town where we got the hire car, holed up in a travel tavern for the night then made our way the hell out of there the next day, venturing into wine country. First stop was Franschhoek, and a lovely little guest house run by two almost definitely gay men (not that there's anything wrong with that) with exquisite taste, as gay men often have. One was English and the other Scottish - us Brits showing them how to do hospitality out here! Met up with Roz and Ewan, whereupon we quaffed some wine like it was going out of fashion, or turning into vinegar, and ate at a ludicrously cheap restaurant situated in a winery. Our attention turned to wine tasting, and it was at this point that things got serious; brows furrowed, wine swished around pallets, and we formed our respective judgements on the vintners produce. My personal tip for winos (the good kind, not that crack-addled bint who keeps falling out of nightclubs and rehab) who may find themselves in this part of the world is Sauvignon Blanc and some particularly tasty chardonnays.

Anyway, I shall leave it there for now. Tune in next time for another exciting episode! Or at least something to take your mind off the relentless juggernaut that is everyday existence for the 21st century human being. You know what I mean - arguments, mortgages, rent, shopping, ITV etc. Yeah, you get the picture.

Enlightenment

2007-10-10T19:02:00.000+01:00

Having recently returned from a week in Rome, I found that I have learned a few things. About the Italians, as I expected, but also about the British. Rome is, of course, filled with Renaissance and Baroque buildings, passionate people who would probably kick seven shades out of you if you accidentally bumped into their mothers, and fantastic food. However, there are some things that us British just do a lot better. Or at least with some semblance of sanity.

1. Breakfast

No matter how cultured you may feel eating one, no matter how healthy it is and even if you are indeed in Rome and doing as the Romans do, a continental breakfast has got nothing on a full English. Ham and cheese are not for breakfast, they are for lunch. And I don't want toast or some such nonesense. I want something that is most likely going to give me angina at some point in the future. Although I must confess that if it was a socially acceptable practice (maybe one day it will be, i can only hope) I would eat a kebab for breakfast, so that is probably not saying much for the full English.

2. Queues

A blindingly simple concept the humble queue, yet one that appears to be beyond the grasp of many a non-English speaker. We're living in a society. Old women jostling their way to the front of the queue to the Vatican. Unbelievable. I am convinced that for a very brief moment I actually went blind with rage. If they'd had zimmer frames I would have kicked them from under their feet. Bastards.

3. Traffic

I suggest that next time you are swearing like Joe Pesci in Casino at the state of traffic systems in Britain you think again. In Italy traffic systems are a myth, like Atlantis - instead they let Darwinism take it's course and weed out those who are incapable of reacting like Michael Schumacher to the vehicles around them, while pedestrians are actually considered a form of game.
It also appears that the green man means absolutely nothing to Italian drivers, and its appearance seems to have a similar effect to that of calling Mike Tyson "a gay" to his face.

Wow, I managed to get through that with relatively little swearing.

Most.Infuriating.Book.Ever.

2007-03-17T19:42:00.000Z

During WW2 the Japanese broke the Geneva Convention in their treatment of Allied prisoners, inflicting terrible torture on their captives. But i'll say one thing for the Japs: they never stumbled on the idea of reading Moby Dick to the helpless soldiers, or they did but realised that this would be appalling, even by their standards.

This novel is, frankly, the most boring and enraging piece of literature i have ever read. And i've read On The Road by Jack Kerouac, but i'll save that for another time.
One-hundred and thirty-five chapters long, and the crew of the ship doesn't even encounter the eponymous beast until chapter 133, by which time the brave reader has waded through an exhaustive (and i use that word in every sense) account of whales in ever aspect of their being. BLOODY HELL. Why on Earth do i need to know about the anatomy of whales, their skeletal structure, behavioural habits, representation throughout history and art and THE TYPE OF FUCKING ROPE USED ON WHALING SHIPS? Yes, i understand that it's an alagory but for fuck's sake, why do i need to know all that shit??
I know what you're thinking - why did you read until the end if it was so boring that you wanted to scoop your eyeballs out with spoons? Well i have principles. Principles which say that i can't pass judgement on a work of art until i have experience it in full. And principles which say that, since i paid NZ$12 for it in Auckland, i'm bloody well going to finish the bastard. I apologise for not being more descriptive of the novel itself; i fear that if i recount the book too much it will continue boring the arse off me from beyond the read-books grave.

2007: The Story So Far - Part 1

2007-01-14T12:33:00.000Z

Well since there is a lot to write about i'm going to do this in installments. This will hopefully keep things short, but i'm not making any promises.

