One of my many New Year's resolutions for 2009 was to write a weekly diary entry on my blog, mainly because I have the same memory limits as a Commodore 64. I had forgotten so much about my life up to that point and I knew my memory was only going to get worse. I needed to record what was happening somewhere, otherwise all these things would be lost in time, like tears in rain. Also I like writing even if no one reads or enjoys what I write (I can't blame them, considering the incredibly nerdy way I misappropriated a quote from Bladerunner at the end of the previous sentence).
Like most New Years resolutions I started with conviction, managed a few months and then gave up. The problem is that most of my life is mundane, such that writing and reading about it was a dull experience. I suppose that if this was an unpublished diary I could of written some really interesting stuff. But I like my friends and family and wouldn't want to upset anyone.
I'm starting to think that writing a blog could become the replacement for the country's most popular New Year's Resolution: 'Going to the Gym'. I've looked at a few random blogger accounts and it seems that most people started out in good spirit, managed a few posts and then gave up (Hi Sam!). At least with a failed blog you don't have a direct debit entry on you monthly bank statement for the next year, mocking your pathetic lack of will power.
So this year I haven't set myself any blogging target, I'll just do it when I think i've got something interesting to write about. In fact, I have no news years resolutions. Oh, apart from getting Married. That's quite a big one, although someone's already agreed to marry me, so the difficult part is sorted.
If one of my News Year's Resolutions was to not cause car crashes, I would of failed within the first five days. Driving to my first day of work of 2010 I managed to hit a car from behind at a roundabout. Thankfully it was at very low speeds and no-one was injured (in fact, i'm pretty sure there was no damage to either car, but I can't blame the other person for claiming on my insurance, i'd probably do the same). Unfortunately I couldn't blame the 'big freeze' that had unexpectedly hit the country. Presumably the snow was unexpected because we hadn't seen weather like this since, well, roughly this time last year.
Normally i'd be mortified that i had caused an accident (sorry, collision. accident implies someone is to blame), but I have a water tight excuse - my bladder.
My bladder has always been useless to the point that I think i really should speak to a doctor about it. Before hitting the car in front I'd been sitting in a queue for two and a half hours on the M1. It had got to the point that the pain had turned into cramping, like my body was warning me about the long term damage i was about to cause.
I was so desperate for a wee I'd already formulated a plan of action. Costa Coffee cup? check. Blanket to cover little D, avoiding embarrasment from passing motorists? check. Moved sun visor to stop lorry drivers looking in? check. Fiddled with all seat controls to ensure optimal 'run-off' angle in case of spillage? check.
When the accident occurred I was only (theoretically) a few minutes away from work so I decided my McGyver like plan could wait. Because I was so desperate to visit what was at that point the most beautiful urinal in the world I wasn't focusing on driving properly. I saw a clearing on the round-about ahead and accelerated. Unfortunately, the person in front of me didn't.
Fortunately, I did learn something from this experience. If you are ever in a car and desperately need to go toilet, I can wholly advise causing an accident. You totally forget about needing to wee for at least fifteen minutes.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
I'm mad as hell, and i'm not going to take it anymore
Recently I watched the excellent Network (1976), a satire on television in the US, or really anywhere in the world.
As a young'un I found it quite difficult to get into films made before I was born, generally because older films weren't pieced together with quick cuts, short scenes and the general kineticism of modern movies (is kineticism even a word?). I've always loved film, but I had a habit of watching the 'classics' without really giving them the full attention they demand and deserve. They are not Terminator 2; they insist some degree of concentration from the viewer. Films had more talking, more raw emotion and less explosions. And this, I now know, is a good thing.
I'm often bowled over by how edgy films from the 70s can be. I don't think it can be a coincidence that all of the great films from the 70s were so intelligent but unrelentingly harsh and visceral: Apocalypse Now, Clockwork Orange, Exorcist, Taxi Driver, Staw Dogs ... the list goes on. I suspect this is for many reasons, not least the fall-out of the Vietnam War and the political changes at the time.
Or maybe it was that films would always be like this if the 80's hadn't happened. The 80's was the decade of excess; everyone wanted to forget about the 70's and the cold war, something which is reflected in the movies of the time, there were alot of disposable feel good rom-coms or chuck norris beating the shit out of Russians. This was also the decade of affordable VCRs, with which came straight to video movies and public outrage over 'video nastys', because films that could only previously be seen in the cinemas could now be watched at home by kids. Consequently, The prequel to my favourite film ever, 'Evil Dead 2' was branded a video nasty and only re-released uncut in 2001. Anyway, enough amateur (and probably a bit incorrect) film history.
