Magnetic Fields

Since I barely listen to the radio any more, it's getting a little harder to hook into good new music. Or any new music in fact. Did anyone else realise that Coldplay has just released a new album? Luckily I know a lot of people with good musical taste, including Meredith, who slipped me a compilation of songs by the Magnetic Fields with a nod and a wink that clearly meant "check out this band, they're hot, so get into it". In the last couple of days I've listened to the CD six times and went to see the M Fields in concert last night and it's safe to say that I'm into it. They're brilliant. If a little strange. And dark. In a kind of light, bubbly sort of way. The concert was amazingly strange. The band came on stage dressed like they were just getting together to eat pizza and watch football on TV. Then they spent 10 minutes ranting about how the airline that flew them from Dublin that morning had lost all of their instruments so they were playing with all borrowed equipment. Then they explained that the audience wasn't allowed to clap or cheer except when the lead singer had his finger in his ear (he's damaged his hearing apparently and applause really messes him up) though we were at all times allowed to show our appreciation by clicking our fingers. Odd. But odder still was the selection of gently acoustic songs they played, including a song about a gargoyle that was inspired by a chihuahua and the occult and an unreasonably chirpy ditty about necrophilia. My advice? Get into it. My favourite M Fields song? If You Don't Cry. It's awesome.

Sucker

I like to think of myself as a sophisticated consumer with discerning taste. However, I seem to be the only one who thinks that way. Sainsbury's for example, clearly has me pigeon-holed as a sucker who will throw away cash at the sligthest provocation. Everything they try works on me. They discount a family size trifle to £1.69 - I say "bargain" and buy one for dinner. Half a litre of tasteless cream, custard and jelly (net value 12p) later, I feel ill and slightly poorer. They put Cadbury flapjacks on display near the checkout - I say "delicious" and buy one for the tube ride home. Twenty minutes later I feel full of rolled oats and vegetable fat and almost considering saving the trifle for breakfast instead of dinner. They put their special butchers sausages on sale on a 2 for 1 offer - I say "bring on the bangers" and plunge in. A week later, I'm still shovelling away pork and sage sausages for dinner and there's still a mountain of them left in my fridge. It would be easier if Sainsbury's just decided what they wanted to sell me and delivered it to my door each week, then I could pay by direct debit and cut down their transaction costs. I'm sure they're considering it ...

Good things come in fours

A quick wrap of the highlights of the past few weeks

Barthelona

Barthelona! What a town. My favourite European city so far. I love it. And I love that I love it. Even before I stepped on the plane at London City, I was expecting to enjoy Barcelona, as everyone I know who has been there before raves about it. And, of course, there is a small matter of Barcelona FC, the beating heart of Catalunian culture and long-time best friends with Dutch football (more about that later). My excuse for visiting this Mediterranean jewel was Huy's 30th birthday, an event that Huy micro-managed to perfection (Joyce - your position as top-dog organiser is under threat!). Arranging for 20+ people to fly in from around the world to celebrate your birthday is no mean feat and the fact he has such pulling power is testament to what a popular guy Huy is (despite my frequent attempts at slandering him in this blog). The weekend was just the best fun ever - gastronomic delights at La Boqueria market, shopping at hidden boutiques in the alleyways of the Born district, being transported to an underwater world in the Casa Botilo, the overwhelming flavour hit of the foams and other emulsions that pass for dinner at Hisop (actually, I think the restaurant was top class - great choice, Huy) and dancing the night away underneath a giant gorilla head at La Fira. What a weekend. I have to go back! Soon!

Holland 3 - Italy 0

Despite not having set foot in Holland for 15 years, having extremely minimal Dutch language skills and knowing very little about Dutch culture or history, my Dutch heritage is extremely important to me. Its fullest expression comes when watching the Oranje play football. Whenever the Oranje play, I go a little crazy - and the sight of the massed thousands of Dutch fans wearing orange shirts, clogs and clown wigs makes me well up with emotion. Usually, the overwhelming feeling I experience is disappointment (like when the Dutch conspired to lose the Euro 2000 semi-final against Italy by missing two penalties in normal time and two more in the shoot-out - I was travelling at the time and returning to my hostel dorm room to find it full of Italian supporters was one of the worst moments of my life) though there is the occasional highlight (Bergkamp's goal against Argentina in the 89th minute of the 1994 World Cup semi-final - incredible- you MUST watch it on youtube). Even outside the low lands, the Dutch are admired for the way they play the game - they're open, attacking, skilful, graceful and all those other complimentary adjectives I can't think of right now. Sure, they're also mentally fragile, prone to in-fighting and unfamiliar with the concept of defence, but for this I forgive them. And in their first game at Euro 2008 they repaid me by thumping the world champions by three goals. Apart from his first name, Wesley Sneijder is perfect.