We'll begin with that old favourite, Christmas. Personally Christmas began for me with our works' crimbo bash at Horsely Lodge - such a fine venue for such a rowdy bunch of people. Some work colleagues and i set our stall out from the off, arriving by limousine and sporting glow-sticks. I was actually up for an all-night rave, but that never materialised. I started out well, telling the overall boss of the company at the bar that "there's more to life than soap dispensers, Shaun", a comment which went down well with some of my co-workers and made me a hero. For a bit. After struggling through three courses (which were nice, i might add) the real drinking/making a fool of ourselves began. I started the ball rolling by having it out with a chap i didn't really see eye to eye with, but David raised the bar much higher by stripping down to his leopard print thong (a secret santa present) on the dancefloor. I suspect whoever bought him the garment knew that this would be inevitable.
People who know me will tell you that i pretty much never dance. However, there is one notable exception: i cannot resist the lure of Girls Aloud. They are my Kryptonite, the Moriarty to my Holmes, if you will. As if to cement this point i am seeing them in concert later this year, but that is another story.

After all the beer, hugging (i was in a loved-up mood, ok?) and frolics it was in to town via the limo in an attempt to keep the momentum going. Relieved to get out of the frosty atmosphere in a packed limousine (a co-worker referred to a different section of the company as being "all up their own arses" when one of them was sitting in the car with her), i subsequently put the aforementioned co-worker in a taxi, and ran to meet the others at Derby's premier hip joint - the Bluenote(!). Sadly Derby's premier hip joint was rather full, so it was off to Sadler's instead. I found my colleagues and then made my way to the bar, whereupon i chanced on some woman and became distracted. It turns out this woman was a fair bit older than me; a fact of which i didn't remember until after i had pulled her, but inebriation has always been a good excuse and it's one I'm sticking with.

Christmas eve was the big test - good i stick to my guns and avoid the White Hart? Kind of. For those of you unaware, the White Hart is a pub (well, durh) in Duffield and the site of an unofficial annual Christmas eve school reunion. I never liked the bloody place anyway, but since it has been done up to look like some arsehole Investment Bankers' wet dream it has gone down even further in my estimation. Even the wallpaper, as i frequently mentioned to those i spoke to, was actually making me nauseous. And i find it very difficult to be in the same room as a collection of Bright Young Things who look like catalogue models and have extremely healthy incomes: it pushes my self-esteem perilously close to the precipice. That being the case, we stayed for merely an hour or so, said what we had to say and got the fuck out of the place. The sodding decor was affecting my soul, and not in a good way. All i can say is that it felt as if Habitat had got a liquor license.
So we left for base camp: the Queens Head, Little Eaton. A quiet night of bawdy jokes about nuns and penises, several pints and a kebab. And barely a trace of a hangover the next day, which leads me to suspect that it was never the beer and the true responsible party for all my Christmas day bad heads was, in fact, the White Hart. I rest my case.

'That' London Place

2006-11-20T19:33:00.000Z

Back by popular demand*, it's this thing. I'm not sure just how long it will be back, but i'll stick my neck out and say as long as i can be arsed/remember to update it. And, of course, if anything remotely noteworthy happens to me - which it hardly ever does. But it kind of did last weekend. And i stress kind of.

Owing to the fact that i've been a pretty lame friend to my old uni chums for the last year, i decided to take a trip down to our nation's capital (that's London for those of you who are very poor at geography) and see how those Bright Young Things were getting on. The plan was also to get together with some pals from home down there too but that never materialized - clashes of schedule/absenteeism/vomiting all taking their toll. However, Alec, Tom, Rob and Jon were all there as expected and even Miss Turner managed to get her act together long enough to put down the lesson plans and head over from Bristol.
Friday night involved that ever brain taxing decision - stay in and watch the cast of a mundane soap doing a movie pastiche on Children In Need or go out and get pissed down the pub. There was only one winner though, and it wasn't Terry Wogan. [As a side point i've always found Children In Need to be a very broad title for a charity - if it means children on a council estate in Toxteth needing a new youth club to vandalize then i'm not giving a penny. Bastards]. So out to the boozer it was, and a karaoke boozer at that. Despite this aural assault a rather good time was had by all i think. We established that Tom has ridiculously high standards when it comes to women: the fact that the bar was staffed by a couple of rather nice, yellow clad blonde girls clearly wasn't good enough for him. Several pints and a couple of gin and tonics later and it was back to the unofficial House Of Trouser (kebabs at the ready, of course) for that most logical of conclusions to a Friday night on the razz - a theological debate as to the existence of God. It always happens like this: just as leaving a skip outside your house always invites some shit to put a mattress in it, so a night spent drinking with a Christian ends with a fierce discussion as to whether The Big Man really is there.

