The Adventures of the Ginger Beard Man

Don't Stop Me Now I'm Having Such A Good Time...

2006-10-31T13:34:00.000Z

The aforementioned Queen song is probably my favourite of the band’s and a tune I figure would make great ‘closing titles music’ for a move about my life. I can see it now: I walk off into the sunset, the picture fades to black, the credits roll and people leave the cinema unable to rid their brain of the repeated line “Don’t stop me, don’t stop me, don’t stop me…”

Unfortunately for me those very lyrics could find no escape from my head the entirety of my recently completed holiday; despite the fact it was Freddie Mercury’s final hit that was more appropriate for our first destination.

So, to a brief preface of my holiday: my ol’ mate, Hayley, was making her way back to New Zealand by way of Portugal, Spain, Italy, Spain again, Germany, America, Canada, Mexico, finishing up in Howick – as you do. So, for her month in Europe she enticed her Uni friends to keep her company along the way. Cess accompanied Hails through Portugal, I met them in a Spanish city of which I’m sure you can guess by now, Hails and I then went on to Italy, she then went back to Spain to meet Kaisa and finally the Hayley baton was passed to Mick for the last leg in Berlin.

With that short backgrounder out of the way on to the holiday itself. Unfortunately all good holidays don’t start on the Spanish coast. They start, instead, at Stansted Airport – a locale that Mr. Mercury would never dream of writing a song about. And with a 6am flight requiring I check in at 4am I did the seemingly sensible thing and spent the night at the airport. That would be sensible if you enjoyed sleeping on a cold concrete floor. Desperate times call for desperate measures; so I was forced into reading my first book in over four years just to pass the time. Many torturous hours later I boarded my ‘luxurious’ Ryan Air flight to Barcelona…

Or so I thought. It appears that Reus, where I would embark the plane, is some 90 minutes from Barcelona itself. This came as a surprise to me as on Ryan Air’s website Reus was accompanied by the word ‘Barcelona’ in brackets. That’s like Air New Zealand’s website listing Hamilton with ‘Auckland’ in brackets or Ashburton with ‘Christchurch’ in brackets.

No sleep, no Barcelona and I was given a further kick to the teeth thanks to T-Mobile not switching my mobile to international roam despite spending 15 minutes on the phone with them the previous afternoon making sure it was good to go.

One 90 minute coach ride later I arrived in Barcelona with no way of organising a rendezvous with Hayley and Cess. Alone, lethargic, languageless – this was turning into the worst holiday of my life and I was only one morning into it. Eventually I won a battle of persistence with a Spanish coin phone with an appetite for Euros. I made contact with the girls who said to meet them by the fountain in the plaza. “Wicked, I’ll see you there in half an hour!” Click. What fountain? What plaza? Where?

Anyone that’s been to Barcelona will know that fountains and plazas are as common as abandoned Olympic Games’ venues. Alas, I jumped on the Metro and headed in the direction of the first place on the map that said ‘Plaza’. I got off, come up above ground. Bingo! One plaza, one fountain, and two familiar faces. My holiday could finally start.

Having dumped my bags it was time for a wander ‘round. The girls had already been in town for a day (hence their over-familiarity with fountains and plazas) so they gave me a whirlwind tour where I become acutely aware that I was the only ginger in Barcelona.

I was now beginning to regret my decision to get in the holiday spirit by sporting an untrimmed beard. Looking like Osama Ginge Laden is a sure fire way to draw attention to yourself in Barcelona. Thankfully my chin now had much needed extra cushioning; a positive seeing as my jaw spent a considerable amount of time over the weekend dropping to the ground as I spied the stunning Spanish women every five metres.

The Spaniards aren’t just famous for their beautiful chicas (or txicas as they are known in the province of Catalonia); they also have a reputation for their tapas. We happened upon an amazing tapas restaurant so good we returned six hours later for diner. It was the complete dinning experience as we were treated to some local entertainment where the illegal French-African immigrants, with portable shop of fake Gucci belts and Prada bags, played cat-and-mouse with the local police.

Another thing the Spanish do well is fall asleep around 2pm. So with all the shops closed for siesta we decided to be proper tourists and visit La Sagrada Familia: a church, of sorts, designed by Antoni Gaudi – known in Spain as “God’s Architect”. It seems every building in Barcelona worth a look was built by Gaudi. But what makes the Sagrada Familia so special is that Gaudi died – in 1926 – before he had completed the building and it is now a masterpiece in progress. Ancient stone steeples are accompanied by modern scaffolding. And for this reason tourists come flocking; and thusly wait hours to journey up the centre of the towers. It made about as much sense to me as people queuing for 90 minutes to ride an unfinished roller coaster.

It was also of little surprise to learn that Gaudi had a penchant for mind-altering fungi. And so the Sagrada Familia was a hotchpotch of gothic-looking Catholic facades juxtaposed against steeples adorned with multi-coloured fruits to represent the four seasons. He even managed to sculpt his own image amongst a scene of Jesus’ birth. Like most geniuses he was a proper nutter.

Having completed our first Catalunian must-see it was down to the waterfront for €1 San Miguels. And what else should you do in Spain at 9:30 on a Friday night? Go to the local shopping mall of course!

This city kept crazy hours – which wasn’t a good sign since a big night out was in order and I had yet to sleep. If the locals slept at 3pm, shopped at 9pm and ate dinner at 11pm, then what time did they party? 3am is your answer.

The girls, armed with their Lonely Planets, were in charge of the sightseeing itineraries and my job was to have planned a good night out in Barcelona. My choice was City Hall where Derrick Carter, a DJ from Chicago, was spinning – it made sense to me. Besides, you can be inside a dark club and still take in the sights of Spain. A good night was had by all and three of us did well to make it through to 6am (just as the locals were hitting their stride).

I was awoken four hours later to commence Saturday’s events. It began with possibly the best breakfast known to man. Txurros and txocalate. Quite simply, this was small fried bread sticks that you dipped into a cup of hot chocolate - which had a consistency just below solid. For a sweet tooth like myself this made a morning meal of Coco Pops and Nutella look like child’s play.

We then gathered some picnic supplies and headed to another of Gaudi’s creations - Park Güell. No prizes for guessing that this is a park. Set on el Carmel Hill with an amazing view over downtown Barcelona, it was designed by Gaudi based on an English park. Clearly he’d never been to Hampstead Heath as Park Güell didn’t have any grass… which made picnicking on dust and pebbles a touch unpleasant. Luckily the stunning views and more of Gaudi’s tripped-out architecture more than made up for the discomfort.

From there we headed back down town and into Barri Gothic – the Gothic Quarter – for dinner. And then it was bedtime for me having had four hours sleep over three days. Even a city as amazing as Barcelona can only keep you awake for so long.

Sunday morning and I arose with a great sense of excitement. Today was the day I would go to Camp Nou – or the Nou Camp as the Hispanically-challenged would say. Home to the best club in Europe, FC Barcelona, the Nou Camp holds just over 98,700 fans! I had figured I would be doing this slice of sightseeing by myself but whether it was the chance to see some architecture of a different kind or the lure of sweating Spanish soccer players both Cess and Hayley were well keen to come along for the evening’s match against Sevilla.

What was more of a surprise was that the game sold out. A city of 1.5 million and almost 10% of the population paid to see their local team? It didn’t compute. Auckland has almost the same population and you can barely get 30,000 of them to show up to a home game. Perhaps it’s ‘cause the Auckland rugby team is rubbish? But that’s a debate for a whole other blog.

I went out to the Nou Camp alone that morning hoping to purchase some returned tickets at the gate. It quickly became evident I wasn’t the only one given such a hot tip. Next and final option – touts. I spoke no Spanish and the touts spoke no English. If it weren’t for the fact both parties were keen to see some Euros change hands then the 20 minute ‘conversation’ would have been excruciating. Sense was made but unfortunately no dollars and cents were exchanged as I couldn’t source three tickets at a good enough price.

Having failed at the Spanish Hustle my consolation prize was to do the official tour of Camp Nou. For any Wellingtonians out there that dote over their WestpacTrust Stadium you need to learn what a real sports arena should look like. I knew it was going to be big and I knew it was going to amaze me but I had no idea just how spine-tingling amazing it feels like to stand inside a stadium that holds near on 100,000 people. I instantly promised myself to make sure, before I die, that I’m in this stadium again when there’s a game on.

The tour itself was genuinely interesting. From the dressing rooms, to the chapel, to the press room, the chairman’s enclosure, the commentary box, to the museum - where I learnt the fascinating history of FC Barcelona. Founded by Joan Gamber the club was viewed as a centrepiece for Catalunian nationalism. Gamber was also using the club’s success to campaign for an independent Catalunian sports team to compete in the Olympics in the mid-1920s. His downfall began when an English School’s choir came to Barcelona to entertain the home crowd. Of the nine songs they performed one was mistakenly the Spanish national anthem. Not surprisingly the Catalunian crowd booed the kids, the Spanish government weren’t having it, Gamber was exiled to Switzerland, where a combination of pride and depression got the better of him and he knocked himself off.

My tour was completed with a bonus exhibition in the museum were the best newspapers in Europe were invited to display their greatest ever football photos. Needless to say I spent more time in the museum than in the Sagrada Familia.

I rejoined Hayley and Cess well after my specified time but still soon enough for a lunch Neptune would be proud of. Cess had spied a seafood restaurant that took picking your crayfish out before it was served to a new level. It wasn’t just crayfish to be selected but every edible species under the sun… er, sea. Prawns, calamari and deep friend whitebait washed down with, of course, San Miguel.

Keeping with the ocean theme we then went downtown to the beach. It’s been over a year since I’ve set foot on the sand and it’s frightening just how therapeutic the beach can be. The three of us sat there for hours doing nothing but debate what lyrics followed the triumphant line ‘Barcelona!’ in Freddie Mercury’s song of the same name. The argument has yet to be settled.

The evening was finished with a sunset photography competition, which I’m sure you can tell without even seeing the other entries that I unanimously won, and then a meal 20 metres back from the Mediterranean Ocean.

The final Monday morning was spent with a brisk walk down La Ramblas – Barcelona’s famed, tree-lined main street – just so I could say I’ve ‘been there, done that’.

