On top of the world (kind of)

No digital camera can do justice to the views I’ve seen. Only the fibre optics of the human eye can take it all in.

The vultures circle, pre-empting our doom as we cling onto unstable rocks but we don’t give them what they want as we struggle to the top, and they disperse.

John says don’t look up but seeing the summit, our goal, gives me hope and spurs me on.

We make it to the top and reward ourselves with a cup of tea and some sandwiches – how British.

A sense of accomplishment accompanies our retreat back down to ground level where Jordi, our faithful chauffeur greets us to drive three weary Englishmen back down to the village of Llessui.

From there it’s home to Taull for a bath, some food and a celebratory beer.

Mountain High

It scares me how quickly a year passes. 365 days sounds like a long time, and it is, but they can fly by in the blink of an eye and can leave you with little or nothing to show for your time.

It was last August that Seb and I flew to Spain and made our way to the Catalonian Pyrenees to spend a week mountain climbing with our uncle John. Now, a year after, we are back and nothing has changed. Seb’s still at uni, I’m still in the same job and John still works too hard for Variety. They only difference is that we’ve all got a year older.

Last year Seb and I flew into Madrid, spent a night at John’s flat before taking the train up to the northern town to Llieda, where we met him. This year we cut out some of the travelling by flying to Barcelona, picking up a hire car and driving to Llieda, a much shorter journey than the three hour train trek we’d undertaken last year.

We arrived in the mountain village of Taull on Sunday afternoon. I was exhausted after driving from Barcelona to Llieda, and then on up into the mountains and collapsed on my bed before taking a three hour siesta.

We were staying in the same apartment as last year; a stereotypical, wooden chalet style flat, rewarding us with spectacular views of the Boi valley.

John is an experienced climber but this year had a serious handicap in the shape of an infected foot. Some punk had run over it in Cannes at the Film Festival (not a movie star, sadly) and the wound had got infected. It meant we weren’t able to have a second crack at Punta Alta, one of the Pyrenees tallest peaks, after successfully negotiating our way halfway up it before walking in the wrong direction for three hours last year.

We had to make do with some smaller mountains this year, but that was fine by Seb and I.

A take away and The Quiet American was enough to see off Sunday and we agreed to wake early on Monday to tackle Monsent, a smaller, but by no means less demanding peak in the accompanying valley of Llessui.

Monday morning came and the alarm shattered the quiet mountain morning air like a sharp jab to the ribs.

We wandered down for breakfast at a café in the village before packing our rucksacks with the essentials (in my case a waterproof jacket, a sandwich and my Ipod) and headed for Llessui.

After negotiating a road that was bendier than Gabby Roslin’s legs and narrower than Oswald Mosely’s views we got to the town of Sort, a few miles short of the mountain.

Jon wasn’t conviced he knew where the start of the mountain was so we stopped on the way in Sort to by a map. “Map of Monsent? Don’t have any,” said the shop assistant.

“But it’s right there, “said John. “It’s the next mountain along from your village.”

As it was we had to make do with some less than convincing directions.

We found the route up to the Coll (where the climb properly starts) but our Seat Leon hired from Barcelona airport struggled with the bumps in the rural track and after the third dip in the road – which were getting bigger as they went on - we decided risking damage to the undercarriage of the car wasn’t worth it.

So I parked it up in a siding and we walked the rest. Two hours later we still weren’t anywhere near the Coll. The dirt track meandered up the mountain and we diligently followed it, in the shadow of Monsent but it failed to get any closer.

We stopped for sandwiches at an abandoned restaurant and sat on the empty ski lift chairs. There was an eerie silence. No cars. No people. Only the lowing of the nearby cows, and even they sounded embarrassed to be making noise.

A group vote was taken and we decided to wander back down into the village and see if we can convince someone to give us a lift up the track to the Coll (bascally as high up as a vehicle would go, so we could give the peak a proper crack another day).

