i'm not to to blame

sifted free, let out of my stall
Bar and windows created for a generation
Soothing balm to mother's detente
Lubrication to every father's aspirations.

The expectations, and implanted
Aspirations assail me insidiously,
like a circus I never auditioned for,
Being slipped the whip so i can be
the three ring dirigent.

Pass. Inherit. Quarrel. Sigh.
Leaving behind the etiquette;
Discarding the rules I was always
Conditionally loyal to.

I gasp, lay back, silhouette my middle finger against the topiaries.

Wanting to be

Advice emits, unquestionably flawless

From the mouths and hearts of

The fairies, coruscating and yet …

I stand drowned at the centre

of this civilized cacophony

its incessant direction a universal

panacea, applied indiscriminately

guiding calculatedly.

Picking the flowers from my posies

heated, not giving in to hating,

holding on to the hurt within me

and growing from its lessons,

Getting the insight, and connecting

as an equal to the zeitgeist

around me

now i just have to forget, and I

will be a part of it.

Don't question me!

Am I sinking into boring blog depravity? Yes I am. But I can't help myself!

Mohammed Image Archive

Now there have been lots of tasteless cartoons regarding the faith of Islam, many of which caused significant social upheaval ... and here's an archive full of them!

This has to be one of my favourites, notice the scimitar through St Paul's chest!

For sure extremism however there are some even more controversial images depicting the despotism of islam.

These are slightly more graphic for instance the one below which is a melange of Hitler and Mohanmmed as well. Check out the website for more titillation here.

Why I love the six nation's rugby

It's always been my favourite game to watch, and the world cup last year was such a rollercoaster of torment for me. I remember being in Paris for the final and that stupid call about the hand being over the touchline losing England the match. Grr.

Anyway pictures like this make up for it, almost ;-)

Windmills of my Mind

This Saturday saw the sideswipe of my hangover at the unusually early time of 0900 and a trip to some interesting installations in Holland. Hire car bound, the four of us sped through the confusing lanes / roads around Amsterdam, oft led astray by the pernicious whims of the sat nav.

Our first stop was the giant flood defences that have been installed to protect that country against the devastating damage that was inflicted in the 1953/4 disaster. It is effectively two large semi circular barriers that are lifted into position and then flooded to sink and create the necessary resistance. Sadly the tour that was supposed to be at 1230 was moved to 1530 so we missed out. However the wind whipping through our hair and the toy models made up for it.

Another short journey later and taking what is possibly the most expensive ferry ever (3.50EUR for 4 people going less than 200m) we arrived in the slightly strange village of Kinderdijk. This is a village that is arrange on an extended dijk so it's very long and very thin. All the houses are built into the dyke itself, with view extending towards the sea.

After a brief lunch, which included a free portion of aphids with the salad, we made the necessary right turn and discovered the most stunning UNESCO world heritage site: a large series of fields separated by dijks and with a profusion of windmills pumping water between then all using the principals of the Archimedes screw.

It's been months and months now, did you miss me?

Actually I have missed writing my articles online and am looking forward to getting back into the usual witticisms and observations that I hope have titillated you previously.

Anyway, here's a picture of me at the Red Cross Charity Gala last week, the black tie season is well and truly open!

There was an auspicious start to Roadtrip 2 ©: wakened as the sun started to rise across London a pearlescent blue sky accompanied our rapid departure speeding down the A whatever, so heavily strewn with speed cameras I was getting whiplash within 5 miles.

From an 0430 start we made it to Dover and the chunnel link with time to spare at 0630, and after a more than welcome breakfast of a proper English fry up (no bacon for Nik, natch) accompanied by some shampoo rolled onto the carriage that was to take us to Europe.

We had some initial confusion in the tunnel as we assembled our Europe ‘pack’: a magnetic GB sticker for the car (which stuck no where and ended up on the roof for appearance sake), some light deflectors (with instructions that even the most studious of scholars would have needed a rossetta stone to decode) and a high visibility jacket (that I could not pursued Nik to wear).

30 minutes later Audrey, Nik and I nosed onto the first of the French freeways and had our first altercation: the navigation. I had planned a route through the country mostly keeping to the toll roads and other major tributaries, however Audrey’s in car system was determined to keep us off the fast lanes and on the farm roads.

