8/30/2003

Coach subclass :  If you ever need to travel from Spey Bay in Scotland to Nottingham, avoid public transport. My itinerary included three buses, three long distance coaches, two trains, a few hours of walking and many, many lagers. It took 29 hours. The only saving grace with all of the delays to the coaches was that I got to sit in a pub in Leeds and watch a one-armed man roll cigarettes, while a bunch of other old men in jackets and decline stared into the middle distance.

National Express is a dire coach company in the UK, to be avoided at all costs for their provision of uncomfortable seats and tardy services. My favourite of their excuses ventured on my last trip was "traffic". Genius. A coach operator that fails to anticipate traffic on the roads. Another of their sins was to advertise an overnight service between Edinburgh and Leeds. I thought to myself that a long period on a coach trying to pass out with the aid of many tins of Stella and the least comfy seats in showbiz might result in some kip. But no. The service throws you out for two and a half hours at 4am in Manchester, so any dreams of REM sleep are quickly shattered. Tossers.
posted by Garreth at 6:56 AM

If dolphins were monkeys :  After an illustrious career as a marine conservationist, I have fostered a deep love and respect for all marine life. Except for turtles, which are a pest (despite yielding very large eggs for the locals to boil). A fellow conservationist is currently on a project with the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society, in the Moray Firth far in the north of Britain.

Unsurprisingly during my recent visit to this part of the scottish North Sea, the weather was too inclement to allow boat travel to see our mammalian cousins close up. On hearing of my visit, about ten of the 130 resident tuna-flavoured bottlenose dolphins did turn up within binocular-sight of the shore though. They performed a few jumps, flips and a fair amount of swimming, just visible to the naked eye. I couldn't help thinking that the conservation effort would have impressed visitors more if the volunteers had trained the dolphins to jump through a few hoops a little closer to the beach. Or maybe taught them to balance balls on their noses.
posted by Garreth at 6:54 AM

8/25/2003

The geeks will not inherit the earth :  They spend too much time watching movies and checking for bad physics. Tomb Raider Two is pretty awful without analysing the physics of the stunts. My brother wants me to go and marry Angelina Jolie, but I don't think I can be arsed with the whole stalking thing now that I've seen that movie.
posted by Garreth at 10:42 AM

Meat Baseball :  Last weekend there was a birthday barbecue. One of the highlights was a two player dance mat game in which guests replete with meat and half baked with Pimms could shake their booties in front of a television screen. Other waiting participants got to line the walls of the dance competition room, and depending on their position, could watch either the screen or the booties while listening to bad music.

The same guy who owned the game and dancemats (who must be some kind of ambassador of taste, or at least entertainment) also had an Airzooka. If I rented out my body for 40+ hours a week in an office, I would buy one.

posted by Garreth at 10:40 AM

If you play Defender I'll be your hyperspace :  "How many churches can there be in St. Andrews?" I thought to myself as I ran about trying to find the roman catholic one hosting the wedding ceremony of some pals on Saturday. It turns out that there are more than twelve, as I sweatily discovered in a black suit and the blazing sunlight. While on my erratic church tour, a serene vision in pink strolled past with her beau, and called my name, signalling that I had at last found the right place and people.

Weddings make me slightly uncomfortable - mainly the church and marriage parts, but I really like the idea of getting really hammered at someone else's expense to celebrate something. The bride has a scottish family, which blessed the occasion with bagpipers and haggis. One of the groom's ushers referred to the bride's family as 'sweaties'. Some of them did look like they liked the odd pie, and were shoe-horned into full scottish regalia, but I figured teasing them about their perspiration potential was a bit gratuitous.

The wedding ceremony passed without a hitch and with only one slap, and then we were whisked miles away to a fancy hotel (Sabrina The Teenage Witch got married there a few weeks ago - that's fancy) and also miles away from my campsite. I soon forgot about my remoteness under the weight of champagne and toasting whisky. Not having a partner with me, I got to dine next to the most attractive unmarried woman present. On her other side was her jealous boyfriend who doesn't like the most attractive unmarried woman talking to anyone else at weddings.

Shandies came and went. People who I hadn't seen in eight years got to ask me what my plans for my life are given that I generally answered their first and most obvious question with, "Not much these days." I got to speak in French about something I didn't understand at all but I think translates to "Royal Suckage" in English. I don't know what the English translation means either.

The couples eventually petered out towards 3am, which left the rest to put the world to rights. Everyone else was staying at the delightful hotel, apart from Patrick who had nowhere to stay. He had a taxi to the airport coming at 6:30am, and his plan was to stay awake through to dawn. Patrick would make an excellent partner in crime for going and lighting fires on the beach, I thought, but even he slunk away on the promise of a young lady's room for a few hours, as I searched the very posh hotel for kindling.

