More about Life

I met some of the wedding guests for breakfast at a greasy spoon [café] for a delicious, artery-closing, British breakfast. Sausages, egg, fried bread and a delicate rocket salad. Oh, hang on, there was no salad.

After breakfast, Cath and I wandered over London Bridge to Borough Market. Borough Market used to be a wholesale fruit and vegetable market. It has since been restyled and upmarketed (if that's a word) as a tourist attraction and popular lunch spot. We picked up some tasty-looking flapjacks and brownies before lunching at Prêt-A-Manger. I'd missed Prêt-A-Manger, but this time it was disappointing, especially after the previous day's Eat. (How can jalapeno chicken be disappointing? I don't know. it has everything: bread, chicken and jalapeno.) I know I should be finding more interesting places, but I've missed these chains. I even missed Benjy's, which has long since gone.

After wandering by Tottenham Court Road and checking out old haunts such as The Actors' Centre, where I used to perform improv before being thrown out by Zaphod Beeblebrox, we slipped back to the hotel for coffee and flapjacks.

(I kid you not, Zaphod Beeblebrox himself threw us out. Or at least the guy who used to play him. I think he thought we were taking the Mickey when we played two-headed expert.)

For dinner, we shipped down to Parsons Green to a promising-looking Indian place that was very good indeed. The condiments alone were worthy of many medals.

Before we ate we had a chance and find more of those curiosities London has lurking about. Such as a luxury boutique for dogs and cats as well as our future robot overlords having a night out.

However, the rigours of travel had taken their toll. Despite pleas to favour parties with our presence (it's grand to feel popular), it was actually bed that lured us anywhere.

Labels: Food, Improv, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

Bam! Gom!

No, we didn't start the trip by fighting Batman; we started it on a train. The train happened to go past a couple of companies that amused me. These were "Bam!" and "Gom!" Or to give them their full names: "BAM Utiliteitsbouw Regio Noordwest" and "Gom Specialistische Reiniging." I believe if you take the other route to the airport, you pass "Shazamm Internet Solutions" and "Kapowww Kippenboerderij."

Having recently been to the US, I was very familiar with how it felt to be in the slow foreigners' line. This time, however, it was Catherine's turn to take this line whilst I took the quick one where some youngster pretends to not even look at your passport and wave you through.

Once through, however, I joined a combined line of confused foreigners and grumpy Brits to be sold train tickets by a very weary Italian. This was before we got our bags. Basically, there's a little kiosk that gives all the appearance of being convenient, but is then purposefully understaffed and decorated with confusing signs. The modern British railway system is no longer about getting U (designating you) from A to B; it's about getting ₤ from U to B (designating board members and shareholders). The more confused you are, the more money you throw at them.

Lunch was had with friends and family in a pub somewhere not too far from the airport. Somehow they were out of burgers and steak pies, which is pretty much everything in a pub like that.

After this, we were dropped off at the airport where we had to once again negotiate the confusing fare structure that privatisation has unnecessarily imposed on us poor train-travelling folk. There are three different tickets to get to London because there are three different carriers. (This is ignoring the class structure that doubles the number of tickets.) Train companies wish they were airlines and have real trouble accepting they are not.

Our hotel was grand and prestigious. It sat in a cul-de-sac just around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was run by Italians which meant the staff were handsome and stylishly dressed. Plus they had those accents where you couldn't completely be sure they weren't asking you to go to bed with them. It's always safer in these circumstances to assume they're not.

New Scotland Yard no longer looks like what it does in all those old cop series. Especially because it's hard to find an angle from where you can clearly see that rotating sign thing with all the security barricades. It makes it look like the Sweeney was set in simpler times.

After checking in, we made our way to the headquarters of Clarion where an old flatmate was working keeping Noddy in check. For those of you who didn't know, Noddy is back. Again. Noddy first disappeared in the 1980s. Nobody quite knows where but when he came back Mr Golly and all the other Gollies had disappeared. Nobody talks about this sinister aspect of Noddy's history. In fact it seems to be heralded as a good thing.

I finally got to see The London Paper which has come and gone during my time away from London. It was a free competitor to Metro and The Evening Standard but somehow far more downmarket than either. Yes, than either. It's gone now, and from what I saw, won't be missed.

As we came back to the hotel, the girl behind the desk bid us goodnight.

I turned quickly to Catherine, "Do you think she means..."

"No," she said.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Transport, Travel, TV, UK, War

Am currently thoroughly amused by the BBC row about Rage Against the Machine singing their song live on the radio. Source: Guardian.

Without irony, they told the band not to say the "Fuck you" part of their famous refrain, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" Even if this is all you know about the band, that this is one of their lines, what do you think the band are going to do? They almost have no choice. To drop any part of the line seems to undermine its whole sentiment, and so really they either sing the whole fucking thing or they dump the it and cover The Carpenters.

Not that I wouldn't pay to hear Rage Against The Machine lay into a carpenters song. I always felt On Top of the World was a song about the injustice of a hierarchical religious structure that puts a single being above all others.

The reason people are talking about Rage Against The Machine again (not that they should have stopped, but they did) is because there is a campaign to make them number one for Christmas in the UK instead of some bland garbage oozed out by X-factor. (I haven't heard the song, but I stand by the words "bland," "garbage" and "oozed.") It's a way of saying "Fuck You" to Simon Cowell, which is to be applauded however it's done. There is also another movement afoot the have the Christmas number one be Tim Minchin's beautiful and sentimental (although self-justifyingly so) White Wine in the Sun.