Having woken feeling intellectually drained the next day we embarked upon that ritual which should only rightfully take place on a Saturday, namely getting beered up and going to watch some football. The match in this case featured perennial non-achievers Luton Town against my own club, the mighty Derby County. Having managed to find time to sink a quick beer before catching our train we made the short journey to Luton hoping to get in another crafty pint or two before the match but encountered a small snag: Luton, having a large muslim population, has seemingly no pubs (it's not hard to see why seeing as a pub in a muslim town is about as much use as a handbrake on a canoe). Foiled in our plot we decided to head straight for the ground; there was bound to be a bar in there, right? Well what do you think?? It turns out that there wasn't so much as a rum truffle in the entire bloody place - a particular bastard considering that you need to get pissed to take your mind off the fact that you're in a cesspit.
I won't go into the details of the match itself. Suffice to say Derby were excellent and won comfortably 2-0. Legends.
Saturday night was spent in O'Neill's in a part of London i believe is called Angel, although let me tell you there is nothing celestial about any part of that city. The closest any area of London has to an appropriate name is Arsenal i can assure you. Still, we had a bit of undercooked and error strewn food - Rob's steak and Guinness pie was still partly frozen and my steak and Guinness pie wasn't steak and Guinness pie - and a few more beers before another, less tired Rob and the aforementioned Miss Turner arrived. Looking all teachery as we expected, and a bit more pissed than we expected. In restrospect we should have sent her to the bar to get all the rounds in - being a girl she gets served about 10 times faster than us blokes. Must be that twinkle in her eye!
Merriment abounded (apart from for Rob C, who went home looking rather tired) and the night flew by. They even played AC/DC, bless their hearts. Countless drinks later (noticing a theme here, anyone?) we began the arduous journey back to base camp Macnaughton, stopping en route for a particularly overpriced kebab, in my opinion. I must confess i caved in and went pretty much straight to bed as i couldn't stomach the thought of staying up, or another beer. But at least i'm making progress.
Out of the house fairly early on Sunday morning, i toddled off to make it through big old scary London all on my own to St Pancras station with every cell in my body relieved at the thought of leaving the bloody place. I'll tell you something - the streets really are not paved with gold. Unless when those myth making people said gold they were referring to a now defunct brand of chewing gum.

And that is about it. Sorry to bore you to tears but, as Bob Hoskins once said, it's good to talk.

* a couple of people liked it.

"Take Me Back To Dear Old Blighty...."

2006-09-28T17:24:00.000+01:00

Well, that's it. You may all now breathe a collective sigh of relief - no longer will your inboxes be plagued with links to the scrapbook pages of my life. In short: I'm home.
I last wrote in New Plymouth i believe, so that is where i shall begin. I left New Plymouth early in the morning for the final leg of my New Zealand adventure - back to Auckland where it all began approximately 5 weeks ago. Unsurprisingly Auckland hadn't changed much but i decided to make the best of it until my flight 2 days later, and checked into a backpackers hostel in the city centre. Although the staff were helpful the place was a bit naff and all that stuff in the Lonely Planet guide about it having new showers and carpets fitted was a complete falsehood (i hate the sort of showers where you feel dirtier coming out than when you went in, don't you?). Still, one good feature was the nightly screening of DVDs, and i watched Human Traffic with my fellow travellers in the communal area. It's a good film but a bit cliched at times, and i lost count of how many times the characters took it in turns to say "i'm fucked".
I shared my room with a bloke from Chile and a couple from either Manchester or somewhere in Yorkshire (i knew this because they pronounced Dodo, as in the flightless extinct bird, "durh-durh"), who were planning to stay and work in New Zealand for a while.
The day before my flight i decided to sleep in until midday because a) i was knackered and b) i couldn't think of anything to do in Auckland anyway, but i did eventually get up and go for some lunch and a bit of shopping before coming back to the hostel to read my newly acquired books. The big plan as to how to whittle away the evening came into effect shortly before 8pm: a swift beer and then off to the cinema to see new Will Ferrell vehicle Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Not as good as Anchorman but the bit where he thinks he's on fire had me laughing uncontrollably. All in all, 7 on 10.

Up nice and early the next day to get to the airport for my journey home as the last thing i wanted to do was miss a rather expensive flight. It should be noted that during this whole holiday my Travel Paranoia has been quite intense, and several times i almost convinced myself that i was developing some mild OCD owing to the number of times i checked for my passport. But those of you who know me well are fully aware that leaving my passport on a hill in New Zealand or something is the kind of thing that would happen to me, so maybe the madness is jusitified.
I had the foresight (well, the Manc/Yorks couple had the foresight) to consider asking for some extra leg room from the nice girl at the check in desk at the airport and she duly obliged, which was nice. The down side was that i was put near one of the emergency exit seats and therefore had to stare at a large and complicated looking piece of steel for 10 hours. However, those TVs that they have on planes nowadays are a godsend - plenty of comedy shows and even some recently released movies. I watched An Inconvenient Truth, a film by Bill Clinton's Vice-President Al Gore about the thorny issue of global warming. It seems the satirists are a bit harsh on Gore; he came across as being an amiable chap with a dry sense of humour, and he is very passionate about a subject which many Americans are ignoring. I strongly suggest you watch it - it's a very powerful and convincing message, and it really makes you think about the consequences of your actions.

