Jamie'sPostcards
2000-2004
(Go <-postcards
| <-home)
A random collection of my postings on various topics
over the last
few years.
Previously
2000
That Munday thing again, Mon, 6 Nov 2000
Alone in the woods, Fri, 17 Nov 2000
Yugotours: a tall tale, Wed, 13 Dec 2000
2002
Export restrictions, Thu, 31 Jan 2002
Notes from a summer festival, Sun, 30 Jun
2002
Badgers on the move, Thu, 14 Nov 2002
2001
Bad day, Wed, 21 Mar 2001
Notes from a rock concert, Tue, 5 Jun 2001
On mosquitos, Thu, 23 Aug 2001
The morning bus from Dornbirn, Tue, 4 Sep 2001
Nuances Nocturnal, Sat, 22 Sep 2001
A wonderful innovation in sleep technology, Sun,
23 Sep 2001
Last days in Dornbirn, Wed, 24 Oct 2001
Blond joke, Mon, 19 Nov 2001
2003
Beware: some of these postings might seem slightly
more serious -political even- in nature, please do not treat them as
such. Its just a phase i'm going through.
Polycovegetation, Thu, 27 Feb 2003
Ol' boys of the big mighty, Fri, 11 Apr 2003
Lightning strikes church, Fri, 4 Jul 2003
Preparations for a life of subversive activity,
Mon, 15 Sep 2003
2004
Flying Fears (a resolution for 2005), Fri, 31 Dec
2004
Ah ha ha ha! Everybody laughs, mouths and eyes wide, heads slightly
back; it's funny, but it does not take you fully. For somewhere in the
back of your head, the place where the movie of your life is in
continuous production, where that deep voiced narrator, reflecting on
this, the jovial eve of impending disaster, sighs: "Little did they
know.." Yes it was funny, that joke about the pigeon flying into the
aircraft engine, but it wasn't that funny.
It's not funny when, as your flight to Glasgow prepares its final
maneuvers before takeoff, you spy a flock of seagulls by the edge of
the runway through the cabin window; it's not funny when the lighting
and air conditioning systems, sounding terribly engine-like, turn on
and off several times just as the plane taxis onto the runway; it's not
funny when the pilot informs the captives that the plane, "had been
experiencing some problems, but that it should be okay now"; and it's
most certainly not funny when he tells us that he is "negotiating" with
air-traffic control to "let us go". Whats with the negotiation?! Just
let me off the plane! At least thats what i should have said. As it
was, i gripped the arms of the seat, stared directly forward and, while
muttering, 'don't be silly, trust the man, trust the man', to myself,
silently prepared for almost certain death.
My imagination was given free airplay. On the loose without restraint,
it systematicaly made devastating use of every intimate detail of my
mind to blow away any anti-fear defence i might have had. How cruel a
mind can be to its host. My poor heart pumped wildly to supply all the
nerves that were on end, the muscles that were tense and the bladder
that was, thankfully, empty.
Oh, the images that screamed through my head! I could see every face of
every passenger, just as the plane dipped in slow-motion towards its
final calamitous date with the ground, readying themselves for impact,
each in their own unique way. Some were sweaty and straight with
resolve - eyes wide, mouths tight, breathing back and holding fast;
Some called out, quiet in their confusion, the last moments of life
flashing through and around them; Some though faces twisted in
unimaginable terror, remained silent; Others cried out, screaming and
crying in the most disturbing manner, a cacophony of unplanned last
utterance. Despite my meditative preparations (I, after all, had fully
expected this doom), i found myself joining in with the later lot.
Rather disapointing, the lack of stoicism on my part, but there you
have it. In such trying cirumstances ones true self will out, as they
say. Anyway, i was ahead of myself - no one screamed, no one breathed
their last, the journey was, save for those first moments on the
runway, entirely uneventful.
But it was in those moments, those breathlessly overactive, manic
minded moments, where the seeds of phobia were sown. That was the
second last time i flew. By the time my return flight touched down in
Zürich a week later, i had decided that i did not wish the
experience again. From that point on, and for as long as this feeling
remained, the boy who, when he was twelve dreamed of becoming a pilot,
would be travelling exclusively by land and, when absolutely necessary,
sea.
I know this might seem silly, even irrational, but I never was much
good at keeping such urges under control. I tried to reason with
myself. I looked at the statistics, and if they are to believed, things
look quite good for flying:
"Twelve people died for each 100million air journeys taken in the UK
between 1987 and 1996 - while 34 people died for each 100million
journeys by water during the same period."[1]
It seems I have more chance being killed going for a walk than I do by
flying. (It does not give details of the cases where that walk was on
the way to an airport.) By my rational i would do as well to stay
couped up in my appartment and never go out.
But It's not about dying itself - this we all do, in time. It's not
even about the method of dying, nor even the chances of it. It's more
about the feeling of control - or rather, the lack of it - in the
events leading up to a life ending situation. Emphasis here on the
feeling. Fear can be controlled if we feel we are in control of that
which is the root of our fear.
Apparently a monkey in a closed box will eventually try to commit
suicide, but if one side of the box is open to the world, albeit over a
deadly cliff edge, the same monkey will make no attempt on its own life
over the same period of time. I do not know where I heard this, so I
appologise if the story is erroneous, but it makes sense to me: the
monkey in the box becomes drained of any desire to continue living in
this pitiful state and so chooses the only way out it can see - to bash
its own head against the inside of the box; on the other hand, the open
outside view, despite being just as constraining as the closed wall,
gives the monkey some hope - some greater feeling of choice in its own
destiny, however small that choice remains. If it wanted to, it could
just jump, but it probably won't. Infact, of the two scenarios, the
second is far more dangerous - the chances of the monkey falling off
the cliff accidentally are very high. Nothing, save starvation and
suicide, endangers the monkey in scenario one.
When forced to choose between these two situations, many monkeys would
probably go for the one that offered them the greater choice- despite
the higher risk, and despite the fact that the extra choice offered is
merely just another route to the same end.
This is how i feel about flying: like a monkey in a box; more
precisely, an ape which, after 2 million years of ground (or near
ground) dwelling evolution, suddenly finds itself hurtling along, at
some ridiculous speed, in a sealed metal tube 10000m above sea level. I
know the statisticians tell me that cars and trains and boats and feet
are far more likely to get me killed, but statistics is merely foder
for the brain and, sadly, this is not the organ which really has much
of a say when it comes to feelings. This is the domain of the guts, and
as everyone knows, guts can't count - guts want God and parachutes.
Such thinking is not alien to those in the aviation business: they have
known for a long time how the human gut works, and, importantly, how to
fool it. Take the lifejacket for example. Faced with the self-evident
feasibility problem of having 250 people parachuting gracefully from
the six doors of a plumeting 747, some bright spark came up with the
idea of issuing inflatable lifejackets instead. The idea is simple, and
- unless you are aware of it - very effective: instead of trying to
pile out of the emergency hatches at the first hint of disaster (or
turbalance), everybody sits for most of the journey, confident that in
the event of engine failure, the pilot will simply point the plane
towards the nearest pond or lake. Whereupon the ready passenger, shoes
removed and lifejacket fastened by a neat bow at the side, shall wait
for his turn to slide down the inflatable chute and splash into the
loling waters alongside all the laughing children and supportive
grandmothers - just like in the safety video.