Bec & Frank

Two of the best people I know, who happen to also be two of my closest friends, are now married. Sure it was inevitable from the moment Bec sacrificed years of sun worship to move to Dublin to be with Frank and was confirmed when they set up a joint "Bec & Frank" email account, but it's nice to make these things official by going through with the ceremony. In customarily diplomatic style, the couple chose neutral territory for the big event, and stepping off the plane onto Italian soil was a sweet moment, coming so soon after the Oranje humiliation of the Azzurri (see above). Not only was the venue non-partisan, it was also stunning. The ceremony was held at the Palazzo Publico in Siena, which is set against the stunning backdrop of Siena's famous town square (actually, it's shell-shaped, not square - but I could hardly describe it as the town shell). I can't think of a more beautiful place for a wedding. It was an intimate ceremony, punctuated by Frank's uncontrollable sobbing and Bec's cool detachment ... We all know now who wears the trousers in that relationship. After a brief interlude during which the couple were mobbed by snap-happy tourists / paparazzi taking pictures in the square, we all hopped on a party bus to Borgo di Fontebussi, a stunning villa / hotel set on a Tuscan hill side, overlooking olive groves, vineyards and rolling valleys. Amazing. Wonderful food, the world's most charismatic wedding singer (able to move from U2's "One", sung in a thick Italian accent, to "Figaro" and then to "Bohemian Rhapsody" with barely a pause, this guy was incredible) and mad cross-cultural dancing ... this wedding had it all. Congratulations again Bec & Frank!

Holland 4 - France 1

Holland's second game of Euro 2008 was inconveniently scheduled for the same time as dinner on the second night as Bec & Frank's wedding. OK, I admit that I thought about it for a bit, but in the end I got my priorities right ... I went to the dinner. But I politely excused myself every 15 minutes to check the score and then, after scoffing dessert, ran upstairs with a couple of the lads to watch the second half. What a game!!! After thrashing the World Cup champions, I didn't think we could back it up by dishing out another humiliation to the World Cup finalists, but somehow we did. In the words of the Dutch commentator, screamed repeatedly at a high pitch , "Ongeloofelijk!!!" It was an amazing game, punctuated for me by Arjen Robben's stunning solo goal from a tight angle that shut down any prospect of a French comeback. I watched with disbelief as we repeatedly shredded the French defence on the counter attack. Amazing, amazing, amazing. A match that will never be forgotten (at least not by me).

Allez! Vamos! C'mon!

Tennis truly is an international language and, in my view, one of the best sports for spectators. One of the things I like most about tennis is the way that the game changes so completely depending on the court surface being used. Grass court is different from clay court tennis. Clay court tennis is different from hard court tennis. Hard court tennis is different to indoor carpet tennis. The list goes on. When people find out I'm a tennis fan and that I'm living in London, they usually ask if I've got plans to go to Wimbledon. Well, the answer is "no". Though I wouldn't turn down a free ticket offer, I have to confess that Wimbledon is my least favourite tournament (even though it was the only grand slam won by my all time favourite player R Krajicek). Sure, the tradition and history associated with Wimbledon is impressive, but with today's racquet technology and other advances in the sport, grass court tennis just isn't attractive to watch. The points are short and the play mostly one dimensional. The French Open on the other hand sits right on the other end of the spectrum, as it's played on slow clay, which means that the points can go on forever and players need to be amazingly fit and truly creative in order to succeed under those circumstances. Though I admit it tends to favour players who play from the baseline, I think clay gives most players a good shot (Pat Rafter, Tim Henman and, yes, R Krajicek all made the semis at the French during their career, so big servers can still prosper on the dirt). So, those of you still reading this somewhat boring post, will not be surprised to know that the French has always been a tournament that I look forward to. And this year I was lucky enough to go, thanks to the organisational genius of Huy, who put us into the ticket draw earlier this year.