This experience bore a remarkable resemblance the last roadtrip when XX, who’s map reading skills we relied on entirely, guided us miles into the Nevada desert with no form of civilisation in sight, causing us to run out of petrol and miss our show in Vegas. Taking a firm stance I laid down the law and insisted we kept to the route I had planned, conceding that we could ‘consult with Audrey’.

It was a fortunate move and as we drove rapidly towards Paris, rarely dropping below a compfortable cruising speed of 150kph the reality that we were driving to Ibiza set in. Paris came and went in a traffic jam of boring proportions, and as we crossed the Seine the rest of the country opened up ahead of us, the greys and browns of the north turning into the more luscious and verdant greens of le midi central.

Midday came around and tired and hungry we pulled into some anonymous lay-by, crammed a toastie down our necks and caught up on an hour of sleep. Nik, apparently not used to napping on the continent, left the car on, and the heating turned up and on. We awoke an hour later, sweating like farm animals, but refreshed enough to continue towards the beckoning southern coast.

It was at this point we had to make a decision: go via Perpignon and save time, or head towards Toulouse and go over the mountains. As my mother is planning on a move to the former city I was in favour of that route, but the promise of hairbreak turns, gorgeous views and imminent danger won us both over in the end. A brief adjustment to the route, we called the ever faithful Melanie at Altour who looked into some accommodation for the night. I had a talk with Audrey at this point and managed to override her desire for back streets, and have her plot the route to Toulouse at a rather different tempo to her usually glacially slow routes.

Shrew tamed, Novotel booked, 8 hours and 700 miles on the clock we were in good shape as we sped through Limoges and the fields took on the unmistakable hue of gold that is only found in Van Gogh paintings and the south of France.

The roads are excellent in France and as we were sticking mostly to the toll roads, which while not cheap for long journeys, are worth it as they seemed unpatrolled by the local gendarmerie. Another pleasant surprise was the politeness of drivers: when in the fast lane, indicators were used and it was only used literally to overtake. There was no sign of the raving psychotics that are so often talked about stalking the roads of Paris.

After another brief pit stop, and a brief stint at 150mph, we pulled around the mountain to the lush sight of Toulouse. It was almost 2100 by this stage, and we were both tired, but buoyed up by the prospect of a swim in a pool, some nice dinner and the pumping sounds of XXX the last few kilometres closed quickly, and after a brief stop of in a competitor’s hotel we found our home for night.

Modern, well fitted out, the Novotel was a pleasant surprise, and after a dip in the outdoor pool we were ushered to a table by our waiter Johan, who was by anyone’s standards quite a character. Immediately ordering a bottle of Muscadet sur Lies (which arrived flawlessly chilled) we settled in to a delightfully tasty dinner.

WE staggered to bed and woke to the rude awakening of the alarm at 0630. 0715 saw us racing away from the hotel, having filled up on croissants and dark syrupy coffee. The most exciting part of our journey lay ahead of us, and before long we started to rise into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the fields of corn and vineyards giving way to deciduous woods and quaint towns rearing suddenly into sight, only to vanish just as quickly.

By 2500 feet the mountains were astride us and the roads, which were still excellent, were becoming thinner, and windy with tight corners and a plethora of warning signs. In what was to proof his most excellent show of driving skill yet, the Dunhill gloves were donned and line after line of ‘you’re never going to overtake them all’ tailbacks were swiftly overtaken, cut up and left in our dusty wake. I lost count of the number of times we were flashed.

Still no police though!

Unfortunately our path did not take us into Andorra itself, and after we drove through some extortionately charged tunnel the roads levelled out and started to descend again. We crossed the Spanish border however and started onto long wide fast roads again, some of which were still under construction. At this point, for the first time in our trip we spotted a police car, or guarda civilian as they have emblazoned on the 4x4. A game of cat and mouse ensued with the police man driving in the inner lane at exactly the 100kph speed limit, occasionally dropping to 90 so that we could start to overtake.

We decided the risk wasn’t worth taking and dropped behind him watching in amusement as several other vehicles encountered the same treatment. In the end he got bored and we sped off doing the last 40 kilometres into Barcelona in a matter of moments.

Arriving in Barcelona, a comic moment ensued as we got out of the car in the now sweltering heat, and decided to change outfits. I forgot to mention that there was a significant amount of luggage in the car, and of course the right outfit is never stored in just one of the many bags. Anyway, clothes and flips flops discovered we stripped off in the parking lot and got into more suitable gear before setting off for the docks and the prospect of a tasty lunch.

