Life can be incredibly random in what it gives you. Quite often it's bad - person gets hit by lightning, for example. But there's also little bits of life-affirming randomness that make you glad to be on this rock.
Today brought one. It begins with me lugging my bag onto the train heading up North from Manchester. I've not booked a ticket, so I just jump on the first carriage that looks like it has some spare seats. I find one and settle down to read a magazine I'd bought to help beat the tedium of travelling. Another Rolling Stones related cover for Mojo, ho-hum.
After a while, I begin checking out my fellow travellers. No screaming kids, thankfully. There's a young Japanese couple, maybe students, who look to be heading on holiday, judging by the amount of baggage they're lugging and that they look fairly excited (therefore not coming back). Suddenly, a blonde haired guy in glasses catches my eye.
"He looks just like Richard Butler," I think. I know he's been in the country, touring with the Psychedelic Furs, but why would he be on this train? I decide he must be some guy who just looks like him. Then I spot the man directly across the aisle.
"He looks just like Tim Butler", I think, this time with a bigger hint of excitement.
See, in my heart I'm always a music fan first. I may play in a band, I've written songs and played on stage, but I was a geek for the whole world before any of that. And as anyone who knows me will tell you, I love the Psychedelic Furs. Ask me to list my top 20 albums, and chances are Talk Talk Talk, Forever Now and Book of Days will be in there, and here's two of the guys responsible sat a few feet from me.
I've met musicians I've had huge respect for in the past, always in a journalist context. This allows me to be professional, prepared and able to keep my fanboy tendencies in check. But this - I'm almost in shock: my hands are shaking before I even get up. I stand up and pretend to be stretching my legs just to get a proper look. I always wondered how people who've had a bit of fame like strangers coming up to them, wanting time and attention. It must get annoying, but at the same time, I might never get a chance like this again. The universe has conspired to put me on the same train, on the same day in the same carriage as two people who have improved my life with their art. So, eventually:
"Sorry for bothering you, but are you Richard and Tim Butler?"
A lot of people have stories of meeting musicians, actors and writers they admire, who turn out to be complete dicks. I'm dreading this happening here.
"Yeah," comes the reply from Richard. But he's smiling and I feel like I'm 15 years old.
"I'm a huge fan," and I offer my hand, which they both shake. I don't even tell them my name, I just babble on for a bit of how I love their work, and tell Tim as a bassist, I really dig his playing. Turns out they're heading North to visit their mother. They ask where I'm from, and I say I'm off to visit my own parents, but I live in Manchester and moved there because there was nothing to do back home.
"So what's in Manchester?" asks Richard.
"Football, gigs, my girlfriend," I reply to which Richard laughs. I mention I'm in a band myself, but we're struggling to find a singer.
"It's usually the drummer," he says, before asking "Why don't you sing?
"I'm a bassist. I prefer standing at the back looking moody."
This makes Tim laugh: "There's an artform to that."
I have to ask whether they're doing another album: turns out Tim has written the music for one, but Richard needs to sort the lyrics out. Here's hoping he gets to work soon.
As Neil Finn said, "one of those times, wish I'd had a camera on me" yet I'm aware that I'm taking up their time from talking to the people they're with. So I shake their hands again and wish them a nice time over in the Dales. When they get off at Oxenholme station, they both bid me farewell, which made me smile like a goon. Naturally, I then pulled my mp3 player out, stuck on Love My Way and wish I had asked Tim Butler to show me the bass part sometime.
Oh, and they're both still handsome devils too.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Sunday, 8 July 2012
Monday, 18 June 2012
Go West, Young Man (Part Two)
If you come from a small town miles from anywhere, it's hard to shake the wide-eyed look you get when you visit a big city. Growing up, Carlisle seemed pretty cosmopolitan to someone like me: after all, it had a Our Price and a Virgin Records. Back home, we had the top 40 and some dodgy compilation albums in Woolworths.
London was naturally a whole different ball game, obviously, but I've never felt I got a handle on how big it is. Visits there limited themselves to the city centre, the suburbs only passing by in a blur on train journeys. Even the city itself was covered underground, oblivious to all above.
So when the plane approached LAX, the scene outside the plane window - luckily it was a clear day - was mind-blowing. Urban sprawl as far as I could see, a city on a scope beyond anything I'd seen before. Typical of the States, I guess, everything just having to be bigger.
Including my friend's apartment, which seemed huge to me. At the time, I was working as a journalist and living in a bedsit that could be best described as "a box" or "a complete shitheap", depending on your point of view. My host, who worked as a clerk in the DVD section of a record store, lived in a very spacious gaff with it's own underground parking space just off Hollywood Boulevard.
My first full day, we drove down to Santa Monica for my big moment. Going through Beverley Hills and Bel Air - it's perhaps naff to say, but it was such a thrill seeing places I'd only seen on TV. When we finally made it to the coast, I ran down to the waters edge and stared out over the Pacific Ocean. For some lanky gobshite from Whitehaven, it seemed I'd come a hell of a long way.
