Dynargh dhe'n Blogofrob

Tuesday 10th October 2006

Actually sod the V Festival (my Dad's asked me to stop swearing so much on the blog, so I've said "sod" instead of "fuck"). It was good fun, but I can't muster a full blog. We drank quite a lot of cider and enjoyed some great music - James Dean Bradfield, Beck and Radiohead stick out.

On the first day it rained quite a lot and we had to pay £10 to find out who was playing where and then queue in the drizzle for 40 minutes for beer tokens. It also turned out that Rhys, who I had planned to meet near the second stage, was actually to be found by the second stage at the Chelmsford site rather than the one in Staffordshire where I was patiently waiting. But after that unpromising start, things got markedly better after JDB appeared on stage, looked down on the small damp crowd that had assembled to watch him and said, "You poor soaked bastards". It made a nice change from the Artful Dodger posturings of Richard Archer off Hard-Fi, who strutted around the stage like a Thunderbirds puppet, exclaiming, "We're 'ard-Fi from West Lahndahn" (no, you're from Staines in Surrey), before telling us that we weren't going to let the rain get us down. Speak for yourself mate, you're not stood out here watching a bunch of twats ponce around on a covered stage before heading into the VIP area towards heat and towels and queue-free bars and groupies and drugs.

But V was good. Though hopefully back to Glastonbury next year. For now, I've got to post something about North Korea before events totally overtake me and Kim Yong Il (as newsreaders irritatingly and unnecessarily call him) zips up his boiler suit, bouffs his hair and shouts, "Shibal nom, Geseki" (sorry Dad) before repeatedly stabbing a stubby finger down on his new shiny red button.

Claire's photos from the V Festival can be found here.

97 - posted at 13:20:44
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Monday 2nd October 2006

The "I've peaked and I'm kidding myself" party

Hi. I'm, uh, I'm a pet psychiatrist. I sell couch insurance. Mm-hmm, and I, and I test-market positive thinking. I lead a weekend men's group, we specialise in ritual killings. Yeah, you look great! God, yeah! Hi, how are you? Hi, how are you?

Ten years! Ten short, blink and you'll miss 'em years. There was a five year school reunion. That was five years ago. Not five minutes, which is what it seems like. So, on Saturday, in a dark room above a very sloaney pub on the King's Road, we all circled each other politely, discussing nothing in particular except maybe how quickly a decade has passed and how weird that girl's hair now looks. It wasn't really as if everybody had swelled. There were a few larger waistlines, a few balder heads. There were people who said, "Hello Rob," who I swear I had never laid eyes on before. There was someone who greeted me with, "Hello Alex". There were lots of lawyers and accountants. It was vaguely entertaining. But I wasn't expecting to be vaguely entertained. I was expecting shakabuku. Unfortunately, I'm no Martin Blank.

Once, when filling out an application form, I was faced with the slightly unusual question, "If you could be any character from a film, who would you be and why?" I wrote:

Martin Blank, from Grosse Pointe Blank. He carries out his work quickly and efficiently, and, although undertaking his tasks individually, he recognises the need to work alongside others at times and the value of good support staff. He also dresses very well.

Given that this was an application to a law firm, the answer was ill-judged (actually the whole application process was ill-judged but I don't want to dwell on that). Martin Blank kills people for a living. He also has obsessive tendencies and is heavily reliant on his therapist, despite having been fired as a patient. I didn't get the job.

Unlike Blank, the ten year reunion did not drive me to an existential crisis point (it's arguable that I've been there for at least three years). I did not stare deeply into a baby's eyes and realise that my work is inhumane and meaningless (again...past three years). I had no swift, spiritual kick to the head that altered my reality forever. I chatted, drank, went to sleep, woke up with a hangover and stayed in bed until 2:30pm on Sunday. Ironed a few shirts. Had a curry. Went to sleep again. No shakabuku. If the 10 year reunion didn't bring it on, what will? When do I get my shakabuku? I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit short!