We set off into the harbour searching for a spot to have a tasty beverage but found a long stream of not quite open restaurants and a boat from Goergetown that was positively gargantuan. Stumbling onto a mall filled with wide variety of shops, each of which contained clothes or other assorted items that defied purchase due to their tackiness, we made the huge mistake of going to a tapas bar on the water front.

The writing wall on the wall: no locals, few patrons and high prices. The food arrived swimming in fat and was pretty much inedible. Unfortunately our hunger took the better of us and we chowed down anyway. Moments after finishing the carbo rape hit us and we limped back towards the mall in desperate search of anything to wipe the taste from our mouths. Ben and Jerrys came to the rescue, and as we walked back towards our car and the waiting ferry to Ibiza Nik started positively hissing and spitting at the restaurant. One of the staff caught notice and was looking at him quizzically, almost as though wondering if he should call for help. As a gaggle of American tourists started to make their way towards the place a shriek of advice was howled across the marina, “Don’t go, it’s crap!”

Thus began the ferry trip to Ibiza ...

Texel

Yesterday the weather was delightful, my friend Elise was in town from England and I woke up early and decided, screw it let's throw a sicky. By 0813 we were on a train and heading to the north of Holland towards a coastal town called Den Helder.

Train travel trips like this always fill me with a combination of excitment and nostalgia: sitting in the carriage watching the tulip fields flying by and finishing off a re-read of that truly most excellent of coming of age novels 'Becoming a Man' by Paul Monette I would have been happy if the train carried around in circles.

Of course it didn't and we pulled into the rather unremarkable port town of Den Helder and started to try and find our way towards the ferry to Texel. A supremely unhelpful woman declared there were no buses to the terminal and we had to walk, so we set off into the jungle of pontoons and lightships that lay on front of us. Of course predictably we were off on the wrong track and after confirming with a local that there a) was a bus and b) it went regularly from the very terminal we had asked the advice at directly to the ingress point of the ferry, we started walking along the dyke that would take us there. I won't pretend I was happy, in fact I was ruminating on ways to get a fatwah declared. Still we passed the interesting sight of a Royal Dutch submarine and mine-sweeper and arrvied the the mire of pathways and 8 lane traffic that made up the ferry terminal.

Both Elise and I were surpirsed at a) the ludicrously cheap day return fare of 3EUR each and b) the size of these ferries: they were enormous. Clearly in the high season there must be a lot of tourists travelling to and from. The crossing was brief and uneventful apart from a shock at the canteen where a selection of unpalatable dishes were served, including fried 'custard cakes'.

A bus waited for us on arrival and transported us to Den Berg, the largest town on the island. After a rather unnecessary trip to the VVV (aka the Tourist Office) we made our way through the quaint village centre and met a delightful man who we hired great bikes from at the princely sum of 6EUR. He asked for ID but in what we found an unrivalled sign of trust of ages past no credit card imprints.

By 1130 we were off on our way to the north west coast of the island, cycling down the amply sized fietspads. My first impression was that I was still on the mainland: the island is large (24km) and completely rural dedicated to the hundreds of lambs and sheep and miscellanous animals (including goats, cocks, llamas, canadian geeze, black swans ...). The smell of sileage is omnipresent. In no time at all we arrived at the bird reserve of de Slufter and parked our bikes to walk out along the sand spit and into the bird reserve, half expecting Bill Oddie to jump out at any moment. It is a beautifully tranqil area, whose silence is occasionally broken by the sounds of falcolns shrieking as they strike their prey or the cacophony of gulls in some ornate mating ritual. Most of the area we were in was a protecting sanctuary inaccessible until August as the birds were nesting.

We returned to our bikes and cycled to the northern most tip of the island where there was a rocky outcrop and a lighthouse with some lean toos of houses, unfortunately there were stern KEEP OUT signs everywhere so we couldnt' approach. We stopped on the top of the strand which resembled, other than the sea colour, the kind of extended Bahaman majesty one often sees in toursit brochures.

By this time the stomachs were growelling and we headed off the short distance to the local town of de Cocksdorp, which was literally a two lane affair with a couple of shops and restaurants. The local fair was pretty simple with restaurants offering pizza or local dishes. We settled on the Topina as there was a substantial outside seating area and more guests there than anywhere else. Refreshed with a strange maaltijdsalade of 'lambham' and a selection of local cheeses we got back on the bikes - which were delightful for hire bikes: good breaks and gears and solid construction - down the curiously named 'Lancasterdijk' to cross back to the otherside of the island and explore the most popular town known as de Koog.