Ironically, maybe the real reason film has changed so much since the 70s was the hypothesis at the heart of Network. As media becomes too influenced by business (especially big business), it is inevitably compromised. And the 80's was, after all, the decade of the corporation. Huge conglomerates were desperate to be involved with all areas of business, and their board of directors only cared about one thing. And for the movie studios they purchased, it wasn't artistic integrity.
Spoilers on Network from here in...
Network begins with a news anchorman being given his weeks notice due to his nightly news show having a poor audience share; he's past it and they need fresh blood. The anchor responds by announcing on the evening news that he will kill himself live on the air next week. The film follows the reporter's subsequent rehiring as the 'Mad Prophet of the Airways', when the network realise that the reporter's subsequent expletive laden outburst on the air gained them a higher audience share.
The one part of the film that is eerily prophetic is how the conservative 'just the facts' nightly news slowly changes into 'News Entertainment' program, fronted by the Mad Prophet's ramblings who now has a mantra: "I'm mad as hell, and i'm not going to take it anymore". News reports are replaced with a psychic trying to predict next week news and seeing if their previous week's predictions were correct. Time is given to a segment called 'vox populi' (Voice of the People), which presumably gives air to the opinions to the (mostly) uninformed people on the street.
Essentially, ignoring the psychic, the film invented a 'News Entertainment' format that is very similar to a lot of news programming now on the air. No where is this more apparent then the Murdoch owned Fox News (US), an incredibly right-wing news station that reports republican opinion as fact, with Glenn Beck acting as Fox New's Mad Prophet.
Coincidentally, the only reason that the Murdoch owned Sky News isn't more like its American counterpart is that Ofcom ensures news is reported impartially. It is widely accepted that a Cameron government would greatly reduce Ofcom's powers and in return the Murdoch owned newspapers (e.g. The Sun) will switch their allegiance from Labour to Conservative for the next election. As we've seen in the last few months, Murdoch's kept his part of the deal.
Network ends with producers deciding to assassinate the Mad Prophet live on air due to falling rating. Recently the presenter of a Brazilian Crime TV show was accused of ordering assassinations to boost his TV shows ratings. He was caught out because his film crew were consistently arriving at crime scenes before the police.
Network is a brilliantly written film and well worth a watch, although I've ruined the ending now. Of course, the writers of Network managed to summarise my ramble into a few sentences:
As a young'un I found it quite difficult to get into films made before I was born, generally because older films weren't pieced together with quick cuts, short scenes and the general kineticism of modern movies (is kineticism even a word?). I've always loved film, but I had a habit of watching the 'classics' without really giving them the full attention they demand and deserve. They are not Terminator 2; they insist some degree of concentration from the viewer. Films had more talking, more raw emotion and less explosions. And this, I now know, is a good thing.
I'm often bowled over by how edgy films from the 70s can be. I don't think it can be a coincidence that all of the great films from the 70s were so intelligent but unrelentingly harsh and visceral: Apocalypse Now, Clockwork Orange, Exorcist, Taxi Driver, Staw Dogs ... the list goes on. I suspect this is for many reasons, not least the fall-out of the Vietnam War and the political changes at the time.
Or maybe it was that films would always be like this if the 80's hadn't happened. The 80's was the decade of excess; everyone wanted to forget about the 70's and the cold war, something which is reflected in the movies of the time, there were alot of disposable feel good rom-coms or chuck norris beating the shit out of Russians. This was also the decade of affordable VCRs, with which came straight to video movies and public outrage over 'video nastys', because films that could only previously be seen in the cinemas could now be watched at home by kids. Consequently, The prequel to my favourite film ever, 'Evil Dead 2' was branded a video nasty and only re-released uncut in 2001. Anyway, enough amateur (and probably a bit incorrect) film history.
Ironically, maybe the real reason film has changed so much since the 70s was the hypothesis at the heart of Network. As media becomes too influenced by business (especially big business), it is inevitably compromised. And the 80's was, after all, the decade of the corporation. Huge conglomerates were desperate to be involved with all areas of business, and their board of directors only cared about one thing. And for the movie studios they purchased, it wasn't artistic integrity.
Spoilers on Network from here in...
Network begins with a news anchorman being given his weeks notice due to his nightly news show having a poor audience share; he's past it and they need fresh blood. The anchor responds by announcing on the evening news that he will kill himself live on the air next week. The film follows the reporter's subsequent rehiring as the 'Mad Prophet of the Airways', when the network realise that the reporter's subsequent expletive laden outburst on the air gained them a higher audience share.
The one part of the film that is eerily prophetic is how the conservative 'just the facts' nightly news slowly changes into 'News Entertainment' program, fronted by the Mad Prophet's ramblings who now has a mantra: "I'm mad as hell, and i'm not going to take it anymore". News reports are replaced with a psychic trying to predict next week news and seeing if their previous week's predictions were correct. Time is given to a segment called 'vox populi' (Voice of the People), which presumably gives air to the opinions to the (mostly) uninformed people on the street.