There's something about the Pacific that's hard to explain unless you've been there. A scene in Mad Men has Don Draper wade in its waters and emerge determined to be a new man, and when I saw that years after I'd been there myself, the scene resonated deeply. At the time, I looked out and thought "there's nothing out there but thousands of miles of blue until you hit Asia".
Then we went and had cocktails in Malibu.
After that, for the main part, I was left alone to do my own thing. My friend would head off to work in the morning and I'd leave and just head in some random direction, seeing what was around. Bumming round the middle of LA, checking out the art gallery. Wasting half a day gawping at the guitars in this huge music store on Santa Monica Boulevard.
It was there, I think, that I realised that American Culture was at heart, corrupt. In the middle of Hollywood, one of the major world centres for entertainment and people rich beyond my imagination would be people holding up signs begging not for money, but a job. I thought of that guy a lot, about how the system that was supposed to be best left so many on the scrapheap.
I also remember on my first wander walking down Hollywood and looking around with what must have been the look of an obvious tourist. A voice came from the ground next to me.
"LA, baby, LA!"
Some homeless dude beamed up on me. He must have seen hundreds, thousands of people like me, looking around with wonder. Films like Mullholland Drive make more sense once you've been there - the city is full of people out to try to make something of their lives. My friend knew plenty of time: aspiring musicians, actors and writers. Some of them seemed to be getting somewhere - a band who'd got a song on the soundtrack to some fairly big film, someone who'd got a book deal for their children's books.
They were encouraging when I mentioned I was trying to get a band together and even if they were just being friendly, it was nice to hear. When I was growing up, if you showed any kind of artistic slant, the reaction was usually "think yer fucken' special, eh?" followed by repeated accusations that my sexual preferences might be more in favour of males.
Going back to the whole American = big aspect.You ask for a bowl of chips (alright, fries) with your beer while watching a game, you get a huge plate of the things.
That action also brought one, umm, uncomfortable moment. On being delivered a burger and fries in some diner place with my friend and some of her colleagues, I proceeded to grab the vinegar to drown those spuds as is my ilk. Sadly, it wasn't what I thought it was and instead a load of syrup glooped on my food. Odd looks were abound, naturally, but for some reason I decided I couldn't look stupid and instead, smiling, ate my somewhat sweetened fries, much to the bafflement of everyone else.
In a flash, it was all over and I was back at LAX, drinking crap beer and seeing England beat the USA at football. The return flight was a slog and I learnt an important fact: jet lag fucks you up.
London was naturally a whole different ball game, obviously, but I've never felt I got a handle on how big it is. Visits there limited themselves to the city centre, the suburbs only passing by in a blur on train journeys. Even the city itself was covered underground, oblivious to all above.
So when the plane approached LAX, the scene outside the plane window - luckily it was a clear day - was mind-blowing. Urban sprawl as far as I could see, a city on a scope beyond anything I'd seen before. Typical of the States, I guess, everything just having to be bigger.
Including my friend's apartment, which seemed huge to me. At the time, I was working as a journalist and living in a bedsit that could be best described as "a box" or "a complete shitheap", depending on your point of view. My host, who worked as a clerk in the DVD section of a record store, lived in a very spacious gaff with it's own underground parking space just off Hollywood Boulevard.
My first full day, we drove down to Santa Monica for my big moment. Going through Beverley Hills and Bel Air - it's perhaps naff to say, but it was such a thrill seeing places I'd only seen on TV. When we finally made it to the coast, I ran down to the waters edge and stared out over the Pacific Ocean. For some lanky gobshite from Whitehaven, it seemed I'd come a hell of a long way.
There's something about the Pacific that's hard to explain unless you've been there. A scene in Mad Men has Don Draper wade in its waters and emerge determined to be a new man, and when I saw that years after I'd been there myself, the scene resonated deeply. At the time, I looked out and thought "there's nothing out there but thousands of miles of blue until you hit Asia".
Then we went and had cocktails in Malibu.
After that, for the main part, I was left alone to do my own thing. My friend would head off to work in the morning and I'd leave and just head in some random direction, seeing what was around. Bumming round the middle of LA, checking out the art gallery. Wasting half a day gawping at the guitars in this huge music store on Santa Monica Boulevard.
It was there, I think, that I realised that American Culture was at heart, corrupt. In the middle of Hollywood, one of the major world centres for entertainment and people rich beyond my imagination would be people holding up signs begging not for money, but a job. I thought of that guy a lot, about how the system that was supposed to be best left so many on the scrapheap.
I also remember on my first wander walking down Hollywood and looking around with what must have been the look of an obvious tourist. A voice came from the ground next to me.
"LA, baby, LA!"