So as the sun set, the picture faded to black and the credits rolled the three of us flew out of Barcelona with the ‘wrong’ Queen song ringing in our heads. Well, it wasn’t that inappropriate. We had had ‘such a good time’ in Barcelona – a city with a very Australasian feel: from the inner-city beaches, to the seafood, to the underdog feeling of being Catalunian. If it weren’t for the language barrier it would be an incredibly easy city to live.

And on that alarmingly sincere note I shall wrap things up. Next stop: Mafia, magma and more scooters than you can shake a strawberry, vanilla and chocolate gelato at.

Hi-De-House!

2006-05-15T19:01:00.000+01:00

Just completed a pretty hectic week that’s taken me up to Liverpool and back to down to Lord’s; so here’s the low down… not terribly humorous but we are talking about house music and sport – two forms normally fun pursuits that I seem to take rather seriously. This will merely serve as a historical account of how I misspent my *cough*youth*cough*; while providing a detailed backstory in case I ever become a character on Lost.

It began last week with the Southport Weekender… no quite in Liverpool but, as I’m sure you can guess from the name, it’s in Southport – a beachside town about 30 minutes from the ‘Pool. It’s pretty difficult to describe the Southport Weekender other than it’s a three day/three night dance music festival with the advantage of staying in chalets onsite. Kinda like Band Camp… but with Soul, Hip-Hop, R’n’B and House Music and not so much of the flutes. It was a a dream come true for me to make it to Southport – it’s been going twice a year for almost 20 years now and I’ve known about it for probably five years and figured by moving to London I’d get a pretty good shot and making it along to one or two of them. If I were to conjure up a fantasy music festival Southport would be it: all my favourite house DJs and funk/soul/jazz acts playing over the period of some 28 hours.

I should consider myself very lucky to have got there as tickets sell out months in advance. Thankfully my mates, Ben and Cookie, have a show on Ministry of Sound Radio so I managed to “win” a ticket through them. Everyone I had talked to about going to Southport had told me things like “It’ll change your life”, and “You’ll have the best weekend of your life.” Needless to say that expectations were high as I took the train north of London to Watford where Ben and Cookie live; and from there a couple of cars convoyed their way up the M6.

Don’t be fooled by the accompanying photo – my chalet-mates were sound. I'm guessing it's a traditional Watford trait to flip the bird when some yells "cheese". You’ll also notice in the photo our humble abode. When the Soul Weekender isn’t held at Southport each May and November it is otherwise known as Pontins – one of those dreary holiday camps the Brits migrate to across their fair country each summer. Yes, think Hi-De-Hi and you’re getting the picture. Although that sitcom was set at Butlins, whereas, Pontins is ranked second - to Butlins - amongst Britain’s chain of holiday resorts. Again, I’d like to say the accompanying photo doesn’t do Pontins justice but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. This was no sunsoaked bach in Takaka or Whangamata… but the harsh reality of how the Brits spend their precious few weeks off each summer.

Of course, we weren’t there for a summer holiday – we came for a good old fashioned knees-up. And thankfully the organisers knew a thing or two of how to run a dance event; thusly the dinning hall was converted to the Funk Base, the pub was converted to the B-Bar, and Pontins’ main entertainment hall was converted to the Powerhouse – where I, amongst 2,000 others, spent a good deal of my weekend.

My mates who had hyped up Southport weren’t half wrong. I kinda knew I was going to have the time of my life but it’s always nice experiencing said time-of-your-life rather than predicting it. I could’ve spent my 40 years in Auckland and not seen this many world class DJs… and here I got them all on the same weekend. And what stood out most to me is that all the visiting US DJs knew it was a special occasion, too. Instead of taking the money and jetting back to the States like they normally do; they also stayed on site for the weekend… they hung out in the DJ booth or sat on the speakers watching their comrades play, lapping up the atmosphere. Hell, some of them even had a boogie on stage as evidenced by NY’s Quentin Harris in this clip: http://www.davidgroove.com/quentin.wmv. They don’t call him Queertin Harris for nothing!

One of the many things that makes Southport unique is that you have the best weekend of your life clubbing safe in the knowledge that your “house” is situated literally 300 metres from the “club”. So when your legs finally turn to jelly you needn't worry about catching a night bus or shelling out for a taxi - you just wander back to your chalet and sneak in a couple of hours sleep. That said, I was roughing it more than most. Because I was a last minute tag along with the Watford massive there wasn’t a bed for me. I didn’t let that deter me as I took my roll mat outside and slept on the pathway. Summer had just arrived and I couldn’t think of a smarter way to catch some rays and some winks all in one hour. The fact our neighbours tip-toed over me, dropping their spare change into my upturned cap, would suggest they don't understand my logic.

Sleep-time is a valubale commodity at Southport. With the DJs playing the night sessions, on Saturday and Sunday afternoon there are live acts and other special performances to rouse you from your slumber. And Saturday produced my highlight of Southport – the Sounds Of Blackness. They’re a 40-person gospel group who have performed at the opening ceremonies of the 1994 Football World Cup and 1996 Atlanta Olympics. Over the years they’ve also done private performances for a couple of American bigwigs with the last name Bush. I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall when Bush Senior and Junior saw Sounds Of Blackness because this troupe managed to whip 2,000 jaded clubbers into a complete frenzy and minutes later would have the majority of the Powerhouse in tears.

But that was just the halfway point of the Southport Weekender and the good times kept rolling. Time for a spot of namedropping for those in the know: my highlights, aside from Sounds of Blackness, were sets by Frankie Feliciano, Dennis Ferrer, and Una doing a live performance of “Sanctuary”; all on the Friday. On Saturday night Kenny Dope played a two hour hip-hop set, followed by Carl Craig playing music I never knew existed let alone you could dance to! While in the Powerhouse Terry Hunter and, especially, Kerri Chandler both had me with my jaw on the ground. And it wound up on Sunday afternoon with live PAs by Monique Bingham and the legendary Byron Stingily.

But the comedy PA award has to go to the equally legendary Alexander O’Neil who, whilst having technical difficulties, started filling the silence as if he were Eddie Murphy with stories of when he was a shoes salesman. He finished with the memorable quote that: “'Nobody can tell me sh*t about shoes… if those muthaf*ckers hurt in the shop, they're gonna hurt ALL the time!”

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end… unless it’s the Southport Weekender where people refuse to let the good times finish. So, on Sunday night you can head along to any number of pubs in Southport town and there you’ll find parties, followed by after-parties, followed by lock-ins. And excpect the odd guest appearance by the US DJs who, like the patrons of the Southport Weekender, can’t bring themselves to go home. On this occasion it was Kerri Chandler who played a free, unannounced set over the road from Pontins at a lazy watering hole called The Sands.

On a completely different note to the Southport Weekender I managed to get along to Lord's for the first test of the year. Again, like Southport, this was a dream come true - after all, this is the home of cricket. Similarily to my Southport experience I had a big stroke of luck getting a ticket. You see, cricket is awfully popular in England of late because last summer they beat a nation called Australia which won them a trophy called The Ashes. Face value for tickets to Lords these days are around the £40 mark. And given the sport’s current popularity the ground sold out on the day tickets went on sale; meaning Matt and I had to resort to ebay. And given the scarcity of tickets they were going for around £80 - £100 each on ebay. But we managed to put in a bid for a pair of tickets that went on sale a week before the test. We started off with a very conservative tenner each knowing that things would escalate faster that Willy Wonka’s Magical Elevator as the deadline neared. But strangely ours was the only bid and we got the £40 tickets for £10 each!

I’ve got to say that Lord’s is an amazing venue. Its grandstands are a world away from the dilapidated stadiums I’m used to in New Zealand. But the playing field itself holds all the quaint charm you expect of an English cricket ground.

Not only could you feel the history and reverence this ground holds but the patrons that come to watch cricket here are a different breed from that in New Zealand. They drink maturely, clap politely and cheer only when it is warranted. In fact, when Kevin Pietersen brought up his century every single person inside the ground all stood and clapped at the same speed, same volume, for 45 seconds and then sat down as if they’d rehearsed this kind of celebration before. It was amazing to the point of being eerie. This was all the more staggering when you factor in that you're allowed to bring alcohol into the ground!

The action wasn’t thrilling, in fact I fell asleep at one point which was jointly due to my pervious weekend at Southport and the fact the English and Sri Lankan teams have about as much appeal as a pair of dirty undies. So, during the lunch break Matt and I went for a walk around the ground and where I spied the special banner they’ve put up to commemorate Dion Nash’s 11-169 bowling figures for New Zealand in 1994. I was also surprised to spot a banner celebrating Daniel Vettori’s 5-30 – the best bowling figures in a One Dayer at Lord’s.

I've already got another day of cricket lined up at Lord's in June. And I can't see myself missing another Southport Weekender so long as I'm this side of the equator.

Sleeping Is Cheating...

2006-04-27T10:47:00.000+01:00

A tale of two cities, perhaps not. But after a weekend in Manchester I can assure it’s a world away from London.

Manchester – the spiritual home of Northern Monkeys – got a visit from a couple of Southern Fairies from London. Me and my mate, Greg, made a spur-of-the-moment decision to journey north to the epicentre of modern British music to check at DJ from New York. Odd, I know, but it wouldn’t be the strangest decision we made all weekend.

It was a busy week up Norf, with the Grand National on and Arsenal playing Manchester United, so accommodation was at a premium. To be brutally honest, there was no accommodation anywhere in the city on the Friday night. But being a couple of plucky young lads we figured if we're gonna be in club till 5am on Saturday morning there was no point paying for a hotel room anyway; we'd just kick about the streets of Manchester until we could check into our Saturday night rooms at 11am.

So Friday night, and like a couple of eager beavers, we jump on the train to the promised land of Manchester. Alight at around 22:30 and head straight to the club – weekend bags in tow. It got quite embarrassing when the bouncer started rummaging through my toiletries in front of a long queue of Northerners but nothing to put me off a good night out.

And that it was. The DJ we had come to see, Joe Claussell, never plays in London – hence the decision to travel halfway up the country. His ability to EQ (or knob twiddle) is the stuff of legends. But seeing Joe in action is better than the legend itself. Picture a cross between Ralf from The Muppets and Bill Cosby: eyes rolled back into his skull, head shaking about as if he's getting an electric shock, and elbows out. As any good DJ knows, it's always about having the elbows out... Check some mobile phone footage here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcgNUDYcCT0 – I’ve yet to see it so I hope I don’t play a staring role!