Essentially, ignoring the psychic, the film invented a 'News Entertainment' format that is very similar to a lot of news programming now on the air. No where is this more apparent then the Murdoch owned Fox News (US), an incredibly right-wing news station that reports republican opinion as fact, with Glenn Beck acting as Fox New's Mad Prophet.
Coincidentally, the only reason that the Murdoch owned Sky News isn't more like its American counterpart is that Ofcom ensures news is reported impartially. It is widely accepted that a Cameron government would greatly reduce Ofcom's powers and in return the Murdoch owned newspapers (e.g. The Sun) will switch their allegiance from Labour to Conservative for the next election. As we've seen in the last few months, Murdoch's kept his part of the deal.
Network ends with producers deciding to assassinate the Mad Prophet live on air due to falling rating. Recently the presenter of a Brazilian Crime TV show was accused of ordering assassinations to boost his TV shows ratings. He was caught out because his film crew were consistently arriving at crime scenes before the police.
Network is a brilliantly written film and well worth a watch, although I've ruined the ending now. Of course, the writers of Network managed to summarise my ramble into a few sentences:
You're television incarnate, Diana: Indifferent to suffering; insensitive to joy. All of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality. War, murder, death are all the same to you as bottles of beer. And the daily business of life is a corrupt comedy. You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split seconds and instant replays. You're madness, Diana. Virulent madness. And everything you touch dies with you. But not me. Not as long as I can feel pleasure, and pain... and love.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
I may regret this...
Beth Orton once sang 'What are regrets? They're just lessons we haven't learned yet'. This line never made much sense to me until recently. I interpreted this literally, my understanding being that regrets were just things we hadn't got round to yet, which I knew wasn't true. I've regretted lots of things i've done in the past that couldn't be undone.
And these things are all pretty stupid and trivial.
I regretted sulking my way around a Tunisian castle as a kid only to realise when I got home that Life of Brian had been filmed in the very castle i'd been ignoring.
Whilst playing in the school band in the Efteling theme park, Holland, to a non-existant audience, I regretted saying (very loudly) 'If I was in a theme park I wouldn't be watching us', which lead to me getting evils from everyone else in the band.
On the same trip, when fronting our sixth form band I regretted singing something like 'I don't speak Hollish' and getting the finger from all the Dutch people in the crowd.
I regretted not taking socks out of my jeans before I throw them on the floor. This lead to me walking around Tescos a few weeks ago with a sock hanging out the rear of my jeans, like I had a smelly cotton tail.
I regretted getting smashed on Somerset Cider at Glastonbury 2003, making the Radiohead headline slot I'd been looking forward to for a year a complete blur. I regretted that the only memory I have of the gig was chastising someone who'd never heard a b-side they decided to play.
Amazingly the Radiohead thing actually really hurt me and I could never bring myself to watch the BBC footage and enjoy it. This was a band that i'd been obsessed with since their first (admittedly dodgy) album. 8 years later I had the chance to see them for the first time, at a once in a lifetime gig and I inexplicably got pissed and deleted the whole thing from my brain.
Anyway, enough embarrassment. I've only recently realised what Orton was harping on about, I'd simply not managed parse the the grammer properly. To paraphrase; If you're still regretting something, you probably haven't learnt your lesson yet. The thing you regret was a lesson in itself, and if that thing didn't happen, you wouldn't be the person you are today.
All of these silly regrets are generally quite funny, and everyone has done similar things. When I was telling some friends about the sock incident Jen and I were in tears, struggling to breathe through the laughter. Laughing that much and that hard has to be a high point in life and this would never of happened if my underwear hadn't been on display during the weekly shop.
So I don't really regret anything, mainly because I think it's all pretty funny and I have learnt my lesson - Stop being stroppy, engage brain before talking, consider that saying something you think is funny might be offensive to someone else, take your socks out of your jeans before throwing them on the floor and finally, live for the moment. Even if you don't remember the moment once it's passed.
And these things are all pretty stupid and trivial.
I regretted sulking my way around a Tunisian castle as a kid only to realise when I got home that Life of Brian had been filmed in the very castle i'd been ignoring.
Whilst playing in the school band in the Efteling theme park, Holland, to a non-existant audience, I regretted saying (very loudly) 'If I was in a theme park I wouldn't be watching us', which lead to me getting evils from everyone else in the band.
On the same trip, when fronting our sixth form band I regretted singing something like 'I don't speak Hollish' and getting the finger from all the Dutch people in the crowd.
I regretted not taking socks out of my jeans before I throw them on the floor. This lead to me walking around Tescos a few weeks ago with a sock hanging out the rear of my jeans, like I had a smelly cotton tail.