We had a tough cycle into the wind and 'at our own risk' along the steep seaside of the dijk, but we made it in the end, to the rather pedestrian and cookie cutter town of de Koog. After making the executive decision to not even stop we continued out along the bike path to a quietly shaded wooded area: as the weather had become really quite warm and sunny by this stage it was a welcome break. Crunching along the path strewn with needles and pine cones we followed the path into a heather moor and then to what was referred to as 'Westerslag' or a promentary along the beach.

Wondering what on earth this meant (slag means 'whipped' from slagroom 'whipped cream) we arrived through a cutting in the dunes to this incredible stretch of beach going on as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was such a great moment after the day of cycling to arrive here and share an ice lolly surrounded by such natural splendour and sun just thinking about begining to set.

We slowly cycled back through the forest to the main town of den Burg, ditching our bikes there and enjoying the delightfully joined up public transport of bus to ferry to bus to train all arriving within 5m of each other and arriving back in Amsterdam at 2000, almost exactly 12 hours after we started.

I'm looking forwatd to exploring more of the Netherlands, every time I leave Amsterdam some new surprise seems to await me ...

Points of View

So last night, despite having a million and one things to do before heading to London today, I went to the ballet with a friend of mine and was very glad I did. The opera house in Amsterdam is often referred to as the 'Stopera' due to the demonstrations that occurred during the building of the modern structure that sits looking out over the picturesque centre of Amsterdam. It's a great building, if with a slightly off target decoration scheme involving some Miami Vice-esque lighting around some of the bars, the seating is comfortable with air conditioning vents under each one, and bewildering seating numbering that devides the hall in half by ''Even" and "Oneven" which results in a lot of clambering over your fellow patrons.

The main reason I went for the evening of modern dance, entitled Points of View was for a piece choreographed by Hans van Manen who is arguably one of the Netherlands' most progressive and talented artists.

There were four short pieces in all, each about 15-20m long and as we found out after sitting there was to be an interval after each one!

The first piece entitled 'Duets' was choreographed by Merce Cunningham to the credo 'Dance is motion, no emotion'. It was a very post-modern piece supported by a ranging tempo of African percussion beats. The dancers appeared on stage in highly colourful pairs, using each others bodies to lean and support each other, in a combination of modern and classic movements. There was an excellent moment towards the end where the couple were using each others' bodies as pivots to lower and raise each other from the floor. Very original, and as the choreographer had intended, very much about the motion.

After an unwelcome break, the highlight of the evening began for me with Kammerballet. The ballet was set to a piece of live piano music, reminiscent in style of Chopin or Satie. The piece began as each dancer, dressed in muted browns or yellows arrived on stage each carrying a stool and cruising each other in what can only be called a sultry manner. In a stroke of costuming genius the male dancers were wearing almost cut off shorts, while the females donned what is traditionally the male full body suit. The dancers took turns to to pair up, with one excellent scene where the female stood behind her seated partner and repeatedly threw him to the floor, they then exchanged places to complete the mutual cycle of abuse.

The finale was almost nihilistic in style with each of the dancers fading away leaving one black clad female dancer to slowly disintegrate. It was an immensely powerful piece, using stark contrast and no stage decoration, combined with the technical genius of van Manen and the undisputed talent of the dancers.

After a further, now welcome, break we were treating to the third piece entitled Since which has its world premiere two weeks ago. The piece is choreographed by Annabelle Lopez Ochoa and set on an almost empty stage, with nothing but white streamers hanging from the ceiling and the dancers elegantly dressed in either black or white Filippa K outfits. The music was ethereal and electronic, and lighting was used to powerful effect.

My initial reaction was that some of the dancing was sloppy with the first duet the female dancer was almost thrown or dragged around. When the second duet commenced with a new couple the movement was more coherent and the corps de ballet supporting them very effectively. The ending was very poignant with the man trying to drag the female away for her surrounding dancers, but her falling lifeless as he does. There was also a very strong moment when the male dancer was illuminated strongly from stage left and struggled with his hands and body to move forward even though he was blinded.