That night was drawing to an end so Greg and I prepared ourselves for a dawn tour of the City of Manchester. What we weren’t prepared for, as we emerged up the stairs from the club, was a snow storm! In April! When we’re homeless! Lost! In a strange city! Suddenly our spur-of-the-moment decision was starting to seem like a really, really stupid idea.

Shivering in the entrance to the club we surveyed our three options: We could 1) continue to huddle in the doorway like the bums we were; 2) we could try and find an after-hours bar, or 3) we could build a snowman. We decided on the second option; but were informed by the bouncers that the only after-hours establishments were to be found in the Gay Village, on Manchester’s infamous (C)anal St.

Slushing our way towards the Gay Village I had an inkling things were gonna get worse. But we were due some good luck… we stumbled on three locals lasses who were also looking to continue their night without being surrounded by hordes of crazy Northern queers. So after hours of wandering aimlessly through the back streets of Manchester City we resorted to the only place left open in Manchester… the train station.

It was there we sat for four hours. Self deprivation does funny things to one’s sense of humour and it’s amazing how much of a laugh we had at people trying to limbo under the pay barrier to the toilets or the Goths dancing to James Blunt on the PA system. If this was an insight in Manchester then surely they were the most comically gifted people in all of Britain. It was also and opportunity for Greg to teach me an old trick from New York where you feed your legs through your bag straps in case you were to fall asleep and get bum-rushed by the homeless.

My fondest memory of Manchester was our next destination – the OK Café. There’s your typical English Greasy Spoon café and then there’s your typical Manchester Greasy Spoon café. And the king of all Manchester Greasy Spoon Cafés is the OK Café. The moment we stepped inside I got the feeling that Britain's Food Standards Agency inspector must be blind, and probably had no sense of smell either when he paid the establishment a visit. And we may as well have been deaf – the owners had the broadest, nonsensical Manc accent I had ever strained to hear. They were characters all the same: the emaciated, ghostly grey, old man who took our orders had all but three teeth missing and the lady who brought our Builders Breakfasts’ to the table had a fag hanging from the corner of her mouth. This may all sound like Jamie Oliver’s worst nightmare but not even Coro St could capture Northern charm like this. And at £3 for two sausages, bacon, eggs, beans, tomato, toast and a Ribena we went away very satisfied customers. So satisfied, in fact, that we would return 24 hours later to the beloved OK Café… the King of Café’s.

Having killed a total of seven hours we finally got to check in. Onto the tram we jumped and off to our modest digs in Sale. The lady behind reception must have thought us crazy as we checked in and she didn't see us reappear for half the day as we tried to catch up on some sleep. Three hours max, as I was adamant I wasn't gonna miss the opportunity to see Manchester in some daylight.

Of course, when it comes to sight-seeing in Manchester I challenge you to name a monument, civic area, bridge, clock tower, statue, or other such significant focal point that is a must-see when visiting the pride of the North. Yup, there was only one place for us to go - Old Trafford. The sacred home to a football team neither Greg nor I support. In fact, I don't even "get" football. At least Greg went to America on a soccer scholarship so perhaps once in his youth he may have aspired to play at the Theatre Of Dreams. If that was the case, then I feel sorry for him because there was no way I was giving up £10 to the sickeningly rich Manchester United Football Club just to look inside their empty stadium. A team that can afford to pay a player £90,000 a week can surely allow a couple of sports nuts a look at their grass. We tried to sneak into the stadium through the museum but like a team of Mancunian Ninjas the security guards appeared from who-knows-where and turned as in the opposite direction. We cursed under our breath how no one likes their fat-cat team and we don't know why we even wanted to look at 70,000 plastic seats.

With some daylight left we headed back in to the city for a walk around. Having spent my last 10 months in the densely populated capital you forget that city centres should be spread out, with room to move, and no stampedes to avoid. If there is a term for anti-claustrophobic then a wave of that rushed over me.

Dinner time and we stumbled upon Matt & Phreads Jazz Club for what the sign outside claimed to be the best pizza in town. If I had a slice for every time I've read that statement then I'd be as big as Tony Soprano. To be fair, it was a quality pizza. Not a patch on the chicken and pine-nut pizza you get at Hell's Pizza in Auckland but tasty all the same.

From there we moved to a busy bar... one thing I noticed about Manchester is that it was hard to find a typical corner pub the way you do in London. It wasn't that I expected to stroll into the Rover's Return but we had hoped to find a nice public house to drink away the evening. That would have been the ideal scenario. Instead, many hours and many pricey drinks later, I found myself lost in the streets of Manchester yet again. I must have taken one wrong turn, my internal compass scrambled as I was the closest to the Northern Pole as I've ever been. Before I knew it I was wandering through the most destitute, barren and scary industrial estate imaginable. This was Manchester at its rawest all right, but not one I wanted to visit at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning. Again, I'd love to have taken a photo just to prove how chillingly ghostlike this part of Manchester is but I feared more Mancunian Ninjas would pounce from the rubble and disappear with my camera. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Oasis’ Gallagher brothers were crouched in the window of one of the abandoned warehouses ready to hurl bricks at me. And if I survived that the Ryder brothers were waiting around the corner to kick me all the way back to Old Trafford. A lone car slowed as it passed me and I realised it was time to find some civilisation. The only sign I saw pointed me in the direction of Liverpool – who needs an internal compass when you see a sign like that you know it’s time to turn around and head in the opposite direction.

All's well that ends well, as the say, although you've never read that sentiment on a gravestone. After our return leg to the OK Café we had time for a little record shopping. I always enjoy second hand record shopping in a foreign locale because what another city generally thinks of as disposable music is usually what I like. "One man's treasure...", I believe, is the term best used here. Again, not something you'd read on a tombstone.

I'd like to say that Greg and I boarded the train home to London and slept the entire journey. Instead we continued to deprive our heads of sleep and did another direct trip from the train station to a club. You can take the boy out of London but you can't take London out of the boy.

That you can put on my gravestone. Hopefully no time soon. Although, escaping Manchester with my life I'm probably fresh out of luck in that department.

Sending out an S-o-S...

2006-01-25T16:46:00.000Z

There are certain cities and locales in the world where the reputation of its population proceeds them. Parisians, for example, are world renowned for their aloofness and pungent odour. New Yorkers are famous for their over-hyped level of self-importance, and thusly their implicit coolness. Another such place where no matter where you go in the world people will have heard the stories and be aware of that populations’ reputation is Essex. And it is there I ventured last weekend.

If it’s not the cockney villains you’ve heard of then I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the reputation of the infamous Essex girl: fake tan, peroxide blonde hair - pulled back tightly in what’s known as an “Essex Facelift” – frighteningly short mini-skirts, white heels, and badly thought-out tattoos. And, unbelievably, this is actually a case of style over substance. Yes, Essex is a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.

I should point out now that I can’t offer any photos of said females, or any other eye sores for that matter, as taking a $500 digital camera into the County of Essex is the definition of stupidity.So why venture into such a dire location? Well, it promised to be a cultural experience void of any culture; but, more importantly, my two mates Matt and Tom, had promised to take me to their home town for a true Essex experience.

Geographically I didn’t know too much about Essex except it was out of London. I first learned that it costs just £9 and takes 45 minutes by train to get there – which surprised me because I can travel for 45 minutes from my house and barely be in the next borough. Nevertheless we arrived in Southend-on-Sea, where Tom and Matt grew up. It’s a small town at the head of the Thames River; and if, for example, you were a whale and swam past Southend-on-Sea it may be a good idea to turn around and head back to the Black Sea or a confusing few days and ultimately death awaits you up river.

The plan was to hit their favourite club, The Pink Toothbrush. While the club’s name may seem absurd it’s not a patch on its former incarnation. Known as The Croc, it was named so because a live crocodile resided in the entranceway. The RSPCA soon closed it down so it was to The ‘Brush we ventured.Thankfully this was one of the classier venues in Essex so I needn’t worry about getting a crowbar in the back of my head from a jumped-up Cockney. But there were a few well-heeled Oompa-Loompas with Essex Facelifts to remind that I was no longer in London. What was most memorable (or perhaps not) about The ‘Brush was the drinks menu… most of the “cocktails” on the list were devised and institutionalised by Tom and Matt’s friends and named after characters such as Del-boy and Rodney from Only Fools and Horses - my favourite being the latter. A Rodney is concocted from half a pint of lager, with the remainder of the glass filled with cider, fruit juice and a shot of blackcurrant concentrate. You barely knew you were drinking an alcoholic beverage… which I guess is the point of these things.

The night fast turned into a culinary experience; when the club closed everyone ventured round the back to Daryls - quite simply a takeaway caravan in the club’s carpark. It was apparent the signwriter made two major mistakes when working on Daryl’s caravan; firstly he left an apostrophe off the massive “Daryls” sign that emblazoned the top of the caravan. Secondly, on the chalkboard menu he included chips… and, as has quickly become legend across Essex, Daryl doesn’t serve chips. Those feeling brave enough ask: “Are there any chips tonight, Daryl?” To which Daryl yells: “No, there’s never any bleedin’ chips” as he chases you down the road waving his spatula violently. I ordered a cheeseburger, without chips, and scampered away.

The next day we headed into Southend for a look at the waterfront. This included the world’s largest pier. I was unable to walk along it as, not for the first time in the town’s history, the pub that proudly occupies the far end of the pier burnt down setting fire to the entire structure. Southend now boasts the world’s longest piece of charcoal.Also on the waterfront was an amusement park with all the usuals: Merry-Go-Rounds, Log Flume rides, Mini-Golf, Ferris Wheels and Haunted Houses. I had a crack at the suspiciously complicated goal kicking competition. No one seemed to find my Johnny Wilkinson impersonation as funny as I did. They got the last laugh and my £2.

I should mention now that this amusement park was no Disney Land, or Walt Disney World, or - worse still - Euro Disney. Hell, the Caroline Bay Carnival in Timaru would give this fun park a run for its money. This was more of a straight man’s Brighton.

And things got more ghastly along “Electric Avenue”; which is the road running the length of the waterfront. Casinos, arcades, bowling alleys – a sea of art deco draped in neon lights with all the style and elegance of an Essex girl.

I may sound like a high-and-mighty Londoner poking fun at this slice of small town kitsch but I had one of my more entertaining nights out, ever, and thoroughly enjoyed Las-Vegas-Essex-Style. I came to Essex with the promise of knife attacks, bitch fights and stolen cars.