Some homeless dude beamed up on me. He must have seen hundreds, thousands of people like me, looking around with wonder. Films like Mullholland Drive make more sense once you've been there - the city is full of people out to try to make something of their lives. My friend knew plenty of time: aspiring musicians, actors and writers. Some of them seemed to be getting somewhere - a band who'd got a song on the soundtrack to some fairly big film, someone who'd got a book deal for their children's books.
They were encouraging when I mentioned I was trying to get a band together and even if they were just being friendly, it was nice to hear. When I was growing up, if you showed any kind of artistic slant, the reaction was usually "think yer fucken' special, eh?" followed by repeated accusations that my sexual preferences might be more in favour of males.
Going back to the whole American = big aspect.You ask for a bowl of chips (alright, fries) with your beer while watching a game, you get a huge plate of the things.
That action also brought one, umm, uncomfortable moment. On being delivered a burger and fries in some diner place with my friend and some of her colleagues, I proceeded to grab the vinegar to drown those spuds as is my ilk. Sadly, it wasn't what I thought it was and instead a load of syrup glooped on my food. Odd looks were abound, naturally, but for some reason I decided I couldn't look stupid and instead, smiling, ate my somewhat sweetened fries, much to the bafflement of everyone else.
In a flash, it was all over and I was back at LAX, drinking crap beer and seeing England beat the USA at football. The return flight was a slog and I learnt an important fact: jet lag fucks you up.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Go West, Young Man (Part One)
When I came to Manchester in the summer of 2004, I remember I had three ambitions:
a) Form a band, play a gig
b) Get a job as a journalist
c) See the Pacific Ocean
The first one took a while, but come February 2007, I'd done it. The second one I achieved first, my first day in that occupation being my 24th birthday, then a few months later I found myself zooming over the Atlantic Ocean to Los Angeles. How did that come about?
The first factor making it possible was that I had a friend living in Hollywood. We'd met online when I was a young neer-do-well wasting time in some music chat room. We got talking: she was 12 years older than I and I think she felt sorry for the huge gaps in my musical knowledge. From henceforth came a steady stream of bands to check out - the Jesus and Mary Chain, Mazzy Star, Ride, Galaxie 500, the House of Love and so on. She'd seen all these bands, too, and compared to mine, her life seemed incredibly glamorous. In any case, she said if I ever wanted to visit LA, I'd be welcome to crash in her apartment.
In terms of raising the cash to get there, a few months after moving to Manchester I'd managed to snare a three month position doing admin for a big company. I'd put a bit aside, but the main boost was that when April came around, I worked out I was due several hundred pounds back in tax. Enough to pay for a ticket. Arrangements were made and so it was that seven years ago, I finally made first use of a passport I'd gotten six years previously.
People who know me well will tell you I hate travelling. As someone who on a bad day can have a panic attack about getting on a bus, this should have been a big deal. But somehow the incredible excitement of the whole affair overcome any nerves - on the flight, I was joyous to get a window seat, which paid off big time as it was a clear day seemingly across my entire flightpath.
There was also free drinks, and within 30 minutes of being airborne, I had my first Jack Daniels and Coke in hand while enjoying Spongebob Squarepants: The Movie for the first of three times. I also timed one of my frequent walks well enough to see the frozen Greenland out the other side of the plane. Then there were the glaciers of Northern Canada! The badlands of the States - flat deserts with Roman-straight roads, on which I could just make out tiny trucks on their lonely drives. My mind, as they say, was blown.
The journey was nine hours or so, but it seemed much shorter. The massive urban sprawl of LA was soon below me and despite the amount of alcohol I'd knocked back, I was perfectly clear headed enough to still be buzzing with excitement despite having not slept in over a day. In the airport, I'd been warned of ultra-tight security, but it seemed like I was outside with my bags in about 30 minutes.
Then, panic. I couldn't find my friend. Though we'd not met, I knew what she looked like and in any case, I'm pretty hard to miss. Wandering round for a minute, some beefy guy stops me.
"Hey, hey, been looking for ya."
I look back, blankly. I suddenly feel like I'm six years old again, lost from my mother.
"Was told to meet some tall white guy..." He adds.
I'm getting close to terrified now. Then he bursts into warm laughter.
"Just messin' with ya, man."
Turns out he's collecting for some charity, taking any spare currency travellers might have. I have about £2.50 in loose change which I hand over. He's impressed (for some reason) that I'm English, shakes my hand and leaves. I feel like my knees will give way and my whole body screams relief when my friend shows up.
In her car, we ease out of the airport and onto the Interstate 101, heading North to Hollywood. She turns on the radio and Crash by the Primitives blasts out. We both sing along and I know it's going to be the best two weeks of my life coming up.
a) Form a band, play a gig
b) Get a job as a journalist
c) See the Pacific Ocean
The first one took a while, but come February 2007, I'd done it. The second one I achieved first, my first day in that occupation being my 24th birthday, then a few months later I found myself zooming over the Atlantic Ocean to Los Angeles. How did that come about?