The final piece was called Hallelujah Junction and was choreographed by Ted Brandsen, the artistic director of Het Nationale Ballet (Dutch National Ballet). The piece began with two male dancers appearing on stage and in what could have been a stand off or a come on intertwined with each other; more and more male dancers appeared and started their strange courting movement ; there was an element of the gangland about it as the boys, all dressed in black unfurled around one another.

At this point I remarked to myself it was quite dramatic to see Dutch ballet dancers: they are enormous! Very different to the ones I'm used to seeing at Sadlers Wells or the ROH. There was one movement with them windmilling that I thought they might lift off!

The piece was for a corps de ballet and gained momentum as the stage filled eventually with some female dancers. Overall the effect was a little chaotic at times, but the talent of several of the dancers shone through and I look forward to seeing them in the future (in or out of the ballet!).

You can see a mini video here.

Restaurant ZaZa

Continuing with my restaurant review vibe I thought I'd write about another excellent meal I had in de Pijp last night with my friend Stephan. At his suggestion we met in the Heinekenplein and made our way around the corner to Daniel Stalpertstraat where this cosy and well designed restaurant was positioned.

On entering I was immediately impressed by the hard wood finish, tasteful lighting and generally relaxed atmosphere about the place. We were seated by a very friendly american waitress at a cute table at the back which seats the guests next to each other. It's perfect if you want a little privacy (I am told the restaurant can get noisy during its busier times) although I'd recommend swapping places half way through the meal if you want to avoid neck pain! The place also has a strong 'Ab Fab' influence with some amusing artwork and books placed strategically around the establishment.

My company was engaging and we talked about many hilarious and amusing things throughout the course of the night, including how in Bulgaria pre the internet the local homosexuals used to call telephone information exchanges with pre-recorded annoucements on train times etc. in order to meet one another: because the infrastructure was so elderly it was possible to use the connection as a conference style pick up line! My point was that the food was sufficiently excellent to make a good counterpoint to the conversation.

The menu immediately aroused my curiosity, the chef was clearly capable with a diverse range of menu items displaying his skill. For starters I ended up choosing a garlic soup with melted Gruyere and grilled almonds, while Stephan chose the rabbit rilette served with melba crostini. Both courses were very well prepared, and excellently presented. My soup was the perfect temperature and tasted delightful with the deeply flavoured creamy garlic liquid accentuated with the melted moments of Gruyere on the spoon. The rilette, similar to a pate, was very tasty and originally prepared.

For the main course I opted for a second vegetarian dish of sage ravioli of wild mushroom and spinach with pumpkin carrot sauce and a crispy cheese wafter. Stephan went for the duck with cous cous, eggplant and yogurt and sweet and sour apricot sauce. My dish was a triumph and although large with many differing flavours they mixed well together, I ate the dish punctuating each mouthful with a small wafer of the melted cheese which was served alongside. I could see how rich the duck was the moment it was put on the table and Stephan luxuriated in the dish, taking him easily 20m to (almost!) finish. The flavours were excellent with the sweetness of the apricot in the cous cous helping to release the gamey undertones of the rare duck breast.

This is another must visit, the price was very reasonable (70 Euros for the two of us, although admittedly without a bottle of wine), the service outstanding for Holland, and the chef very talented: thanks to you Vincent.

You can reach ZaZa's on +31 (0) 20 673 6333.

Restaurant Rosario

So last night I took three friends of mine who were over from the UK to an Italian restaurant on the Peperstraat. It's not the first time I've been and the eponymous proprietor is also a friend of mine, it was however the best meal I've had there to date.

The restaurant itself is located across the water from the Nieuwmarkt on a slightly out of the way street called the Peperstraat. It's a simple, intimate dining space with tables just far enough away, plenty of large windows, interesting art and the kitchen installed as the centre-piece in plain view of all the customers.

The menu is changed daily, with the current seasonal specialities being exceptional. After a very pleasant bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco we were presented with the menu which featured trucs such as serrano ham wrapped scallops with sage and lemon risotto made with bream and saffron for primi and starters.

After a suitably extended time to allow us to decide which of the tantalising morsels to select (read argue who was having), our order was taken and the two chefs visibly got down to work.

The starters were prepared and cooked perfectly: my scallops were large, succulently cooked and subtly enhanced by the complimentary flavours of the Serrano ham and sage. My friends ordered quail on a bed of mushrooms with a red wine jus, which was cooked just enough to retain its delicate flavour without allowing the bird to dry out.