But I’ll happily return for a chance to win a Bart Simpson doll at the goal kicking competition and the even greater challenge of getting some hot chips of Daryl.

Because, afterall, a true Essex experience is all about being robbed blind or chased down the street.

One Potato, Two Potato...

2005-12-11T17:41:00.000Z

So what’s December like in London? Cold? Yes! Dark? Yes! White? Any day now. I’ve got to admit that it doesn’t feel as Christmassy as I thought it would. Considering I work in a music store I thought I’d be bombarded with that big-city pushy, angry, rushed, commercial Christmas spirit. But we don’t even wish our customers Merry Christmas... yet. Although I am wincing in anticipation at the variety of Christmas albums that will make their way onto the store sound system any day now; two favourites are White Snake’s “White Christmas” and Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Merry Christmas”.

HMV Islington is a decent place to work as far as retail goes. It’s considered small by London standards but it’s in fact the size of Sounds Mega Store on Queen St in Auckland. There are nine of us temps and about 15 other staff all together. Three of us temps are Kiwis joining another fulltime New Zealander (from the Shore); plus an Australian temp, two lesbians (one who’s Polish), and two Allans (who get differentiated by the names ‘Gay Allan’ and ‘Games Allan’; which when pronounced by the two Eastenders who work there isn’t a differentiation at all).

Adding to the multiculturalism are our two security guards; the quintessential odd couple. Rob is Irish but grew up in the Eastend, so can barely pronounce any word as the Queen intended. Starting with the shop’s name… “Haytch-M-V”. Being of Irish descent his “th” is just “t” as in “t’ink” instead of “think”. But his Cockney upbringing means a “v” is pronounced as a “th” or an “f” or a slurred combination of both as in “guf’nor” instead of “guv’nor”. Which is why I had to stop myself laughing when he told me his job was “to catch the all the teething bastards”.

Of course Rob was probably being ironic as most of the theives coming into the store are merely babies.

The other security guard (or Loss Prevention Officer as HMV likes them to be known) is a Pakistani who’s no taller than me. His name is Mo… which is short for Muhammad. Now, while a 5’ 6” Pakistani may not strike fear into most criminals I can assure you he’s one dude I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. One Sunday afternoon a young crackhead (and I assume he was a crackhead because he had some sort of vessel underneath his Umbro track top with a crackpipe poking out the top of the zipper and dangling near his mouth) was suspiciously hanging about the 50 Cent CDs. I informed Mo who approached the chap and as he did the crackhead reached into his pocket and before I could even see it was a knife Mo had knocked it out of his hand and into a display of Madonna DVDs.

Last Saturday we had our staff Christmas party. We resisted the urge to hire a fancy bar, put on a spread, or hang some decorations. So off we all went - boys and girls, gays, lesbain Jews, and Gentiles - around the corner to our local pub and we put the entire budget on the bar. Within two hours the management had asked us to leave (the Shore girl had emptied her stomach across the pool table). The next day at work wasn't any prettier: two people called in sick, two didn’t even show up and one girl had five epileptic fits on the stock room floor. As bad taste as it sounds I secretly hoped the paramedics would take me away on the stretcher and nurse me back to good health.

Now the great thing about London is the best nights to go out are the nights that aren’t Friday and Saturday. So having survived that hellish Sunday at work I went off to my favourite club-night. It’s called Buzzin’ Fly and it’s at a club named Plastic People. Funny names aside it’s got the most amazing sound system and they play some amazingly cool tunes. And on this particular occasion I got to rub shoulders and have a boogie with Tracey Thorn from Everything But The Girl, Ed from Chemical Brothers and Bobby Gillespie from Primal Scream. Which, for those looking confused, are essentially the dukes and duchesses of early 90s British electronica.

I struggled to get through work on Monday but seeing as I had Tuesday off a few of the boys from work decided to have a few “quiet” drinks. Now, another really good night to go out in London is a Monday night. We soon found ourselves in a queue for this uber-cool club-night called Trash. It’s a really crazy place playing Glam Rock, Nu Wave, Synth Pop and 80s Electro. More crazy names, I know, but not half as crazy as the regulars who come to this night – the majority dressing like David Bowie and Debbie Harry in their prime. How we got let into the premises I’m not too sure. I think it had something to do with the French man in the queue in front of us, wearing a Yves Saint Laurent shirt and LaCoste specs, who got kicked out of the line for “looking like he came straight from work”. The bouncers felt they probably should let us in to set an example; despite the fact we were dressed like - and had come - straight from work.

Inside was all a bit too much of a timewarp for me; but I impressed these two Spanish girls who weren’t impressed that I was buying a Becks when there was San Miguel on offer. So they bought me San Miguel for the rest of the night… and I’ve never been one to turn down free beer from Spanish girls. When the club finished up the girls offered to take me and the boys to some private Spanish club a few blocks away. Despite their thick accents they didn’t need to ask twice. So we followed them down this dark street off Tottenham Court Road where they knocked on a random black door and uttered the password to get in: “Potato Potato”. That had us in hysterics but unfortunately the club was closed. So Maria and Ana set off into the sunrise and we grabbed a hotdog before the police officer arrested the vendor for selling dodgy food, jumped on the N19 back to Highbury & Islington, and got some much needed rest.

All of the above is really just stamina training as I’ve recently been informed that I’ll be working on New Year’s Day!

Working 9 to 5…

2005-11-16T21:02:00.000Z

I could have quite easily entitled this update as “Working Class Man” but for reasons revealed later Dolly Parton is a better choice than Jimmy Barnes.

So, as you may have guessed I’ve been doing a bit of work. For the last three weeks I’ve been temping at a company called Ascent Media. Sounds good so far. They run all the network operations for Discovery Channel. Still sounding good. My job is to put a barcode sticker on every single tape that has played and will play on Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, Discovery Home & Leisure, and Discovery Kids Channel… some 80,000 shows! Not so good after all.

Yes, my day plays out like this: I take a tape from the left hand side of the desk, stick a barcode on it, scan the barcode, type in the old barcode number, type in the show’s name, put the tape down on the right hand side of the desk. Repeat until 5pm. It’s mostly data entry but there’s also a bit of spatial management involved (stacking crates in the corner of the office); as well as some graphical alignment (making sure the barcode stickers don’t cover the tape labels. I try to keep myself amused with all the weird and wonderful show names you’d expect from the Discovery Network’s far reaching library. Favourites include “So There’s A Brontosaurus In Your Backyard”, “Going Bush With Goldie Hawn”, and “I Am Joe’s Repetitive Strain Injury”.

Luckily I don’t share this misery on my own. There’s four others; all contracted out from a recruitment agency comically called Beavers. The vibe is a lot like the movie The Breakfast Club in many ways. Five down-and-out youths confined to a room for an entire day, disgruntled with the system, all with far better things to do with their time, dreaming of being somewhere else. Whereas the characters on The Breakfast Club were repaying their debt to the school we are there to repay out debts, fullstop. Also different from the movie is that the six of us are more akin to the United Nations. Two Londoners, a Kiwi, an Irishwomen, and a Dane-who-was-raised-in-France-but-studied-in-Glasgow.

As well as giggling at ludicrously named animal documentaries we also pass the time with various betting games. Such as: 'Guess Who’ll Walk Through The Office Next' and 'Guess How Long Ellen The Irishwomen Will Take For Her Smoking Break'. I tried instigating a pooling of our lunches and the person who correctly wins a betting game would win the entire spoils; thankfully no one listened to me.

But on my very first day of Data Entry and Spatial Management I did have one person fooled. James The Londoner had popped out to the bathroom and the remaining two boys and two girls got into a discussion about body hair (I have a feeling it was inspired by the Goldie Hawn show). Anyway, James returned and I advised him we’d been having a body hair conversation; and that Russell and I had taken our shirts off to show the girls our chest hair. Without even questioning the notion he whipped off his shirt in front of the entire office!

That was as outrageous as it got. The days are mostly filled with stereo wars. We all get a turn at imposing our varied musical preferences on the others. Unfortunately Ellen The Irishwomen only likes two artists: U2 (not surprisingly) and Dolly Parton (which I regret ever putting on my ipod). I’ve got the others hooked on some Kiwi fare such as Fat Freddy’s Drop; while I urge you never to listen to any Franco-Danish Glaswegian Prog Rock.

Stereo liberties such as those are a thing of the past now… yesterday I started work at HMV (a big music store); and I fear all I’ll be listening to from now until the 25th of December is Robbie Williams and the Crazy Frog battling for the Christmas Number One.

Hitchin A Ride...

2005-10-24T18:40:00.000+01:00

There’s no clever or witty way of building into this; so I’m just gonna come right out and say it: I played my first game of rugby in eight years on Saturday!

And, boy, am I still suffering from it two days later!!

(Before any of the female readers decide that this will be nothing but a boring rugby tale I’d like to point out that it includes a very close encounter with Gwyneth Paltrow that you’ll need to keep reading to learn more about)

Despite having a rugby career that spans nine seasons and having watched the sport almost twice as many years as that this was a rugby experience I was completely unprepared for… mainly because I was text on midnight of game day asking if I “wanted to come have a run with the Hampstead 5ths?”

Given my biased opinion about the quality of British rugby and having assumed a little too much about what constitutes 5th grade rugby I figured to myself, and replied to the text, that “it can’t hurt”.

Famous last words.

The Hampstead RFC 5th Graders were about to give me a rugby experience far removed from what I am used to. For starters, the Middleton Grange Christian School First XV never met at the pub three hours before kick-off. Nor did my 1stXV have a 5’2” West Indian coach named (ironically for any cricket fans out there) Courtney. So there in the pub I stood, a complete stranger, in front of the Hampstead 5ths when Courtney asked me what position I preferred. “Lock”, I replied.

Pause

Laughter! Phew, I passed the first test; the team got my warped Kiwi humour. Of course lock is the last position a man of my stature would play. My preferred position is none other than halfback… or should I say scrum half; as it’s called in Britain. Yes, there are a few differences between Kiwi and British rugby. In New Zealand, rugby is a sport for every man (although our good friends from the islands seem to be the ones proving to be most successful); while in England rugby is a pursuit for those a little more financially prosperous. For instance, our No. 8 keeps his boots in a Louis Vuitton kit bag; and we all piled into an assortment of Alpha Romeos and Land Rovers for our hour long journey to the oppositions’ home ground.