My only fear is that those drones that really like X-factor will see these campaigns and be even more determined to buy the X-factor ooze and so make even more money for Simon Cowell and cause Joe McElderry's drug-addled death to happen all the sooner. And even if RATM (Rage Against The Machine) does make it to number one, we all know they probably won't be on the Christmas TOTP (Terror Over The Profanities), although we can be pretty sure we'll hear the X-factor single whether it tops or flops.

Labels: Christmas, Music, TV, UK

There comes a point in every British man's lifetime when he has to explain Dr Who to his American girlfriend. How do you explain the tale of an odd man who hangs out in a phone box, keeps getting younger and has been scaring kids since 1963? How do you describe the succession of eccentric, obsessive adversaries? What sense can be made of the fact his infinitely-large spaceship is actually the size and shape of a police telephone box? How do bring up that you used to be terrified of the combination of Daleks (squidgy blobs in armoured wheelchairs with broken megaphone voices) and the start of the closing theme tune (which felt like all of space was falling on you)?

I did tell her that after every couple of series, the doctor regenerates himself (i.e. is replaced by a younger, less eccentric actor) which has happened about ten times now. "Wow," she exclaimed. "So by now he must have covered most ethnicities and both genders." Cath has a lot to learn about television.

Labels: Anthropology, TV

Since retiring, my parents have become much harder to track down. It doesn't help that some years ago they bought a run-down little farm in the under-populated part of France (i.e. that bit which isn't Paris). So a couple of months of the year they are there, making the place habitable. Which two months of the year is anybody's guess. You never really know until the last minute whether they'll be there or not, because they answer to no one. No one, that is, except the bowls club in their local village.

So it happened that Cath and I who, at the time, were still answerable to the man, or I suppose more accurately, the men, booked our wee trip in advance only to find my parents couldn't be in France then and had to ship back to the UK. We could have gone to my parent's place without them being there, but it was quite a long way to go to end up surrounded by nothing but sheep. So we decided to not stray quite so far from the airport as all that. To this end we selected the village of Le Bugue in the Dordogne.

We flew on Transavia, which is the Dutch equivalent of easyjet. There is a Dutch equivalent of Ryan Air which is locking yourself in a car boot (trunk) and being driven there.

Bergerac airport is one of these tiny airstrips or air fields that have been hurriedly turned into an airport because of the increase in cheap flights. The list of airlines who use it is small and a summary of bargain-basement airlines. Most of which are British. Bergerac as you know was named after an ex alcoholic policeman based on the channel islands (or Les Malvinas as the French call them). A line of portacabins outside the shed where you collect your luggage represent all of the budget car rental companies. The portacabin for our particular firm was populated by a lone Englishman. A small queue formed but it didn't seem to bother him any more than he already was. It was not a great job, but in a country with so many English people with only adequate French, it's a rare "proper" job.

By the time we had our car it was dark. We had a couple of hours' drive along generally pretty good roads and through some great-looking villages before we arrived at Le Bugue. We drove around the village a few times and eventually had to stop and ask in Hotel Le Cygne where OUR hotel was. It seemed very insulting to do that. "Say you, man with a perfectly good hotel, where is the less conveniently-placed one that we picked instead of yours?" But the man was very friendly (and helpful) about it.

Our hotel for the next few days was the Domaine de la Barde, which we picked partly for the name, but mainly for it being a beautiful old place in plush grounds. The receptionist very kindly waited late for us and 'upgraded' us to a very large room in the loft with some curious furniture including a tiny rocking crib. The downside of the room was that the windows were very small but did offer a great view of one of the staff's motorbikes. A tree blocked the sumptuous gardens. On the plus side the bed was solid and firm and the room quiet and dark. We slept like two snug logs in a large ipod.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Geography, Transport, Travel, TV, Wildlife

Somewhat refreshed from a few hours' sleep, I grabbed some breakfast and wrote a note to the cleaner to explain the damp toilet roll in the bin was not the actions of hedonistic rock'n'roll stars hell-bent on trashing the place. I think the fact that otherwise the place was pristine should have made that clear.

The toilet roll incident was caused by a dodgy toilet roll holder that upon first touch sent the brand-new toilet roll flying into the toilet bowl. It was such a perfect action that I wondered if I was on Candid Camera. Had the toilet roll started rapping round me and dragging me into the toilet, I would have wondered if I was on a Japanese hidden camera show.

Our cab driver was from somewhere in the middle of the 21st Century. He had a futuristic Bluetooth ear piece with which to make calls. When we asked if we could swing by an open Borders, he used his GPS system to find one and also get the number to call up it. When he got no answer he called a nearby Barstucks to see if they knew when it was opened. It seemed the numbers could be automatically transferred from the GPS to the phone. There was even a webcam which was presumably for video surveillance. The guy was clearly some kind of spy. Probably working for the Indian security services. He was far too helpful and efficient which had to be a cover for some sort of shenanigans. It was certainly a lot of technology to use to replace our lost copy of Bitch magazine.

Like spies posing as taxi drivers, some airports are amazing centres of efficiency and organisation. Seattle is state-sponsored chaos. But it did have a "family washroom." I'm not sure what a "family washroom" is and how it differs from a regular washroom. I guess it means the graffiti is clean. It’s clearly another example of wholesome American values. The family that pees together...

We had a little time to check out the gift stores and chuckle at the latest novelty gifts such as Titanic ice-cube moulds and a Barack Obama cleaning bar called "The Audacity of Soap."

Having gone through the several layers of security, we were in the tunnel going to the plane and here found yet another layer. Customs officers were randomly stopping people to check if they had $10,000 or more on them. I think I've explained before that US Customs has a huge budget to justify.

