Juanathan

HMAS Cholia

2009-11-26T08:38:00.000-08:00

My parents were fond of describing as 'character forming' experiences that were otherwise more readily recognised as annoying, difficult, awkward, or even painful. Just exactly how these experiences formed character or indeed why I should feel confident that the kind of character they were forming was a good or useful one has never been explained to me.

My time in Cholila has, at times, been 'character forming'. I choose to believe that means I have emerged at the other end in some way a better human being (even possible you wonder?) but you can be the judge of that. What is indisputable is that my hammer skills have improved OUT OF SIGHT and that I now know how to bake bread. I can add to this list of titanic acheivements the wearing of a tool belt in an appropriate context, the use of an axe in a almost competent fashion, and the beating of a man half my age in a running-uphill-for-a-long-way contest.

But let me give you some context. Cholila is a funny little village in the Andes half way down Patagonia. Its got a corrupt local government which has built four duel carriageways of a kilometer long and four lanes wide radiating from the town plaza to cater for the polulation of around 2000 some of whom have cars (something to do with a concrete contract which made the mayor rich), Its not unusual to see real gauchos hitching their horses outside the general store and all this surrounded by snow topped peaks blowing icy winds down the valley fit to freeze your but clean orff.

I was booked in to work for the local Mountaineering club doing environmental work (weeding) and building mountain refuges and maintaining walking paths. None of that happened. Turns out that this is what will happen when the club gets its act together and in the meantime myself and the other two volunteers (Rasmus and Flor) busied ourselves building the house of the club president Dario.

Now this sounds a bit sus I know - work for free building someone elses house but it was actually quite good. We got the opportunity to live (in tents) in a spectacular location ( a few kms out of town on a ridge overlooking a beautiful lake) and share the life of Dario (a local Mapuche) and his missus Laura (and accountant from Buenos Aires) who are building a sustainable lifestyle and trying to lead by example in the local community. We also got into a bit of environmental activism whilst there. Meanwhile my days were full of a rude amount of manly exercise and the kind of fresh air mums the world over encourage their kids to get out into.

One of my jobs that arguably my two degrees 6 years in Parliament and 38 long years a had all been a preparation for was to walk down a steep hill side through the trees to the lakeside find a big stone (about 30 kilos is good) lift it onto my shoulder and climb back up the hill with it. When I arrived at the top a whieezing sweaty mess, I had to put it in a pile and go get another. Another brain bender I mastered was to go down the same hill to the same shore this time with a machete (anyone who denys that walking around with a machete isn't all kinds of fun is a screaming fool) to cut two metre branches of the local weedy tree and bundle them up into heavy unweildy bundles and carry them up the hill - queue wheezy sweaty mess. And you know what- I enjoyed it.

This was not the character forming bit though. That came with the human element. The house we were building is not even half done and so the living area indoors is still very very small. about 3m by 2m. In that space is the kitched, woodburning stove, a table, a single bed. In that space five people cooked chatted read, listened to music, washed dishes. It was like a dryland month long sea voyage with four strangers on a small boat. The character forming part came with the fact that I didn't really hit it off with the captain. A month is a long time to feel awkward but that's what happened. I don't think Dario was used to having a volunteer of his own age and didn't really know how to relate to me - he was obviously much more at home horsing around with the young uns (my fellow volunteers were both 20) than me and for a while he seemed to actually resent my being there (can you feel that charater forming?). I met this awkwardness with a mixture of jolly indifference and quiet stoicism. By the end of the month he had started trying to get along better but clearly didn't really know how - ah bless. On my side I felt it a small victory that I made it through the month having made good friends with the kids and half won over our host - all of this human relations business is much harder than lifting heavy stones up hills you know.

Cholila has left my cheeks with a healthy glow (make you own jokes here) and my heart in a funny corner of the world by a lake near a mountain, I shall miss it. Today I'm in Cordoba nursing a furry little hangover whilst planning to go climbing in the mountains hereabouts, in 12 days I'll be in Sydney - hard to believe really.