Our opposition today were Hitchin 4th Grade. I have no idea where Hitchin actually is but to get there I saw parts of Greater London I could happily not see again. Now considering the late notice I was given I didn’t have time to gather together any decent attire… let alone a Louis Vuitton leather bag to carry it all in. To be honest it was a total embarrassment: my shorts were what I currently use as togs and my socks were my old 1stXV socks which drew many a smart remark. I don’t recall anyone making fun of Bob Marley whenever he was decked out in green, red, yellow and black. Worst of all I didn’t even have rugby boots; instead I opted for my old adidas Samoa trainers which I claimed were a suppositious choice and “helped me channel the power of Va’aiga Tuigamala”.

Pause

Laughter! Another close call avoided. Not surprisingly, I also passed the sprig inspection test and then it was game time. Courtney wisely choice to start me off the bench; meaning I’d have the second half to unleash eight years of pent-up rugby-less aggression. And when the second half began all eight years of pent-up rugby-less aggression was promptly extinguished as I literally collapsed after running from the kick-off to the first scrum. All Black debutantes claim that their first test experience is so quick it feels like it’s over before it’s even started. Well, I can tell you my first experience of 5th Grade rugby seemed to take forever as I willed the referee to blow that final whistle so I could lie down. Sadly, there were still another 39 minutes left when that thought entered my head.

Now, before the game my new team mates offered some good natured ribbing about New Zealanders having invented the art of rucking. I found this rather bemusing considering I believe the English to be the dirtiest bunch of sportsmen to ever step foot on a rugby field. And I was hugely conscious of this when I found myself at the bottom of a ruck just three minutes into the second half. Forgetting the little tricks I learnt during my 1stXV years I did the stupid thing of placing my hands on my head to protect it from the incoming storm of sprigs. Protecting one’s head may sound like exactly the action to take when being trampled upon but I assure you it’s not. What in fact you are doing is leaving your armpits exposed to the opposition. Now, it may seem incredibly homoerotic for the opposition to drag the soles of their boots across your armpits but believe me when you’re back in the changing room after the match and you forgetfully spray Lynx deodorant across the ripped and torn flesh you soon remember you’ve been part of a rugby match!

That shock was to come later because the second half was still underway. Despite the opposition being a grade above us we were dominant; winning 35-5. The person responsible for allowing Hitchin their one and only try was none other than yours truly. Hithcin had a five metre scrum and after screaming at my team mates not to let them cross the try line I followed the ball to the back of their scrum. Spying it pop out past the last man’s feet I hacked it away with my adidas. The ref’ immediately penalised me; and while I *cough* calmly *cough* discussed with the referee just how much of the ball he'd like to pass the No. 8’s feet before he constitutes it out the opposition halfback had taken a quick tap and dived across the line unopposed.

Still, a seven tries to one victory isn’t a bad way to come out of rugby retirement but my next mission was to make it all the way back into Central London’s West End for a red carpet premiere of Proof which Hayley was sneaking me into. Running a touch late for my sneaky entry I had to bustle my way through a maul of fans, swerve by a scrum of journalists, and side-step past the security before I had a clear run up the red carpet and into the theatre. But with the metaphorical try line in sight I was suddenly blinded by thousands of flash bulbs. Regaining my sight I realised I was but one metre from Gwyneth Paltrow’s shoulder who was proving to the paparazzi that those pregnancy rumours are false. A quick goose step and I was untouched in at the corner.

OK, so it wasn’t the greatest Gwynie story but you’re still reading. Which means you got to hear about my first game back and believe me it’s better reading about it than playing it. That old analogy about feeling muscles you never knew existed is very much a truism for me right out. I’ve got a “dead arm” in my lower back and my right leg... if that makes any sense at all. And my left arm is so badly crushed that I can barely undertake taskes such as tying my shoe laces, unlocking the door, and folding my arms - which is my favourite position when travelling on the tube.

But never fear I’ll be joining the Hampstead 5th Graders this Saturday… boots and all.

Livin' Da Vida London...

2005-10-06T13:31:00.000+01:00

Haven’t been swimming in glacier rivers or partaking in illegal radio activity lately so thought I might share a few bits and bobs that have kept me amused.

Firstly, there’s this odd looking gentleman on the left who I feel is a more compelling image than any castle, palace, or bridge that I’ve seen in my time in London. Now, I know what you’re asking: “Is that a mirrorball helmet he has on his head”. And my answer to that would be: “Yes!” My mate Josh and I were at a club called EGG having a bit of a boogie when I turned around and saw possibly the funniest thing I’ve witnessed in my 26 years. Without a moment to spare Josh snapped the pic; and the reason my image is slightly blurred is that I was in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, shaking like a spastic. To this day I still wonder what possess a man to take a mirror ball and cut from it a motorbike helmet? He’s even shown some quality craftsmanship with the rubber edging. My only regret is that I never got to see his Vespa… the mind boggles.

The second thing I wish to share with you is my weekly tradition. Each Monday on the way to the supermarket I pick up the TNT Magazine. This is a free mag marketed at Kiwis, Aussies and Saffas; with articles and info on how to survive in London. It also includes news and sports stories from back home (which is how I remain such a dominant force in the Virtual NPC competition). It’s not a bad little publication – I’m sure it would have been a valuable resource in the days before the internet… I’m just really bitter because they turned me down for the sports editor job. Alas, the reason I make it a tradition to snaffle the TNT Magazine each week is for the “Desperately Seeking” page (stop laughing people – that’s not meant to be the funny bit!) It’s filled with short advertisements from said Kiwis, Aussies and Saffas who’ve got completely tanked at establishments like the Outback, the Redback, the Walkabout, the Church, or, worse than them all put together, the Fulham Slug & Lettuce (otherwise known as the “Slug & Legless”); they’ve met someone from the opposite sex and due to levels of intoxication haven’t quite claimed the meatpack from their raffle win, if you get my drift. So, placing an ad in the “Desperately Seeking” section they hope to pick up from where they regrettably stumbled home.

Now back to the Monday tradition… with TNT Mag in one hand and a pair of snips in the other my flatmate, Sarah, and I cut out our favourite “Desperately Seeking” ad of the week and place it on the fridge. Ads are adjudicated victory due to various criteria – some for the description of themselves or the person their desperately seeking; others for the reason they didn’t seal the deal on the night; and others simply because of their hotmail addresses.

So, envelope please, here is a selection of our weekly winners…

Tall blone girl at the Redback on September 11 with black hair band: I couldn’t come over cause I was too tired and drunk. I didn’t want to stuff it up. I was wearing a blue stripped T-shirt. Please, I’m nice. Email puttingitoff@hotmail.com.

Aussie Joanne with the pretty eyes who was at the Redback, Sunday August 28: You should be kissed, and often, by someone who knows how. Email enchantediam@hotmail.com

Seeking gorgeous golf guy: You got on the Northern line at London Bridge and off at Clapham North, Sunday evening on August 21: You had your golf clubs with you. I was in the jeans and pink singlet surrounded by IKEA bags. Would you like to have a drink with me at the 19th hole? Email: missmilo@hotmail.co.uk

Andrew? At the Church & SheBu Walkie, Sunday July 31: You were wearing a white top and I was the blonde Kiwi in the blue top whose name you couldn’t remember. Hope I got yours right. I kissed a random girl on stage and then lost you on the dance-floor. You said you were nearing the end of you visa. I hope I’m not too late. Email Kiwi-G@hotmail.co.uk

The gorgeous Qantas guy at Fulham Broadway station: I often see you and look forward to the next time our flight paths cross. I’m still waiting for an application to join that club, so email me at milehighclubapplicant@hotmail.co.uk

Melbourne marketing girl: We met at Fulham Slug Thursday, August 4. You recognised me from back home. I wasn’t in the best mood – I should have been after seeing you (what was I thinking?). I couldn’t hear you, but I wanted to talk. Email mailto:ineedtospeekup@hotmail.com

Sexy Kiwi boy on tube on September 20 at 6pm: We met on a crowded tube and we stood so close. I blurted out “this is one way to meet someone”. We laughed and spoke before you got off at Earl’s Court. You have black hair, an incredible smile. I have blonde hair, Dior green glasses and was wearing a black suit. You’ve just arrived from NZ and I from Australia. You made my heart skip. Email Amba_THR37@hotmail.com

Tall English guy at Kings Cross EGG, Saturday 24 Sepetmber: I bumped into you on the dance-floor. We had our photo taken. I have a ginger beard. I’ll pay top dollar for you motorbike helmet. Email sparklyskidlids@hotmail.com

That’ll do it for now – but just quickly…

What do you call four Chavs in a mini? Innit!

Where does Saddam Hussein keep his CDs? In a rack!

Pirate of the Dance (Music Radio Station)...

2005-09-27T23:28:00.000+01:00

So, it’s been a while – having spent the last few weeks churning out cover letter, after cover letter, after cover letter for enterprises varying from the Christian Community Channel to the GayTV Network I just couldn’t bring myself to sit in front of this computer screen and type some more. That was until tonight… when I hosted my first pirate radio show.

Why do a radio show? Well, having spent $15,000 to major in radio at University and then frittering away another six years at Radio Sport and George FM I figured I may as well take a two hour break from Cover Letter Hell and go spin some tunes. It’s also a great way of justifying the $150 I spent on excess baggage bringing the damn records over in the first place.

So I jetted off to Vibe FM in a galaxy far, far away. OK, so it was Zone 5 but that’s still far, far away from where I live. I already had my suspicions that this would be a pirate radio station. After all, Britain’s a totally different radio market to New Zealand. In good ol’ Aotearoa the government fully deregulated radio in the 1988; so any mug with a spare room in their Ponsonby flat could buy a frequency and play their doof-doof music over the airwaves. This resulted in New Zealand now having more radio stations per head of population than any other country in the world. In Britain, on the other hand, radio frequencies are still regulated; only government-run stations or men with the fortune of Richard Branson can afford a frequency. I know all this because I spent $15,000 to major in radio at University. So to get round this large glitch in the local radio laws the entrepreneurial youths of Britain have set up pirate radio stations. Small antennas are stealthily put up on someone’s chimney and they can nervously broadcast on a low powered frequency from their kitchen until the police raid the flat and they have to salvage their antenna and find someone else’s kitchen to broadcast from.