After a three and a half hour wait in Hong Kong, which felt more like 8 hours, i was back on the plane and bound for London. Thankfully the seat next to me wasn't occupied and i think this worked in my favour as it allowed me to stretch out that little bit more. Two more films in the bag during that flight - The Da Vinci Code and Nacho Libre - both of which were quite good. This time i managed to get to sleep for a bit and that cut some time of the journey. Arriving in to Heathrow at around 6am i quickly collected my bag and got through passport control (not exactly the hardest thing to do in the UK these days anyway), then made my way to the coach station for the final leg - the National Express home! Unlike the Divine Comedy song there are in fact no hostesses with arses the size of small countries these days, and i'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing. Whatever floats your boat i suppose.

So thats it. I've been home for a day now and i've started timing how long it takes for the novelty to wear off for my mum and for her to start moaning about me leaving cups everywhere. Frankly i think she was bored while i was away as i am the creator of all the mess in the house. She must have sat at home not knowing what to do with herself, knocking over things just so she could clear it up; that sort of thing. And on that bombshell i will kill this enterprise off like the mutilated fox it is. I may do this again if i ever go somewhere nice in the future. Watch this space. Actually, don't.
Byee.

This Is Art. And This. And This.

2006-09-22T23:35:00.000+01:00

Right. Fast approaching The End now...or Phase 4, as i like to think of it. Residing in New Plymouth as i write (a bit like old Plymouth really but nicer in case you were curious) and trying to figure out what to do here. I was going to check out a rather smashing sounding observatory with a planet-arium but believe that only opens to the public on tuesdays, by which time a shall be in the ether. Flying that is, not dead. But i suppose you never know.

The past week has been spent in Christchurch and with Nick and his very hospitable folks in Paraparaumu, just outside Wellington. I decided to do some of the things i didn't get to do last time in Christchurch, namely have a wander around the Botanic Gardens (catching a couple of youths smoking something behind a bush), visit the former academic stomping ground of Nobel Laureate and chemist Ernest Rutherford (he wasn't there - he's dead apparently) and taking a brief wander around the art gallery. The latter featured a show by some kiwi conceptual artist (for conceptual artist read self-agrandising egomaniac bastard) and one of her "works" was a coathanger dangling from the ceiling with a pair of stilletto heals below them and a spotlight on the whole lot. I could write for quite a long time about how i find this an egregious offence against art and my intellect but i'll save that for when i have one of you cornered and i'm a bit pissed.
From Christchurch i took the Tranz Coastal train and Interislander ferry over to Wellington, where i met up with Nick again. After a lot of activity it was a relief to spend a couple of days reading/lounging around watching TV and stuff, and eating quality meals! On the second night we took part in a pub quiz with one of Nick's friends and associates and managed a respectable 2nd place, although we could have scooped the main prize were it not for one or two amended answers. Not many questions on New Zealand affairs/sport either, which was good for us Brits.
On friday morning i left Para bound for New Plymouth and arrived just before 5pm, checking into Sunshine Lodge (as recommended) with a single room complete with TV and en suite shower! Went out for a beer in the evening and read the paper.
And that brings me to today, which i absolutely must mention. Started with a satisfactory all-day breakfast then headed to the Govett-Brewster art gallery. What happened in there will forever be engrained on my fragile psyche. It turned out that there was some performance art scheduled to begin shortly after i arrived, and the whole gallery was temporarily closed down while this happened. The audience were invited to sort of take part this fiasco and i, being English, found it impossible to be rude and refuse. I will rue the day 'til my last breath. I spent a good 40 mins of my life listening to a bloke curled in a corner with a black bag over his head describing, and i quote the pamphlet here, "an idea that is an alternative to metaphysical and religious structural perceptions of existence". This, it seems, is artist speak for "bullshit". We (the audience) were invited to write or draw our own interpretations of this idea - something to do with "sideways gravity" and layers in the Sun. It seems this "sideways gravity" was not stopping these people's egos from expanding into the Universe. This whole charade in the name of art, you must understand, MADE MY FUCKING BLOOD BOIL. NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I BEEN SUBJECTED TO SUCH A LOAD OF SPURIOUS TRIPE. On top of that they were taking photographs and filming the audience (something for which i never gave permission), so i glared back at the camera operators. At the end of this load of fucking horse manure the guy in the mask ran to the end of the gallery, tripping over one audience member and falling into another poor woman sitting down (he was still wearing the black hood over his head). This was adjudged to have been some finale it seems. In the face of moderate applause i however, contemplated asking for that portion of my life back and BEATING THE LIVING SHIT out of the lot of them for crimes against art. I was absolutely incandescent with rage at this point. So vexed was i, in fact, that i almost cried with anger. But writing this down has proved somewhat cathartic, as i suspected it may.
After this debacle i walked to the information centre in a daze, booked my coach to Auckand and had a pot of tea in the cafe, where i got paranoid that people were laughing at me and had a mild anxiety attack. For this i blame that bunch of charlatans that masquerade for artists. I fear they have irreparably scarred my psychological landscape. BASTARDS. SELF ABSORBED FUCKWITS. There, all better.