I regretted getting smashed on Somerset Cider at Glastonbury 2003, making the Radiohead headline slot I'd been looking forward to for a year a complete blur. I regretted that the only memory I have of the gig was chastising someone who'd never heard a b-side they decided to play.
Amazingly the Radiohead thing actually really hurt me and I could never bring myself to watch the BBC footage and enjoy it. This was a band that i'd been obsessed with since their first (admittedly dodgy) album. 8 years later I had the chance to see them for the first time, at a once in a lifetime gig and I inexplicably got pissed and deleted the whole thing from my brain.
Anyway, enough embarrassment. I've only recently realised what Orton was harping on about, I'd simply not managed parse the the grammer properly. To paraphrase; If you're still regretting something, you probably haven't learnt your lesson yet. The thing you regret was a lesson in itself, and if that thing didn't happen, you wouldn't be the person you are today.
All of these silly regrets are generally quite funny, and everyone has done similar things. When I was telling some friends about the sock incident Jen and I were in tears, struggling to breathe through the laughter. Laughing that much and that hard has to be a high point in life and this would never of happened if my underwear hadn't been on display during the weekly shop.
So I don't really regret anything, mainly because I think it's all pretty funny and I have learnt my lesson - Stop being stroppy, engage brain before talking, consider that saying something you think is funny might be offensive to someone else, take your socks out of your jeans before throwing them on the floor and finally, live for the moment. Even if you don't remember the moment once it's passed.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Right, erm
Christ! I haven't written anything on here for a over a month. My New Year's Resolution was to write something on here every week. I think I lasted about 10 weeks before I realised that over the course of a week very little of interest happened. Still, for a while I managed a few posts a month. And now I'm down to one a month. That's 12 a year. My blogs are now less regular than a DFS Sofa Sale.
My blog must feel like a dejected gadget you get for Christmas. At first you think how on earth could I ever live with out this? Within about a month you realise you can clearly live without it, and 6 months later it's chucked in the drawer and never used again. This blog is like a sandwich toaster. As always, television can explain this far better than I ever could:
Daisy: In the end, our relationship was just like a sandwich toaster. You know, you just forget you've got one. And it just sits there on the top of the cupboard collecting a layer of greasy fudge. And even if you do see it you just assume it's broken, you think if it's working I'd be using it all the time, but you don't and it just sits there. Then one day, you get an overwhelming desire for toasted sandwiches, you know? And you get it down and it works, and you can't believe it, you know? And then you make every kind of toasted sandwich there is, you have toasted sandwich parties. You make Marmite and cheese, chocolate and...
Tim: Pilchards.
Daisy: Banana and...
Bilbo: Acorns.
Daisy: Acorns. And then as quickly as the desire comes, it just goes. And then you put the toasted sandwich maker away. And, you know what?
Tim: What?
Daisy: You don't miss it.
Bilbo: So what you're saying is 'Don't hide the toasted sandwich maker away, use him regularly and you'll get the most out of him'.
Tim: No, she's saying 'Chuck your boyfriend, have a sandwich'. (Spaced)
Of course, that analogy doesn't really work, because I'm not going to go mental and write every kind of post you can think of, or have a blog party where everybody groups around and laughs/crys at my cynical, irregular and miserable commentary on 2009. Maybe I should do a Peter Kay and start re-releasing old blog posts in a slightly different font.
That is all. I only wrote this because I felt bad for leaving it so long. Maybe i'll sneak something in before Christmas.
My blog must feel like a dejected gadget you get for Christmas. At first you think how on earth could I ever live with out this? Within about a month you realise you can clearly live without it, and 6 months later it's chucked in the drawer and never used again. This blog is like a sandwich toaster. As always, television can explain this far better than I ever could:
Daisy: In the end, our relationship was just like a sandwich toaster. You know, you just forget you've got one. And it just sits there on the top of the cupboard collecting a layer of greasy fudge. And even if you do see it you just assume it's broken, you think if it's working I'd be using it all the time, but you don't and it just sits there. Then one day, you get an overwhelming desire for toasted sandwiches, you know? And you get it down and it works, and you can't believe it, you know? And then you make every kind of toasted sandwich there is, you have toasted sandwich parties. You make Marmite and cheese, chocolate and...
Tim: Pilchards.
Daisy: Banana and...
Bilbo: Acorns.
Daisy: Acorns. And then as quickly as the desire comes, it just goes. And then you put the toasted sandwich maker away. And, you know what?
Tim: What?
Daisy: You don't miss it.
Bilbo: So what you're saying is 'Don't hide the toasted sandwich maker away, use him regularly and you'll get the most out of him'.
Tim: No, she's saying 'Chuck your boyfriend, have a sandwich'. (Spaced)
Of course, that analogy doesn't really work, because I'm not going to go mental and write every kind of post you can think of, or have a blog party where everybody groups around and laughs/crys at my cynical, irregular and miserable commentary on 2009. Maybe I should do a Peter Kay and start re-releasing old blog posts in a slightly different font.