The average punter like me doesn't need much of an excuse to head off to Paris for the weekend, but the tennis was an absolute clincher. We eurostarred under the channel on Thursday evening and were deposited neatly at Gare du Nord where, thanks to the wonderful Paris Metro, we were just a short trip away from our hotel in the 5th arrondisement (Parisians don't do suburbs). The next morning, after the obligatory shopping trip, we raced across the city to Roland Garros, the dusty, red centre of the French tennis world. I must say that I was very impressed with Roland Garros as a tennis venue. The courts are all quite close together, but there still enough room to move between them and most seats offer the crowd a good view. There are three very large show courts and a bunch of other outside courts with tiered seating where the plebs who can't afford to get onto centre court can still watch good matches in style and comfort. The crowd obviously knew their tennis well (you can tell this by the fact they gasp and clap at the appropriate moments), though I have to admit that they weren't quiet as enthusiastic in their support as the Oz Open crowds (I'm not used to watching tennis without 50 chanting vikings in the background and the sound of Swiss cow bells ringing out from centre court). We managed to catch quite a bit of good action, including a set of a doubles match featuring Lleyton Hewitt and Chris "I can serve but otherwise lack even the co-ordination of a 5 year old" Guccione. Sure, the Aussies lost, but they put up a good fight and, given that he had the Gooch as a handicap, Hewitt performed pretty well. We also saw a tight match between Mikhail "I may be a crazy Russian but don't mess with me because I have connections" Youzhny and Fernando "The poor man's Nadal" Verdasco. It was a real battle of styles, with Youzhny's attacking flair and misdirected aggression contrasting against Verdasco's spin-heavy backcourt game. Youzhny showed some spirit and broke some racquets, but Verdasco prevailed.

I could go on, but most of you probably stopped reading halfway through the first paragraph. If any tennis fans have actually made it to the end of this post, get in touch and we'll start organising Roland Garros 2009!

Pokusaj - Get into it

The Cotswolds is a small area in the west country of England, roughly the size of Greater Tokyo. The Cotswolds is mostly famous for being the wettest part of the world, particularly on bank holiday weekends. It is also well known for its many quaintly named villages like Old Sodbury, Little Slaughter and Cold Ashton (it really was colder in Cold Ashton!) and the green rolling hills that separate them.

Anyway, I went to the Cotswolds last weekend to walk in the rain and enjoy the scenery. The trip was organised, like most trips I take, by Joyce and featured a motley crew of under prepared and overly optimistic walkers. The emergency search and rescue team in Bath must have looked on with unusual concern as we milled around in central Bath (the town where our train dropped us off) comparing muesli bars and complimenting each other on the new wet weather gear we'd purchased during the week. Some unusual choices had been made. One half of Tranzie had decided to wear a waterproof tent rather than a waterproof jacket (presumably it was cheaper?) while the other half had gone with a sharp little skin-tight number so as to preserve his aerodynamic profile. Smart. Only Joyce was clever enough to bring waterproof shoes, though in fairness my shoes were specifically designed for off-road use and made clever use of brown suede, which helps disguise mud.

In any case, at the end of the day, no amount of money spent on clothes made from fabrics with fabulous wicking qualities can replace the toughness and mental fortitude that we as a group possessed. So we set off in high spirits to tackle the gentle hills and meandering pathways that faced us. Joyce, as always, had done her work well and chose a terrific route for us to walk. The scenery was beautiful and classically "English" - cultivated, green, soft and muddy. Actually, to be fair, the rain held off for most of the time, with only one morning spent trudging through showers. It did rain heavily on the third day, but we were smart enough not to walk that day, preferring instead the six-seater taxis for which the Cotswolds are also rightly famous.

As an aside, Saturday night featured an impromptu rest-break in Bath where we managed to take in the Eurovision song contest. I hadn't watched Eurovision for roughly 10 years but I intend to never miss it it again. I loved every minute of it (well, every minute of the performances, the vote tallying did get a bit dull about half-way through the 43 voting countries). To do it justice would take a whole new blog posting, and I don't have energy for that. But my personal highlight was "Pokusaj" by Laka - the entry from Bosnia-Herzgovina featuring the most successful Bosnian alternative music act performing today (or so Wikipedia tells me). No joke, the song is fantastic - uplifting, exciting, fast-paced and seriously catchy. But the performance took it to new heights - a strange girl hanging up laundry, four more strange girls in wedding dresses knitting cardigans, an even stranger man in a powder blue suit acting like a puppet. It was all so strangely and fantastically unexplained. I couldn't get enough. Unfortunately they finished mid-table, as the Bosnians didn't have as many friends in other countries as the winning Russians did. Oh well. Look it up on youtube - it'll make your day.

My weakening resolve

New Year's resolutions typically last no longer than 3 weeks (20 January being a particularly bad date for breaking resolutions as it is officially the most depressing day of the year, at least in the northern hemisphere, when people wake up to the harsh reality of winter without the promising glow of Christmas to look forward to). However, according to my posting history, mine seems to have lasted a little longer, well at least into February ... You see, I had resolved to try and blog a little more frequently this year, but you know what they say about best laid plans, and I didn't even lay my plan all that well. Worse still, I've been put to shame by a fellow blogger - Tim - who posts about five times a day. I would try and renew my resolution, but I know it's probably hopeless, so instead I'm just going to have to accept the reality that my postings won't be as frequent as I'd like.