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The Delta safety rigmarole is still my personal favourite of all the safety rigmaroles I've seen. It starts with a casual pilot telling you to pay attention and it is filmed in the style of a movie trailer. It features an Angelina Jolie clone in full close-up and a comedy, bald, bearded, fat man. At one point the comedy fat man smiles and his teeth ping. During the video, the captain has time for a sex change. You can see it here.

The choice for in-flight food was the same as it always is now: Chicken or pasta. This still bugs me as they are far from mutually exclusive. Next time I'm asked, "Chicken or pasta?", I'm saying, "Yes."

On the long, flight, I managed to watch some previously unseen (by me) sitcoms, Big Bang Theory (which I enjoyed*), and Chuck (which I barely remember*); I got some writing in, did a crossword and possibly snatched a five minute nap. Not quite the best method for beating jetlag, but it's slightly better than the rockstar method of drinking way too much and urinating in the aisle.

(* - that's the extent to which I'm reviewing them.)

The one thing I didn't find space to mention was Cath's underlying fear for this whole trip regarding Swine Flu, or as they still call it in the Netherlands, Mexican Flu. People have been encouraged to drop the name Mexican Flu because it somehow associates the disease with Mexicans. Instead the preferred name is Swine Flu, despite associating the disease with the golden animal that gave us ham, bacon, gammon and pork scratchings. So basically, for the entire trip, Cath had in the back of her mind a fear of coming into contact with Mexican Flu. A fear, that right up until the end seemed thankfully unfounded. That was until we got on the plane. As Cath sat there hoping the seat beside her would not be filled, it became filled by a man who boarded the plane carrying a huge sombrero and who proceeded to sniffle the entire flight. This is not a joke. If you had to draw a cartoon of "Mexican Flu" it would be a man with a sombrero and a runny nose. This is exactly who sat next to Cath for 9 hours. It only could have been worse had he had a pig under one arm and a Chinese bird under the other.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Movies, Transport, Travel, TV, US

At the beginning of last month we got a little booklet announcing a new TV channel here in the Netherlands. From the pictures it was clear we would see a lot of air-brushed teens wearing too much make-up and often dressed somewhat sexily. All, right! Except, of course, that it's actually the Disney channel.

Time was that The Disney channel would be filled with cartoon dogs, ducks and mice. Now, the schedule seems to be clogged up with something called, Hannah Montana. Which is something of a porn-star name, you have to admit. I do know who Hannah Montana is. At least I know every toy store I go into has tall section filled with pink crap with her face on it. For those of you in blissful ignorance, allow me to shatter that. Hannah Montana is the pop-star alter-ego of an ordinary, American school girl in a hugely successful US TV show. I also learnt from Cath, who is in charge of celebrity gossip in the house, that the girl playing her is not some nobody plucked from obscurity, but the daughter of the man who recorded "Achy Breaky Heart." Yes, that man was allowed to procreate! Five times according to Wikipedia.

It's shocking how airbrushed the young, white leads are in all these shows. (The black characters only seem to peer out from behind the white ones so it's hard to see how airbrushed they are.) I guess Disney has always been peddling fantasy, but when the fantasy was a mouse surrounded by dancing brooms or a cartoon princess adapted from a fairy tale, it seemed harmless. But when the canvas is a teenage girl onto which some cartoon vision of beauty is painted, it becomes a little disturbing.

What's even more disturbing is that this is a complete rip-off of my own idea, that I tried to peddle to Disney and they turned down. It was called Hannah's Montanas and was about an ordinary school girl who by night was a hugely successful porn actress. More news once my court case has finished, More vs The Frozen Remains of Walt Disney.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Movies, Music, TV

Today's news was full of massacres and drive-by shootings. It is a coincidence we are leaving the US. News of this ilk always confirms my European perception that in the US you are never more than 100m away from a crazy neighbour or colleague. And all of these crazy people have access to guns.

I may have mentioned the difficulties we had with booking the flight, well there was one other minor little thing that occurred when we tried to change details online, that I haven't mentioned. A small bug meant that I was forced to select a meal type from the "fussy eaters" list. Normally, you can leave this field set to "I'm not a fussy eater, I'll eat whatever crap you throw at me." But somehow, it forced me to select something more specific. Probably because we had selected lactose free for Cath, some screwy back-room logic meant I had to select something too.

The "fussy eaters" list is quite long these days, and includes religious fussiness (kosher, halal, etc), conscience fussiness (vegetarian, vegan) and allergic-related fussiness (lactose-free, gluten-free). And even sub categories of these. I chose "Asian Vegetarian" because Asian vegetarian meals can be pretty good. I know people who always chose a special meal because they get their food before everyone else and they figure it's had more attention than the ones everyone else gets. However, I prefer to get my food at the same time as everybody else and not feel that the rest of the plane is looking on at me with resentment. Even when they probably aren't.

When my meal arrived, way ahead of most other people's, it proclaimed "Your Special Meal" in bright letters. I felt like I was 8 and not very gifted. It also had scrawled on it some garbage like "The smell of a fresh meal... on your face." It made no sense and made me feel this was a meal for someone so "special" it didn't matter what you wrote on it.

The "fussy" part of the meal only replaces the main part of what they give you, the extra ancillary bits are the same as everybody else. Which is why Cath, having been singled out and handed a lactose-free meal, free from any products containing or related to cow's milk, she was offered a pot of ice cream. Ice cream! It's hard to get more lactose than ice cream. She declined.

Obviously as we are talking about flights, the subject once again comes up: children. Why, oh, why are they still allowed to run, shout and scream in the same section of the plane that the civilised, adult members of the world pay for? Why has no airline started using the hold for the purposes of housing the children on a flight? I'd use that airline.

I don't say it to be mean to the kids, I say it as a way to get some relative peace. You can fill the hold with balls so they enjoy it. All pets travel that way and Children are just pets that will one day grow up to become people. Children love screaming in enclosed spaces; so why not give them an even more enclosed space in which they can scream to their little hearts and lungs' content.