That is all. I only wrote this because I felt bad for leaving it so long. Maybe i'll sneak something in before Christmas.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Another Day, Another Website
In early September we attended to Becky & Matt's wedding at the pituresque Rushton Hall. RNIB had owned and ran the country estate as a school for the blind since 1957 but decided to sell it on in 2003. To be fair, i'm pretty sure the ornate interiors were lost on most of the students (yeah, i'm going to hell).
I've actually visited the estate before in its former guise, as part of the Montagu School Band to perform christmas carols to the kids. We were told that after our performance one child who hadn't spoken for years uttered 'more'. But my black heart just cannot believe something so beautiful and uplifting could be true. Lying bastards.
I stupidly offered to create a website such that everyone can see pictures from the day. I say stupidly, because sometimes I forget that i'm not a web designer. The term web designer is generally (and incorrectly) used for anyone who works on a website, even though the design of the site is only one part of piecing the technical jigsaw together. I'm a Web Developer or (according to my employee) a Systems Analyst Developer. I'm not a graphic designer.
Because of this I agonised over the design of the site for hours plonking things on the page with no real concept of the complete design or understanding of how colours and shapes fit together to create an aesthetically pleasing site. That's probably why the end product turned out pretty simple. Luckily I think my hours of throwing stuff on a page ended up looking ok, but I can't help but think that a professional designer could of knocked it up in 10 minutes.
Anyway, have a look yourself here - www.mrandmrsshort.com. According to my mum, I don't look good with a bow tie on. How rude.
I've actually visited the estate before in its former guise, as part of the Montagu School Band to perform christmas carols to the kids. We were told that after our performance one child who hadn't spoken for years uttered 'more'. But my black heart just cannot believe something so beautiful and uplifting could be true. Lying bastards.
I stupidly offered to create a website such that everyone can see pictures from the day. I say stupidly, because sometimes I forget that i'm not a web designer. The term web designer is generally (and incorrectly) used for anyone who works on a website, even though the design of the site is only one part of piecing the technical jigsaw together. I'm a Web Developer or (according to my employee) a Systems Analyst Developer. I'm not a graphic designer.
Because of this I agonised over the design of the site for hours plonking things on the page with no real concept of the complete design or understanding of how colours and shapes fit together to create an aesthetically pleasing site. That's probably why the end product turned out pretty simple. Luckily I think my hours of throwing stuff on a page ended up looking ok, but I can't help but think that a professional designer could of knocked it up in 10 minutes.
Anyway, have a look yourself here - www.mrandmrsshort.com. According to my mum, I don't look good with a bow tie on. How rude.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
I'm Sorry, We've Ran Out of Home Made Pasta
Early September is always Holiday time for Jen and I. The kids are back at school (i.e. not where we're going), the weather in Europe isn't too hot, and the hope of any decent weather in England is officially on hiatus until 2010. We've been to Barcelona for the last two years, and despite us being able to taste Sangria on our lips (it's cheaper than Blossom Hill) we decided to go to Rome.
As usual, we left booking the holiday until a few weeks before we left. After days exploring Expedia it appeared that must hotels in central Rome were last refurbished in the early 80s. We ended up staying in a hotel that was on the outskirts of the city centre but only a 5 minute walk away from the Metro (a walk which, according to many reviews, passed a number of hooker hot-spots). We were initially sent to the wrong room, probably scaring the life out the person inside when I was trying to force the door open. I inadvertently had my revenge on the staff by constantly pulling on the emergency alarm in the bathroom for 10 minutes (I was trying to turn the non-existent extractor fan on), leading to Jen getting a confusing phone call about trouble in the bathroom from reception. The hotel was very contemporary, having not only a bidet but, next to the bidet, a telephone. And I thought ringing someone on the toilet was weird.
Rome is a deceptively small city and it's easy to stumble upon a breath taking view whilst aimlessly walking through the city (Rome's Metro doesn't stop at many of the big sites; they're building a third line but progress is slow as every time the tunnel advances they unearth some hidden treasure). For example, in the first 20 minutes of exploring Rome we walked down an insignificant backstreet and stumbled upon a beautifully decorated cross road:
Although it is one of the most well known sights of Rome, Fontane de Trevi is a perfect example of a monumental sight unexpectedly crammed in a tiny out-of-the-way square. Unfortunately the tiny square was permanently rammed with huge crowds whenever we walked through it, watched over by the fountain police (to stop people jumping in, apparently). Throwing a coin in the fountain is meant to guarantee a return to Rome. We chucked in 10 cents, so evidently we weren't that bothered. We attempted to take some photos of us sitting on the edge of the fountain, unfortunately this put us directly in the line of fire from small bits of metal flying from the crowd so the photos were a little rushed (hence, not shown).