But the guts in this ape know better: it's all a ploy, a slide-of-hand
to distract us from the realisation that unless the lake is calm and
still, and the plane fitted with aquatic runners, the lifejacket will
remain forever deflated. On impact from a 500mph descent, water is not
so much like concrete - which would at least allow some room for
sliding - but rather like a sticky jam. All force would be distributed
in such a way as to assure maximum break up of the craft and all
contained within. Not a pleasant thought. Looking at the statistics,
instances of such a disaster are thankfully rare.
But, again, statistics is not the problem here: it's the guts, and
further contemplation of the 'what ifs' is probably not a wise approach
to calming them down. Indeed, for the past two years i have played the
neighsayer: allowing thoughts of impending doom to override any thought
of just booking a flight home for a weekend; suffering a two day train
and boat journey on those rare occassions i do eventually travel home;
taking the night train to Rome instead of just booking a cheap package
deal to sunny Turkey for the Winter holiday.
In defence of my irrationality, i might cite legitimate environmental
concerns: the overuse of air travel is a major influence towards the
growth of carbon dioxide in the Earth's atmosphere; injecting tons of
the stuff up at where the atmosphere is most vulnerable contributes in
no small way to the greenhouse effect. However, if i am to be true to
myself, and much as i would like to claim green credentials, this is
very much a secondary reason - an excuse to cover my very cowardly
fear.
So it is with this in mind that i have decided to take evasive action;
to confront my fear and deal with the problem head-on. A 'bath in
spiders' approach, if you will: I am going to book a flight.
By making this resolve public knowledge, i hope to achieve two things:
one, that through external influences i shall be willed to keep to my
pledge; and two, perhaps more importantly, that if anything does happen
to me during my first outing to the skies in over two years, it will be
noted by all who has read this as being, to take the Alanis Morrisette
definition, rather ironic.
After all, if i am to have no physical control over the manner of my
last few moments on this Earth, then perhaps it is of some consolation
that i can at least smother my demise in irony - and that, for me, is
my monkey's window.
All I need to do now is book the flight - I'll keep you in suspense
until It's all over! So until next time.. The violins in the orchestra
prepare their slow crescendo; the deep voiced narrator takes a breath..
---
A couple of useful references for the aviationphobic:
[1] http://www.spiked-online.com/Printable/00000002D2D0.htm
[2] http://www.etsc.be/documents/survival.pdf
Return
to top.
March 24, 2003. It was raining, but i felt that tingle of excitement
one
sometimes relishes during periods of otherwise low spirits. I ran
outside
in my boxershorts and slippers to get the post; the card from Aunt
Barbara
had already arrived one month before (to allow time for posting
overseas)
and Gran had already phoned to say it was "on its way"; but i was eager
to
see who else would remember this year. There were two envelopes, both
large and exciting looking: one was from my parents; and the other,
yelling "Happy Birthday Frau Ward!", in crazy almost-handwritten font,
was
from Kodak. Two discount vouchers for a selection of photo-processing
services enclosed.
My Gran was ecstatic when i told her. Not normally one for getting
excited
about junk mail, however personalised, i realised that she had
misunderstood me, "Telly Savalas may well have a house here gran, but i
really have never met him" I had to tell her it was KODAK who sent it,
not
Kojak.
"Don't you realise.." I began one of my rants. "This company, this firm
with whom i have no other connection than the occasional indirect spool
purchase, has detailed personal information about me!"
"If it bothers you why don't you complain to them?", quite reasonable i
suppose. But complain to whom exactly. I never knowingly told Kodak my
birthday, but somehow they have it. To compound the issue, the data
they
have is wrong - last time i checked, i was not a woman. The "Frau" part
is
quite erroneous. Who should i tell to have this corrected? How do i
know
that there are no others with this mistaken belief?
Information, however erroneous, is the price we pay for convenience.
Every
purchase i make, ever form i sign, someone is getting it from me.
Really,
i don't mind too much - why should i? It's not as if 'they', whoever
they
are, are going to do something bad to me. All they want to do is make
my
life a little easier - help me with my daily choices, make things run
smoother. In return my information makes things a little easier for
them
too.
My supermarket uses details of my purchases to optimise its stock
taking;
additionally, they get my name, age, postal and email address with
every
value-bonus card scheme i sign up to. Linking it all together can tell
a
lot about me - sometimes things that i did not even realise.
Take for example chocolate. I eat some chocolate now and then, i don't
know how much or how often, i would have thought myself quite
irregular,
but then it was never the sort of thing i concerned myself with keeping
record of. Now i have a bonus card, my supermarket can keep a record
for
me. And now for the science: Did you know that chocolate consumption is
linked to mood cycles riding atop whatever lifestyle you lead?
Given about a year or so worth of data (when and how much) on
purchases,
one could probably gain enough information to predict when you might
next
feel like some chocolate. A free bar or voucher in the post now and
then -
at the right time - might just perk your spirits up and give you nice
thoughts about Tesco, Coop or whichever thoughtful entity sent it to
you..
The information doesn't have to be accurate - the conclusions do not
need
to be accurate - but, as one prominent UK retailer once proclaimed,'A
little goes a long way.'
Bank statements too - plenty of information there these days.
Thankfully
my current bank, Credit-Sui$$e, has a long and notorious history of
obliging despots and corrupt organisations wanting their affairs kept
schmum. Unfortunately, the price for such discrete service is somewhat
beyond the current four-figure balance of my account. For people like
me
they have something even better: *Instant Credit!: you will have to
pay;
but not right now!*
Through these plastic information fountains, a handful of banks have
access to an astounding level of detailed information - not only what
you
buy, but where you travel to, where you stay and for how long; which
movies you rent out, who fixed your blocked drain, which chiropodist
you
visit every wednesday, and which website you visited purely for
research
purposes. The banks know they are on to a good thing with this
information
- they do not give 6 months interest free credit for nothing you know.
And they are not the only ones thirsty for your Info. Some
(non-European)
friends recently applied for a permit to visit the US for a conference.
Sparing the details of this three month, post 9-11 beurocratic
experience,
they were admitted only on the condition of producing salary slips for
the
past 6 months plus detailed bank statements for the same period. I
wonder
what the good people in the US administration could possibly want with
this information?
Terrorism! (You knew this was coming didn't you.) Dastardly immigrants
-
the scourge of our civilized society. Immigrants and terrorists;
fundamentalist plane-spotting beardos and welfare scrounging passport
huggers; Diana (all hail the forthcoming inquiry) killers and street
crawling boy-banging paediatrician scum.
Now I do not wish to appear paranoid, but there are some things going
on
just now that make me feel just a little uneasy. We have all (i trust)
digested some George Orwell, and i am sure many of you might
have noticed some things going on which may well bring elements of
ever-watching Telescreens and Big Brother to mind.