We wandered into a café as we got back down to level ground and the shrivled up old Spanish man agreed to take us up on Wednesday morning. We downed our Cokes, said our thanks to Jordi and agreed to come back.

Tuesday will be for recharging before the big scale on Wednesday.

If I could kill just one celebrity

I saw today that model-turned-parasite Calum Best is the subject of a new television programme that will see him go 49 nights without sex, despite “temptation traps” laid on by the show’s producers. What a massive cunt. I hope he gives in, contracts syphyilis and dies.

As an aside I saw this on Wikipedia:
“In January 2008, the Daily Star reported that London’s largest homeless charity, St. Mungo’s, was overwhelmed with donations of Best’s signature aftershave, apparently from citizens who received it as an unwanted Christmas gift.”

Probably smelt of shit.

Boxing Clever

I went to a music festival yesterday. I was my first ever festival experience and at only a day long was a good taster for the three-day End of the Road festival I’ll be jetting off to in September. Well, maybe not a proper taster as the line-ups differ considerably but the experience of being surrounded by thousands of dirty, doped up idiots can’t be learned from any text books.

I met Jacko at Charing Cross and we headed to Victoria Park via Subway for a quick bit of lunch. We met her friends Andy, Ess, Ellie and Matt (to be honest, I’m not sure that’s what they were called, so you’ll just have to go with me on this one). They were more inclined to like dance and drum and base music and as the festival was eclectic as those frequenting it, there was plenty of those sort of sounds to whet their appetites.

I was itching to get off and see some indie stuff and after tagging along with the other five to a dance arena where I felt like a dad at a kids disco for 10 minutes, I finally got to go and hear some decent sounds.

First, I had to stand through a set by Roni Size Reprazents (possibly the worst ever way I’ve seen ‘represents’ spelt, but anyway). Again feeling more out of place than George W Bush at a Mensa meeting, I tried to feign interest which, from looking around me, meant dancing like a twat. Something I’m actually not too bad at.

As it turned out, I quite enjoyed a couple of the songs.

Jacko and I then slipped off to the Clash tent to catch a glimpse of pintsized punksters Operator Please, freshly flown in from their native Australia. We left the others who seemed happy to go off in search of more drum and bass sounds. They were a nice bunch, very friendly and even laughed at a few of my jokes. Bless ‘em.

This would have been the second time I had seen Operator Please had I not decided a few hours before I was due to drive to Wimbledon a few months ago that I couldn’t be bothered. Jacko had never heard of them so I felt a bit like I was introducing two of my friends to each other, hoping they both got on. As it was, Jacko really enjoyed their set and as far as I could tell, they were not unhappy with her being there.

Taylor Henderson - ahh bless.

They were an eclectic bunch – with five heterogeneously dressed youngsters (none of them over 20) all reminding me of something different. Lead singer Amandah Wilkinson looked like a giant purple fruit pastel, keyboardist Chris Holland looked like he sould be wandering aimlessly around an Abercrombie store, patting down t-shirts and pouting, drummer Tim Commandeur looked so young I thought he had bunked off school for the day to come and play and basist Ashley McConnell seemed to have got lost on his way to a Charlie Chaplin fancy dress party.

Star of the show, though, was violinist Taylor Henderson who looked like a fragile china doll, all cuteness and innocence. I wanted to put her in my pocket, take her home and place her delicately on my mantle piece.

All that aside, they sounded fantastic and their collection of 2-minute punk-pop pieces were lapped up by the crowd, who especially enjoyed the Salt N Pepper cover of Push It. But then, who wouldn’t?

We had our afternoon mapped out and planned to catch Ida Maria at the Gaymers tent straight aftwerwards but when we got there the previous band (the Howling Jets, or something) were still playing. I assumed the stage was overrunning so when they departed the stage we wandered up to the front of the stage and waited. And waited. And waited. But no Ida.

I have no idea what happened but it soon got to 7pm and the next act – The Dandy Warholes – appeared. Now here’s a proper redneck, blue collar band. Lead singer in dungarees, drummer with handle-bar tache and massive hair, guitarist donned in 70s attire with a token girl, who seemed to play no instrument chucked in for good measure.