To shut out the little buggers, I watched my first ever episode of Gilligan's Island. Now I have a clue when Americans in the audience shout out "Gilligan's Island." It was cute, but definitely of its day. I snuggled back and tried to dream of being on a desert island surrounded by coconut trees and not a single screaming child for thousands of miles.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Impro, Transport, Travel, TV, US

Church of the day: St. Peter's Vietnamese Catholic Church.

Not many people realise St. Peter (or San Pi Ta) was Vietnamese. In fact only a handful are even aware there were Vietnamese Jews in Israel in and around 0 AD/BC. What we do all know is that AD/BC was the rock band that Peter fronted. It's not mentioned much, but when Jesus said, "Peter, you are my rock," he actually screamed it out from the front row of the Jerusalem Amphitheatre (now the Cellcom Arena).

First port of call for today was a pleasant, well-run nursing home currently housing one of Catherine's relatives. It's usually hard not to be depressed around nursing homes, but this place does almost everything to make itself seem like a hotel. Except that most of the staff dress like nurses. Mind you, many people would pay very good money to stay in a hotel where the staff dress like nurses.

Lunch was ambushed at Spring Creek Barbeque. Here there were several options for getting your food. You could shuffle along the canteen-style line to pick out what you wanted; or you could stand at a desk and request it for take-away from the smiley lady. There was also an extra stand selling "cobblers." Cobblers are a kind of filled dumpling. If you're British, never has "carry-out" food been so "Carry On."

In-restaurant music was provided by a CD of Christian rock. For those of you who don't know Christian rock, this was a highly typical example. It was bland, country-tinged AOR (Adult-Orientated Rock) with choruses of the sort that go, "Jesus is alive!" with a portion of the gusto that other bands use when celebrating women who "shake." No matter what your views on religion, it's safe to assume Jesus deserves better than Christian rock. Most bands are very pale imitations indeed of the legendary AD/BC.

The middle of the day was devoted to golf, the gentleman of sports. The only sport that comes with its own special buggy (except, of course, buggy racing) and where you have the chance to see bobcats (except, perhaps, bobcat buggy chasing). I was very pleased with how it all turned out. My previous experience with golf had been limited to knocking balls about as a way to get out of more physical sports at school and a couple of practice rounds over the years. But I still remembered how to swing that stick and thwack that ball in roughly the right direction and for a reasonable percentage of the distance required. Not quite Tiger Woods, but perhaps Pussycat Bracken.

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If TV ads are to be taken as showing what Americans think they need, then the answer is: cars and medication. In fact the number of car ads is down since the auto industry rolled over the side of a cliff and burst into flames. Of the medications, very popular seem to be Viagra and "Cialis," which I only know about from my email box.

The best thing about the ads for medication (including Viagra, Cialis and the like) is that so much time goes towards (a) making sure you check with your doctor first; (b) warning you about possible side effects; and (c) making sure if anything unusual occurs, you go to your doctor. More time is spent warning you about the product than is spent trying to sell it.

America has come a long way and I never thought I'd hear the words "erectile dysfunction" in the middle of the day on a US TV station. Not that I really wanted to. The "erectile dysfunction" ads show a lot of men older than 30 sitting on sofas with women and talking. And thus by implication, not having sex. In fact, had the announcer not said the words "erectile dysfunction" you wouldn't have guessed he was hoping for sex, except for the fact he was a man alone with a woman. There is nothing suggestive of the situation except a mild sadness in the couple's eyes. In Italy, no doubt they have a cartoon penis to advertise these products who starts of flaccid and out of breath. In the US, this would cause heart attacks and riots on the street. My campaign for Viagra would be hosted by former cartoon dog, Droopy. He would be perfect for the role. There's almost certainly a cartoon where he drank growth serum.

Dinner was had at Chedders a chain of restaurants that are pleasantly decorated but frequented by noisy people. The food is the usual sweet, salty fare. Even the carrots were sweetened, which is a crime against humanity. Or at least against veganity, which I'm sure is nearly as bad. They had music in the background and, guess what, Chedders plays pop. (You have to be British and over 30 to appreciate that joke.)

In the evening we visited Cath's spirited Aunt Vora, who lives in one of those neighbourhoods with faux-wooden bungalows on each plot.

I was told not to walk on the grass because of things called chiggers. Chiggers are local-grown little critters that live in the grass but prefer skin. They cause itching and rashes and things like that. Nobody seemed to have a good word for them. There ought to be a joke about the sort of music they play, perhaps only suitable for Brits over 30, but I can't think of what it would be.

On the subject of music, I'll leave you with a tune that was following us around on the radio waves this trip. It's something like New Wave Electro English Beat Queen Gary Numan Pink Floyd. Ladies I give you Late of the Pier with Bathroom Gurgle: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYuwGGqd0y4

PS Of course, right at the end should come the set-up for both the jokes in this entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4TmQxLjELI Glorious!

Labels: Food, Music, Religion, Science, Sport, Travel, TV, UK, US

It has not been unknown for me to help KLM out with training their support staff to deal with angry customers, so it actually felt weird to call them several times in one day as a genuinely irritated customer. I was sorely temped to get really angry just to see if they'd learnt everything. But in the end I was too nice to get anything more than miffed.

I was calling because my names appeared to have been stuck together and wanted to check that this was okay. The girl said that because the US authorities were such sticklers for accuracy (even though highly organised terrorists are far more likely to get things like that right than the average Joa) it was best to get it changed.
• Plus side: they could easily have this done for me.
• Minus side: a change like this (adding a space as far as I was aware) takes several hours.
• Extra Minus side: we could not check in online until it was done.