The first factor making it possible was that I had a friend living in Hollywood. We'd met online when I was a young neer-do-well wasting time in some music chat room. We got talking: she was 12 years older than I and I think she felt sorry for the huge gaps in my musical knowledge. From henceforth came a steady stream of bands to check out - the Jesus and Mary Chain, Mazzy Star, Ride, Galaxie 500, the House of Love and so on. She'd seen all these bands, too, and compared to mine, her life seemed incredibly glamorous. In any case, she said if I ever wanted to visit LA, I'd be welcome to crash in her apartment.
In terms of raising the cash to get there, a few months after moving to Manchester I'd managed to snare a three month position doing admin for a big company. I'd put a bit aside, but the main boost was that when April came around, I worked out I was due several hundred pounds back in tax. Enough to pay for a ticket. Arrangements were made and so it was that seven years ago, I finally made first use of a passport I'd gotten six years previously.
People who know me well will tell you I hate travelling. As someone who on a bad day can have a panic attack about getting on a bus, this should have been a big deal. But somehow the incredible excitement of the whole affair overcome any nerves - on the flight, I was joyous to get a window seat, which paid off big time as it was a clear day seemingly across my entire flightpath.
There was also free drinks, and within 30 minutes of being airborne, I had my first Jack Daniels and Coke in hand while enjoying Spongebob Squarepants: The Movie for the first of three times. I also timed one of my frequent walks well enough to see the frozen Greenland out the other side of the plane. Then there were the glaciers of Northern Canada! The badlands of the States - flat deserts with Roman-straight roads, on which I could just make out tiny trucks on their lonely drives. My mind, as they say, was blown.
The journey was nine hours or so, but it seemed much shorter. The massive urban sprawl of LA was soon below me and despite the amount of alcohol I'd knocked back, I was perfectly clear headed enough to still be buzzing with excitement despite having not slept in over a day. In the airport, I'd been warned of ultra-tight security, but it seemed like I was outside with my bags in about 30 minutes.
Then, panic. I couldn't find my friend. Though we'd not met, I knew what she looked like and in any case, I'm pretty hard to miss. Wandering round for a minute, some beefy guy stops me.
"Hey, hey, been looking for ya."
I look back, blankly. I suddenly feel like I'm six years old again, lost from my mother.
"Was told to meet some tall white guy..." He adds.
I'm getting close to terrified now. Then he bursts into warm laughter.
"Just messin' with ya, man."
Turns out he's collecting for some charity, taking any spare currency travellers might have. I have about £2.50 in loose change which I hand over. He's impressed (for some reason) that I'm English, shakes my hand and leaves. I feel like my knees will give way and my whole body screams relief when my friend shows up.
In her car, we ease out of the airport and onto the Interstate 101, heading North to Hollywood. She turns on the radio and Crash by the Primitives blasts out. We both sing along and I know it's going to be the best two weeks of my life coming up.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Heading Out To The West Coast
Despite saying in my piece on Warren Zevon a couple of months ago that I had no interest in the Los Angeles music scene of the 1970s, the city itself has always had a strong allure to me.
Naturally, the whole of the States can have that to those of us left behind in the old world. Though reality always brings us back down, the vastness of America has a huge romantic pull on us. Places just sound better over there, hence why you can't really write a song about Leeds as easily as you can New York or San Jose.
I was lucky enough to spend a couple of weeks in LA six years ago. I'd moved to Manchester and managed, for the first time in my life, to earn enough money so that I had enough to treat myself. Then when I got a couple of hundred quid on a tax rebate, a friend out there suggested I pay a visit. So I did, via a pleasant journey where I knocked back enough free Jack Daniels to ease any nerves and enable me to watch The Spongebob Squarepants Movie about three times in a row and still laugh everytime.
Flying across Canada/the States allows you to appreciate just how huge it is. From ice fields to deserts, it seemed to go on forever. I was lucky it was a clear day, and looking down could see the roads below populated with trucks hauling across the Roman-straight roads. When we finally prepared to land at LAX Airport, the city below was beyond anything I'd seen below. Sure, Manchester is fairly big, and London is obviously massive, but Los Angeles was something else.
The two weeks that followed were nothing but golden. A lot of people aren't too keen on the city, but this occasional traveller felt right at home. I remember the first song I heard on the radio when being driven to my temporary accommodation was Crash by the Primitives, which was very cool and set the tone nicely. For perhaps the first and only time in my life, I acted like a proper tourist, a mindset aided by the fact I was crashing in an apartment in Hollywood. Strolling down Sunset Boulevard, I couldn't help but gawp at landmarks I'd seen in TV and film.
Not that I viewed the place with over-idealistic eyes. Two of my favourite films, L.A. Confidential and To Live and Die In L.A. show the seediness that lurks in any town - though what grabbed me more was a guy stood at a roadside with a piece of cardboard asking not for money, but a job. It's been said many times before, but the contrast between that guy and the millionaires living round the corner in Beverley Hills was jarring.