I only knew a few of their songs – yes, the famous ones – but they sounded good. Naturally, Bohemian Rhapsody was greated with the greatest vigour – along with some idiots jumping into people just next to us. What is the point of that? Fair enough everyone likes to have a bit of a jump down at the front, but what can be gained from crashing into people? Is it actually any fun? Looks more like the past-time of a moron. Well done, morons.

By the end of that set I was getting tired and weary. The old joints had taken a battering, but there was only one set left – The Flaming Lips. Again, I had only heard a few of their tracks – despite owning one of their CDs for more than two years, yikes!

Lead singer Wayne Coyne arrived on stage in a giant bubble and, to be honest, I wish he’d stayed inside it. The set was pretty dull, maybe because I didn’t know many of the songs, but I reckon I wasn’t the only one because Coyne spent the entire set begging the crowd to get into it more. “Come on, come on,” he kept saying. Not a good sign.

Jacko enjoys Roni Size. Well, someone had to.

By the end I was yearning for my bed, my back was killing me and my feet felt like somone had been chissling away at them all day. I returned home knackered yet happy with my first festival experience. Jacko was the perfect festival friend, and I am chuffed she liked Operator Please.

Next stop, Devon.

Two steps forward

It’s nice to be wanted. Everyone needs it and we all strive towards it. It makes us feel worthwhile.

Whether it is the love of a parent, feeling valued at work or just being asked to go for a pint by a mate, being in demand is hugely empowering and drives us all on.

Viktor E Frankl said that we are all driven by a desire to have a purpose in life. To be wanted and to feel valued. He reckoned Freud a bit off when he said that we are all driven by sex. Frankl thinks a fulfilled life is more than just what’s in your bed. And I am inclined to agree with him.

I feel wanted at the moment. And it hasn’t taken a lot – just a few quiet encouraging words has lifted my spirit skywards.

Now I have quit my subbing job at the Independent on Sunday it has freed up my Saturdays and I’ve decided to make the most of them, so I asked to go pre-season training at Crowborough Athletic. The first team have just been promoted to the Ryman League One South (eight levels below the Premiership) and the reserve team are in the Suburban League (with the likes of Whyteleafe and AFC Wimbledon).

I did think that after four years with no football on Saturdays it would be a bit of a long shot for me but I have played in the Suburban League before – for Whyteleafe – and you don’t get anything unless you give it a shot, right?

So I phoned the chairman, he said I could some down and I turned out for the first pre-season training session of the season.  It was tough but I held my own and was over the moon when they didn’t tell me to bugger off at the end, just to come back two days later for the next session.

I continued to train twice a week for the next fortnight, still not sure whether they would take me on, but just happy to be involved and getting fitter as a result. I really liked their approach – which was to get the footballs out as soon as possible and not run us all into the ground.

At the end of my fourth session Stuart, the reserve team manager, called me into a small group of about five or six players.

“You lot are those I consider to be fully involved with the reserve side this season,” he said.

I was made up. I had done it. They actually thought I was good enough for this level. Stuart then called me over on my own. He said he liked what he saw and thought I could be a “real asset” to the squad. I felt like I had won the lottery.

I was actually wanted by the club. They thought I could help them out, when I was just happy being there. It gave me a massive confidence boost. All I could mumble back was something that was supposed to be “I’m really looking forward to the season” but came out more like “Umm ryyllylnnkin fwyr tyyyit”.

The strange thing is I thought I had put in my worst performance during the session, so if he thought I was good enough after seeing that I was determined to show what I can really do.

This afternoon we played our first pre-season friendly of the calendar and I got 60 minutes of playing time at right midfield. By the end of the match I was lagging but I thought I put myself about well, showed some determination and put in some half decent crosses. I got a few compliments after the match so I can’t have done badly.

I am determined to get better and repay Stuart’s faith in me. I am learning every minute while I am training and playing for Crowborough – there are some excellent players there and it is great to watch them and try to pick up tips.