So we waited. Some time shortly before 4pm, a new e-ticket was issued.
• Plus side: a change had been made
• Minus side: It was even odder than before, with the Mr put in an odd place.
• Plus side: the (or another) girl confirmed this would be okay,
• Minus side: we now could not check in.

Although our ticket said "this is an e-ticket," and the My Tickets area listed it as an e-ticket, when we tried to check in online it gave us an error message, "This ain't no e-ticket, motherf***er." Or something to that effect. The (or another) girl tried to help, but clearly something had got messed up during the change. Computer records are annoyingly like vinyl, very easily damaged. The airline support fall-back was soon the only option – check in at the airport.

So with only 4½ hours sleep under our lids, we arrived at the airport at 7:30, dreading being given the worst seats on the plane. (The worst seats are usually those right at the back where they do not recline but the ones in front of you recline fully. Although once on an internal flight in China I and a colleague were allocated seats that didn't exist as they had been taken out to make the exit.) As things turned out, we had fine seats and check-in was relatively smooth except I couldn't be checked in onto our connecting flight; we had to do that once we arrived at our stopover.

As we waited in the long line for stuffy security staff to ask about our stuff, we watched the silent TV screens. It's intriguing to see what they show to people in airports. Most airports show you rolling news channels, but sometimes Schiphol likes to be different. Today they were showing curling.

Curling is possibly the world's worst sport. Yet somehow strangely compelling – like an incomprehensible foreign ritual. But as a sport it is, as I believe president Obama would put it, retarded.

Before you complain:

"Retarded, adj: Physics. Designating parameters of an electromagnetic field which allow for the finite speed of wave propagation, so that the potential due to a distant source is expressed in terms of the state of the source at some time in the past" (New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary).

If you don't know, curling is a kind of bowls meets lavatory cleaning on ice. One person bowls a large, solid blob along an ice strip towards a painted target. After this two enthusiastic moppers take over and clean the path (in front of) of the ball with brushes. As Newton's 4th law of Subthermal Dynamics states:

"The cleanliness of the ice is in direct proportion to the maximum speed attainable by an object travelling along that ice." (Old Longer Cambridge English Dictionary)

My main problem with it is that in other sports, the ball is what you use to play; in curling, the sweepers speed along preparing the way for the ball. They are the ball's bitches. The skill involved is the skill of being able to sweep really fast whilst skating. I agree not an easy skill, but at the same time not a useful, elegant, empowering, practical, cool, or indeed desirable skill. Participation has the result of making yourself less important than a large, solid blob of who-knows-what. It's a hard sport to play and keep any form of self respect.

Labels: Anthropology, Netherlands, Science, Sport, Transport, Travel, TV

Today was the first day of Catherine's conference. I dutifully stayed back in the hotel and tidied the room. Chores done, I went for a wander. I had a greasy but pleasant breakfast sandwich at a pseudo-Italian snack bar. It wasn't really Italian as it didn't even have its own coffee. I had to go next door to a branch of Seattle's Best Coffee. And thank Java I did. I ordered a medium latte. I was expecting something the size of a thimble like you would get in Italy but instead got something that was the size of a car you would get in Italy. It was delicious, so I drank it all. A few minutes later I was buzzing in that healthy way too much caffeine gives you.

I had decided today was for shopping. I was partly walking/hiking shoes so first tried the near-by Army Surplus store. It was a great place for ex-army boots, Israeli gasmasks and camouflage bikinis. (I almost but didn't ask if they had any of the latter in Catherine's size. They seemed to be for display purposes only) Then I moved on to REI, outdoor recreation specialists. Their flagship store was on the other side of town. It seemed like a good walk. I figured if you can't walk (or wheel) to the hiking boot store, you shouldn't be allowed in.

I was unusually in a shopping mood. The mood doesn't take me often. I expect it was the influence of being in the US, where shopping is the number 3 national pastime after watching TV and eating. (Shooting sprees are down to 5 this year.) I bought walking shoes, a laptop case and even considered a moose backpack (as a gift you understand). I also nearly bought some wildlife puppets because they were so expressive and would be great for a puppet show. What stopped me was the question, "when the hell am I going to have time to put on a puppet show?"

I walked back the slightly longer way nearer the space needle. The space needle is easily the most distinct building in Seattle. It looks exactly like a space needle. Or a UFO on a launch post. Or that strange pattern on the side of the Frazier logo.

Seattle has an abundance of street people. They are certainly more visible than in other cities. But they are not threatening. In fact they seem entirely genial.

When nearly home, I was rewarded with an overly friendly decaf mocha from Tully's, another Seattle coffee chain. I swabbed it down with a sugar-rush apple thing. Not only were the staff super friendly, but even the young high dude who appeared at the door, waved and mouthed "hi, how ya doing?" to me. Once in, he asked a random question of the staff and called "leave her alone, dude" to someone on the phone as he left. Another hippy-cum-street person who left later said "hi" also to me as if he knew me. Maybe I have a double in Seattle living on the street. This would explain why I was acknowledged elaborately by at least one other person. It could also be explained by the fact that Seattle is the route into the US for heroin.

My next quest was to find a replacement power adaptor for Cath's laptop. Hers being sat on her desk back in Amsterdam. Here I will cut a long story short and simply say "nada." People in Seattle are very helpful. There are even people who are hired to stand on street corners and help you out with directions. So when someone tried to tell me where Barnes and Noble was, I gladly added my name to his list of helpees (which helps them be paid) and my country. As I told him was from London, he made me put this down as my country. It didn't matter that as he gave me two possible routes (or rowts) I got confused and failed to locate the shop.