Sean Penn, Effeminate Israelis and Breakfast

2006-09-15T23:26:00.000+01:00

Well, it's just me now. Ben went back to the UK last week and i have been traversing this isle alone, going where the wind takes me. From Christchurch i moved down to Dunedin - a dull place full of students - where i stayed in a backpackers hostel seemingly run by Sean Penn as the ill Paul Rivers in 21 Grams. Went to museums and art galleries etc, then moved on to Invercargill which was much the same. I did, however, see Henry the worlds biggest and possibly oldest tuatara (clocking in at around 125 years old), although he was your average reptile really in that he didn't move an inch the whole time i was there. In the evening on the second day in Invercargill i sat in the TV room watching movies with a girl from London, who it turns out has been travelling since February. She didn't look much older than me but apparently she was almost 30 and she's not actually had a proper job since leaving university. One of these perpetual travellers being backrolled by mummy, unfortunately. Still, she was nice enough.

I then made my sorry way to Stewart Island, which i believe is the nearest inhabited land mass to Antarctica. It wasn't actually that cold but the boat ride over there was more than a little rough, although i admirably didn't 'lose my lunch'. I put this down to an iron like gastrointestinal system forged by the action of countless reheated kebabs.
Whilst on Stewart Island i took a tour to the Eden-like idyll of Ulva Island - an (almost) untouched paradise providing home to countless endangered bird species. This was actually a personal highlight of NZ for me. I ran into the London traveller girl again in the evening in the hostel and we went to the pub, albeit for a short while as it closed at 9pm! Presumably the patrons had to get back home and shag their cousins or something like that - there are only 400 people on SI - so we got takeaway beers and went back to the hostel. She accused me of being a closet twitcher that night and i denied it, though she may have a point as birds have proved of some interest to me during this holiday.

Left Stewart Island and headed back briefly to Invercargill where i caught a coach to Te Anau, from whence i write. This YHA is absolutely lovely, as is the town, and i could stay here for days. Yesterday i went on a rather long walk through the Fiordland National Park on a track that runs by the Waiau river - truly awe inspiring scenery. The town of Te Anau is right on the shore of Lake Te Anau and in the background are snow capped mountains, providing quite a sight on a clear day. During my walk i eventually caught up with another trekker, who beamed at me when he looked up from his seat on a fallen log, and i suspected that he hadn't seen another human for days. As it turned out he was a great big mincing Israeli, so it's more likely that he wasn't used to seeing a whole human being as opposed to bits of them scattered about in front of his house. He waited for me to catch up and then got up himself, smiling widely. This annoyed me quite a great deal as i was enjoying the solitude of my walk and the last thing i wanted was to have to talk to an annoying and camp Israeli. Eventually i lagged behind and lost him, made my way to the end of the track and began walking back to Te Anau along the road (about 13km apparently). I managed to hitch hike back into town courtesy of a deer hunting coach driver, who dropped me at my door. And that brings me to today, which so far has been spent eating a woefully inadequate all-day breakfast (the worst i have had in NZ) and writing this monster. Sorry about the length, but i got lazy. Well i'll stop there and continue when i have had yet more thrilling adventures.

Tears Of The Avalanche Girl

2006-09-07T06:17:00.000+01:00

OK folks, South Island shenanigans. Took the ferry across the Cook Strait (a lovely journey) and arrived at the small town of Picton, where we got a coach down to Kaikoura. Checked into our accomodation and headed into the town, settling on the Strawberry Tree bar with its jukebox, free pool table and Sheep Shaggers beer. Spent the night eating, drinking and playing pool. Woke up fresh the next day for our latest adventure - whale watching! Successfully avoided losing our lunches (well, our all-day breakfasts) during our boat trip and saw loads of sperm whales; apparently seeing one or two is good but we must have seen about 10 or 15. Splendid stuff. In the afternoon we had a brief tour around Kaikoura Winery and did some tasting (we swallowed - spitting is rude, as any man will tell you), ending up a bit pissed actually. We had some dinner and then headed out to the Strawberry Tree again, where we met some other Derby folk from Littleover. The girl in the group said she used to show the bouncers her boobs to get into Zanzibar and i had to resist the temptation to say "wahey, get 'em out love!". Played pool with them for much of the night and woke up feeling a bit ropey ahead of our trip down to Christchurch. Arriving at the aforementioned place where we were to spend but one night, we got into our accomodation and then decided to go and see a moviev - Confetti. A bit girly, but it's got Stephen Mangan in it so it's worth it.

The next day we took the famously beautiful Tranz Alpine railway journey from Christchurch to Greymouth, encountering some pant-wettingly splendid scenery during the trip. I tell you, if the thought of snow capped mountains, ice-cold rivers and all manner of flora and fauna gets your juices flowing then that is a journey you should take. Took a coach from Greymouth to Franz Josef and checked into our luxury motel room (a tv set complete with Neighbours!!) and found somewhere to eat. Coincidentally there was a pub quiz on that night so we entered. We came 4th, just 3 points off a prize. Not bad for 2 of us, eh?
The next day was the big one: climbing the Franz Josef Glacier. Gulp. Guided by an intrepid and amiable Dubliner called Gavin, armed with an ice axe, we scaled the beast. At points the ice was sky blue (the Rayleigh Effect, for any nerds who are interested) and quite a sight. It was also bloody wet.