My $15,000 didn’t buy me the kind of hands-on insight in pirate radio that I was about to endure. Firstly, I had to meet Elski, the “station manager” (read: unemployed bum) at a secret rendezvous. From there we walked to the “station” (read: decrepit house). To get there we navigated our way through someone’s carport, squeezing past a skip, down two flights of a fire-exit, and across a dodgy looking industrial courtyard filled with rusting vans. I’m positive I recognise this location from a murder scene in Guy Ritchie’s Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

We then passed through countless doors with countless locks to the point that I felt like Maxwell Smart (RIP) in the opening scene of Get Smart. Finally we arrived at the station which was actually just the garage of someone’s flat which they’d particle-boarded off to form two studios. Elski’s first instructions (besides the various tricks to working the locks and bolts on the way in) was to “always keep the studio door closed 'cause the music will disturb the elderly couple who’s downstairs garage we’re using”. Second rule: “if anyone asks don’t tell them that that studio next-door is where Freeze FM broadcast from”.

Freeze FM and Vibe FM… what’s with radio stations and their ridiculous names? Not nearly as silly as the names of the various DJs that play on Vibe FM. DJ Krispee and Whizzee are a few that stood out. The music policy of Vibe FM is equally daft: ranging from D’n’B, to bruck, to jungle, to grime, to dub-step, to 2-step… I’m not making any of this up. The guys on before me were called “TLV”. I was too scared to ask what it stood for; I could barely understand a word they said. Two podgy teenagers, who should have been in school, with a record collection that no doubt was purchased with money raised by pawning their mothers’ good china. These two lads were perfect examples of what in Britain is called a Chav. In America you have Rednecks, in New Zealand they’re Bogans, in Britain they’re Chavs. And their on-air announcing wouldn’t have pleased my University lecturer none too much at all: “Yo, yo! Gotta biggie-ups all da massif listening in Watford. Booka! Biggie-ups Fat Bobby down da curry house. Proper, bruv, proper. And biggie-ups Dodgy Dave runnin’ tings down da Watford Pawn Shop. Nuff respec’. Dis choon is well wikkid, innit!?”

With TLV out off the studio I could now get on with my show. And, boy, did I need them out of the studio. Measuring four metres long and a metre and a half wide with no natural light this is the kind of dungeon that would make OSH staff queasy. And it made my stomach turn, too. This tiny studio with no natural light or airflow was rife with the smell of a thousand Chavs big-upping their massif. It was so hot and muggy that I had to wipe the condensation off my records before I played them. There was one small fan that’s only use was to push the stench past my nose and mouth with every oscillation.

The studio phone, I must admit, is pure Chav-genius: Vibe FM shelled out £25 for a Vodafone sim-card so you simply put the sim-card into your own mobile and hey-presto the world can text and phone in their love, admiration and nuff respec’.

The rest of the design is best labelled as “thrifty” (read: shoddy). The turntables were set up on a kitchen bench-top that was either nicked from out the back of the local hardware store or more likely from the elderly couple upstairs. It was a miracle that the two turntables worked because the CD players were of little use to anyone. They were those old front-loading dual-deck Numark ones from back in the day that even George FM have thrown away. The right CD tray didn’t open while the left one was needed for playing the ads.

Or should I say “adds” as Station Manager Elski likes to label them (pet-peeve: “ads” is short of “advertisement” so doesn’t need two d’s… feel free to point out any of my spelling or grammar errors but “adds” really ticks me off). It was, in fact, just one ad, weighing in at a minute and forty-three seconds long. The copywriter needs a bullet. It was an advertisement for some D’n’B party in South West Northlands with a zillion DJs, half a zillion MCs, and one live PA. It featured none other than DJ Daddy-Mack-Daddy and MC Check-2-3-4… whoever they are. Most of the ad was spent advising the boys that there was to be no “trainers, hoodies, or caps. Security will be tight on the night so keep your gear on the down-low. Booka!” Another three sentences where then dedicated to persuading the female clientele to wear as little as possible. Most dance party adverts I know of use the euphemism “Dress to Impress”. There was no such tact with this lot. With the adds played it was back to my sweaty records.

So how does a pirate radio station with one solitary ad finance a fulltime station manager? Well, you have to pay £10 subs for your two hours on air. And Elski being a crafty entrepreneur has devised a money-making penalty scheme for those tardy Chavs who don’t slide their tenner under the door to his “office” (read: toilet). If you don’t pay your subs on the day of your show you’re immediately fined another £10 and then £1 for each day until you pay up. In other words it’ll be a total of £27 by the time your next show rolls round. Biggie-ups Elski is all I have to say.

Anyway, that is the first and last time I’ll be appearing on Vibe FM. And for many valid reasons:

1) It’s a good hour from where I live.
2) The only people listening are the Watford massif and any music savvy pilots who manage to isolate the frequency on their way into neighbouring Heathrow.
3) I can’t afford the £10 subs – let alone any pyramid-styled late-fee scheme.
4) I can’t work the top bolt on the sixth door in.
5) I’ve vomited twice since being locked in that cavernous Chav-sauna.
6) And, finally, they’ve already got a DJ called Scandalous.

... Oh, and for anyone still wondering Struggle and Strainers = Trainers.

Big-ups yaself for getting the rest right, nuff respec'.

A Butcher's Hook at London Town...

2005-09-05T14:53:00.000+01:00

It seems not even in my new home town can I get away from a funny language – armed with my Cockney Rhyming Slang Dictionary it’s time to take a Butcher’s Hook (look) at London. Why? Because my good friends from Auckland, Scott and his Trouble and Strife (wife) Sarah, were in town. They are to blame for the Cockney Dictionary and I am to blame for being their rookie tour guide. I hoped to balance all the typical tourist attractions with London: Randall Style.

It began on Tuesday night with a rendezvous at Paddington Station at approximately 11:56pm. That meant we had approximately four minutes to catch the last Hail and Rain (train) to Highbury & Islington. Thus beginning a baptism of fire into the ways of London. Running from platform to platform with 60kgs in tow I then took Sarah and Scott on a midnight walk through Highbury Fields in the Noah’s Ark (dark). On the tube I had regaled them with stories about the stabbings, robberies and murders that have occurred in Highbury Fields. It was all harmless fun to add to the London experience… harmless had they not been awake for the past 25 hours and now suffering from a severe case of paranoia. They needn’t worry as they arrived safely at my Mickey Mouse (house).

Wednesday morning dawned and it was time for a far less psychotic Ball of Chalk (walk) to my favourite part of town, Angel, for some breakfast. We then headed into town for the madness of Oxford Street (Top Shop for Sarah and Nike Town for Scott). That was the touristy part of London; the London: Randall Style part involved Judy and Punch (lunch) and a few beers in the park. Not probably what they spent 24 hours on the plane for but seeing as they were suffering jetlag and the park was in the shadow of Buckingham Palace I figure it was a good decision.

Feeling completely fatigued and run down from late nights, early starts and the good many kilometres covered I took Thursday off and left Sarah and Scott to discover London on their own. But on Friday it was back to business as we hit the tourist traps; starting with a look inside Westminster Palace. Our tour guide was a highly knowledgeable lady who had all the hallmarks of being a former school teacher: From the badly colour-coordinated attire, to the snapping of her fingers when it was time to move on; and the way she leaned in, squinted and enunciated every syllable loudly and clearly when she felt she was imparting on us something rather quite fascinating. To be honest it was all actually quite fascinating; especially for the fact we were allowed access to all the important rooms of Westminster Palace: From the House of Commons to the House of Lords - where we got within touching distance of the Queen’s golden Rag and Bone (throne). I probably learnt more in those 75 minutes about the make-up of British Parliament than I did in my two years of History at high school. That has something to do with my 6th Form History Teacher thinking the best way to understand English governmental processes was by copying down, letter for letter, what she wrote on the blackboard into my 1BF. That gave me all the skills to be a transcriber but hardly equipped me with the knowledge to tell the difference between Anne Boleyn and Winston Churchill.

The plan was then to get on the London Eye but Scott objected because he’s afraid of heights. How he managed to cope with being suspended 20,000 feet in midair on the flight over is anyone’s guess. Instead we took a boat ride down the Thames, got off and did a whirlwind tour around Covent Garden and Leicester Square – just enough so Sarah and Scott can claim they’ve been there done that. Then we had a Far and Near (beer) at a Near and Far (bar) on Carnaby Street. That was all the touristy things ticked off for the day so the night was finished with a touch of London: Randall Style - a £1 pizza from my local kebab shop.

Saturday morning we awoke extra early – not to open my birthday presents but to go watch the All Blacks. The plan was to take Sarah and Scott to a dingy pub near Hayley’s house where we would sit on the beer-soaked, ash-stained carpet with a bunch of Kiwis. Luckily for my guests Hayley chose a different location. The Crown is probably the most up-market pub and hotel in all North West London. In fact, it was the chosen destination of an Irishwoman who recently won the European Lottery and had come to the capital to collect her £140 million... this pub was more bling than the Queen's throne. Eventually, we did get a true taste of the dingy London I had hoped for with a greasy-spoon breakfast at, world-famous-in-Cricklewood, Meral’s Café.

We headed back into the centre of London so I could show Scott ‘round the record stores (although I think he was more interested in the nearby Soho red light district). Meanwhile, our China Plate (mate) Josh hooked Sarah up with an appointment at Daniel Galvin – London's trendiest hair salon. Sarah’s stylist claims to style the Barnet Fair (hair) of the Osborne Family and Sting… although if my memory serves me correct the only style Sting sports is a No. 1 all over. Finally, it was time for more pizza – at Firezza where you order your pizza by the metre – before gearing up for a birthday shindig.

A crew of eight of us went to a Rub-a-Dub-Dub (club) in Farringdon called Turnmills. There was a pretty amazing line-up of DJs including Timmy Regisford from New York and DJ Spen & Teddy Douglas from Baltimore. They played some fantastic Stewed Prunes (tunes) which would’ve been more than enough for me to claim it as one of the better nights I’ve experienced. But on top of that they brought along two of the most legendary Rolls Royces (voices) in the game… I’m talking big, black, breath-takingly good gospel singers - the kind of individuals you’re more akin to seeing being pulled from a roof top in New Orleans. Thankfully Ron Carroll is from Chicago and Jocelyn Brown (who I've since learned did vocals for a chap by the name of DJ Bobo back in 1996) is from Washington DC; that meant we were treated to an awe-inspiring display that makes you wish pop singers from Avril Lavigne to Robbie Williams were present for a lesson in how to deliver a pitch-perfect, powerful live vocal performance.