Just deserts

2009-10-12T14:51:00.000-07:00

Patagonia is a desert. It is perhaps not widely known but believe me its full of nothing. I am begining to wonder whether this is where nothing is kept when no one is using it, there certainly is a lot of it, just sitting there doing...nothing.

The travel agents of the western world are not keen to talk about the nothing. Nothing doesn't sell holidays. When people say 'I just want to get away from it all' they don't really mean it. They are not visualising 14 days in scruby moonscape of nothingness listening to the wind searching in vain for something to whip around. They're thinking 'cocktails!'

I quite like a bit of desert. It's an interesting, challenging, landscape that forments thought and widens the eye, for an afternoon. Much longer than that and the challenge becomes a threat, the feeling of freedom a prison. Nevertheless people live in the desolate 'estepa' of Patagonia and I know because I went and met some of them.

Since randomly plonking myself in Patagonia I have tried to take advantage of whatever opportunity presented itself to see, do and feel something new. I'm not talking latex themed swingers parties (minds out of the gutter please!), no I mean wholesome life experience stuff - you've got to do something.

In this vein I have been accompanying a rural schools teacher on her weekly trips teach English to the country folk in a 200km radius of Esquel. These trips have taken me to the Andes, their vallies and last week to the 'interior' to the nothingness. I have met some lovely kids and some well, less lovely ones. I've played football (shamelessly celebrating after scoring past an eight year old), and stood to attention as the Argentinian flag was raised (Maggie T would never forgive me).

In Ranquil Hoau I taught three Mapuche(indigenous) kids how to day G'day Mate! Obviously there was more to the lesson than that but I felt this was the highlight. I'm not sure what they felt.

The reality is that the level of English is schools in Argentina is very low. Even after several years of lessons the kids rarely get beyond the present tense, but then when your day job (yes the 14 year olds have day jobs) is tending goats and collecting brush wood for the family stove the point of mastering English phrasal verbs is occaisionally hard to grasp.

Such experiences serve to underline the priviledge of a comfortable middle class life in the city. I am the first to admit that I'm looking forward to getting back to mine. Of course this very same experience could easily be found in the outback of Australia - why I have chosen to fly so far to find it here is a rather dull mystery. But despite the illogicality of the trajectory the effect (which of course I expected to find) is to further steel my modest resolve to do something to help that eight year old have as good a life as he can - which is kinda why I'm here.

A Brit of Argie Bargie

2009-09-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

Not the most original of titles but hey who do you think I am? **fill in name of favourite witty writer here **? eh?

Maybe if during my trip I´d eaten a Onion Bargie... oh well..lets move on.

Is a month long enough to judge a country? I think so. Here I go. Argentina is a country with an inferiority complex fed on a diet of milenesas (chicken or beef schnitzels) and a long experience of pathetically rubbish government. When not ruled by murderous military dimwits the country has lurched from one chancer to the next, each with the economic aplomb of a pissed tourist (is this a ten or a hundred? - whatever!), which has clearly driven 90% of the population to an irrational love of breadcrumb covered meats. I think that covers it.

On the upside the hopeless mismanagment and eventual collapse of the national railway system has led to arguably the best long distance bus service on the planet. The quite staggering luxury and comfort of these buses is unsung by the locals who seem surprisingly keen to label themselves as ´third world´ and bemoan the economic woes of one of South Americas most advanced economies.

It is possibly the closeness of Argentina culturally speaking to Europe that results in this unreasonable comparison and resulting gloom - so near and yet so far. However, when distracted from pontificating on national identity most Argies I have met are uncomplicatedly friendly and hospitable.

Not least my host for my stay here in Esquel Patagonia. Lucia is a 40 something mum of two with a love of butterflies and fairies and all things spiritual. On entering her house you get the distinct impression that in her search for ´something´she has in fact found everything. There are pictures of Jesus, Buddha, dream catchers, fairies, witches, assorted Catholic saints, and although I´m yet to see it there must be an Obama around somewhere.