Plus it is just nice to feel part of a group, and to be wanted. It’s horrible to be in a group but feel like an outsider. I don’t here and it is great.

Waiting…

From www.weblogcartoons.com

In another life

I like Scrubs. It’s an easy-watching, inoffensive show. And it’s relatively funny. But every time I sit down infront of an episode I get jealous. I’m reminded of how many holes my life has in it, yet JD and friends seem to be getting on fine.

Well, I want that. I want a decent job. I want good looking doctor friends. I want to be able to narrate my own life. I want to overcome problems and be able to reflect on them every half hour.

No fair.

Faces

Here’s two more faces.

Face 5 – My stapler.
Here’s a confused little face I found hiding under the main flap of my stapler at work. He’s almost sayins “Errgghh, you found me you basatrd”. He’s ok though, he helps me stick bits of realted paper together without any fuss. Ok, I need to give him a gentle nudge with my fingers but he always obliges. Good boy.

Face 6 – Rich’s new bag.
Rich, my faltmate, went shopping for a travel bag for an upcoming trip to Rome. He came back to the flat with this monstrous thing. Just look at the face on one end of it. It looks like Jabba the Hut. What a horrible, horrible face.

Analyse This

I know no-one reads this thing anymore but I don’t care. I’m going to continue posting, and I’ve decided to turn this tatty old blog into a review centre. That’s right, I’m going to start giving music the once over. And films. And just about anything I feel like doing that to. Ok?

Laura Imbruglia
Right, first off I have to tell you (tell you? Tell who? There’s no-one reading this James. Hmm, fair point. Regardless, I’m going to carry on) about Laura Imbruglia. She’s is the younger sister of former Ramsey Street inhabitant Natalia Imbruglia but thankfully hasn’t followed her down the conveyor belt pop route and instead has produced a cracking debut indie/punk self-titled album.
Her lyrics are thoughtful, nay insightful into the 25-year-old’s frustrating life (aren’t all of ours?) and while they aren’t exactly Novello-winning they still seem very real and nowhere near as contrived as, well, something her sister might pen.
I was tempted to get the album off the back of hearing the track Tear Ducts, which is a song lamenting young Laura’s inability to see someone special resulting in lots of tears. She says she’ll have to get her tear ducts sown up because they “have filled themselves up, they overflow and now the tears slide right into my mouth”. It’s a very real little song without any of the fluffy “everything will be alright” premises that engulf most pop crap these days.
The song ends with the line “Can’t we all share widespread unhappiness? I’m tired of people telling me to smile” which was so good I punched an old lady in the face as I was walking down the street listening to my Ipod in agreement.
The rest of the album (stand out tracks being Lettuce and Anarchists – about two possibly gay punk work-mates of hers, I Wanna Throw Stones – glass houses and all that, and My Dream of a Magical Washing Machine – a review of a weed-induced dream about, well, a magical washing machine) is a journey through her troubled sub-conscious and it’s a bloody good ride. The best thing about the record is that it is raw – so raw in fact that it should be bleeding.
The other reason I like it so much is that I have because incredibly attracted to Laura Imbruglia. She’s not as good looking as her older sister but there’s something immensely attractive about girls who can play guitar who sing about having a shit life and smoking weed. Plus I reckon she’d be great fun to hang around.
The only downer is that she’s Australian. Oh well, can’t have it all your own way.

Food for thought?

I had pizza tonight. It went against my recent healthy agenda but I went for a run tonight, I was knackered and it was the easy way out.

Pizza is a bit like sex – it always seems like a good idea, and once you get it in your head that you’re going to have pizza, that’s all you can think about.

All your memories of previously having pizza are just about the best thing you can remember ever doing, and your endorphins are going crazy at the idea.

The initial intake of pizza is wonderful, and is just what you want. It’s very satisfying.

But afterwards you start to feel shame, and regret and all you’re left with is greasy fingers and a mess.