Anyway, to get on with business, let's catch up on a little bit of news. I'll cover two noteworthy events. First, the all too brief visit of Tammie and Tom earlier this month. I have been friends with Tammie for as long as I can remember, well actually, come to think of it, we only became friends in year 10 and since I do have occasional flashbacks of life before I was 15yo, I suppose that's not technically true. But we've been friends for a long time. So I was naturally devastated to miss out on her wedding in April to another good mate of mine, Tom. Obviously sharing my distress, the two Ts decided to visit me on their honeymoon - a touching thought if not a little strange. An air mattress on my living room floor is not the most romantic way to spend your honeymoon, though before you worry too much, they were only stopping off in London before heading to Ireland where, in between doing other romantic things, they were staying in a castle. Laughing in the face of jetlag, Tammie and Tom were keen to see a few of London's sights during their short stay and since I've seen almost none of them, I was glad to tag along. We managed to fit in quite a lot during the 36 hours they were here, but the most notable event we saw was the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. I think the visitors enjoyed it, but I have to say I think it is the most overrated tourist attraction in London. To start off, you have to wait for 90 minutes surrounded by obnoxious Italian tourists (I'm not saying all Italian tourists are obnoxious, but the ones standing near us were) just in order to have a chance of getting half a glimpse of the action. Then you get to spend 40 minutes watching men in silly hats shuffling around on gravel and shouting at each other. The whole concept of the guards serving a practical purposes is ridiculous. If I was a burglar, I'd get into the palace through the back door (no doubt the door to the kitchen is always left open) rather than try to slip my way through a brass band with 50 soldiers playing the Star Wars theme (really, that's what they did) while each balancing half a dead bear on their heads. There's a reason why they keep the crown jewels in the tower and not in the palace - the security ain't great!

Well, enough about that, the second thing I wanted to tell you about is bikram yoga, which I recently tried for the first time. The thing about bikram yoga is that it makes you feel sick before it makes you feel better. As you'll probably know, the room that you do it in is heated to 40 plus degrees. This has a number of side effects: first it obviously makes you sweat a lot, which helps release toxins from your body, second it heats you up, which helps your flexibility and loosens your body up a bit, and third it helps get your heart rate going, which is good for your cardio fitness. It also makes you feel very ill if you've got any food in your stomach. Which is why my decision to eat a rich three course meal a couple of hours before the class wasn't one of my best (even though I did opt for the fish instead of the pork belly). I've heard that some people who have eaten before yoga have felt very queasy and ill afterwards. Luckily for me, I must have a good digestive system, because I didn't feel that bad. However, that was probably because I was only physically capable of participating in about half the class. Who would have thought yoga would be that hard? I got through the first few breathing exercises pretty easily and the smirk on my face obviously told the instructor I was a bit too cocky. So he threw us into a series of deep knee bends where you have to balance on one leg, bent so that your thigh is parallel to the ground (and therefore holding your entire weight), and then just sit there and stay still for 30 seconds at a time while madly trying to blink the sweat away from your eyes. I got through the first few repetitions but then had to spend the next ten minutes lying on the ground in a pool of sweat trying to get my heart rate back to normal. After that we did more tricks balancing on one leg, including a few that made me feel like something out of a Soulja Boy video clip. After the 90 minute class was over, I felt like a wreck. However, after a cool shower, a healthy "Berry Bliss" juice and about 3 hours of relaxation, I started to feel pretty good. I'm not sure it's all down to the yoga, but it might be, so I think I'll be back (which means that, like blogging, I'll probably do it once every three months for the next year or so and then quit).

Istanbul, not Constantinople

It's been a while since my last post. Over a month, in fact. So much for my New Year's resolution. I've got an excuse that covers two weeks of that particular blogging black hole, though - I was in Turkey on holiday over the start of April and though I brought my crackberry with, it's not that convenient for writing blog postings.

I found Turkey to be a place of contradictions - everything there seems to be split into two: European and Asian Istanbul, Secular and Islamic, Old and New, Doner and Sis. I had a great time there. You can tell you're having a good time on holiday when you forget about work and your life at home, which I managed to do for a large part of the time I was away. In fact, when I did think about work it was like I was thinking about a particularly elusive dream from the night before.