Being brought up on the coast, I've long had a thing about staring out over the water and drifting into daydreams. Sat on the beach at Santa Monica, looking out over the Pacific and knowing there was little between me and Japan, I felt a kind of peace I've been trying to catch up with ever since.
Just about the only downside of my whole trip that comes to mind is that we went to see the Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy film, before which I bigged up the genius of Douglas Adams. Sadly, it was complete and utter cack of the highest order, leaving her to question my reputation as a man of good taste.
Luckily, I was able to redeem myself by spending a huge chunk of my cash at Amoeba Records, where she worked, on albums that had been hard-to-find back home. Babe Rainbow and A Spy In The House of Love by the House of Love and Flipping Out by Gigolo Aunts all got the nod of approval from the woman who years earlier had steered me in the right musical direction by taping albums by Mazzy Star and the Jesus and Mary Chain for me.
When I got back, I ended up growing my hair out to try and look like the Dude from The Big Lebowki, an experiment I'm not sure really worked. I've not been back out west since, sadly, though I always mean to as an ambition of mine is to drive up the coastline in an open topped Cadillac (like Don Draper in that episode of Mad Men), or at the very least a Dodge Challenger like Kowalski went crazy with in Vanishing Point. New York? You can keep it. My heart belongs to the Pacific.
Naturally, the whole of the States can have that to those of us left behind in the old world. Though reality always brings us back down, the vastness of America has a huge romantic pull on us. Places just sound better over there, hence why you can't really write a song about Leeds as easily as you can New York or San Jose.
I was lucky enough to spend a couple of weeks in LA six years ago. I'd moved to Manchester and managed, for the first time in my life, to earn enough money so that I had enough to treat myself. Then when I got a couple of hundred quid on a tax rebate, a friend out there suggested I pay a visit. So I did, via a pleasant journey where I knocked back enough free Jack Daniels to ease any nerves and enable me to watch The Spongebob Squarepants Movie about three times in a row and still laugh everytime.
Flying across Canada/the States allows you to appreciate just how huge it is. From ice fields to deserts, it seemed to go on forever. I was lucky it was a clear day, and looking down could see the roads below populated with trucks hauling across the Roman-straight roads. When we finally prepared to land at LAX Airport, the city below was beyond anything I'd seen below. Sure, Manchester is fairly big, and London is obviously massive, but Los Angeles was something else.
The two weeks that followed were nothing but golden. A lot of people aren't too keen on the city, but this occasional traveller felt right at home. I remember the first song I heard on the radio when being driven to my temporary accommodation was Crash by the Primitives, which was very cool and set the tone nicely. For perhaps the first and only time in my life, I acted like a proper tourist, a mindset aided by the fact I was crashing in an apartment in Hollywood. Strolling down Sunset Boulevard, I couldn't help but gawp at landmarks I'd seen in TV and film.
Not that I viewed the place with over-idealistic eyes. Two of my favourite films, L.A. Confidential and To Live and Die In L.A. show the seediness that lurks in any town - though what grabbed me more was a guy stood at a roadside with a piece of cardboard asking not for money, but a job. It's been said many times before, but the contrast between that guy and the millionaires living round the corner in Beverley Hills was jarring.
Being brought up on the coast, I've long had a thing about staring out over the water and drifting into daydreams. Sat on the beach at Santa Monica, looking out over the Pacific and knowing there was little between me and Japan, I felt a kind of peace I've been trying to catch up with ever since.
Just about the only downside of my whole trip that comes to mind is that we went to see the Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy film, before which I bigged up the genius of Douglas Adams. Sadly, it was complete and utter cack of the highest order, leaving her to question my reputation as a man of good taste.
Luckily, I was able to redeem myself by spending a huge chunk of my cash at Amoeba Records, where she worked, on albums that had been hard-to-find back home. Babe Rainbow and A Spy In The House of Love by the House of Love and Flipping Out by Gigolo Aunts all got the nod of approval from the woman who years earlier had steered me in the right musical direction by taping albums by Mazzy Star and the Jesus and Mary Chain for me.
When I got back, I ended up growing my hair out to try and look like the Dude from The Big Lebowki, an experiment I'm not sure really worked. I've not been back out west since, sadly, though I always mean to as an ambition of mine is to drive up the coastline in an open topped Cadillac (like Don Draper in that episode of Mad Men), or at the very least a Dodge Challenger like Kowalski went crazy with in Vanishing Point. New York? You can keep it. My heart belongs to the Pacific.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Wanderings of Mind and Body
Here are the countries I have visited: France, Spain, United States of America, Portugal, Germany, Estonia, Latvia, Denmark and Finland. Now, after the weekend just passed, I can add Sweden to the list.