The main courses were equally superb, my rare cooked lamb rolls coated in sesame with green pesto were heaven, and although they came with no accompaniment, none was needed. The tower of beef tornedoes had been artfully skewered with a baked stick of spaghetti and layered though a potato rosti and pesto sauce.

Silence reigned for the next 10m while every plate was scraped and its contents devoured.

Desert by this time was looking like a tall order, so we ordered some espressos and grappa (though no Sassacai or Ornellai unfortunately) and headed off to finish our night in the seedy underbelly of the red light district: hey I had to show the tourists something!

Price for the evening was fair for the quality of the food, with the bill coming to 200 Euros for the four of us including a fabulous bottle of merlot from Roasarios home village.

You can reach Rosario at: +31 (0)20 6270280

RIAA Decision Matrix

This was on one of my favourite website BoingBoing today and is the supposed decision tree used by the DRM evil overlords the RIAA when suing people [read generally unrelated minors, parents etc.]

Click on the image to see the full glory of its logic tree!

Thought for the day

... in a conversation with a friend of mine:

friend - well life always has it's ups and downs, I'm fine
me - yeah but when it's like a bucking bronto that's kind of hard work

Wikimedia Picture of the Year

What's all this fuss about Rapido?!

So the buzz has been growing about this club in Amsterdam called Rapido. A few weeks ago tickets were released to it and some chap I knew was genuinely distraught about not getting a ticket, I thought something serious was up: his ashen face, slightly choked words as he broke the news to me!!

As it turned out I was in some other party called Fresh a few weeks back that was promoted by the same guys and ran into my old pal Jack Chang who was over from London and spinning there, he was also booked for the Rapido party. I was set on going and when I got into work next week I made a few MSN chats and eventually managed to secure an invite thanks to my friend Oliver M.

I turned up at the party around 1700 on Sunday which was club Paradiso, a venue used by stars such as Skin, Robbie Williams et al when they have concerts in Amsterdam. Both queues were gigantic and as my mates had already gone in ahead for the sound check I was left facing a hairy wait; fortunately rescue was sent and my entrance expedited.

First impressions were as I walked through the hall and into the dance hall were wow, this place is pumping! Another London DJ Fabio White was on the decks when I got there and there were some good choons coming out of an impressive speaker system. The bar man served me my JD & Coke with fantastic alacrity (and continued to do so the rest of the night I may add) and before long I was on the stage meeting Jack and his boyfriend Paul and then subsequently the people behind the event. The promoter Edgar was looking quite casual and amusingly had a pair of ear phones dangling from his T shirt, I had a few words with him before being introduced to Doug Gray and his Bulgarian b/f Stef who were also involved in a musical capacity: they were great fun and I continued to party with them all night.

After an hour or so the place filled up to the rafters, the lights got lower, the dancing got sexier and I could see row after row of virtually naked boys gyrating on this huge scaffolding behind a black awning on the stage. Clearly the party was starting up ... there was a moment of confusion where the awning kept falling off the edges slightly, before collapsing completely to the ground: in true 'show must go on style' no one seemed to mind, quite possibly the opposite actually. An extremely cute VJ then appeared and proceeding to co-ordinate my, I mean the attention of six lasers of varying configurations upon the dancefloor bathing the whole party in this awesome unearthly light, which by this stage was just reaching fever pitch.

Then I toured the rest of the club with my friends and took up residence upstairs, where there was a little tinsy bit more room to actually move. Doug played a great set consisting of some cool grooves with a deep compelling beat behind each of them, (thank god for my snake hips). Jack then took over and started to lay down his harder more industrial sound which had the whole floor letting loose. 2200 hours rolled on by, and with enough vodka, redbull and the inimitable influence of the Gay Walt Disney party american promoters Ray and James saw me dancing away shirtless and grinning over what was a truly great evening.

















Now I know what all the fuss is about ;-)

Puck me tender ...