Every day we hear reports of how our very own Ministry of Peace is
battling it out on foreign soils. Oh some of us cry controversy, we
start
inquiries and we call on the politicians to give us answers; but in the
end it doesn't seem to make one blind bit of difference. J'Lo and Ben
are
getting married you know. The shops are watching our chocolate
purchases,
the police are watching our children, the government wants your
fingerprints ( and if that fails, Mr Blunkett, the UK Home Secretary,
wants your eyes scanned. )
It's okay if you are a good law abiding, Tesco-value subscribing
citizen,
all of these things are here to serve you, make it easier, make it
safer.
But if you are a terrorist (or one of the aforementioned scum), then
you
had better watch out!
Concerned about the rising tide of child molesters (apparently there
were
far fewer before the onset of television), the UK government is
considering plans to create a database listing details of every child
in
England. The legislation proposes as a first step removal of certain
"legal and technical barriers" to information-sharing so that children
may
be tracked as their families move around [1].
In a further, more imminent move, as of 2004/05, UK passports will
contain
some form of 'secure' biometric information [2]. (Previously such
information, e.g. fingerprints, was taken only from suspected
criminals;
now we all become suspect.) Evidently a double blow against terrorists
and
illegal immigrants alike.
One biometric under serious consideration is the much vaunted iris
scan.
With a totally unique number for every eye possessing individual on the
planet, this technology is near impossible to deceive (unless of course
you have lots of money and some good contacts.)
Although the current promise is to use such information only for border
control, the applicable scope is mind boggling. Cue some stary-eyed
marketing science: One day (soon) we may need only a flash of our eye
to
pay for groceries, unlock doors, make web payments, open a mortgage
account. In fact, our eyes could do all the things that we currently
use
our credit cards for - with the added bonus that no-one can steal them.
But what if I want to change my credit card; what if I want to cancel
my
Coop Kumulus card; what if i want to move to another country, call
myself
Tony and to not have Kodak send me birthday cards?
How do i know that some entity somewhere won't still think me a "Frau";
how do i know that when i visit my home country i won't be arrested
because some joker thought it funny to use a copy of my fingerprint
in the database entry for Saddam Hussein?
How do i know that when i visit the USA i won't be arrested without
charge, have all my possessions confiscated and imprisoned without
access
to a lawyer for five months; all because someone thought my credit
statement looked suspicious (aeroplane lessons) and they found a
picture
of me on the internet beside a guy dressed as Bin Laden?
Paranoid [3]? Maybe, but after after some months of pondering, i have
decided to start taking measures to make myself somewhat less visible
to
both brothers Big and little. For this i have devised the following
6-point plan:
*1. Cancel all Kumulus/Value/Bonus cards; use bank cards only for cash
withdrawals (at the bank i am registered at); start using cash wherever
possible.
*2. Using mobile phone only within the vicinity of designated
registered
addresses (work and home); ideally i would switch to landline, but this
sadly is an already near-impossibility.
*3. Travel only by train or boat, pay in cash at the station (or via a
friend), thereby avoiding registered border crossings and name-booked
ticketing.
*4. Use flatmate's name for getting photos processed by post; pay bill
anonymously at bank outlet. Even better, go digital and bypass Kodak
altogether.
*5. Renew my 10-year passport just before the new regulations come into
effect.
*6. Do not travel to the USA.
I realise that my little 6-point plan may not do much to stop the
continuing erosion of civil liberties; but maybe, just maybe, it'll
stop
them sending me birthday cards.
[1] http://education.guardian.co.uk/print/0,3858,4749507-110908,00.html
[2] http://www.guardian.co.uk/online/story/0,3605,950907,00.html
http://www.newswireless.net/articles/030711-netwars.html
http://www.theregister.co.uk/content/6/31700.html
[3] http://www.agrnews.org/issues/243/nationalnews.html#2
http://www.hrea.org/lists/hr-headlines/markup/170702-2.php
Loyalty cards et al.: http://joelavin.com/elvis.html
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/70072_loyal11.asp
Return to top.
(refer to:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/3044178.stm
)
Ambiguous as ever. Does this mean Penance is a good thing or bad? Why
must
everything from above be open to interpretation?
This reminds me of Terry Pratchet's observation of when a dog (or a
kangaroo) wishes to inform the log-chopping hero about a trapped child
in
the mineshaft, there is a surprisingly high chance of said hero
understanding what is being barked (or nyik nyipped) at him. However,
when
an orang-outang, a creature only a few drops in the gene pool from
humans,
tries to convey such a message, the result is rarely quite so
successful.
My feeling is that some animals of supposed lesser intelligence, i.e.
those of the Canis familiaris (domestic dog) family (and marsupials of
the
macropod variant), are much better at conveying messages of
life-or-death importance to us humans than beings of closer genetic
make.
Now all this lightning bolt stuff, does this really sound any more
legible than some ape flapping its arms about and screaching? Was it
meant
to rubbish or to vindicate what the preacher was saying, or was it more
of
a personal thing - had the preacher done something naughty when no-one
else was looking? I really don't know. 2000 years of
non/semi/(insert-personal-theological-viewpoint-and/or-dogma)
physical intervention and now this. Sounds almost like desperation.
Me, Im as confused as ever. In the vague hope that i might be visited
upon
by a kangaroo in the next days to explain it all, i repeat that
well-worn cry to the skies (plus amendment): give us a better sign!
Return to top.
Is it not something that many of the (most influential) people in the
current US administration were also in previous ones. I speak primarily
of
( Defen(s|c)e | Attack ) secretary Rumsfeld; and of, somewhat more
powerful but conspicuously out of public eye in recent months, Vice
President Cheney. This is not to mention the many more bodies stalking
around the White House that were also around over 10 (or more) years
ago.
Now it is one thing to bring in a couple of 'old hands' in the name of
lending a fresh Government the benefit of experience, but it is quite
another to give them all the most important posts, save of course that
of
the chairman, Herr Bush.
In my (surely not quite correct, but somewhat satisfying to me)
definition
of a good governance scheme i would choose a benevolent dictatorship.
In
the lack of ever finding a real person who would remain benevolent for
any
length of time without succumbing to the inevitable corruption of
power, i
would go for the second best thing: a periodically elected dictatorship
-
one that has some backup mechanisms to deal with lack of benevolence -
i.e. some type of democracy.
One of the keys to ensuring success of such a democracy (as i define),
would be the necessity of refreshing the government every so often -
getting most of the old out and giving people a chance to choose
something
different. The idea behind this is that many politicians begin life
actually wanting to do some good (hard as this may seem), but with
growing
experience, they also develop a bit of an inkling for power (and all
the
necessary corruptions of character that come with this.) So in the
interests of trying to keep things benevolent, a near-total refresh is
one
thing i would say is necessary. At least for all the top jobs anyway.
In China, that place where them 'Commies' run things, the top-jobs are
all
held, albeit with some exceptions, by a bunch of grey-hairs who managed
to
cajole their way up through the party hierarchy. Many of party bigwigs
were there when Mao was still around.
But in the USA, the land of freedom and democracy of sorts, things are
a
little bit more complicated, but none-the-less just as stagnant. There
may
be two parties which the people can 'choose' between, but these parties
are choked full of all the same people who were there years ago.