Moving on the day after we endeavoured to retrace our steps back to Christchurch, but were thwarted at the second hurdle: no train due to a derailment somewhere or other. So we were shipped onto a coach and driven to Christchurch, from where i am writing now.
Today has been a day of refinement - we've got class you know - and the true cultural pleasures of life. Unlike you plebs sitting back home in grey old Blighty, some of us have been punting on the river Avon (not the one in Bristol, obviously) and riding historic Christchurch trams. Some of us have just been around the cathedral. Some of us have been to the aquarium and kiwi house, seeing real live kiwis. And some of us have now ran out of things to tell you. So there.
I hope that didn't bore the arse right off you. In fact, i'm probably just writing to myself now, aren't i? Well that technically would make me insane, so i'm off. Bye!

Wellington

2006-08-31T00:49:00.000+01:00

So, after a nice day in Napier lounging around and looking at some amazing Art Deco designs, we set out on the long coach journey (complete with a couple of in-bred fellow passengers) to Wellington on the monday.
Met Nick Radburn in Welly and went back to his place to stay for a while in luxury. Sky TV! Comfortable chairs! Hard beds! The last couple of days in Wellington have been excellent - we've eaten well and been thoroughly entertained. Yesterday we went to Tep Papa National Museum and saw a cracking Constable exhibition (no, the irony of travelling 13,000 miles to see paintings of England was not lost on us), and then went for a drink or two. We also saw parliament, and we're seeing Funkadelic soon too. That wasn't a bad gag, i hope one of you gets it. Parliament is strangely accessible really - it's possible to walk around all four walls and not get looked at or accosted by any security. Sarah Connor could run into there followed by The Terminator, Uzi 9mm in hand, and nobody would bat an eyelid.
Ben has an interview with somebody from PriceWaterhouseCoopers in town today, so he's probably getting a load of free nosh and booze, the bastard. We'll have to entertain ourselves.
Tomorrow i think we're off to the south island. I'm expecting to see endless parades of Lord Of The Nerds fans, and frankly i look forward to it. Nothing more entertaining than seeing a bunch of no-friends losers wasting their lives looking for the homes of make believe CGI pixies. And people thought Hitler was insane.

Art Deco City

2006-08-26T07:05:00.000+01:00

When i last made an entry i believe i was brimming with positivity about the day ahead and the like. Oh, how things change. Later that day we did indeed go to the museum, but shortly after Ben became violently ill. I for one blame the sushi he had for lunch. The next day and a half were a wipeout as he recovered in bed, and i became progressively more bored.
On thursday then, with renewed optimism following Ben's recovery, we arrived at Waitomo. After checking into Waitomo Big Bird, run by NZ's equivalent of Barbara Good (think wild hair and moon-boots) we took our lives into our hands by hitch-hiking into Waitomo. The man who picked us up said he lived "just in those hills over there". All i could see was hills.
Visited Ruakuri and the Glowworm Cave (both spectacular and a little bit trippy - a Pink Floyd soundtrack wouldn't have gone amiss).
Then fate dealt me a bad hand. I think i caught (a mild strain of) Ben's illness, and i too became violently ill. So the rest of the day/night in Waitomo was a wash out too.

On friday we made it to Rotorua, where i promtly went to bed at about 5.00pm feeling "a bit ropey", as is the phrase we've used all too much so far.
And that brings us to today. That's saturday, for those of you still reading and up with your time zones. Today was much better. Went to the Geothermal Valley park thingy in Rotorua and saw some amazing natural wonders. Steam spewing rocks, bubbling mud and the like. You know how it is. A bit like being on Mars one would imagine.
Having left Rotorua and it's noisy backpackers hostel behind (The Pussy Cat Dolls' 'Beep' at 2.00am anyone?) we hopped on the coach to Napier, from whence i am writing. Staying at Napier Prison Backpackers (an actual real prison until 1993 for all you incarceration buffs) in a real cell! This city is known as Art Deco City. Know why? Go on, have a guess. OK, i'll tell you - many of the buildings are in an Art Deco style due to the Hawkes Bay area being hit by an earthquake in 1931. No no, the earthquake didn't build the city - it was rebuilt this way after the seismic event. I'm boring you now aren't i? In fact, i'm boring myself so i'll leave it there until the next amazing fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants installment.

On The Other Side Of The World

2006-08-22T00:18:00.000+01:00

Bienvenue a Auckland!