That night we took another taxi to International Town (formerly Niptown, Chinkville and Oriental Express Freeway, according to the poster shop) and dined at the Shanghai Garden, I believe it was. It was very pleasant and the pepper squid had an unexpected kick to it.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, Shopping, TV, US, Wildlife

What I have not reflected much on is that this was in many ways a Day of Horror. (den, den, derrrr.)

It all started with Catherine singing in the shower. Outside the door, it had an eerie, echoy quality just like the soundtrack of many a horror movie. Upon hearing the sound, my original idea had been to turn the camera on in movie mode and make (probably) the first ever Dogme95 horror movie. With the eerie music playing as we approach the door, then the door bursts open onto the mandatory shower scene and the most realistic screaming ever. I changed my mind when I realised that the resulting film would be less like psycho and end up being more like a Point-of-view porn snuff movie as a naked girl kicks to death the cameraman.

In the end, I settled for merely recording the eerie singing on my phone. This is where it got really spooky, as when I later played back the recording, I could hear nothing whatsoever of the singing. (den, den, derrrr.)

The underlying feeling of horror continued. It reached another peak with the swarm of flies at the tower. And later during our walk after our pancake, we reached a point where we could no longer hear the screaming kids. It was peaceful. That was until the dogs started. They were some way off, but it sounded like they were coming closer. Or was it the thing they were barking at that was getting closer? Neither, it seemed. We were spared. We were not left to be discovered as a pile of limbs in a symmetrical pattern not seen since the same day 50 years ago.

After that we thought we were safe, however when I looked back at the pictures I took the night before, I saw that we had in fact been visited by some terrible, terrible phantom.

Labels: Science, Travel, TV

One thing the US is not short of is TV Judges. There is a positive spree of these shows where small-claims cases are taken over by TV and broadcast, judged by a quick-witted and often bitchy judge. They tend to be somewhat Jerry Springeresque but without the violence. Typical scenario is Lynsette-Mae Hallibasta is suing her ex- boyfriend Joe Schmuck for the money she claims she leant him to buy a car and he spent on booze. He claims said money was a gift. It's often hard to care or not feel the urge to shake the woman and say, "did you really give your alcoholic boyfriend money and expect to see it again?"

As we were in that part of the world, it made sense to go out for some good, honest Cajun eatin'. One of the best providers of such cuisine is seafood restaurant Pappadeaux, a reportedly Greek-run chain. We over-stuffed ourselves on the huge portions of, in my case, Gumbo and Crawfish Etouffee, and even took a large amount of it home.

On the way there we passed a car with the number place "TRU GOD." Had it been a sports car, I would have assumed it referred to the driver's opinion of himself, but it was a much more modest vehicle and no doubt proclaimed the deep faith of the driver, albeit somewhat ostentatiously.

Cards have been an essential part of The Christmas experience since Quanthor the Generous gave the first Yule Tablet in 460 BC. Original cards were just blank stone tablets onto which pictures and messages were chiselled by the sender or hired craftsmen. The first true Christmas card was sent in 0 AD/BC (also a popular band of the time). It read, "Announcing the birth of our first born son, Jesus."

In time the cards became cardboard, and were pre-printed with Yule and later Christmas designs and messages. And then even the bit where you put who its to (father, sister, uncle, etc) was pre-printed. In America, ever keen to take things too far, they have cards for every possible relationship you could have. Not just cards for "Father and his new bride" but also for your priest, nuns and even hairstylist. I kid ye not.

There was even a separate section for cards from the pet. In fact the card I got for Catherine was from the "from your dog" section, because actually it had the message most like what I wanted to say unlike the mush that filled a lot of the other cards. It has no reflection whatsoever, I should stress, with my relationship with Catherine. Anyway, I must stop now, it's time for my walk.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, History, Religion, Travel, TV, US

My family goes nuts at Christmas. There is a feeling that it the person doesn't get their own height in presents the day has been a failure. Cath's family is far more restrained.

Not only that, but Christmas in my parents house is spent with a light alcohol buzz culminating with a unified falling asleep during the evening's compulsory Bond movie. The day starts there of late with a glass of champagne around breakfast time, I guess to wet the baby Jesus' head. And that's just the start. Even the Christmas pudding has an impressive percentage proof.

The traditional turkey and entourage is not too much different on both sides of the pond. The Americans love their cranberry sauce and the vegetables may well include a squash. I only recently discovered that there was such a thing as a squash. For those of you who live in the ignorance I used to live in, it is somewhat related to the pumpkin, but they tend to have the shape of other vegetables such as turnips. It seems an odd name, until you realise it's a contraction of the original Rhode Island-area word, asquutasquash. The word means "uncooked" or "that which is eaten raw" which is interesting compared to pumpkin which originally meant "ripe." Tamale on the other hand means "heart attack." (Only kidding.)

Among the American Christmas dinner institutions which will never make it to the UK is the "salad." "Salad" in this context is not like anything you would ever picture when someone says the word "salad" to you. It's some nuts and candied fruit in a sweet, green blancmange-like jelly. It tastes like the deserts we used to have at school. Tasty in an artificial and nostalgic sort of way, but too sweet for me to have with my main course.

One other turkey-related tradition that exists on both sides of the pond is the pulling of the wishbone. My experience is that whoever finds it gets to pull it with someone and the one who gets the larger part will be blessed with luck until the next year's year's turkey is served. It's similar in the US, although you don't have to pull it immediately, and you are allowed to let it dry and get hard. Tricks such as soaking it in things to make it rubbery and unbreakable are also allowed.