Rumsfeld
and Cheney worked under Gerald Ford. One notable senator (recently
retired
at 100 y.o) held a position of power when Franklin D. Roosevelt was in
the
White House.
A president may not remain around for more than two terms - this is a
good
thing, for precisely the reasons i stated - but what about the various
appointed secretaries and high placed officials?
And anyway, what is a President anyway? A chairperson - one who must
make
major decisions based on advice given to him; a public face - the
popular
representative of an administration, and a nation. As a would-be
advisor,
i would choose my president to be good-looking enought that the public
will
want to vote him in, but dim enough so that i could mould everything he
did. Does it surprise anybody that Reagan was an actor? That Bush is a
down-to-earth, mean talkin' cowboy type - but just as dim as the actor
was?
Return to top.
(After extensive survey on the results from the popular 'think of a
vegetable' test.)
I've just received further reports corroborating Germany's preference
for
the courgette. One guy deviated somewhat from the national consensus by
choosing cucumber; but I guess thats just a courgette of sorts anyway,
being long and green and all.
I met an Israeli and an Italian in the pub last night. The Israeli
figured
tomato. I told him that tomato was a fruit not a vegetable, a common
mistake and no great shame, but he got all wrought up and denounced my
stance. The Italian on the other hand offered up a more equitable
suggestion: he chose salad. When prompted as to whether he actually
meant
lettuce, he shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile,
'whatevea you wanta, lettuce, tomato, mozarella.. es all a salad!'
One of my (German speaking) Swiss colleagues chose pickle. An
interesting
choice I thought, very Swiss - no commitment to any particular type of
vegetable, so long as It's preserved in a jar of bitter sour stuff and
sealed away in a jar.
The study continues - any offers from the French?
Return to top.
Hitherto my recently reported shoulder-rubbing with Charley and Sigi of
Switzerland's very own, '
The Lucky Boys',
(see proof) the
highlight of my celebrity hob-nobbing was without doubt
the time during the Edinburgh Fringe when I was bought a pint by none
other
than Simon Bodger (of TV's 'Bodger and Badger' fame.) The gesture was
in
return for my assistance in getting him into a sold-out Late n' Live
for
free - a small reward considering the 30quid tickets. I was
disappointed
that he had not brought Badger with him (if he had, then Charlie and
Sigy
would have to be content with a lower rating on my CelebrityOmeter),
but
nonetheless we did discuss some of the important issues from the badger
community in the UK at that time. I asked him some serious questions
regarding the influence that a charismatic, such as Badger, might have
on
some of the more impressionable television watching badgers out there.
It
seemed to me that such wooden-spoon chibbery and processed potato abuse
that
Badger was prone to might even have an adverse, possibly destabilizing,
effect on the woodland community at large. Indeed, and I thought it a
crazy
notion at the time, there may be a danger that militant behaviour may
result.
Now I know issues such as illegal bating, roadbuilding (without badger
crossings), and continual destruction of their natural habitat are
things
very close to the hearts of the badger community, but i really had no
idea
that my postulations with Mr Bodger were actually about to become
reality.
Sinister as it may seem, a network of small militant groups of woodland
creatures has been growing up and down the country. One recent event in
particular, as reported in http://www.ism-london.org/actions.html,
indicates
a growing trend of pro-active woodland activitity.
You heard it here first.
Return to top.
The truly detestable.
Remember all those red-faced images of floppy-hatted festival goers
jumping
around in the mud? Perhaps some of you were among them - high on
Summer,
immune to the vanity of cleanliness, and ready to queue hours for even
the
most basic of conveniences. Edwin Collins summed it up nicely: 'Yes Yes
Yes(!) It's the Summer festival', a time of joviality, sharing beers
(et
al.)
and enjoying the weather be it rain or shine - oh and listening to some
bands if possible. Myself, I've been to a few festivals, but alas I've
never
had the fortune to go jumping in the mud. The few times I did get a bit
smelly my vanity usually overcame and had me queuing outside the
showers
with toothbrush and a fresh pair of underpants. Not very rock-n-roll,
eh?
This time however, things were different. Be it the child in me wanting
to
get mucked in, or the drunk in me wanting to try something cool - or
both -
I don't know, but throwing all caution to the wind, I let myself slip
barefoot through the sodden fields of St Gallen and prepared to get
messy.
Travis were playing, I think; Kev and me pushed our way through all the
polite Swiss people to the front. ( Living in Zurich has taught me some
manners and I did offer my most sincere appologise to all those whom we
had
trodden and brushed with our muddy bodies. ) I felt like being fourteen
again - and I managed to forget how much I hate it when fourteen
year-olds
did stuff like this. Shame on us.
Bands came and bands went; we jumped some, sang some, slurred some and
drank
some; I lost Kev, but found Keith; fell over, got up again: the weekend
was
just beginning, and the festival mood had taken us over. When the music
stopped and the crowd's abated, Keith and I wanted more, "To the
backstage
bar", yelled uns.
The security looked tough, but we were inebriated enough not too notice
too
much. And that's when something truly amazing happened. Something I
have
experienced
before, but have never ceased to be in awe of: that through the power
of
beer, and only through the power of beer, can the dream of a child
hiding
behind his fingers genuinely come true. The physics behind this
phenomenon
is really quite simple, and I explain it thus: when one person's vision
is
blurred,
so too is that of anyone looking upon that person; in the event that
the
person doing the
viewing - the viewer - makes an enquiry towards the nature of what the
person being viewed - the viewee* - is up to, the viewee need only
utter
some
magic words - something in the most contorted Glaswegian slang should
do the
trick - and all will become as if the viewer had never noticed anything
untoward
in the first place.
In this instance the security guard, the 'viewer', stirred none. The
viewee's, myself and Keith, walked purposefully past him, along the
gangway,
past the men moving speakers and off beside the trailer marked
'Artistes
only'. This was not the backstage bar (the place where anyone with a
mere
'Groupie' green pass could go) - this was backstage proper (where the
passes
were red, and much much cooler.)
If we wanted to stay we were going to have to obtain something official
looking: time to sober up and act respectable. I asked a passer-by
where one
could find the 'in charge of passes' guy.
"That doesn't sound like a very Swiss accent to me", responded The Guy
Who
Plays
Bass from Travis.
Wow, methinks, a famous guy from.. my home town, I believe.. Ok, had to
think
quick and say something at once witty and impressive, while at the same
time
not sounding too sucky, "Ma mum knows your Mum".. erm.
He looked at me briefly with a slightly raised eyebrow, "Very good pal.
From
Lenzie then?" Phew. I'm glad the guy was nice enough to humour me. I
knew
one of them came from my village, was just a pure piece of chance I
spoke to
that one first..
"Eh Aye.. nice place eh?", I started working on my Glaswegian accent
again.
By way of damage limitation Keith stepped in and started blabbering
something slightly less senseless than I was managing.
Some little guy with a corduroy jacket started speaking with me at one
point. Without hearing what he had said, and 'instantly' recognising
him as
the French bloke from Air, I broke into my very best French, "Bonjour!