Luckily, there were some US navy aircrew personnel at the hotel bar, who engaged in lengthy conversations about "Jackass The Movie" special extra footage. (Pocket Ass Return and "mid-shaft gash" proved to be our common ground) They were good until about 5:30am when the bar closed, then it was up to me to find either a comfortable beach, a stolen room, or some kind of giant catapult to get me home. Luckily, the hotel was so posh that the concierge was happy to get a member of staff to drive me home. On reflection, it might have been a lot easier on his part to provide this service, rather than trying to evict me, or stop me passing out in a corridor. Oh, and 'sweaties' is an abbreviated form of 'sweaty socks', which rhymes with 'jocks'.
posted by Garreth at 10:27 AM

Quotes of the wedding :  "Okay, I'll be blunt here. Which one of those tall blonde men is the millionaire?" - curious lady at my table.

"You'll never really be happy if you're not driving up and down the M1 trying to give people lifts." - my rambling advice to people who don't live near enough to the M1 to help my hitching endeavours.

"Yeah we got, like, 500 of your scottish pounds in expenses for, like, three nights in St. Andrews. That's about 360 dollars isn't it?" - US navy aircrew chap I met in the bar after the wedding, who clearly had no need to know about the value of foreign currency. Damn, if only I could fund that sort of thing with my taxes.

"Yes I do a little bit, but not probably as much as you do." - Patrick humouring my theory that you feel immortal during the rush of getting inebriated.

"Ben Affleck could definitely do better," - another table discussion about J-Lo being a bit past it. I mean, if Bouncey is the new J-Lo, does that mean that J- Lo should be decommissioned?
posted by Garreth at 9:43 AM

Petnapping :  Ever seen those photocopied posters stuck to lamposts advising that you could become rich working from home? They are often masquerading as leaflets announcing huge rewards for the safe return of little dogs wearing tartan blankets, answering to the name of 'Mister Biggins'. Why don't more people kidnap pets? Low risk petnapping is what I'm talking about. Not even a well guarded rich pet, but just every pet you come across. Match the pets you have to the anonymous reward posters that pop up from time to time on lamp-posts and bingo! One thousands pounds for lost ginger tabby. Five hundred pounds for faithful golden retriever. Easy money.
posted by Garreth at 9:34 AM

Shallow South Trailer :  I announced my desire to live in a trailer park in the US for three months to some friends at a wedding. They helpfully advised that I should try the Shallow South as opposed to the Deep South. If anyone has any tips about where to get interesting trailerpark accomodation in the states, please let me know...
posted by Garreth at 9:13 AM

8/22/2003

Obi Wan Kanobe told me in the lobby :  I hadn't seen Neil for about eight years, and decided to drop in on him in Leeds, where he threatened/promised to take me to the fleshpots, whatever that meant. I hitched from Nottingham which gave me a great chance to share an hour in a lorry with a very animated Muslim, who had been born again into his true faith after his "mini-hajj" as he called it. He ranted at me for a while, with the fervour of a true proselyte, and then put on a tape explaining about jinns and how one would get a whole lot of earth put around your neck if you stole any earth from anyone in your mortal life. He would occasionally stop the tape and explain certain things, while trusting our fate to a greater power as he took his eyes of the road and oncoming traffic.

He was very kind, and explained that the Dewsbury mosque had open sessions for non-believers like myself on a Thursday. Time didn't permit a visit there, so I headed into Leeds with my headcold and a burning desire to rid the streets of all of the festival revellers, lest I be mistaken for one myself. I went and hid in a pub, and had a pint of Tetley's. I finally met Neil at about 5:30pm, feeling a little unwell, and unsure how I would cope with the deluge of drink to follow, given my headache, sore throat and general malaise. I hit upon an idea and switched to strong continental lager and never looked back.

It's reassuring when you meet a long-estranged acquaintance that rapport and shared values still exist. Neil and I caught up on a fair amount of lost history, and before we knew it things were back to old times, as we staggered into an indie club. The photographic evidence shows a tell-tale ice bucket, which hints at champagne. Neil's face shows the evidence of the fight he had with the bouncer, a very large gentleman who didn't seem to support our notion that careening from side to side of the dancefloor with bare-chests and our t-shirts on our heads was in fact the best way for all of the club goers to enjoy the evening. Neil didn't seem to agree that being told to reclothe ourselves for a second time was made more persuasive when the bouncer lifted him up by his neck. There were fisticuffs and threats, and my backpack was gently returned to me as we exitted the discotheque - apparenly barred for our dirty dancing.