After a great meal, the universal yuletide tradition is of vegeing in front of a roaring, open television. This year one channel was constantly showing an American Christmas classic, "A Christmas Story." It's a great look at Christmas and family from the point of view of scheming, somewhat nerdy kid who's only goal in life is to own an air rifle. I even managed this year to see a fair bit of "It's A Wonderful Life," a film I'd managed to miss despite the many Christmases I'd spend on this planet. It's a film which is ALL set up. The meat of the film is only 20 minutes after an hour of setting up. Syd Field must hate it.

Most TV ads seem to be for cars the size of small houses and medicines. The medicines may possibly help you, but the list of disclaimers and recorded possible side-effects mean that you would have to be suffering pretty bad to even think about mentioning it to your doctor as they always tell you to do. There is no disclaimer for potential emotional distress when your doctor laughs at you when you mention the drug.

One last common TV Christmas tradition is the heart-warming season-related news story. This years was about a man who was released a little early from prison (after 17 years) for having smoked dope whilst on parole for stealing 2 dollars. "You in Texas now, boy."

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, Religion, Travel, TV, US

A pretty lazy day due to heat and Keen not feeling 100%. Cath and I went for a walk through the woods just before the heat. There are two parts to the woods. In one part, according to local rumour, escaped Albanian prisoners hide out and attack everyone who enters. In the other part, on the other side of the road, animals scamper freely and birds eat seeds out of your hand. We went into the latter part. We didn't see many animals, especially not the wild boar that the posters promised, and nothing ate out of our hands, but on the other hand, we didn't see any escaped Albanian prisoners and were not robbed, kidnapped, raped or made to sing the Albanian national anthem under pain of death. I'm a bit sceptical as to the truth in these rumours, by the way. But not knowing the Albanian national anthem, it was best to be on the safe side.

In the evening, we walked into Tirrenia town centre. Keean decided he only wanted to be pushed half the way and would have loved to crawl the rest pushing one of his toy cars. As this would have made the journey last an hour, we (that is his parents) carried him.

In the trees, many a cicada (Italian: cicala) chirruped. We don't really have cicadas in the UK. They sound like crickets, but in the US they act more like locusts and every few years descend en masse to carpet the streets with their carcasses.

There was a funfair in Tirrenia. We all went on the kiddie roller coaster. It was about as cramped and bumpy as an easyJet flight, and Keean decided very early on it was not his thing. In a few short months, he'll probably be screaming to get on them, but not just yet. The merry-go-round was more to his liking. We then found one of those nice sedate racing cars they have outside random places that move about for 50 cents. Keean loved just sitting in it, spinning the wheel like a pro, but when we put the money in and the thing started moving, it was a different story. This he didn't like. He's certainly a cheap baby, in this respect. However, after a few more minutes just sitting in the thing, we had to make room for paying customers.

On the way back, we stopped off for a drink and a delicious home-made ice cream. I had fruits of the forest (Frutti Di Bosco, who sounds like one of the girls from the TV show) and pistachio (Pistacchio, who sounds like a little wooden boy with a nut for a nose).

Our evening hot drink of choice in Italy soon became orzo. This is a hot barley drink which tastes remarkably like coffee but with zero caffeine. That's less than decaffeinated coffee, which does have some caffeine still. Obviously during the day we were on the coffee which is great in Italy, of course, but usually served way, way stronger.

Labels: Drink, Europe, Food, Travel, TV, Wildlife

Where we are staying is one of those places where everybody knows each other. Actually, as we are staying in one of three villages that have grown and now over lap a little, I should say, where we are staying are three of those places where everybody knows each other, but that's just weird. On the street, in the bars and shops, people greet my brother and girlfriend warmly and make a great fuss of the little one. Along back streets are houses of cousins or aunts. It's a very cosy community. It's so welcoming that people have no problem to come into your garden if they want to speak to you and will turn up on your door and ring only if the door is not open. It's very different to the north of Europe, and in particular the Netherlands, where some families require several weeks notice of a visit, even if you are a son or daughter.

It helps if you have a toddler around. Babies and toddlers are great ice breakers. People who might have just said "hi," and wondered off, stop and inform the young-un how adorable he is, and how big and clever he is going to be. The kid, who on his most fluent days is only at the stage of shouting "car" repeatedly, accepts this with good grace, and will laugh whole-heartedly if he approves.

Even the house we're staying in is a big friendly place, where several parts of the family live on different floors. We were kindly put up in the room of an elderly relative who spends part of the summer upstairs with another relative. The room is full of pictures of Himself, as he is called in Father Ted. That is Jesus. A few are of him with his mum, the Virgin Mary. It's interesting that in many pictures we have seen of the two of them together, how big and grown up Jesus looks. It's presumably to give him some gravitas, but it does make it look like he is being carried around and breast-fed well into his teens.

We had never before experienced home Italian cooking. The stereotype is that there is lots of it, it's delicious, one portion is pasta and that as a guest you are encouraged to eat and eat. This all is fact.



The only stereotype I have for Italian TV is game shows with very hot women wearing very little. Again, the little we saw seemed to confirm this. One show that was on every night had two such women whose job was to smile at all times and wear negligible amounts. In between the bits where they presented things like prizes and doors to be opened, there were variety-style musical acts such as one-man bands, women who danced in an old style or tenors. There was also a confusing man in a Muppet-style suit who gallivanted around Mr Blobby style. Because he is not human (externally) he is allowed to molest the women, where as they are off limits to everyone else except the odd flirty peck on the cheek from the host. This law whereby Muppets are allowed to molest the womenfolk only applies in Italy, as those of us who remember the case of the State of California vs Mr Snuffalopogus will know.