Je
suis desolee, mon francousish ist nicht so gut, mais... je 'm apple
Jamie,
Grützie!".
"I'm from Canada."
"Eh?", said I.
"I'm not French, I'm Canadian", he repeated.
"Oh.. imp terribly sorry, I thought you boys were French.. sure you
aren't
French?"
"No. A lot of people assume it, but imp not. The other guy is."
Somehow, and I am really not sure how, I managed to hold something of a
conversation for a while, I suspect Keith was buoying it up where
necessary.
Now up until this point, I had been having my doubts about Air: their
last
album had frankly been something of a disappointment, it just didn't
seem to
hold much of the ambient magnificence so characteristic of their
earlier
masterpiece, 'Moon Safari'. I was trying to think it out carefully how
I
could inform him this, by way of advice, without hurting his feelings.
Thankfully, before I could blabber anything I would probably regret,
the guy
got up to go - their van had arrived. He gave me his pass though - a
red one
that said "Musiker". Da bestest! Almost immediately I had a revelation:
how
wrong had I been about '20000KHz legends' (or whatever their new album
was
called); all this time I had ignored its supreme brilliance among all
that
other droll out there. I made a resolution from that point to actually
go
out and purchase one of their albums. To hang, I'll even get a T-shirt
from
one of the on-site stalls! Why had I not realised just how amazing they
were
before?..
I vaguely remember shaking Fran Heally's hand and commenting on how the
drummer had shaved his 'silly little goatee', before the Travis boys
were
also packed up and sped off to some posh hotel. Keith and me, still
caked in
mud and looking terribly un-celebrity like, stayed behind to play some
table
football and make as good use of the facilities as we could.
From then on I believe it got a little bit downhill. I say believe,
because
I can only rely on what was recalled to me later by Keith and others.
It
seems there was some kind of fight or something involving plastic
bananas
and polystyrene oranges; some shots of strong schnapps in the backstage
bar
with some other red-pass holders; some more rolling about in mud, some
guy
in army trousers shouting at me.. I don't remember too much. All I know
is
that the next day I had a bloody knee, a cut lip and a fine layer of
dried
earth coating every inch of my body.. If I hadn't felt that festival
thing
before, I certainly had it then. So, two more days to go like this?..
Aye right. I had a pass, and I used it. It seems the lure of a nice
bathroom
was just too much for me; the backstage breakfast was much better than
the
stalls too. Yeah sure I could have mucked it out a bit longer, but
really,
is it worth it? I take my inspiration from those that see more
festivals
than any of us - and they all have clean fingernails. I wanna be a rock
star!
Return to top.
I spent much of last week looking for somewhere I could obtain haggis.
Alas,
with all the meat-product export restrictions and all, this hunt was
severely hampered. The good citizens of Zurich enjoy a laugh now and
then,
and they are certainly not averse to consuming things made from the
rear
ends and lower innards of animals, so in principle they would have no
problem with eating the stuffed stomach of a sheep. What they do have a
problem with though, is if the sheep comes from Britain.
It's clear that the spectre of mad cow disease still haunts, and it is
having
an obvious effect on all UK exports, not just beef. Last week, in
addition
to my futile haggis hunting, I discovered another fall-out from the
UK's mad
cow pariah status.. one that gets a little bit too personal:
After many days fending off flyers and persistent t-shirt wearing
clipboard
holders, I signed on the dotted line and readied myself for the needle.
I
know this sounds bad, but in my 22(and a bit) years, I have never given
blood - I was always afraid of having flesh pierced and stuff sucked
out of
me. Im not exactly a big fat person either, what would happen if they
pushed
the needle in too far, or missed a vein or something?.. Anyway, I
decided to
quit playing the shrinking violet and made a concerted effort to
overcome my
fears for the good of society.
In the door then. The questionnaire was in German, but i had a friendly
volunteer help me translate:
Have you had sexual intercourse with someone you did not know in the
last 6
months?
Do you, or does anyone you have had sexual intercourse with, have any
of the
following conditions - HIV, Hepatitis, Syphilis..?
Have you ever used hard drugs?
..
And so forth. My sheet was clean I am relieved to say, all crosses down
the
right hand side, until that is I came to the last question:
Have you lived in the UK for a period of more than 6 months between
1980 and
1995?
..erm Yes.
The woman assured me it would be fine, 'speak to the doctor about it',
she
said. So I clambered up to the 7th floor for the blood pressure
readings (a
bit low, high pulse - probably on account of the stairs), finger prick
(bloody sore) and free mini-mars bars. Only then did the doctor tell me
that
I was not able to give blood, 'you are from a high risk group of
people', he
said. 'Eh?' retorted I. Apparently as there is no known blood test for
CJD,
nor any concrete knowledge of how it is transmitted, the Swiss refuse
to
accept British blood. Furthermore, he kept my application form 'for
reference' to make sure i didn't try to give blood again.
I had to go back through the crowds of waiting donors, skin unpierced
(save
for my finger), and a full tank of blood still in me. I felt dirty - as
I
walked past I could read their faces like Tory manifesto leaflets. They
all
seemed to ask 'I wonder which one(s) he ticked?'. In a red faced effort
to
convince them that 'Its because Im British', I made a jovial comment to
one
of the nurses, in English, with as loud a voice as jovial comment
etiquette
allows. Futile though.. there were too many to convince. I consoled
myself
by grabbing a handful of mini-mars bars and walking head-high out the
door.
Outside, I toyed with the notion of looking weak and withered, perhaps
go
for a drink and act pissed after my first half beer or something..
pretend
that all was well and that there is nothing wrong with me. British? Me,
oh
no my good chap, you must be mistaken!
Burns night in Switzerland passed away just like any other nondescript
Freitag abend. I ate Schnitzel and drank some beer down at my local
Kellerbar - there had been rumours of giant cheese fondu, but this
turned
out to be just talk. As the night wore on, I got on to wondering about
whether I should start telling anyone who became personally involved
with me
of the potential risks they face: Im sorry, but there's something I
have to
tell you... You see, I come from this Island, and, well, there is this
thing
with cows..
Return to top.
I've been feeling a bit quiet of late. I would like to write something
profound, thought-provoking or even mildly amusing; but alas, the cold
fog
pressing down on the Limmat valley has invaded my head and shrouded my
imagination from any such outpourings. It is with pure lack of thought
that
I forward you all this blond joke:
> Two bored casino dealers were waiting at a craps table. > >
A very attractive blonde woman arrived and bet twenty thousand dollars
> on a single roll of the dice. > > She said, "I hope you
don't mind, but I feel much luckier when I'm > completely nude."
With that she stripped from her neck down, rolled the > dice and
yelled, "Mama needs new clothes!" > > Then she hollered..."YES!
YES! I WON! I WON!" She jumped up and down and > hugged each of the
dealers. With that she picked up all the money and > clothes and
quickly departed. > > The dealers just stared at each other
dumbfounded. > > Finally, one of them asked, "What did she roll?"
> > The other answered, "I thought YOU were watching!" > >
> Moral: Not all blondes are dumb, but most men are perverts
Return to top.
Friday, 10:30pm.