The taxi driver who was resposible for delivering us to Neil's flat refused my kind offer to come in and have a Lemsip - I thought this might redress my kharmic debt for the many free lifts I have been blessed with from innocent members of the British public. The morning started with groans - Neil about his face and jaw, me because I'd missed my bus to Edinburgh and didn't feel very clever.

I feel much better now after spending seven hours on the bus I eventually did catch, bouncing around tiny roads trying to avoid being sick - a feat not matched or helped by the barfing toddler on the seat next to mine. Still, it took my mind off my head cold.

posted by Garreth at 1:06 PM

Quote of the week :  "Go and talk to him. He's much richer and far more interesting." - Neil, trying to fend off the advances of a girl apparently named 'Spro' in a nightclub with a stick and launching her at me.
posted by Garreth at 12:42 PM

8/19/2003

:  No-one had ever commended Bill Bryson's books to me before a few weeks ago when I started complaining about walking. When I subsequently asked people what they thought of his books, everyone confessed to owning some of his work and enjoying it. Someone even lent me one - 'Notes From a Small Island' - his reflections on wandering around Britain. It was hopefully not one of his best, but is certainly amusing and inciteful when he pauses from criticising architecture, or from repeating himself. At one stage he even writes at the end of one of his passages on architectural commentary, "But enough of this tedious bleating."

Bryson's writing did remind me that there are some quirky and enjoyable things about Britain, that are worth sampling before departing its shores for a while. So I went cycling round some nearby quaint villages, and joined the local Bingo club.
posted by Garreth at 8:10 AM

Hot Diggity :  If you're ever considering using your friend's juicer to concoct colourful and unique cocktails while providing a good source of vitamins and minerals for you both, then take heed.

Orange, apple, ginger, melon - all good with vodka.
Carrot and vodka - passable if combined with preceeding fruit.
Celery and vodka - disgusting but mildly amusing.

Even when disguised with other fruit and veg, celery is not best taken with vodka. This combination has the double kick of the calmly sadistic marshall artist. It hammers you twice, and leaves a distinctly unejoyable sension in the mouth and throat.

Too much experimenting in too little time caused me to black out and fall asleep on a sofa with the comforting cushions lying redundant on the floor. We never got onto liquidised hot dog sausage and vodka, and I've since had to flee the scene. If anyone has any positive experience with liquidised meat and alcohol concoctions, please let me know.
posted by Garreth at 8:04 AM

Stoodents :  I was wandering through the web today, and discovered a site put up by the undergraduate students of Christ Church college, Oxford. I was disappointed to see they are so self important that in the page dedicated to the college bar they have only photos of students. Everyone know that the real heroes and enduring characters are the staff who work there. That's who I want to see photos of, not some flash in the pan three year tennents of the place.
posted by Garreth at 7:30 AM

8/14/2003

Heavy Metal Adventure :  I was about to write off the American Adventure theme park as a run-down inland version of a dilapidated seaside amusement park. But then I got into JCB Land. The idea of driving a large machine with a hydraulic arm at first didn't appeal, especially given that the tracks are disabled as the whole thing is bolted to the floor. I believed the 'ride' offered nothing more than the chance to move dirt from one place to another. How wrong I was.

The JCBs on offer have large shovels on hydraulic arms, and you operate them from within a perspex cabin atop a pair of tank-style tracks. You can move big metal shapes into holes with these enormous beasts. Well most people can't, but it turns out that I have somewhat of a talent for it (after graduating from the moving dirt from one place to another section). I even got a crowd of fans, amazed at the daintiness with which I brandished a large iron triangle at the end of a JCB arm, before flipping it into the corresponding triangular hole.

If you, like me, enjoy hitting things and chopping stuff, this ride could be for you. You get to hit big things very hard. And I'm not just saying this because my brother works there, and got me free tickets to the park. The evidence is on my phone, on which there are several photos of me in bliss in a JCB. My pocket has carelessly decided to send these photos to Amy Accolla - the person unlocky enough to be the first in my phonebook. My pocket has a mind of it's own - must remember to lock the keypad when I leave my phone in there, before it starts dialling the Indian Speaking Clock.
posted by Garreth at 10:45 AM