It was interesting to note that in the UK, we would call the girls on that show, with the big smile, large chest and vacant expression, bimbos. It’s a word we heard a lot in Italy as it means baby or small child. In English, it wasn't always a derogatory expression towards women, it originally meant a bloke. By coincidence it came up in this context at this time as Catherine's holiday reading was a couple of PG Wodehouse novels. It's quite alarming how many words start off harmless enough but end up as derogatory expressions for women.

After dinner, we were introduced to a local lemon liqueur called Limoncello. Its a sweet after-dinner drink and is a wonderful way to wind up dinner and the rest of the evening. Ours was made by someone in the village so was pretty darn authentic.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Travel, TV

By Christmas, stories about Christmas being ruined by a deadly, killer fog had long since stopped filling the TV and newspapers. It seemed Christmas might happen after all.

Christmases at my parents involve far too much food, far too many presents and far too much time watching TV. They're great. It's nice to spend time with whatever of the family is around and catch up on British TV. It's also a time to reflect that 2000 years ago a small child was born who would grow up to be a very popular speaker and change the course of history through being deified by his followers. In time these followers kidnapped the date and trappings of a pagan festival to celebrate this event and this too was kidnapped by the world of commerce. We should always take time to remember this, the magic that is Christmas. Merry Christmas everyone!

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, TV, UK

One of the great things about the Internet and the proliferation of camera phones is that where as once you would always be half wondering "was it really THAT bad?" when some celebrity scandal breaks, now you just go to YouTube and wait and see. C.f. the case of Michael Richard, the performer famous as the Kramer from Seinfeld and now as he of the racist tirade. Because the press needs its scandals and would much rather act aghast than analyse, an ambiguous or even satirical remark can easily be trumped as a racist/sexist/homophobic/heterophobic/pressophobic tirade.

In this case it was not like this at all. This was a tirade in the purest sense of the word. It's horrible. The abuse is way over the top for people allegedly talking during your show, which is annoying, but can be dealt with better and is usually a sign that your act is not going well. In fact in the videos which only start during the tirade, he doesn't look like a man whose act is going well. However there is ONE funny thing said on the videos. It's by one of the guys walking out: "That's why you're a reject, never had no shows, never had no movies: "Seinfeld" that's it!"

Labels: Anthropology, Comedy, TV

I don’t do Christmas very well. I am an under-consumerist atheist with a phobia of unwarranted false displays of affection, so there isn’t much of the festivities for me to really enjoy. I detest shopping so much that an hour of it leaves me emotionally exhausted and as irritable as all hell. And when some of my friends (nearly always girls) tell me how much they enjoy shopping as if that would suddenly make me realise the error of my opinion, I shake my head in an unfestive way.

Christmas, in case you are from Mars, is a kidnapped pagan festival (that’s where the trees and holly come from) converted to be the celebration of the inaccurate birth date of an over-hyped rabbi. It has since been re-kidnapped by The Coca-Cola corporation and Hollywood, acting on behalf of the manufacturers of tacky products the globe over.

It is the time of the year that every one insists that you have some “seasonal cheer” despite the fact this forcing you to be cheerful has an even more detrimental affect on one’s mood than a whole sleighful of carol singers singing Christmas hit singles.

It is a time when everything is enfestived (a word closely related to infested). Shops can’t get enough silver shiny things to adorn their products and every public space - and I mean EVERY PUBLIC SPACE - is filled with nauseatingly tinny versions of nauseating tunes sung by nauseating children. Children who will soon be receiving a deluge of gifts all, ironically, made by other children their age. Albeit in Santa’s many sweatshops in less Christmassy places.

So I think Christmas should be banned, then? No. I think it should be made to go behind closed doors. Those of a religious bent should go off to their churches quietly, with only a special TV programme on in the morning for them to sing along to. The kids should receive their presents, but from their parents and not some mysterious recluse who lives in an igloo for 11 months of the year and then in every single shopping mall for the other month.

In no places except churches or in the privacy of the homes of those with serious taste deficiency should Christmas music in any of its guises be played. Tinsel is outlawed outside of homes, and people who cut trees of from their roots and put out of the way of sunlight so they slowly die whilst covered in silvery crap should be prosecuted under the protection of wildlife laws. Gangs of children found hanging around and going from door to door singing the above mentioned songs should be served (in the UK at least) Anti-Social Behaviour Orders. Believe me, “Away In A Manger” should be classified as a dangerous weapon. And finally, any mention that someone should get some “festive cheer” should be classed as assault, and retaliations such as bludgeonings and disembowellings should be accepted as self-defense.

Oh, but it should still be a holiday. Anyway, Merry Christmas everyone.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Religion, TV

I have recently been reliving my childhood since a good friend of mine recently gave me a copy of every single BBC episode of the Goodies. That's 8 TV series - 4 CDs full. It's been a trip down memory lane, and reminded me of how much fun they were. They were very much the Young Ones of their day, except they did not swear particularly and things were destroyed by them as an unintentional consequence of what they did not by direct action. But it has the same semi-amarchic, on-the-cheap-yet-prop-heavy style.


The three Goodies have all gone on to be eminent broadcasters, especially to be heard on the ever-running "I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue". Graham Garden was always a doctor and is brought in when science and levity need to be combined. Bill Oddie is Mr Great British Nature where David Attenborough was Mr World Wildlife. And Tim Brook-Taylor is often called in when they need someone very British and very slightly camp.

The series is occasionally as good as I remember it. But with so many episodes, some, of course, are a bit lame. But the humour is good, sometimes clever but mostly silly. They are also responsible for some of the great comedy images of the era (1970-1981). For me at least. These include, the three of them on their 3-seater "trandem" bike; BBC TV center exploding; and of course, The Post Office tower being felled by the giant "Kitten Kong."

Labels: TV

Labels: Comedy, TV