It was gonna be hard to top that so on Sunday Sarah, Scott and I decided to have a little Bo Peep (sleep) in the park, then a traditional roast Duchess of York (pork) dinner and another whirlwind tour – this time of Piccadilly Circus.

Before I say alligator (later) I’ll leave you with this one last sentence to decipher:

The next time you part with your Sausage and Mash
for some Struggle and Strainers be warned as you go to the Rub-a-Dub-Dub and Ball of Chalk up and down the Apple and
Pears and spend plenty of Lemon and Lime on the Rory
O’Moore that they’ll likely Chalk Farm your Plate of Meat
and These and Those so Sorry and Sad you’ll no doubt Lord
Mayor at the top of your Rolls Royce.

We're All Going On A Summer Holiday...

2005-08-30T18:00:00.000+01:00

I’ve battled with some hard languages over the past month but there can’t be any weirder dialect than Welsh. Every word seems to begin with “Ll” and usually includes the letters “cyr”. What’s worse is that none of those combinations are pronounced remotely like what they look like - your best bet is to grunt like you’ve got a bit of coal stuck down your throat. All of this and I didn’t even need to pack my passport for my first official British summer holiday.

The destination was the South West of Wales and the goal was to spend some time on a beach reminiscent of those in New Zealand… that is beaches that aren’t pebbly like Brighton; but gold and sandy like New Brighton. The holiday consisted of four days, four nights, and four people: myself, Hayley, her sister Stephanie, and Steph’s boyfriend David – who not only owns the most dilapidated yet charismatic caravan in all the United Kingdom but for the purposes of visiting Wales shall hereby be known as Dafyd. It was the Summer Bank Holiday Long Weekend and everyone seemed thrilled to get out of frenetic London and take some much needed time off. Except for me, of course, as I’m currently undertaking the longest long weekend in history; and having been amongst the hustle and bustle of London for just two months I hardly felt the need to escape such a vibrant city.

Having crossed a few rivers (the Thames, the Avon, and the Severn) we finally hit Wales. It was kind of exciting thinking about all these Welsh cities and towns I had read and heard so much about from various All Black tours. A brief stop for lunch on the outskirts of Newport soon killed the romance. I can now understand why the Welsh live for rugby… a valley full of brown houses is a pretty grim sight to wake up to every morning. But two more hours of driving saw the scenery change dramatically as we arrived at Milton Village, the locale of our campsite.

With the tent pitched it was off to partake in a great Welsh custom… drinking at the pub. It says a lot about British culture that in a pub as quaint and uniquely Welsh as the Milton Brewery Inn - where the staff speak in an accent so think you may as well be in Eastern Europe - that you can still order five different types of curry from the menu. As weird as that seems what happened later that evening was something straight out of a Stephen King movie. In Britain you can be lucky enough to be part of what’s called a “Lock In”. I figure it must have spawned from the fact most bars and pubs close at around midnight or 1 o’clock. So come closing hour everyone gets booted out… except for those behind the bar, their friends, and a few fortunate patrons who’ve befriended the bar staff. The doors get locked, the lights are dimmed, and the alcohol flows until everyone’s passed out. Now, a Lock In, as you’d imagine, is a pretty cool thing to be party to in a swanky town like London; but on the Western most point of mainland Britain; in a pub, where the average age is 65; it’s down right scary. As soon as 11 o’clock struck the blinds were pulled; the door was latched, bolted, and locked; the music went up; and the barman forced open the cigarette machine and grabbed a packet for everybody. We made our excuses and marched off into the night.

The next morning we loaded up the caravan in search of what we came for – a pebble-less beach. Somewhat oddly the beach in question was called Freshwater West which didn’t fill anyone with confidence; but sure enough we were in luck. Salt water, sand dunes, and miles and miles of golden, pebble-less beach. And, as an extra bonus, Britain had turned on the sunshine for the long weekend. Without a second to spare we headed straight for the water – unfortunately I obviously didn’t learn my lesson from that dip in the Alpine river in Switzerland. Just ‘cause this beach looked like a New Zealand one didn’t mean it was as warm as one. One head-freeze later I retired to dry land to warm up.

With our mission accomplished and two days to spare the next morning we decided to go sight-seeing. Heading south to Tenby we stumbled upon an archetypical British seaside town. Thousands of beetroot-red Poms lay on multi-coloured beach chairs while their children lined up for donkey rides – it was a scene straight out of a 1960s holiday brochure. The town of Tenby had a little more class – that’s if you call having the No. 1 Fish & Chip Shop in Britain classy. If you’re going to line up for 30 minutes for the award winning fish and chips I don’t know why you’d want to drown them in mushy peas or gravy… the Brits have a sauce for every occasion. To be honest, the fish and chips weren’t all that bad but I could’ve done with some crab sticks and a battered banana.

On our way back to the campsite we had a snoop round Manorbier Castle – described by Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald the Welshman) as “the pleasantest spot in Wales”. Gerald was a famous Welsh author but I’m not convinced “pleasantest” is an actual word. Originating in the 12th century it was a pretty basic castle compared to some of the more modern structures you can visit around Britain but it was interesting all the same to walk up the stairwells and back down into the dungeon. Dipping and bobbing about the place everyone came to the conclusion that people back then were considerably smaller – the fact that I had to duck to get into certain rooms suggests I could’ve been a heroic knight if only I was born 983 years earlier.

Monday dawned and we packed up just before the rain arrived and made our way back over the Severn Bridge into Mother England. We had just enough time to stop for lunch in a place outside of Swindon called Avebury where they had a smaller version of Stonehenge – smaller in reputation only, because this stone circle was actually bigger than its famed southern neighbour. Then it was back to London to contend with broken-down trains and a million people making their way home from the Notting Hill Festival. I sure can’t wait till the next long weekend to get out of frenetic London.

One Night In Zurich...

2005-08-22T16:59:00.000+01:00

There’s an old saying in sport that “what goes on tour stays on tour”. And I’d like to preface this entry with that remark to ease the minds of those concerned and protect the good (looking) people of Zurich.

Our final night on this adventure was spent - as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now - in Zurich. Those that have been paying attention over the previous weeks will know Switzerland is a multi-lingual paradise; and Zurich is a stronghold of the Swiss-German dialect. I’ll fess up now and say that my German is worse than my French. I know a little Afrikaans but German… well, every word seems to be a dozen consonants broken up by one of those vowel things with an Oompa Loompa above it. One word I now recognise in German is “fetische” – that’s because our hotel was in the red light district of Zurich.

There was little time for my favourite hobby of watching American TV shows over-dubbed in foreign languages but I should quickly mention that Schnipp/Tuck was hilarious and German Big Brother makes British Big Brother look like Australian Big Brother if ya-know-what-I-mean? If you don’t I know a German word to describe it.

Having dumped our bags and discovered our hotel was a whips crack away from Switzerland’s version of K Rd it was off to a traditional beer hall for a Bavarian feast and, you guessed it, beer. Whilst struggling with some sort of sausage omelette which was more meat than egg we were harassed by a Hen’s Night that offered a rare insight into another Swiss-German tradition. The poor bride-to-be had spent her afternoon baking phallic shaped biscuits which she then had to sell to innocent bystanders on her final night of freedom. The catch being she was not allowed to buy her friends a drink with money from her own pocket but instead get her mates suitably sloshed with her biscuit-baking profits.

I should have bought a biscuit because it would’ve been the cheapest thing on sale in all of Zurich. One of two lasting memories of Zurich is that it’s the most expensive city you’ll come across. 20CHF (Swiss Francs) will buy you a gin and tonic – that’s over $20NZ! A five minute taxi ride to the other side of the lake to Club Aqua cost 15CHF and it was 30CHF just to get in! If Zurich is the most expensive city I’ve come across it’s also the most beautiful… or more precisely the women are the most beautiful in world (that being the second lasting memory of my 18 hours in Zurich). I figure the only way the locals can afford to live in Zurich is by becoming a chiropractor, thus earning a small fortune from tourists who put their necks and backs out from repeatedly turning to look at girls. Alas, a good majority of Zurich girls were in said club and at over 30CHF a pop there was no way Mal and I were paying to go in. My only hope was to play the “DJ Bobo” card. But fearing the bouncers may ask me to speak German or, worse still, dance like Captain Jack Sparrow we turned around and walked all the way back from whence we came.

Walking 10 miles through the dark, medieval streets of Zurich isn’t that bad. It’s a good chance to relearn your Roman numerals whilst playing “Guess How Old The Building Is…” Fun as that was it didn’t compare to hanging grimly to a bank manager on the back of a scooter, racing from club to club through Zurich’s back alleys, with Mal trying to run alongside. Malcolm and I have been in some pretty hairy moments on golf carts before but with all due respect to the Ngamotu Links in Taranaki this mode of transport had a Continental charm all of its own.

And with that it was time say so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight… oops - arrivederci, and au revoir. Next week: something a million miles away from the sassy sophistication of Switzerland. Obviously not literally a million miles away but tenting on a Welsh beach hasn’t quite got the allure of la Suisse.

The Italian Job...

2005-08-15T09:29:00.000+01:00

There aren't too many countries in the world where you can be ferried away to eat raviolli with a quartet of men named Rolando, Sergio, Fabio, and Flavio. You'd be forgiven for thinking we were dining with the front four for Inter Milan; but these men were in fact head honchos in Switzerland's Tourism and Hotel Industry. Once again the complexities of Switzerland were at work... here we were inside Swiss borders but you couldn't get more quintessentially Italian: Mini Coopers zipping past vegetable stalls, olive -skinned men throwing buckets of waste on cobbled roads, 600-year-old architecture, Hitler even surrendered a million Italian troops in Ascona.

But to get to the Swiss-Italian border Phil, Mal and I had to make the journey over the famed Nufenen Pass. It's Switzerland's highest pass open to motor vehicles and I was promised snow. Instead it was a nauseating crawl up the mountain in the slowest Voyager to come off Ford's production line. At one stage I spotted Lance Armstrong overtake us on his victory lap. I may not have got summer snow but I did get a rather snazzy photo of which I'm quite proud.