The most iconic sight has to be the Colloseum, and like the immigrants flogging umbrellas and faux gladiators selling picture opportunities, it jumps out in front of you when you leave the Collosso Metro. Due to the pillaging throughout centuries the Colloseum looked far more impressive outside than in.
We made a habit of using the Collosso Metro at night, as the view on the road walking towards it is amazing. We'd first pass the Monument to Victor Emanuel II, and then walk down a long road flanked by the Forum and ruins of Ceaser's house, with the lit up Colloseum approaching on the horizon.
Anyone who knows me well knows that, much like everything in and attached to my body, my bladder is small but perfectly formed. Rome and I suspect Italy do not do public toilets. One night walking to the Metro I was so desperate I had a cheeky pee half way up a dead-end stair case. Luckily the wall was just above groin height. This has to be the most picturesque toilet experience i've had in my life (not difficult), I felt like Caeser having a cheeky wazz on his was to the Forum. To be fair, a pigeon had pooed on my head a few days previously, so I was just muddying up his turf as revenge. For cover I pretended to take some pictures, one of which is below. Unfortunately, as the camera was merely a prop in my cunning deception, the photo is rubbish. Regardless, here it is:
Although there seemed to be less beggars, dodgy street merchants and theft than in other major cities, those that did it were full on. Beggars were one of two types, either young pregnant girls asking for money to support their bambino or old ladies, hunched over with a stick stumbling around and incoherently mumbling whilst rattling a mini Pringle can full of change. The later were genuinely scary, you could imagine them grabbing your arm and placing a curse on you if you dared to put less than a euro in their retro-fitted savoury snack container.
The scariest beggar we saw was a hybrid of the two types, a scary pregnant old lady (we think the bump was fake). For some inexplicable reason she was wearing a glittery dome shaped hat, looking like she'd been involved in an accident involving a badly secured disco ball. When a waitress tried to shoo her away from an establishment the begger turned, looked the waitress in the eye and made an un-earthly wail at the top of her lungs. After a few seconds of wailing she turned around and continued mumbling at scared Americans. From that point on Jen and I referred to her as Mumm-raa, and regularly ran away if we saw her stalking a square.
Gingers have a lot in common with Vampires - pale skin, fear of the sun and despite all logic, they are deeply attractive to the opposite sex. Well, maybe not the last point, but the Sun is a bitch. And Rome in September gets a lot of Sun, ruining every other photo we took. E.g:
The food in Rome is great and unlike Barcelona the bill isn't full of mystery surcharges. We were genuinely shocked when we got the bill for our first meal and were asked to pay for what was written on the menu. The one night we decided to get food in the hotel we were told that they'd ran out of the home made pasta. We didn't that mistake again. The thing i'll miss the most is the amazing ice cream, which we stuffed in our faces daily.
After four days of walking the city and countless museums history fatigue began to settle in and apathetically it became difficult to be impressed by another gold leaf 20m2 fresco or a monument that only 50 people probably died building. Luckily we ordered things such that we visited the epic Vatican Museum towards the end of the trip.
I had to stop taking photos of the frankly awe-inspiring testament to the Catholic Church's greed and excess as I was concerned that carrying the camera over the border would infringe on the Obscene Publications Act. It is a huge place, and room after room is quite literally jammed with statues, paintings and frescos such that you become desensitized to the beautiful craft exhibited. If you gave every piece the attention it deserved you would never leave. I actually felt bad that I wasn't more interested in large bodies of work - it must be like Disney Land for a historian. Despite Scott's suggestion I didn't get round to asking the staff where the Nazi Gold was hidden.
The Vatican Museum houses the Sisteen Chapel, or as it should probably be called the 'Nippon Sisteen Chapel'. Nippon, a Japanese Company purchased the video and photo rights to the chapel in exchange for paying for its refurbishment. For that reason, photography is forbidden, a rule which is strictly enforced by the Vatican's miserable fun-sponge guards.
The 'Rough Guide to Rome' describes the Vatican staff as
'unsmiling suited functionaries that appear at every turn. A care free experience it is not'
We saw a Japanese couple being marched out of the Sisteen Chapel for taking a photo, a women being dragged away from St. Paul's because skirt length infringement and, ironically, an elderly lady being pulled from her knees for daring to try and pray at the tomb of Pope John Paul II.
Ironically, I think we saw my two favorite things about Rome on the first day. The first was The Capuchin Crypt, 6 rooms entirely decorated using the remains of 4000 monks. Oddly, it was more impressive than morbid. The Crypt's intention was to remind the viewer of the impermanence of life, which is very Buddist for a Catholic Church. No photos were allowed, so here's some I found on the 'nets.