96 - posted at 16:46:44
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Thursday 31st August 2006

This blog entry was intended to be an account of the V Festival in mid-August. On the 31 August, I tapped in a "[filler]" note to ensure that the blog actually had an August date on it. But because of the nature of my job and the pressing unfinished tasks facing me in general since moving back to the UK I still haven't found the chance to scribble down an account of spending a couple of days in wellies in Staffordshire. I am sorry. I will try soon. Following that there will be (perhaps) blogs on Singapore, Cuba and North Korea. The last one of those is nearly two years late. I'm utter rubbish.

Meanwhile, if my holiday next week is curtailed or cancelled because of work you can look forward to a violent torrent of sweary vitriol. Watch this space.

11/9/06 (despite the date above).

95 - posted at 17:39:49
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Monday 24th July 2006

This is just a brief postscript to my last post. I was up in the New Territories on Sunday and saw this piece of advice stuck to a wall:

Monkey Advice

Sound advice. I just wish the little scamp we encountered had been a tufty doe-eyed chap, gingerly tip-toeing towards us, rather than a mangy simian wretch with menacing eyes and sharp bloodied claws.

94 - posted at 19:07:03
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Wednesday 19th July 2006

I was mugged the other day.

Claire was still in town, and I had dragged her up into the Kowloon Hills. I wanted to experience the views from the trails around Amah Rock and Lion Rock. As we had headed out directly from the beautiful Tsimshatsui hotel in which we were staying, we were badly equipped - instead of a sturdy rucksack, I clutched a supermarket plastic bag containing maps, a guidebook and our water supply. It was probably too hot to go hiking. The air was heavy and trekking up from the KCR station at Tai Wai was hard going. Ten minutes in and I was drenched in sweat. Mosquitoes were circling. The forested hills echoed with the buzzing and clicking of unseen insects. Giant grubs lay twitching in the middle of the paths.

I had been warned about the dangers of hiking in the New Territories. Like gnarled village locals in a ghost story, colleagues warned me not to go into the hills alone. Illegal immigrants from the mainland lie in wait, ready to pounce on the lone hiker and relieve him of his possessions before tying him to a tree and scampering away. I'd never heeded the warnings and had often walked the trails without incident. And this time I wasn't on my own.

We reached a catch-water and walked down the road that ran alongside it. It was as we turned a corner that I first caught sight of them. A family of shabby looking individuals, loitering by the side of the road. They looked slightly malnourished and their bad posture gave them all a vaguely unnerving stoop. They looked up as we approached. Timidly they moved to the other side of the road and started to disappear into the forest. It was then we noticed the mother clutched a baby, whose mouth tugged desperately at her scrawny breast.

But one remained. He had sat down in the middle of the road and was watching us suspiciously. I noticed that his hair was patchy and unkempt. Although it was probably the wrong thing to do, and in retrospect quite rude, I took a photo of him. I thought his behaviour unusual, but put my camera away and carried on walking. As we veered to the left to walk around him, he got up and moved into our path. We changed direction again. This time he came towards me, a menacing look in his eyes. Grunting, he reached forward to grab my plastic bag. Tenaciously I kept my grip. His long dirty finger nails cut into the bag and its contents tumbled onto the road. He looked down disappointed. He grabbed the bottle of water briefly before dropping it as I shouted at him. He ran away into the forest.

Shaken, we gathered our belongings and trudged on. I shall be passing my photo of our assailant onto the relevant authorities:

Macaque

In other news, the Mercury award shortlist was announced yesterday and I was pleased to see Lou Rhodes' album has got some well deserved recognition. Although she's got brilliant competition in the Thom Yorke and Muse albums, I hope the Mercury judges do their wacko thing again and award it to an outsider (i.e. Lou). And I really hope it doesn't go to Arctic Monkeys (and not because of the experience recounted above) or Editors.

93 - posted at 10:53:00
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