Ascona wasn't all about being wined and dined in a haunted hotel on a botanical island... we also got to eat Italian pizza with equally stunning scenery. No Cheesey Stuffed Crust Hawaiian on the menu here so I went with the Quatro Stagioni. Set along Lake Maggiore, Ascona is a popular summer tourist town; there are countless restaurants, bars, and cafes along the lake front (think Auckland's Viaduct but five times bigger and without the Epsom-girls-who-should-know-better). Each night eating becomes a spectator sport as everyone turns their chairs around to face the Lake for an instesive session of people-watching. Bettering the voyeriusm is the half dozen street performers who entertain you while you pick the olives off your pizza. From mimics to a family of circus acrobats, this was quality busking. Proving a good case for irony was a slightly retarded man who juggled a beach ball from side to side with his crutches. Kinda cruel, I know, but set against this back-drop of world class street performers and wealthy Italians it was like a scene out of There's Something About Mary.

Despite befriending the Sopranos of the hotel world our accommodation was a little out of Ascona which wasn't too bad as our hotel was set in the shadows of a bombed bridge with an amazing river that run underneath it. This wasn't you typical hotel swimming pool (especially considering it was a nudist bathing area) but seeing as this was the hottest day of the year I certainly wasn't going to resist a refreshing dip in this readymade watering hole. But if there's one thing I learnt from my trip to Switzerland is that no matter how hot the day if you're gonna chuck yourself head-first into a Swiss river remember that the water has run straight off the Alps and is essentially melted snow. One head-freeze later and I had sufficiently cooled off.

Now, throughout my journey I become more conscious that people were looking at me funny... this isn't all that uncommon for me but these looks lingered slightly longer than I've become accustomed to. It was then brought to my attention that I had a strong resmemblance to Switzerland's most famous musician. This thrilled me no end and I just couldn't wait to check out his website and marvel in the similarity. The superstar in question calls himself DJ Bobo which didn't fill me with confidence and if you'd kindly head to www.djbobo.ch you'll realise my shock (click here for an instant photo). With an act called "Pirates Of The Dance" he's not so much a rock star but more of a cross between Meatloaf and Ireland's toe-tapper Michael Flately. No wonder people were looking at me funny... I'm surprised I got past customs at Geneva Airport.

Anyway, cast your votes on if you think I look remotely like DJ Bobo and log on next time to find out if I could fool the people of Zurich with my pirate dance.

High On A Hill Lived A Lonely Goat...

2005-08-08T14:35:00.000+01:00

“Ode-lay, ode-lay, ode-lay-ee-oo!”

Okay, the first thing you should know about Switzerland is that The Sound Of Music is from Austria. It’s Heidi that’s from Switzerland. Suggesting that the Von Trapp family is Swiss is like suggesting to a Kiwi that Bonecrusher is an Australian horse. Here’s what Switzerland is famous for: chocolate, watches, Swiss Army knives, dairy cows, St. Bernard dogs, the Alps and melted-cheese with potato. Yup, melted-cheese and potato is the Swiss national dish! More on that later but the saga continues…

Phil, Malcolm and I made the drive from Evian, across the border, through Geneva, skirting around Lausanne, by-passing Montreux, through the Rhone Valley and 1,500 metres up to Crans-Montana. Now, for anyone that’s done the drive through Hamilton, skirting around Cambridge, by-passing Tirau, through Putaruru and on to Tokoroa this drive is nothing like that… but it does take roughly the same amount of time. “Are we there yet?” is a universal road-trip cry. So to is: “Can we stop for ice-cream?” but in Switzerland it’s also a tourist attraction because in this country stopping for ice cream means stopping for Movenpick.

Our next official stop was Crans-Montana a famous ski town half way up the Swiss Alps. Roger Moore is a regular to Crans and many years ago famed New Zealand author Katherine Mansfield spent a couple of seasons in Montana where the altitude helped her tuberculosis. The Swiss even have a plaque and fountain dedicated to Mansfield, honouring the great stories she wrote during her time in Crans-Montana. Now, wouldn’t it be nice if the Aussies put a plaque on the steps of the Sydney Opera House honouring New Zealand band Crowded House and the farewell concert they preformed there?

New Zealand connections aside, we were about to be given the full-on Heidi-styled Swiss treatment. It began another thousand metres up the mountain with an alpine-horn serenade. And then we travelled to something like 2,500 metres, nearing outer-space, to get up close and personal with a herd of dairy cows. The Swiss and the Indians must be the only cultures to hold livestock in such high regard. And in Switzerland “high” is the operative word because a farmer with his herd of 70 odd cows will have one queen… and the queen is the cow that stands on the highest point of the mountain. The queen cow gets to wear the biggest bell round her neck and generally gets treated by the farmer as, well, a queen. To further illustrate this point your average cow in Switzerland is worth around 4,000 Swiss Francs; but the queen would never, ever get sold… but the calf of the queen is worth 40,000 Swiss Francs! So when tennis star Roger Federer returned to Switzerland after winning the 2003 Wimbledon title and the Swiss gave him a queen cow he actually landed the golden goose. The million dollar Wimbledon winner’s cheque is nothing to be sneezed at but neither is a dairy cow that produces you 40,000 Swiss Francs each spring.

And what of this melted cheese and potato I hear you ask? Well, the dairy cows eat the grass from the Alps, they then produce milk, which is churned into cheese, the cheese is salted each day for two months, and then it makes its way to the dinner table for the finest Swiss meal – raclette. Raclette is simply the local farmer’s cheese which is melted and then a thin slice is scraped off the block onto your plate and served with a potato. So the nation that gave the us the world's most intricate watches, the world's most delectable chocolate, and the most world's efficient banks has basic ol’ cheese and spuds for dinner.

Cows, cheese and altitude… if you wish to experience the picture-postcard Switzerland I suggest you go to Crans-Montana, point your nose in the sky, drive a little higher, take a right at the space shuttle Discovery, and keep driving towards the sound of the cowbells. Failing that you could always go to Heidiland. Yup, Switzerland has a theme park based around their most famed movie character. Just don’t go there asking for Leisl, Gretl, Briggita, Marta, and Louisa Von Trapp… it’s all about Heidi.

I should end it here as I’m struggling to resist the urge to use an “udder” pun. Our next destination is the Swiss-Italian border… it’s a long drive but thankfully we stop for gelato.

Naive Is Evian Spelt Backwards...

2005-08-01T03:40:00.000+01:00

Bonjour,

I’m back in London after two weeks in France and Switzerland. It was quite the adventure where I ably assisted Phil Leishman (the golf one… not the dog one) and our ever-hungry cameraman, Malcolm Clement. Switzerland is a mind-boggling country in that sharing its borders with France, Italy, and Germany (and some other nation called Liechtenstein) the people speak a fair few languages. Apparently 60% of the Swiss speak German, 30% French, and 10% Italian… but the vast majority of the people we came across spoke all three, plus English – putting my ability to count to ten in Maori to shame. Therefore travelling through Switzerland is like travelling through four countries; so instead of bombarding you with the entire multi-lingual escapade in one story I’ll, instead, drip-feed you the saga over the coming weeks.

I should preface the story by mentioning my French is really bad. This is due my Form Two French teacher walking through the class and clipping anyone ‘round the head if they couldn’t pronounce the most basic of sentences. This wasn’t my idea of fun so I stopped taking French after two weeks and instead joined the Extra English class (whatever that is). So when I say my French is really bad what I meant to say is that I know two French words: “merci” and “boeuf”. Meaning I spent the entire week eating beef meals and enthusiastically thanking the waiter for them.

The week began in sunny Evian, France… yes, I too did not realise that such a place existed. But it stands to reason they name the water after the very town from whence it came. In fact one of the back roads of Evian has a small pipe coming out of the hillside where you can freely fill your bottle up with the actual water that makes it way to the Evian bottling plant. We discovered this water source on a Sunday and it appeared to be a weekend tradition for the locals to bring along dozens of 1 litre “empties” and fill them up. My guess is that they were local restaurateurs and the bottles of Evian would make their way onto the tables of their restaurant over the coming week.

The town of Evian itself is at the foot of the French Alps and on the edge of Lake Geneva, or Lac Leman as the French call it. It’s an hour’s drive along the lake to Geneva and a 30 minute ferry ride to Lausanne. Meaning if you were that way inclined you could hold down a job in Lausanne, Switzerland and live in Evian, France. The border control is the stuff that the Corby family must dream of – as you come and go between the two countries there’s no one to check passports let alone your 4kg body-board bag.

We were in Evian to cover the Evian Masters – the richest women’s golf tournament in Europe. A lot is said in jest about the women’s golf tour being full of lesbians. That is probably an overplayed cliché but on first impressions I could’ve sworn I was at a European Tomboy Convention. When I said earlier that it was “sunny” Evian that was for the entire week except 30 minutes on Monday afternoon when I bore witness the second greatest storm of my life (the greatest being at Glastonbury 4 weeks earlier). Some local town elders claimed it to be the worst storm they’d ever seen in Evian: 150km per hour winds and hailstones the size of golf balls. Now “hailstones the size of golf balls” is also an overplayed cliché but when the greenskeeper suggests that the hailstones are the size of golf balls it’s fair to say he knows what he’s on about. Alas, the hail destroyed all the flowers that were blossoming just in time for the golf tournament; so organisers had to truck in 40,000 replacement pots of flowers from all over Europe.

Now I may not be able to speak French but what I was able to do quite well on the French-Swiss border was indulge in their desserts. And when you combine Switzerland’s world famous chocolates and Movenpick ice cream with France’s profiteroles, crème brulee, and meringues I ended up eating enough dessert to feed all of Liechtenstein.

So aside from eating, golfing, fireworks, and ferry rides to Lausanne there wasn’t time for much else; which is why I shouldn’t dedicate a paragraph to French television but I, like a few others, have a strange fascination in watching American and English shows dubbed into foreign languages. Particular favourites were The Simpsons, Sex And The City and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation which the French call Les Expertes. Of their local programmes my curiosity was aroused by an early morning aerobics show (think Aerobics Oz Style but French Style). I really struggled with the questions on France’s version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And from what I could tell their take on The Weakest Link seemed really nasty (“Jean-Paul tu are tres faible. Au revoir!”)

That’s probably more than enough for this edition. Log in next time when I’ll regal you with stories about the Von Trapp’s long lost boxer shorts; a traditional German sausage-roll that wasn’t the wurst; and find out which Swiss rockstar I was mistaken for.