Hardly a list to shame Alan Whicker, I know, and some of those were for some very brief stays. France, for example, was a day trip to Calais when I was four years old. But it all counts, right? In any case, I spent the weekend up in Sweden due to the nuptials of my good friend of long standing, Mr David Coleman of noripcord.com, and his good lady Emma. Naturally, a good time was had by all though it's perhaps telling that my first words to him on arriving on Friday were "do you know anywhere to see the United game on Sunday?" (He didn't, but we managed to find somewhere in the end. Hurrah!)
Like most of Northern Europe, Sweden looks stunning. Forests and rivers abound, with the only noise at times the odd rattle of a passing train. It was interesting to contrast the way of life with that in England: for instance, no pubs in the village we were stopping in. No nearby place to stock up on beers either. It seems it's a different attitude to drinking over there. A better one? Perhaps so, given that Sweden has one of the highest qualities of life in the world.
That said, it did cause some concerns in the visiting English party, being the brazen pissheads we are over here. Luckily. the bride and groom had foreseen this problem and stocked up with plenty of strong Danish beer. At the wedding reception, the locals appeared to prefer to knock back the local Snaps, which comes complete with songs to recite before you knock it back, which made me a little sad I couldn't stand the stuff.
Modern travelling by its nature gives you a lot of time to think, as you spend way too much time sat around airports waiting. Eventually boredom creeps in and you feel like you're going to breakdown and sob to a nearby security guard that you just want to get home. So your mind wanders:
- Such as, who the fuck buys pornography at an airport? The WH Smiths in Copenhagen had a load of English wank mags on sale. I couldn't help but think someone would have to be really desperate for a session with Madame Palm and her Sisters to buy one for the equivilant for ten quid and (presumably) dash off to the bogs, otherwise you'd just wait till you got to your destination, surely?
- For some reason, I was reminded of the recent death of Nickolas Ashford. Along with Valerie Simpson, he wrote a series of songs that were performed as duets by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Listening back to a few of those that I have on MP3 player, I'm convinced that they're the best duets ever recorded. In Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing alone, there's about three moments that I can skip back and listen to on repeat for about five minutes - check out the shift from the verse to the "No other sound..." section around 1min 16 seconds. Songwriting and delivery par excellence. Oh, and Solid was pretty great too.
- There should be some sort of arrangement that children under the age of eight should only be allowed on selected flights. Then they can all scream at each other and not bother the rest of us. Yes, I know I'm being a miser on this one, but some kid across the aisle repeatedly screeching "NO!" got on my tits after a while. Though maybe we should blame the parents, as I doubt my mother would have let me get away with that.
- Incidentally, the kid was wearing a t-shirt that said "I Love Cpn" (the love being a heart symbol). Harmless enough, but the label at the bottom of the shirt said "Just another fucking t-shirt". Now, I don't want to come across as being a bit Daily Mail, but that strikes me as a bit off. Not only the mother buying it, but the company selling it.
In conclusion, when are they going to invent those transporter things that they used in Star Trek? I like seeing new places and all that, it's just the actual getting there and back that drives me to the edge of my nerves.
Hardly a list to shame Alan Whicker, I know, and some of those were for some very brief stays. France, for example, was a day trip to Calais when I was four years old. But it all counts, right? In any case, I spent the weekend up in Sweden due to the nuptials of my good friend of long standing, Mr David Coleman of noripcord.com, and his good lady Emma. Naturally, a good time was had by all though it's perhaps telling that my first words to him on arriving on Friday were "do you know anywhere to see the United game on Sunday?" (He didn't, but we managed to find somewhere in the end. Hurrah!)
Like most of Northern Europe, Sweden looks stunning. Forests and rivers abound, with the only noise at times the odd rattle of a passing train. It was interesting to contrast the way of life with that in England: for instance, no pubs in the village we were stopping in. No nearby place to stock up on beers either. It seems it's a different attitude to drinking over there. A better one? Perhaps so, given that Sweden has one of the highest qualities of life in the world.
That said, it did cause some concerns in the visiting English party, being the brazen pissheads we are over here. Luckily. the bride and groom had foreseen this problem and stocked up with plenty of strong Danish beer. At the wedding reception, the locals appeared to prefer to knock back the local Snaps, which comes complete with songs to recite before you knock it back, which made me a little sad I couldn't stand the stuff.
Modern travelling by its nature gives you a lot of time to think, as you spend way too much time sat around airports waiting. Eventually boredom creeps in and you feel like you're going to breakdown and sob to a nearby security guard that you just want to get home. So your mind wanders:
- Such as, who the fuck buys pornography at an airport? The WH Smiths in Copenhagen had a load of English wank mags on sale. I couldn't help but think someone would have to be really desperate for a session with Madame Palm and her Sisters to buy one for the equivilant for ten quid and (presumably) dash off to the bogs, otherwise you'd just wait till you got to your destination, surely?