OK, i know that was French, and I'm in NZ but forgive me - I'm excited!
Well well, where to begin? Oh yeah, i know. The flight to Hong Kong was pretty much as any flight is - boring and uncomfortable. I have found out during the course of my travels that i cannot sleep on planes.
We managed to get out of HK airport for just under an hour, and had a wander around the centre of town. As we left the airport link train station to the city we stepped outside into HK for the first time. I mentioned to Ben that i thought we'd gone through one of those heaters they sometimes have over dorrways; in actual fact this was just the climate itself. The humidity was ridiculous. The city was a bustling hub of activity, as we expected. We amused ourselves by being immature and taking photos of rudely named shops - as a hint i'll simply say that we think the chinese word for jewellry is 'fook'.
The young HK residents seem to aspire greatly to being western these days; the girls in particular walked around sporting t-shirts emblazoned with slogans of all kinds. It put in me in mind of Gwen Stefani's record 'Harajuku Girls', even though these are in fact Japanese.

The flight from HK to Auckland was a killer. The most uncomfortable situation i've ever been in, apart from when i made a joke about somebody's mum and it turn out she was dead. But let's not go into that. Incidentally, Ben is the true master of putting his foot in it.
By the time we got to Auckland i had had about 2 hours sleep since friday - it was monday when we arrived. Needless to say i was absolutely in pieces yesterday. We checked into Auckland Central Backpackers, had a brief wander around and i attempted to eat some food. I didn't get far. Although not actually physically ill i was mightily close. So tired i felt sick - i've never been at that stage before! Went to bed last night at 7pm, woke up today at 8.30am. Feel miles better.
Writing this from an internet cafe in Auckland run by Koreans, and many of the pages on this computer have the language set accordingly - it's a miracle i'm able to write this at all. Off to A1 Sushi in half an hour, then we might check out the museum. This evening we're having dinner at the top of the Sky Tower and then possibly going to Minus 5 tonight - a bar made entirely of ice.

I'll stop there because i may be boring you, although i could write more. More updates to follow; watch this space.

Creased or Folded*

2006-07-21T18:37:00.000+01:00

The rules? Creased = good, Folded = bad. Simple really.

Creased:

Cold lager - a godsend in this weather, even if it does make you lathargic.

Cansei De Ser Sexy - Funky pop. From Brazil, no less.

The Pipettes - As above, but change Brazil to Brighton.

New Zealand - I'm going there, so it had better be good. I expect it is.

Hecklerspray - Biting and sardonic. Take that celebrities!

Folded:

Hot Weather - I can't take it anymore.

Lily Allen - I don't care what makes you "Smile". I want to dig a deep pit and throw you in.

People who call themselves "spiritual" - As if they attend some sort of world religion buffet.

Chavs - Need i explain?

Mobile Phone Ringtones - What's wrong with just a ringing sound? Do people have to be prats?

*The term Creased or Folded is taken from Hecklerspray. Although we did the same thing at university, but with alternate terminology.

The Greatest

2006-07-02T12:33:00.000+01:00

This man is a God. Pure and simple, a footballing God. Last night, at the age of 34, he put in the best solo perfomance of World Cup 2006. On behalf of every football fan around the globe, thank you Zinadine Zidane.

P.S. I know he was a bit of a nutter (ho ho) for that headbutt, but i stand by my admiration for the man.

Tell Me Off - In The Hotel Lobby Right In Front Of All The Bellboys And The Over-Friendly Concierge

2006-05-06T17:02:00.000+01:00

I'm struggling for inspiration, and I don't think it's easily born out of the fires of boredom. What I will mention, however, is a new found love for yoghurt. You know, it's one of those things I could never really get into before now. But it seems to have struck home. I think it was probably waiting at second base, and now something or someone has hit the pitcher's curve ball into the field. Yoghurt has rounded third and is heading home.

I was watching someone at work drink one of those "pro-biotic yoghurt drink" things this week. "It's good bacteria" she said. After groaning on the inside I kept my mouth shut. Couldn't help but wonder though - how did people in the middle ages survive without healthy "good bacteria"?
Some people are a marketing man's dream.

As for a rise in the number of chavs dying from playing 'Chicken' with cars on motorways; one word. Darwinism.

Greatest Lyrics

2006-04-17T18:12:00.000+01:00

In the spirit of the recent poll about the greatest lyrics ever, I have decided to work out my own personal faves. In no particular order:

"There's a club if you'd like to go/you could meet somebody who really loves you/so you go and you stand on your own/and you leave on your own/and you go home and you cry and you want to die"
How Soon Is Now? - The Smiths

"What will happen in the morning when the world it gets so crowded that you can't look out the window in the morning.......hey take a little while to grow your brother's hair, now, take a little while to make your sister fair"
Hazy Jane II - Nick Drake

"Freeze, don't move; you've been chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation of the sequel to your life"
Shady Lane - Pavement

"Instincts that can still betray us/a journey that leads to the sun/soulless and bent on destruction/a struggle between right and wrong/you take my place at the showdown, I'll observe with a pitiful eye/as humble we ask for forgiveness/a request well beyond you and I"
Heart And Soul - Joy Division

"In a world where people have problems/in this world, where decisions are a way of life/other people's problems they overwhelm my mind/ they say compassion is a virtue but I don't have the time"

and

"Talk to your analyst, isn't that what they're paid for?/you walk, you talk...you still function like you used to/its not a question of your personality or style/be a little more selfish, it might do you some good"

Both from No Compassion - Talking Heads

I could think of so many more, but i'll leave it there.