8/12/2003

Rendezvous in Cockburnspath :  Yakunchja. After 18 days filled with solitary hiking, blisters, chocolate and cold Pot Noodles, there was a stunning moment at which the A1 came into view. In itself not that picturesque, but it signified only a few more humps to the east coast of Scotland. Climbing through one last forest, the sea was waiting for me, and a messy mobile home park. I got to the last waymark on the 212 mile (and then some) Southern Upland Way, but there were no throngs of cheering crowds, no flags were being waved. Even the television crews hadn't turned up. Perhaps it was because my trudging had sped up towards the end, and I was early. Maybe the television crews, like me, had been convinced that I was going to die of exposure on day two, and had written me off. They obviously hadn't been talking to the RAF pilots who had been following my progress as they performed their low level, terrain hugging flying exercises, flying around their tornados and harriers through valleys and between trees. One RAF pilot decided to say goodbye by flying right over my head at supersonic speed as I walked over the last open section of moorland. No, the military weren't keeping the media abreast of my progress.

It was up to me to celebrate the completion of the epic stroll alone, or perhaps with the company of a tipple or two. I hadn't even drunk so much as a snortorino since I had set off from Glasgow. While waiting for a train at Berwick Upon Tweed, I toyed with the idea of having a cheeky pint before I departed for Newcastle. Being in a room full of people, stale cigarette smoke and sticky carpets would be a good way to integrate me back into the society I had turned my back upon in the wilderness weeks. The purity of this thought was besmirched when I saw a skinny track-suited chava being searched and cautioned by the police. If this was society, where a man can't even go to a pub without a reminder of the bubbling undercurrent of social unrest, give me back my bothies in the wilderness.

I snorkeled in and out of consciousness on the train, suffering from a cocktail of exhaustion, relief, and sunstroke. I nevertheless felt pleased with my achievement, though I still can't figure out what I did it for. My subconscious has relegated it into that place where it keeps things that are hard and finished. I know this because last night I awoke with a start in a cold sweat. Four days later, I had dreamed that I still had three more days walking to get to Cockburnspath.
posted by Garreth at 6:02 AM

The walk in quotes :  "You should never have wet feet. They're your foundation for walking." - Hugh, as he sold me some walking boots, on day three of the trek.

"If you don't like walking, you can always go back to selling drugs in Pulp Fiction." - Mark from Scarborough.

"You might as well jump in a stream as soon as you start walking each day. Your feet are always going to get wet." - David who had spent six months walking the pilgrim trail to Spain, who wasn't selling me any boots.

"You've just bought new boots? That's mad. I've been wearing these boots in gradually for 18 months, and they're just about ready for a 200 mile walk. I'll drive you to the next town if you like." - Alex, stoner, who had somehow managed to get his car to within a mile of the bothy we were sharing.

"I come from North KiltTown too!" Willy, groundskeeper of Springfield Elementary.

"Hector, behave!" - David to his dog at 3am in a bothy, making me wonder what they do in dog training schools to teach the all encompassing command, "Behave!". Presumably they show videos to the dogs of other delinquent glue-sniffing dogs under railway bridges, and then wag there fingers as they shout it.

"Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of their women." - Conan B.

"We found a coffee shop at the museum in Wanlockhead. We're from Amsterdam, so of course we stopped in it. It wasn't like the ones back home though." - Mart the Dutchie.
posted by Garreth at 5:57 AM

Basil Rambo :  They have invented a new form of self sustaining cloud in Scotland. I know, because I spent three days in one around Wanlockhead, the highest village in Scotland at 425 metres above sea level. There's a radar station perched nearby on the tallest hill for miles. Apparently, it is an easily seen landmark, as it looks like a giant golf ball sitting on an enormous tee. People navigate by it from 10 miles away. Apparently. I didn't see the station until I walked within 100 metres of it. And that was pure luck, as the visibility rose briefly from the regular ten metres for half an hour.


In the newly developed perpetual cloud, gravity appears no longer relevant to the lifecycle of a rain drop. Not just your normal laser-guided high velocity horizontal rain is present. This is still in place, with the regular downwards drizzle. But raindrops actually gain height so that they can pelt you from absolutely every direction. The upward firing rain is driven by freak winds that manage to push against you in whichever direction you are walking. The rain can then regroup in the all encompassing cloud that smothers you, and either drop back as drizzle, or fire horizontally back at you.

I felt a bit like John Rambo at one point in Wanlockhead. (Have you ever noticed how close an anagram John Rambo is of Ron J. Malibho?) The only place that I could find sanctuary from the omni-directional projectile rain was in the abandoned lead mines. It was from this shelter that I could really appreciate the force and motion of the rain, as I stuffed a few ginger biscuits down my neck. It was also a good place to gesticulate and swear at the weather, bringing back memories of Basil Fawlty railing against God and his car. I felt sure that if there is a Geneva Convention about weapons and the way you should behave in a war, and the ways in which you are allowed to murder folk, there should be some ruling about clouds like this.