The second was 'The Allegory of Divine Providence' a breathtaking fresco in Palazzo Barberini. I actually found it more impressive then the Sisteen Chapel, more alive, more vibrant, brighter and more awe-inspiring. The fact we were alone in the room and not being shouted at by the Vatican Police probably improved the experience. Something which doesn't come out in the photos is that the fresco looked 3d, the arches in the corner had amazing depth to them, despite the fact it was simply paint on plaster.
As usual, we left booking the holiday until a few weeks before we left. After days exploring Expedia it appeared that must hotels in central Rome were last refurbished in the early 80s. We ended up staying in a hotel that was on the outskirts of the city centre but only a 5 minute walk away from the Metro (a walk which, according to many reviews, passed a number of hooker hot-spots). We were initially sent to the wrong room, probably scaring the life out the person inside when I was trying to force the door open. I inadvertently had my revenge on the staff by constantly pulling on the emergency alarm in the bathroom for 10 minutes (I was trying to turn the non-existent extractor fan on), leading to Jen getting a confusing phone call about trouble in the bathroom from reception. The hotel was very contemporary, having not only a bidet but, next to the bidet, a telephone. And I thought ringing someone on the toilet was weird.
Rome is a deceptively small city and it's easy to stumble upon a breath taking view whilst aimlessly walking through the city (Rome's Metro doesn't stop at many of the big sites; they're building a third line but progress is slow as every time the tunnel advances they unearth some hidden treasure). For example, in the first 20 minutes of exploring Rome we walked down an insignificant backstreet and stumbled upon a beautifully decorated cross road:
Although it is one of the most well known sights of Rome, Fontane de Trevi is a perfect example of a monumental sight unexpectedly crammed in a tiny out-of-the-way square. Unfortunately the tiny square was permanently rammed with huge crowds whenever we walked through it, watched over by the fountain police (to stop people jumping in, apparently). Throwing a coin in the fountain is meant to guarantee a return to Rome. We chucked in 10 cents, so evidently we weren't that bothered. We attempted to take some photos of us sitting on the edge of the fountain, unfortunately this put us directly in the line of fire from small bits of metal flying from the crowd so the photos were a little rushed (hence, not shown).
The most iconic sight has to be the Colloseum, and like the immigrants flogging umbrellas and faux gladiators selling picture opportunities, it jumps out in front of you when you leave the Collosso Metro. Due to the pillaging throughout centuries the Colloseum looked far more impressive outside than in.
We made a habit of using the Collosso Metro at night, as the view on the road walking towards it is amazing. We'd first pass the Monument to Victor Emanuel II, and then walk down a long road flanked by the Forum and ruins of Ceaser's house, with the lit up Colloseum approaching on the horizon.
Anyone who knows me well knows that, much like everything in and attached to my body, my bladder is small but perfectly formed. Rome and I suspect Italy do not do public toilets. One night walking to the Metro I was so desperate I had a cheeky pee half way up a dead-end stair case. Luckily the wall was just above groin height. This has to be the most picturesque toilet experience i've had in my life (not difficult), I felt like Caeser having a cheeky wazz on his was to the Forum. To be fair, a pigeon had pooed on my head a few days previously, so I was just muddying up his turf as revenge. For cover I pretended to take some pictures, one of which is below. Unfortunately, as the camera was merely a prop in my cunning deception, the photo is rubbish. Regardless, here it is:
Although there seemed to be less beggars, dodgy street merchants and theft than in other major cities, those that did it were full on. Beggars were one of two types, either young pregnant girls asking for money to support their bambino or old ladies, hunched over with a stick stumbling around and incoherently mumbling whilst rattling a mini Pringle can full of change. The later were genuinely scary, you could imagine them grabbing your arm and placing a curse on you if you dared to put less than a euro in their retro-fitted savoury snack container.
The scariest beggar we saw was a hybrid of the two types, a scary pregnant old lady (we think the bump was fake). For some inexplicable reason she was wearing a glittery dome shaped hat, looking like she'd been involved in an accident involving a badly secured disco ball. When a waitress tried to shoo her away from an establishment the begger turned, looked the waitress in the eye and made an un-earthly wail at the top of her lungs. After a few seconds of wailing she turned around and continued mumbling at scared Americans. From that point on Jen and I referred to her as Mumm-raa, and regularly ran away if we saw her stalking a square.
Gingers have a lot in common with Vampires - pale skin, fear of the sun and despite all logic, they are deeply attractive to the opposite sex. Well, maybe not the last point, but the Sun is a bitch. And Rome in September gets a lot of Sun, ruining every other photo we took. E.g:
The food in Rome is great and unlike Barcelona the bill isn't full of mystery surcharges. We were genuinely shocked when we got the bill for our first meal and were asked to pay for what was written on the menu. The one night we decided to get food in the hotel we were told that they'd ran out of the home made pasta. We didn't that mistake again. The thing i'll miss the most is the amazing ice cream, which we stuffed in our faces daily.