It's late. Here am I, once again, sitting at my desk with a grey box of
radiation staring back at me. Oh that this be the last time I allow
myself
to end up like this - no dinner, heavily saturated low nutrient lunch,
a
day of physical inactivity, eye strain.. oh, and the re-emergence of
some
flu-like symtoms back from their Summer recess. I raided the NewLogic
fridge in search of some vitamin C. Thank God for the well prepared
Germans and their 100% pure (organic) orange juice.
Why am I here? Well, truth be known I'm working. Dammed hard that is.
As
this shall be my last few days of 'real' work for a few years, I
thought
I'd at least make the effort to get my project finished in time for
next
Tuesday's 'tape-out' (engineering term there, ooh.)
Anyway, as my computer whirrs away trying to compile another big list
of
frustrating results, I thought I'd digitize y'all with some more words
of
inconsequential drivel - a short perambublahic record of my last days
in
Dornbirn..
.a-ha! a car passes by, a free lift! Ok, time for perambublah-isms
later, im off home..
Saturday, 11:20pm
Got up several hours after the radio alarm had gone off, the words of
Bush
running about blindly between my ears not knowing which side of my
consciousness to settle in (they don't bother dubbing him here; if they
do,
a few brief words often suffice.)
The weather is superb today, took a cycle on my bike throught the
morning
mist and into the countryside. Ended up here again. You can be sure
I'll
be leaving soon though...
Saturday, 16:23pm
Goddamm.. bl**dy machine.. im away home.
..
Monday.
I spent much of the day in a warm and humid photocopy room making final
use of the free facilities. In full-colour, original quality I toiled
over
reproducing some of my favourite photos, album covers; and specifically
because it said not to on the machine's 'legal warnings' notice, a few
1000 Shilling notes, a Swiss Visa, and my passport.
The confidential company material I shall leave until later. Together
with
my box of carefully siphoned stationary from the cupboard, I shall
whisk
it all out the door when a suitable moment arises.
Tuesday.
I spent the day, once again, looking at cows from the window of the
photocopy room while waiting for my next batch of warm coloured A3 to
drop
out. It's a funny thing that, like many a fan of abstract humour, I
have
always had a great interest in cows - infact, many of my A3
enlargements
feature these wonderful beasts in full glory - yet I can never bring
myself to composure when confronted with a field full of them.
All those big brown eyes and hairy faces looking at you; slow and
deliberate chewing; the occassional hot temper being released with the
stamp of a cloved hoof on the muddy ground. It really can be quite
overpowering. In such circumstances, I always try to move away slowly,
but
this inevitably ends in a mad run for the fence; my feet pounding the
bovine mine field - through which I had so carefully navigated just
minutes before - without so much as a thought for the blisters of wet
dung
exploding around me.
No, cows are one type of animal I prefer to observe from afar. I don't
have the need to get too close to them - I find much more pleasure in
catching them on film or watching from behind the safety of a barbed
fence, or as in this instance, from the safety of a photocopy room with
mirrored glass windows on the second floor of a hi-tech building
overlooking a farm. A bovine voyeur, thats me.
Anyway, as I was watching this particular herd of alpine friesians, I
noticed something that I could only describe as a mother-daughter tag
team: The 'mothers', as I shall call them - on account of their large
size
and heavily milk-laden udders - would begin at one side of the field,
eating grass and lazing around, just as cows should do. The
'daughters',
perhaps one may have been a young bull, I could not tell from my
position,
would do likewise at the other side.
Then, without notice, one of the mothers would break into a trot, lower
her head and start motioning the other's to follow her. This they
would,
accelerating their pace each time in a run, stop for a quick bite, butt
each other in the stomach and run again traversal of the field. When
they
reached the other side, the young-un's, seemingly startled at the
approach
of their seniors, would jump out of grass-mowing mode and make a bolt
in
the opposite direction. This happened at least three or four times in
the
space of two hours. Mothers swapping sides with daughters, neither ever
really stopping in the middle for any length of time. I don't know what
others may think, but I found it absolutely fascinating. Entertainment
in
Dornbirn, It doesn't get any better than this!
Well, I guess that is a bit of an exaggeration. This town does have
some
moments of shiny brilliance: last week for example, the Crash Test
Dummies
(remember 'mm mm mm mm') played Spielboden. A massive audience of 160
in a
venue not 15 minutes from my flat. It really was fantastic, despite the
usual upturned cigarette smoking nonchalance of the women in the second
row, Bad Brad Roberts and band put on a wonderful show. Apparently a
few
years back Nirvana played this venue. I wonder if the woman in front of
me
looked just as dispassionate then as she did for the Dummies? Not even
a
nod of her head or tap of her foot, she just stood there, blowing smoke
from the side of her face and looking cool. Thats the typical
Dornbirner
for you. I think I shall miss this place.
Wednesday.
My final day! Tonight Switzerland, tommorrow the world.
I felt a tad guilty about the orange juice, so having bought a
replacement, I made a To: staff confession. Conscious suitably
relieved,
box filled with remaining junk from my desk, papers signed, keys
handed over; all that remains is for my email account to be shut
dow
Return to top.
I fell asleep last night with a piece of paper in my mouth. The idea
had
been to prevent me from grinding my teeth during sleep; this is an
issue
that has concerned me for some time now. Ever since I began waking in
the
morning with sore molars and a stiff jaw, I have worried that one day I
would grind my teeth down to the roots. This morning my teeth still
hurt
and the worry continued to play on my mind; some little bits of chod
paper littered my pillow, and some, I suspect, down my throat.
This is not the first time such 'problems of the night' have vexed me:
I once read that varacous veins, a common ailment often brought on by
bad
sleeping posture, could be kept at bay by sleeping with a pillow
between
one's legs. I only had the chance to try this out once, but somehow the
whole affair became public knowledge and, the gossip engine in my
edinburgh
circle being what it is, I was forced to cease this practice amid much
derision
and ya-hoo.
Perhaps the most common complaint however, is that of the snorer - or
rather anyone who has to lodge in the vicinity of the snorer. I am
assured, thank God, that I do not make such noises in the night myself.
However, I am nonetheless deeply concerned about the issue. A close
friend
of mine, one so severely afflicted by the problem that he would often
wake
himself up, confided a rather practical solution to this problem:
scotch
tape. Unfortunately I believe this one also made it out into public
discussion, and the poor man has since abandoned using any form of
sticky tape after bedtime. I fear that to this day he suffers many
sleepless nights, but nonetheless puts on a brave (if somewhat yawny)
face
during daylight.
Any constructive solutions to these problems would be much appreciated.
Yours, Jamie
P.S Did anyone actually feel the urge to Yawn after reading the word
'yawny'? I bet someone did. In fact, Yawn, I bet you did again! Ha!
Yawning is such a contagious habit that, yawn, even reading the word
tends
to induce a Yawn in even the most wide awake of person. Or so I hear.
Return to top.