Ramsay St Is Where I Belong

2006-04-12T19:17:00.000+01:00

I've decided that in the event of losing my sanity i will travel to Australia and attempt to meet the Neighbours cast. Then i will change my name to Paul Robinson and live alone watching endless episodes of the greatest show on earth. After a few years i'll then have myself committed. I may actually get some Affirmacon business cards printed.

It's Really Laughable ahahahahahaha......

2006-04-01T12:29:00.000+01:00

Belated shout out to Simon, Jimmy and Jonathan - as promised last week in Sheffield. You see lads, I don't forget.

That was a bit of a heavy weekend to be honest. Can't believe I actually had to miss the football because I was "too tired". That never happens to me.
While my thoughts are all over the place at the moment (if I was remotely creative this would be an advantage) I should mention that I'm planning to go to London sometime soon to see an exhibition - http://www.vam.ac.uk/modernism.
Should anyone wish to join me then feel free.

And anyone wanting a lesson in the (accessible) avant garde check out Talking Heads' Remain In Light. Record of the moment.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000002KO3/sr=8-3/qid=1143891341/ref=pd_bbs_3/102-1715152-5734506?%5Fencoding=UTF8

Matt.

"Can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary?"

Morrissey's Best

2006-03-21T21:26:00.000Z

I've decided that i'm going to become Morrissey. Never has rock/pop had such an articulate frontman, the man's a genius. I think in about a year i'll have a Morrissey quiff and wear NHS specs and get a bicycle with a basket on the front.
I also had a miniature epiphany at the weekend whilst watching my Rolling Stones live DVD - the misery and absurdity of human existence as described by many of the great existentialist thinkers (Sartre, Camus, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche etc) can be transcended through the electric guitar.
For even a brief moment we can rise above the mundanity of everyday existence by immersing ourselves in the thrill of rock and roll. Lose yourself in the music, as that irresponsible moron Eminem once said. Although you can't really call what he does 'music'.
So through a combination of rock and roll and Lord Morrissey's flippant wit i'm rising above my life. Hail, hail, rock and roll!

Room 101

2006-02-25T09:45:00.000Z

Six things i'd put into Room 101:

1. The general public
2. People who wear band t-shirts despite not liking/knowing the band in question
3. "Don't go there" humour, e.g. "Ok, thanks for the mental picture!"
4. Tipping in this country
5. People who drop litter
6. Manchester United Football Club

I hate all of the above.

Matt Le Tissier...

2006-02-24T20:52:00.000Z

I'm not a saints fan but this man really was, as the title of one of his videos testifies, Unbelievable.

2006-02-24T20:49:00.000Z

OK, not been up to much really, the usual yada yada yada. Five of the most miserable albums ever made:

1. Closer - Joy Division
2. Live At Preston, 28 Feb 1980 - Joy Division
3. Pink Moon - Nick Drake
4. Tonight's The Night - Neil Young
5. Meat Is Murder - The Smiths

Although the most miserable song is Failure by The Swans. I urge you to give it a listen - an extraordinary 6 minutes plus of sheer dispair.

A little note for the unaware....

2006-02-13T13:23:00.000Z

Just thought i'd mention that there will be numerous Seinfeld references in this 'blog', and for those of you who don't know what this is:

http://www.sonypictures.com/tv/shows/seinfeld/tvindex.html

and

http://www.angelfire.com/nj/carlb/seinfeld/seinfelddictionary.html

the above site contains various phrases which have now been incorporated into my vocabulary. I know of one hipster doofus, and i've seen several women with man-hands. And i've been in several Must Lie Situations. These pretzels are making me thirsty.

The Puffy Shirt - "but i don't want to look like a pirate!"

2006-02-13T13:21:00.000Z

2006-02-12T19:05:00.000Z

My current house anthems:

Sabotage - Beastie Boys ("whaaaaaaaaaaa!")
Rip It Up - Orange Juice
Worst Comes To Worst - Dilated Peoples (the Rob Cloke influence at work)
Morning Train (9 To 5) - Sheena Easton
1 Thing - Amerie
Only U - Ashanti
Wynona's Big Brown Beaver - Primus
Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus: Sarcophagi - The Mars Volta
Sex Farm - Spinal Tap ("taking out my pitch fork/poking your hay")
Personal Jesus - Depeche Mode

This is the word of the Matt; thanks be to him.

Joy Division's Ian Curtis, may God have mercy on his soul....

2006-02-12T17:36:00.000Z

In the beginning, Matt created this...

2006-02-12T17:07:00.000Z

The music from 2001: A Space Odyssey can be heard, as the giant spaceship that is, er, this comes into view. So hello, and all that jazz.
This is basically my chance to be a bit self indulgent for a while, until i get bored.