- For some reason, I was reminded of the recent death of Nickolas Ashford. Along with Valerie Simpson, he wrote a series of songs that were performed as duets by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Listening back to a few of those that I have on MP3 player, I'm convinced that they're the best duets ever recorded. In Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing alone, there's about three moments that I can skip back and listen to on repeat for about five minutes - check out the shift from the verse to the "No other sound..." section around 1min 16 seconds. Songwriting and delivery par excellence. Oh, and Solid was pretty great too.
- There should be some sort of arrangement that children under the age of eight should only be allowed on selected flights. Then they can all scream at each other and not bother the rest of us. Yes, I know I'm being a miser on this one, but some kid across the aisle repeatedly screeching "NO!" got on my tits after a while. Though maybe we should blame the parents, as I doubt my mother would have let me get away with that.
- Incidentally, the kid was wearing a t-shirt that said "I Love Cpn" (the love being a heart symbol). Harmless enough, but the label at the bottom of the shirt said "Just another fucking t-shirt". Now, I don't want to come across as being a bit Daily Mail, but that strikes me as a bit off. Not only the mother buying it, but the company selling it.
In conclusion, when are they going to invent those transporter things that they used in Star Trek? I like seeing new places and all that, it's just the actual getting there and back that drives me to the edge of my nerves.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
In the City
Whilst spending a few hours in Helsinki last week, I wondered how long it takes for you to really get to know a place.
After getting off the boat from Tallinn along with numerous people lugging cheap Estonian booze on trolleys, my few hours in Finland's capital gave the impression of a place that I could easily chill out in. Weirdly, the city seemed absolutely overwhelmed by emo kids - never in one place had I seen so many teenagers dressed in ridiculous looking jeans, t-shirts of bands I'd never heard of and with half a tin of chemicals in their hair.
Which brings me back to my original point: is Helsinki like that all the time, or did I just pick a day where it happened to be so? Maybe there was a gig on that evening.
Despite being only a two hour boat ride (or 20 minute flight), it's a very different city to Tallinn. A lot larger, for one thing, but also more 'familiar' to my English eyes, which I initially attributed to a lack of a Soviet-era influence. Another aspect was that Helsinki seems to be more multi-cultural in terms of it's population, much like Manchester. Weirdly, when asking for directions to the bus station, and then the train station, both the women I asked were American.
Coming from a small town in the back end of nowhere, most cities have always seemed that much more huge to me, which can put me off. London, for example, is somewhere I'll quite happily never go to again. Manchester is different, perhaps as it's much more compact - you can walk across the city centre in no time - which gives it a slightly more easygoing feel, knowing you can get out and into sticks in not too much time. Helsinki felt a little like this, enough to make me curious enough to maybe consider spending a few days more there.
Finally, I did have one unpleasant experience, whilst at the airport. Bored, with time to hill and euro coins to spend, I went to buy a pack of sweets. All the labels said nothing to me, so I picked one at random, hoping to some Haribo-esque teeth rotting delights. Microseconds after putting one in my mouth, I realised I'd bought a pack of the Finnish equivalent of Bassett's Allsorts. Urgh. And as you know, it takes fucking hours to get that taste out of your mouth.
After getting off the boat from Tallinn along with numerous people lugging cheap Estonian booze on trolleys, my few hours in Finland's capital gave the impression of a place that I could easily chill out in. Weirdly, the city seemed absolutely overwhelmed by emo kids - never in one place had I seen so many teenagers dressed in ridiculous looking jeans, t-shirts of bands I'd never heard of and with half a tin of chemicals in their hair.
Which brings me back to my original point: is Helsinki like that all the time, or did I just pick a day where it happened to be so? Maybe there was a gig on that evening.
Despite being only a two hour boat ride (or 20 minute flight), it's a very different city to Tallinn. A lot larger, for one thing, but also more 'familiar' to my English eyes, which I initially attributed to a lack of a Soviet-era influence. Another aspect was that Helsinki seems to be more multi-cultural in terms of it's population, much like Manchester. Weirdly, when asking for directions to the bus station, and then the train station, both the women I asked were American.
Coming from a small town in the back end of nowhere, most cities have always seemed that much more huge to me, which can put me off. London, for example, is somewhere I'll quite happily never go to again. Manchester is different, perhaps as it's much more compact - you can walk across the city centre in no time - which gives it a slightly more easygoing feel, knowing you can get out and into sticks in not too much time. Helsinki felt a little like this, enough to make me curious enough to maybe consider spending a few days more there.
Finally, I did have one unpleasant experience, whilst at the airport. Bored, with time to hill and euro coins to spend, I went to buy a pack of sweets. All the labels said nothing to me, so I picked one at random, hoping to some Haribo-esque teeth rotting delights. Microseconds after putting one in my mouth, I realised I'd bought a pack of the Finnish equivalent of Bassett's Allsorts. Urgh. And as you know, it takes fucking hours to get that taste out of your mouth.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Summer Holiday
So, alas, I have returned. Back in England, where skies are grey. My first 'real' summer holiday since 2005 is over, leaving me to attempt to cling onto memories to tell myself I'd managed to break from the norm for a few days.