Anyway, like I usually do with my postings about holidays, I'm going to write you a list of things that I will remember from Turkey:

• The kebap - I've never seen such a prevalent national food as the kebap. It's not just for tourists - everyone seems to eat them and in Istanbul there's a kebap stall on every corner. And I'm not exaggerating. Australians and Turks share a lot - including war time experience and a love of lamb. I respect that.
• The Aya Sofya - A candidate for the most impressive building I have ever seen, the Aya Sofya mosque started life as a Christian church built during the Byzantine era. When the Arabs later came through Turkey they were so impressed with its construction that they turned it into a mosque, and adopted its domed design into other mosques world-wide. The building is dominated by a central domed room with a ceiling that is 80m tall and has no obvious columns or other supports holding it up (except for a massive tower of scaffolding, which is an obvious modern addition). Walking inside that room for the first time takes your breath away, and to think it was built 1500 years ago is truly mind-boggling. I could have stayed in there all day if it wasn't for all the other tourists and their flash photography.
• The Gallipoli peninsula - The Australian "pilgrimage" to Gallipoli (Gelibolu to the Turks) has grown in popularity over the last couple of years and I joined the herd in heading over that way. Luckily, I arrived a few weeks before Anzac Day, so was able to enjoy exploring the site in relative peace and quiet. It was a moving experience, but I won't lie and say I was overwhelmed by it. The thing that struck me was how small the place was. Anzac Cove was tiny and it's hard to imagine 20,000 soldiers landing there on 25 April 1915. The Nek too was such a tiny piece of land - two tennis courts in size, our guide told us, with the Australian and Turkish trenches not much more than 50m apart. Strategically important, maybe, but it's really depressing to think of so many people suffering and dying for two tennis courts worth of ground.
• Ataturk - The father of the Turks, Mustafa Kemal as he was formerly known, led the Turkish defence at Gallipoli and then went on to mould post-war Turkey to his vision with more power and effect than perhaps any other world leader in the 20th century. I didn't know much about father Turk before arriving in Turkey, but everything I learned about him there I liked. His energy and vision in modernising post-war Turkey was quite something and Turks today still seem to appreciate his leadership in a very personal way. The reverence in which he is held may be justified, but I have to admit I do not like the laws that prohibit criticism of father Turk. It seems to me that it is not something that the man himself would ever have approved of.
• The Turkish coastline - Turkey is a stunningly beautiful place - one of the main reasons I went there was to check out the Aegean coastline, but I wasn't expecting it to be quite as beautiful as it was. Driving in the bus down from Selcuk to Fethiye was an amazing experience - every turn on the highway reveals another panoramic view across green mountainsides to the sparkling Aegean sea. A serious rival for the Great Ocean Road as the greatest coastline drive I've been on.
• Reality television - Turks have clearly embraced the concept of reality television. From Turkish pop idol, which is even trashier and more glitzy than the American, Australian and British versions combined, to the kickboxing knockout competition being filmed at the hostel I stayed at in Olympos, it seems like Turks can't get enough of reality. The kickboxing concept was a great one: (1) take a random selection of young, relatively athletic men from rural Turkey and Azerbaijan; (2) teach them the gentle and noble art of kickboxing over an intense period of training at various "exotic" locations (e.g. Olympos); and (3) watch them beat each other senseless live on TV. Great stuff. A couple of Turkish girls at the hostel suggested to me that the contestants on the show were all "muganda" (peasants) and I should tell them that. I declined the offer, politely.
• Mehmet, the security guard - Mehmet worked night shift at the place where I stayed at Olympos. He was a very talkative and gentle guy who seemed to spend more time around the campfire and drinking free soft drinks than performing any security role, but he was a good source of conversation. The most memorable talk I had with him revolved around a large group of Australian tourists that were meant to be arriving the day after I left Olympos. Mehmet wanted to know how to speak to the Australian girls in the group, because he wanted a girlfriend and wasn't keen on Turkish girls. He told me that he did not have much experience with girls, as he was Kurdish and in the community he grew up in, he wasn't allowed to mix with girls and, until he was 17, had no idea what sex was. He told me that his lack of experience made him very nervous when trying to talk to girls and they could always sense that, so he'd had no real success with them to date. But he was hoping little by little, by getting tips from other men, he might improve. Despite me telling him that I was no expert on the topic, he insisted on taking notes during our conversation. So the Australian girls that arrived after me can expect Mehmet to give them plenty of compliments on what they're wearing and to ask lots of questions about where they're from and where they're travelling to. After we finished talking about girls, Mehmet told me about his previous career in the army. He was a sniper for two years and can take a man out with a rifle at 800m. Apparently, in order to kill, you have to hit them in the head or chest. A hit in the legs, according to Mehmet, will not kill and, therefore, is no good. Mehmet's credentials as a security guard are excellent.

I could go on, but this list is already too long. I may add some photos to this posting in a couple of days, but in the meantime you can check out some photos I added to my facebook page.