I think one of the highlights of my trip to Davos was the night out to the ice hockey playoffs. I hadn't been to an ice hockey match since I lived in the states (my little brother was in the bantam league) and this was a serious game we were going to: violence was expected, anticipated and in the air. We (that being Daniel, Rui, Nik and myself) were thoroughly searched upon entry, so thoroughly that Nik's box of matches was opened one way and then the other! Anyway we arrived early and made our way over to the home side standing area which was already thronging, after beering up (conveniently served in trays of 8 - see below) there was a sudden stroke of genius to head over to the less heavily populated neutral supporting area. We got seats :-) the night progressed and Davos totally dominated. Beer flowed continuously, Zurich's supporters lit sparklers ... and Davos erected the most enormous flag you've ever seen:


The game moved very quickly and whiplash was a distinct possibility if following the game was your goal. Players literally appeared out of no-where! We were unfortunate in that we were the other end of the rink when the first and second goals were scored within a few minutes of each other (I confess I was beering up during the second) and irritatingly the third one was also scored at the other end. still there was a nice camera man on hand to give us the pixilated version.

The match continued and we all got fairly thrashed, the pictures are vague and messy but worthwhile so I'll include them to give you an idea. I even came back with 8 beer and a bratwurst at one point, my waitressing skills have never been so capable!















... that was the 'extended' last interval's drinking















and look what it did to us!!!

Davos or Bust

Travelling to a destination has seldom been more amusing than the trip I took to Davos. I met my friend Nik at Zurich station where we confidently boarded the train that would (after two changes) deposit us bags and all in the exclusive alpine resort of Davos.

No sooner had we arrived at Zurich HB and ensconced ourselves in the dining car when the train pulled back through the airport. Realising the extremely detailed instructions given to us by CBB / Swiss rail monopoly were flagrantly incorrect we scarpered off the platform and had to take the round trip again, arriving just in time to miss our connecton to Landquart. Tempers simmering we found another dining cart not only with spare seats for us, but an attractive swiss conscript in uniform.

By fluke both of us had bought hip-flasks filled with our favourate tipples and quickly got stuck in to irish coffee ville. Landquart was a blur as we drunkenly dashed across platforms and got into the rather more crowded, but equally attractively populated compartment.

A carriage awaited us at the station courtesy of our diggs: the sophisticated yet still pleasantly alpine Hotel Waldhuus. Our arrival, or rather Nik's, was greeted ecstatically by the staff remembering him from last time and the swift appearance of two very welcome Lynchburg Lemonades.

The restful night's sleep that one would expect from such luxurious quarters was not had by all. I awoke the next morning to find Nik asleep and mumbling in the bed beside me looking stressed and rigid like he'd licked a light switch. It would seem that his room had some strange static / electrical disurbances that had plagued him all night ...

We're not sure what it was, but needless to say, we requested an exorcism (Catholic) via room service the next morning before breakfast where we then met fantastic ski instructor mate Daniel who had kindly taken his day off to spend with us and hang out.

More later, particularly on the fantastic experience of attending the ice hockey play-offs between Davos and Zurich.

Oh, did I mention we were there to ski?!

Quote for the Day

Roger Thornhill: Why are you so good to me?
Eve Kendall: It's going to be a long night.
Roger Thornhill: True.
Eve Kendall: And I don't particularly like the book I've started.
Roger Thornhill: Ah.
Eve Kendall: You know what I mean?
Roger Thornhill: Ah, let me think. Yes, I know exactly what you mean.

Absinthe

Man it's been a few years since a certain legal loophole allowed Absinthe to grace the streets of Europe again. I remember when it hit London back in 98 there was a special training staff were supposed to go on due to the liquors strength and its alledged propensity to make you hallucinate (I say alledged, although I distinctly remember someone climbing onto the scafolding above the DJ booth in The End nighclub one night swearing he saw a dove up there).

Most of the absinthe that is sold commercially is actually liquorice green coloured generic rubbish, only a few of the better brands (and mostly from CZ, CH or FR) actually have anything resembling the distillate of Artemisia absinthium. I was gratified to stumble across an article on Wired about the lifelong endeavours of a man named Ted Breaux to chemically recreate the original absinthe that was produced the late 18th century in Switzerland and southern France. He's so far managed to produce several highly rated absinthes Jade PF 1901, which is his analogue of the original Pernod Fils brand, and Jade Verte Suisse 65 which was only recreated thanks to an extremely rare bottle of C. F. Berger absinthe (first created in Switzerland in 1830) resurfacing.

More interestingly he's just released a liquor created from a very exclusive tobacco (alledgedly the world's rarest, and grown only in Louisianna) known as Perique. You can buy most of his stuff online, I have an order rushing to me now ....