I'd travelled to Estonia several times previously, and enjoyed the fairly chilled out nature that perhaps comes with having only a million and a half people in an area the size of the Netherlands. Plus the beer is ace. What I hadn't fully anticipated was the freakish heatwave that has stormed over Northern Europe. Temperatures in the 30s have been common place for a few weeks now, which isn't great when 90% of your wardrobe is black and it's a good idea to keep your legs covered up less people are mentally scarred by the sight of them.
Though my first night saw a huge rain storm and a thunder/lightning storm (always good at unsettling me), the next day saw the sun give all it had, which it continued to do so. Having not experienced that kind of heat in about 15 years, it certainly made for some hard work walking out around in the daytime.
By accident more than design, my time in the towns of Pärnu and Viljandi was marked by next to no access to the internet, meaning my only news source was from CNN, which is always good for a laugh. Though not spending hours in my hotel room watching TV, I did enjoy two particular shows: one was a old cartoon that featured no speech, but seemed to be the product of a deranged imagination that had been through one bad acid trip too many.
Secondly, I caught some package showing what I assumed were the Estonian pop highlights of 1983. Judging by this, prog rock went down very well in those parts. A particular highlight was this little number:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4BOXkPACS4&feature=related
I'd love to know if the magnifying glass is relevant to the song or just some bizarre idea the video director had. Always interesting to listen to songs in a style you're familiar with (i.e. rock) but have not the faintest idea what is being sung about.
To move on in another direction, I'm not the most travelled bod around. The list of countries I have visited reads Spain, Portugal, France (for a day), Germany, USA, Latvia (for a day), Estonia and Finland (again, for a day), but it did occur to me how much Britain seems 'different' from the rest of the Europe. Though every European country is naturally different from the others, there does seem to be a common 'vibe' (for want of a better word) that isn't evident at home. Of course, this could just be the sense of not being in the land of the familiar, or that they drive on the other side of the road.
Perhaps this is why I face down my fears of travel, to be somewhere different. There's a lot to be said for sitting under a tree in the middle of the ruins of a 14th century Estonian castle, staring up to a sky populated by a solitary cloud, hearing nothing but the chirruping of insects and letting your thoughts go wherever. Living in a city as big as Manchester, finding such moments is a rarity.
Then, before you know it, you're back home on the 43 bus from the airport, sitting behind a couple wasted from the Friday night session while all you want is to not be there for a little while longer.
I'd travelled to Estonia several times previously, and enjoyed the fairly chilled out nature that perhaps comes with having only a million and a half people in an area the size of the Netherlands. Plus the beer is ace. What I hadn't fully anticipated was the freakish heatwave that has stormed over Northern Europe. Temperatures in the 30s have been common place for a few weeks now, which isn't great when 90% of your wardrobe is black and it's a good idea to keep your legs covered up less people are mentally scarred by the sight of them.
Though my first night saw a huge rain storm and a thunder/lightning storm (always good at unsettling me), the next day saw the sun give all it had, which it continued to do so. Having not experienced that kind of heat in about 15 years, it certainly made for some hard work walking out around in the daytime.
By accident more than design, my time in the towns of Pärnu and Viljandi was marked by next to no access to the internet, meaning my only news source was from CNN, which is always good for a laugh. Though not spending hours in my hotel room watching TV, I did enjoy two particular shows: one was a old cartoon that featured no speech, but seemed to be the product of a deranged imagination that had been through one bad acid trip too many.
Secondly, I caught some package showing what I assumed were the Estonian pop highlights of 1983. Judging by this, prog rock went down very well in those parts. A particular highlight was this little number:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4BOXkPACS4&feature=related
I'd love to know if the magnifying glass is relevant to the song or just some bizarre idea the video director had. Always interesting to listen to songs in a style you're familiar with (i.e. rock) but have not the faintest idea what is being sung about.
To move on in another direction, I'm not the most travelled bod around. The list of countries I have visited reads Spain, Portugal, France (for a day), Germany, USA, Latvia (for a day), Estonia and Finland (again, for a day), but it did occur to me how much Britain seems 'different' from the rest of the Europe. Though every European country is naturally different from the others, there does seem to be a common 'vibe' (for want of a better word) that isn't evident at home. Of course, this could just be the sense of not being in the land of the familiar, or that they drive on the other side of the road.
Perhaps this is why I face down my fears of travel, to be somewhere different. There's a lot to be said for sitting under a tree in the middle of the ruins of a 14th century Estonian castle, staring up to a sky populated by a solitary cloud, hearing nothing but the chirruping of insects and letting your thoughts go wherever. Living in a city as big as Manchester, finding such moments is a rarity.
Then, before you know it, you're back home on the 43 bus from the airport, sitting behind a couple wasted from the Friday night session while all you want is to not be there for a little while longer.
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