This morning, or was it yesterday? I forget, anyway I was taking the
bus
from Dornbirn to Lustenau, and as my stop approached I pressed the
button
and moved for the door. As is customary in these parts, I offered my
gratitude to the driver before leaving the bus: 'Ciao' (pronounced
'Chow'). This can often be used as a greeting or a goodbye, in this
case
it was a sort of 'thanks and goodbye'. Stolen from the Italians, many
Germanics use it as a preferred alternative to 'Auf Wiedersehen', or
the
favourite of old, 'Heil!' - the use of which since WW2 has been wiped
out,
except in some of the more nationalistic parts of Austria.. Anyway, the
bus was nearly empty, only three or four people staring out of the
windows. Normally after such a greeting, the driver may or may not
reply.
In this instance however something far stranger occurred. Much to my
surprise (and shock) ALL the people on the bus turned their heads
towards
me and, in monatonic unison with the driver, replied 'Ciao'. I must say
it left me somewhat put-out for the rest of the morning.
I had this weird dream last night also. Alan Tomn (name changed for
possible future legal reasons), the quiet Singaporean who sits beside
my
desk, started running about after me with a chainsaw. He was calling
out
'Aaarfghh! Aaaaaarrrgghhhf!!' In quite the most hysterical way. It
really
wasn't a very comfortable dream, I woke up in a cold sweat. I know It's
silly, but I keep glancing behind me to see him sitting there biting
his
fingernails. He is always doing it. Im surprised he still has any nails
left at all.
The French boy next to me has his earphones on full blast. Sounds like
he's listening to the Cocteau Twins again...
Return to top.
The flying pests of Europe number few, but of them none can be as
annoying as mosquitoes. Pigeons
are big and stupid, you can often see them coming so avoidance is
possible. Wasps are much smaller, but they have bright yellow stripes
and
a tell-tale buzz to indicate their presence. Moggies on the other hand
give no such warning. You only see them when they are already upon you,
needle lips embedded into your flesh, growing abdomen bulging black to
scarlet.
I only wanted to sit out and watch the stars. I even turned all the
lights
out in the hope that they would be deflected away from me and towards a
street lamp or something. No such luck, unlike moths and other flying
things of the night, these nasty little blighters don't want the moon,
they just want blood. My bloody. In honesty I don't mind them taking it
-
I'd offer them some for free if I could. I probably have a liter or so
to
spare in me, I'll quite freely tap some out for them on occassion; a
bottle for the BloodDonor society, a saucer for the mosquitoes. But
they're not content with just blood, they want to leave some itchy shit
behind. That's what annoys me most. They take the blood and leave
behind a
nasty red spot that itches for days afterwards. I've got at least a
dozen
of them dotted across various parts of my body now, and Im trying
really
hard not to scratch..
Return to top.
(refer to a link that has now, sadly, gone.)
At 9.99GBP the 'Sleep Rite' does seem like an amazing bargain, that is,
assuming it actually does the job It's supposed to. Looking at the
theory
behind this remarkable device:
"Placed around the septum, the gentle pressure to the nose can help to
open nasal passages"
I believe that if the snorer is of the type who does not mind a 'gentle
pressure' being applied to their septum, then a common garden washing
peg
(the stiff wooden ones, not the cheap plastic spring loaded variety)
would probably do the trick just as well.
Return to top.
From Sunny Dornbirn, we left by bus for Nuernberg early Friday morning.
In my bag I had several t-shirts, clean underwear and a little jumper
(in
case it got a bit 'chilly'.) In an attempt to avoid looking like a
German,
I wore sandles barefoot and left my socks at home. Somehow, even after
the
forecaster said that in a few days time in a far off place the
temperatures will drop with the rain, the sunshine of the moment
distorted my sense enough to make me leave my trousers at home.
So it was, 3 nights later wearing all the clothing i could find,
cling-film wrapped around my legs and feet, I sat shivering before the
fading embers of the night before's BBQ. I think there were four of us,
we
had decided to not bother going back to the tents and decided to sit a
night out in the Gazeebo instead. With croaky voices, smirnoff black in
hand
(cunningly disguised as a plastic bottle of CokaCola) and a bubbling
can
of alphabet soup, we sang until the little birds took over. Actually, I
think we were still singing long after the little birds, it was the
ducks
that made us finally shut up...
Summer festivals are the same wherever you go, regardless of whether it
is
very Summer-like or not. Usually you get to see a few bands, get
bruised and
sweaty trying to get to the front, then spend the rest of the time
looking
round the campsites for free booze and mischief. Grreat! The worst is
always the wet n' damp packing up and going home bit. Somehow it is
only
on the Monday morning that sore calf muscles, burns cuts and bruises
begin
to surface. Only then do you feel the full belt of a constant weekend's
drinking and lack of sleep. Only then do you realise that you are
mingin and really really smell. Only then does can you feel the
presence of some friendly new spots pitching tent on your face and the
insect bites all over the rest of your body. Lovely.
As to the music, in a footnote all I can say is: fantastic. Travis,
musical ambassadors to my great home country, rocked the Friday.
Radiohead
distorted the Saturday, almost making several thousand people cry with
angst in the process. But Best of all, the climax to the whole event,
with
leather trousers, smokey effects and the full moon at their disposal,
Morten and the boys brought an entire decade back to the future. Im
talking of course of those legendary Scandinavian masters of pop: a-ha.
Absolute Magic. All those years in A.R.S.E* really did pay off - thanks
to
JP, Rob and the many others who made it possible! (* A-ha Revival
Society of Edinburgh, 1996-2001)
Return to top.
> Did you hear about the dyslexic, agnostic insomniac.
> He stayed up all night wondering if there really is a Dog?
You know those days when every traffic light you come to just turns
red..
The weather that seemed so nice only a few days ago suddenly starts
hitting you with overcast skies and drizzle. The nose that had been
running for a few days, overnight blossoming into full-blown coughs and
sneezes. The work you were just beginning to enjoy, suddenly frustrated
by
a bout of apathy and lost motivation..? Ha! well I don't! tee hee..
life
is good and the sun is shining brightly (far above the clouds). Ok
smile
for 10 seconds :-| ..ngggghhh.. :-) yep, thats the stuff. Ach, It's all
in
the mind. Today will be a good day regardless.. (feel the conviction in
my
words)
erm..
Return to top.
I have been working for this Austrian electronics firm for a few months
now. There may be only 60 or so employees, but the place really is a
shiny
little beacon of multinational, multiracial and multicultural harmony.
(Being an electronics firm, and the world still in a state of
girl-job/boy-job typecasting, the workforce is predominantly male. This
is
why i refrain from including the term 'multisexual'. Theoretically i
could
include this term to encompass all the different sexual factions of men
represented here, but I won't.. why? Because theres no girls here and
calling a place that didn't have any girls 'multisexual' would just
be silly.)
Anyway, i diverse, there are some interesting characters I have met
from
all over. In particular this bloke from the Federal Republic of
Yugoslavia
(see FRY, http://www.gov.yu/humanrights/index.html, for more info.)
Name
of Mino Milosasomething, nice guy really, big guy. Got a bit of cash in
his wallet, done some good deals a few years back, well connected. You
know the sort..well probably you don't (except perhaps Aberdeen John
with
his Mafioso connections)..Anyway, i was sitting in the cafeteria
perking
my afternoon up with some sludge from the coffee machine, when big Mino
comes in for a quick Mocha.