After four days of walking the city and countless museums history fatigue began to settle in and apathetically it became difficult to be impressed by another gold leaf 20m2 fresco or a monument that only 50 people probably died building. Luckily we ordered things such that we visited the epic Vatican Museum towards the end of the trip.
I had to stop taking photos of the frankly awe-inspiring testament to the Catholic Church's greed and excess as I was concerned that carrying the camera over the border would infringe on the Obscene Publications Act. It is a huge place, and room after room is quite literally jammed with statues, paintings and frescos such that you become desensitized to the beautiful craft exhibited. If you gave every piece the attention it deserved you would never leave. I actually felt bad that I wasn't more interested in large bodies of work - it must be like Disney Land for a historian. Despite Scott's suggestion I didn't get round to asking the staff where the Nazi Gold was hidden.
The Vatican Museum houses the Sisteen Chapel, or as it should probably be called the 'Nippon Sisteen Chapel'. Nippon, a Japanese Company purchased the video and photo rights to the chapel in exchange for paying for its refurbishment. For that reason, photography is forbidden, a rule which is strictly enforced by the Vatican's miserable fun-sponge guards.
The 'Rough Guide to Rome' describes the Vatican staff as
'unsmiling suited functionaries that appear at every turn. A care free experience it is not'
We saw a Japanese couple being marched out of the Sisteen Chapel for taking a photo, a women being dragged away from St. Paul's because skirt length infringement and, ironically, an elderly lady being pulled from her knees for daring to try and pray at the tomb of Pope John Paul II.
Ironically, I think we saw my two favorite things about Rome on the first day. The first was The Capuchin Crypt, 6 rooms entirely decorated using the remains of 4000 monks. Oddly, it was more impressive than morbid. The Crypt's intention was to remind the viewer of the impermanence of life, which is very Buddist for a Catholic Church. No photos were allowed, so here's some I found on the 'nets.
The second was 'The Allegory of Divine Providence' a breathtaking fresco in Palazzo Barberini. I actually found it more impressive then the Sisteen Chapel, more alive, more vibrant, brighter and more awe-inspiring. The fact we were alone in the room and not being shouted at by the Vatican Police probably improved the experience. Something which doesn't come out in the photos is that the fresco looked 3d, the arches in the corner had amazing depth to them, despite the fact it was simply paint on plaster.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Bring on the wall, again
A while back I blogged about painting a pretty large flower pattern on our stairs' wall, aided by a laptop, GIMP and a projector. I mentioned that my Dad painted an awesome Star Wars mural in mine and my Brother's bedroom, free hand, making our monotone technologically assisted job seem a bit weak. Here's a picture Mum dug out:
The Ewok's village has unfortunately been cropped by the 80's lense, but rest assured Wicket was standing there, spear in hand. For added awesomeness, the Death Star and X-wings were painted using glow in the dark paint.
Dad's skills didn't stop with the Empire. Checkout this Thomas the Tank Engine and Postman Pat mash-up, a pre-teen equivalent of Alien versus Predator:
And as if that wasn't good enough, he built us a friggin' fort from bits of an old shed! I don't think I realised how lucky I was when I was a kid, having parents putting this much effort into making sure we had fun. Here I am looking pretty chuffed ruling the fort with my Brother* defending with a Shield, also made by Dad. There was even a trapdoor inside the fort so we could make a quick get-away into the bush behind.
I wish that fort was still there. I'd love to stand on top of it doing my best worst french impressions, shouting python insults at anyone who would listen. You English pig-dog!
Now go away, before I taunt you for a second time.
* We've decided that in this picture my Brother looks like a cross between Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Milton from Office Space
The Ewok's village has unfortunately been cropped by the 80's lense, but rest assured Wicket was standing there, spear in hand. For added awesomeness, the Death Star and X-wings were painted using glow in the dark paint.
Dad's skills didn't stop with the Empire. Checkout this Thomas the Tank Engine and Postman Pat mash-up, a pre-teen equivalent of Alien versus Predator:
And as if that wasn't good enough, he built us a friggin' fort from bits of an old shed! I don't think I realised how lucky I was when I was a kid, having parents putting this much effort into making sure we had fun. Here I am looking pretty chuffed ruling the fort with my Brother* defending with a Shield, also made by Dad. There was even a trapdoor inside the fort so we could make a quick get-away into the bush behind.
I wish that fort was still there. I'd love to stand on top of it doing my best worst french impressions, shouting python insults at anyone who would listen. You English pig-dog!
Now go away, before I taunt you for a second time.
* We've decided that in this picture my Brother looks like a cross between Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Milton from Office Space
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