I eventually fled the mines and ran uphill to the youth hostel, where I spent much time in the drying room, waiting for a break in the clouds. The weather forecast was denounced as useless by the locals. They said helpful things like,
"It doesn't normally start raining until midday."
It obviously didn't count if it never stopped raining. I gave up waiting after three nights, and ventured out into the cloud once more, escaping it after six hours of walking.

posted by Garreth at 5:52 AM

8/04/2003

Typical Weekend :  On Saturday, I met the for the first time someone who had to join the Hitler Youth at the age of ten. He's a great man, and the only septuagenarian that I know that drives like the devil herself is on his tail. Lots of overtaking without hesitation on winding country lanes.
posted by Garreth at 4:39 AM

Brown paper packages tied up with string :  Here are a few of my favourite things: chopping wood, burning wood, fresh air, booze, fires, axes, unmentionables.

I got most of these things at Over Phawhope bothy. There was an added bonus in that the four Dutchies who are normally in such places murdering Oasis's 'Wonderwall' were not there. On the downside, this meant I couldn't burn their guitar as they slept, but on the upside, it meant I could listen to the fire crackle and spit, and melt lead coins on the stove in peace.
posted by Garreth at 4:26 AM

Tramping :  I was asleep in a bothy (stone shelter) when a walker opened the door and asked where the kitchen was. Next to the bleedin' sauna and snooker room I didn't reply. It must have taken a few seconds before my pungent trampy odour hit her nose, for she paused a moment before abruptly departing. The problem with only having one set of clothes is that it's very hard to wash both your clothes and your body at the same time, without having to streak from a luanderette to a shower. And then even if you do that, all of the grime on your backpack would still be there to soak back into your clothes if you didn't wash that at the same time.

What I'm proposing is a tramp dip. Fully clothed tramps, carrying all of their possessions can enter into the sterilising room of the tramp dip, where hot soapy foam is squirted at them and then blow dried off. A car wash would do. Must find a car wash. I haven't washed my hair in two weeks, but it's my birthday tomorrow, and I want to look and smell nice for the sheep I'll be spending it with.
posted by Garreth at 4:13 AM

Little Red Trudging Hood :  My borrowed coat gave up the ghost. It was no longer waterproof in the slightest, so I reluctantly went to an outdoors shop. The nice man asked me how much money I wanted to spend, hiding his disappointment well when I told him my price range. He guided me to the Highlander range, explaining the special offer, and then said that he only had them in red. When he said that, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked uneasy. I thought nothing of it at the time, and bought said red coat, relieved that I would be able to trudge across rain swept moors with a dry torso.

Insects now see a six foot tall poppy crossing a moor and attempt to pollinate me. This I can deal with. What I hadn't counted on was the moo cows. The male moo cows.

It was like the plot of my walk had been stolen from a 1980s video game. I had to climb a long hill on a winding path. Each turn of the path presented a new field. Each field was separated by a cattle grid. In the first field were large moo cows. I spent a fair while trying to look for udders. Do cows have horns? Are they cows or bulls? I skirted the largest groups and made it to the second level.

The second level had small cows with no udders. Bullocks, I thought to myself. I was thinking about how fleet of foot I could be with my backpack, and how I could dodge and weave if they charged. Which was all well and good, until three of them started running at me. I'd forgotten that animals could smell fear, as I stood rooted to the spot. This never happened in the bull fights I'd seen. And the guy normally had some help on horseback with drugged lances. And a sword and some spears. And no backpack strapped to their backs. And their red capes were never tied to the backpacks that they didn't have, rendering impossible any ducking and weaving.

A fash of inspiration hit me, and I pointed at the lead bullock and said, "No!" in the sternest voice I could muster. He stopped his advance abruptly, looking as puzzled as a bullock can. I repeated the command to his two cohorts, and they too stopped in their tracks. For a bit. Then the lead bullock started towards me again. It then became like a game of spinning plates. I'd command the nearest bovine to be still, and he'd remain stationery for a few seconds, while I halted the others. Finally I summoned the courage to turn my back on the three and walk off, attempting not to look back or hurry away.

I made it to the end of the second level, and saw a relatively empty field for level three. Until I got to the end of level cattle grid, where two large end of level boss bulls stood barring my way. I thought of Blazing Saddles and the scene where Mungo punches out a bison. I didn't fancy my chances, so wandered at the bulls trying not to maintain eye contact. I'd had enough of the game and hid my red coat in my backpack. Let Mungo have the glory.
posted by Garreth at 4:07 AM