Now this boy's done some time in the army. Volunteer you know. Not a
big
fan of Albanians.. Anyway we strike up a conversation, talking about
stock
options and stuff, keep it safe i thought. Hmmm. See im not a big fan
of
talking about money really, and stock options are things i'd normally
try
and avoid: 'It does my head in!' i commented. And so the talk moved on
to
other things that 'do peoples heads in'.
My curiosity got the better of me. 'All that stuff you.. you saw (i
refrained from saying 'did').. did it
have any (adverse) affects on you?'
All the time, the voice of John Cleese and the infamous line from
Faulty
Towers 'Don't mention the war' kept repeating itself in my head... Too
late though, we were there. I'd stepped on a mine and was desperately
hoping it was a dud.
With a crease of his joined-together eyebrows and a far-off look in
his steely eyes, Mino sipped his Mocha. Shifting his speech from the
first person (always a bad sign) he told me a little story about his
'friend' from 'back home'.
Apparently, after doing a few solo missions for the government, his
'friend' whom I shall refer to hereafter as X, came home somewhat
'changed'. Mino articulated the the word 'changed' in that dry Slavic
drawl that reminded me of some James Bond villain. The intonation could
only suggest that in Mr X's case, 'changed' equated to 'went completely
fucking raj'. ('Raj' being Edinburgh speak for 'pure mental'.) This boy
had gone cuckoo. He'd lost the plot. Bonkers. Kept staring at walls and
stuff. Sometimes he would be telling a little story to his friends, the
next minute the story would change to something completely different,
without prior context and never any conclusion...
Anyway, despite these problems, Mr X was rather good at Judo. As a
child
he had been some kind of junior Judo champion. Taking the sport up
again
helped to relieve his tension. He entered into a Judo contest and won
within the first few minutes. To celebrate the victory he went out for
a
night on the town, a few drinks, a bit of fun.
Some days later the Judo opponent was found dead. Brutally murdered. No
one
knew what had happened. Bit of a tragedy even for Belgrade standards.
Not
much evidence found, no more thought of it.
Several months after the incident, Mino continued, he was driving about
the countryside with his friends (and Mr X). Just chilling out, having
a
few beers, shooting a few rounds, that sort of thing.. Mr X is doing
his
usual rant, bits and pieces of disturbing war images spewing from his
head, when all of a sudden he mentions the murdered boy. It turns out
(not
entirely surprisingly) that he had done the deed when he was pissed
that
night! The police still haven't figured it out..
Back home you can get away with anything these days! Mino laughed,
ha-ha...
Fancy coming out for a few beers tonight?
Return to top.
It was like the old days, when men travelled on foot through dense
undergrowth, forest and fen to reach some far off destination. For 15
minutes or so,
it seemed longer, i was lost in a darkening wood. I don't know how i
lost
the path, i guess the mood of the place carried me away; I had started
strolling along a woodchip carpet, stripe-painted pines leading the
way, but
before i knew it my guide trees had gone and the path with it. Suddenly
i found
myself struggling over twisted stumps and soden footholds. I could hear
nout,
save the crick and squelch of my own progress. A shot of adrenaline (i
think thats what it was), clear and fresh and tinged with a healthy
dose of
awareness rushed through my city nurtured arteries. I was borne again
to the
wild and untamed... a wood-child floating through the wildergreen and
twangled
density, like some elfish Wisp. Knowing and at one with the ways of The
Forest and Her ways he continued on... The air darkened and the light
grew
crisp, somewhere a voice called out. The city boy awoke from his sleep,
his feet
were wet and he felt cold. You don't get wolves here do you? Nah. Erm.
Yellow Eyes.. ah how sweet are the eyes of a true love.. why does the
mind play
tricks, they're gone hmmm, must be a squirrel..ehm better go back then
eh?.. Casual like, take it easy, don't loose a foothold. There we go,
don't
loose it...think of nice thoughts: home, coffeee, flowers, trees, evil
ghosts!
WItches, FANGS! BLAIR
WITCH!MONSTERS!AAAARGH!SCREAMING!GOBLINSGOULSNBADTHINGS! Aaaarghh!!!
Start to run, the wood-child looses all his earthly Know and
starts bashing through the thickets and stepping in squidgy things. No
time
to check what..Footsteps! Calm down boy, get realistic! These things
don't
exist Ok? WOLVES!BOARS!BEARS! Aaarghh!!!...
woa! the be-jumpered and fluorescent jacket clad ramblers must have
been
rather taken-aback my flurried emergence from the trees. Not for long
though,
I got hold of myself, smiled and they went back to looking at the big
wooden map of the Nature trail.
A-ha! 'A pint of your finest, my good bartender!'
-'wie bitte?'
'eh..ok..ehmm eyne-mal weisss-bieer danky!'
-'bitte?'
'b-e-e-r!'
-'ah! Kein Problem! aso!'
Return to top.
Monday Mornings, can't beat em. Whether for lectures or for work, they
still suck.. I think i was dreaming in German last night, which would
be all
very well if i could speak German. But with my severely restricted
vocabulary
and piddly grammar, it was just strange. Wasn't particularly
interesting, I
seem to remember trying to say 'ich denke', 'ich bin gedach' over and
over
again.. i woke up completely exhausted.
Despite the dream, it was certainly a typical Monday. Even if i haven't
been drinking i always wake up with a dry-minging taste in my mouth. It
usually takes much longer than usual to get out of bed properly (a good
few hours
at best) and its always raining outside. I can still see my breath in
the
bedroom air - even now when i can afford central heating.
I used to think it was just a Monday thing, you know, the end of the
weekend and waking of the week, but recently i have been formulating
some other
ideas. Somewhat sinister perhaps, but i recon there exists in this
world
something or someone who engineers this situation. Something of
unparalleled
hideousness. A demon of the week-beginning, of the dewy sleepiness and
morning
crankiness. A being who creeps through the early shadow of the first
working
morn to every bedroom and sleeping place, sapping sleepers of all
energy
and strength.
A parasite who, fed by the stolen nourishment of its victims, stalks
tirelessly in an endless quest across the world, distributing
hang-overs and
gloom. I have images of a hunch-back and dry-dour face with sapping
great eyes
of black darkness. A beast i can only refer to in waking hours by the
name of 'Mundahey'. ...
of course my theory is only fresh in my mind, but as i formulate it i
am
beginning to discover 'black areas' of missing -or removed-
information.. i
have reason to suspect the Mundahey not only sapps us of all our built
up
weekly strength, but of anything else that may lead us to the discovery
of
itself and its stale deeds. I write this email to warn you all and to
advice
vigilance.
I myself plan to begin a series of Scientific experiments that may help
in
my understanding of this creature. In the manner of which i uncovered
'Santa Claus' back in '95, I shall be drinking lots of coffee next
Sunday and
waiting up all night. Hopefully I may catch this foul beast before it
gets a
chance to sap my brain for another week..
Return to top.
--END/Beginning/whatever--
all work copyright Jamie Ward 2000-2005