As a happy clapping athiest all this spiritual bumpf leaves me somewhat dismayed but fortunately Lucia´s evangelical tendencies are fairly well controlled. I do occaisionally have to chew determindly and stare at my plate when invited to enthuse about the ´real´cause of asthma or share a knowing look about her probable past life. Nevertheless, she´s an excellent host who is interested and interesting and always ready to give a hand. All in all I could have done a lot worse - I may even develop a taste for incense....or perhaps not.

When not at home I have taken to running up the local hills, or rather mountains. This lung bursting leg jellifying activity is more fun than it sounds, leaving the regular practicioner with an inner glow of pointless achievement and buns of steel.
In addition there is to be a competition of stupid uphill running in a few weeks and I intend to participate. Not only will I be able to join the choral wheezing of several hundred fellow nutbars but its all for charity - ahh how nice.

In the next post I´ll tell you how I´ve been saving the world via unsupervised internet browsing - stay tuned juanfans!

Some old tatt

2009-09-01T10:49:00.000-07:00

The lower east side Manhattan is renowned for its bars, its art galleries, studios, its 'scene' and of course its tattoos. What? Hadn't heard about the tattoos? Well take it from me there's more square inches of tattooed flesh on display on the streets of the 'garment district' NYC than at a Polynesian arse slapping contest. But these tattoos aren't of your arrow through heart smudgy drunken lifelong error variety nor culturally significant sphincta backdrops these tatts are art, original, striking, sometimes shocking usually just cool.

All this body art brilliance is prone to turn a poor country boy's head, and as it turns out, mine too. It had been a long time since my last encounter with the needle gun and the heady mix of 90 degree heat, 90% humidity, bourbon on rocks and a pocket full of Greenbacks was making me just darn crazy enough to go back there.

But why in the name of the mothers who boure us into this world, all wrinkly and unblemished, would anyone get tattooed? There are many reasons: Fashion - to look 'cool' has to rate as the favourite. Nothing wrong with looking cool as long as you do. Beauty - different from fashion, more likely to be in the eye of the beholder, and more likely to result in an original design. Toughness - yeah there are those who tattoo at least partly to show that they are not afraid to be outside of the norm to shun social conventions and to be marked their whole lives - ooo so tough. Self-harm - the thrill believe it or not, of marking yourself irrevocably, of allowing someone, and indeed watching someone mark you irrevocably floats some boats - I hear.

So on the third week of my stay in New York City for a range of reasons not wholely unrelated to those you have just read I got another tattoo (sorry Mum).

The first one I had has always been a bit shit. I knew that when I first got it, but what can you do? I never hated it, it was just a bit, well rubbish. Poor rendering of a reasonable idea. A small tree sprouting from the barren landscape of my right upper arm (deltoid for you anatomy freaks)that always looked a bit lost. Now, 17 years later, the exposure to quality tattage confirmed a long held belief that I needed to cover it up, but to keep true to my original idea the cover up was going to be in the shape of another tree, a bigger tree, a much bigger tree.

A tattoo is not something to be stingy about. When your purchase is for life, think quality not value. With this in mind I chose the most expensive looking tattoo studio I could find and pressed the buzzer. 'Invisible' is an apointment only studio but there was a slot free that night and in no time I was back, vague design in mind $500 in my pocket.

Kiku my tattoo artist was a heavily tattooed (no surprise there) Japanese hipster of indeterminate age and an interest in Zombie movies. He too had an idea for a design and proceded to sketch it out on my arm. Here's the first factoid about fancy tattoo artists you no-body-art-weirdos should know, they care more about their art than your preferences. Kiku listened politely to my ideas about what should be INDELIBLY PUNCTURED INTO MY FLESH, then dismissed them. Only through a force of will rarely witnessed outside of a Shoalin temple did I manage to get him to agree to my broad design ideas. Finally we were ready to start, needle poised Kiku asked "shall we do this?", "Let's f**k this puppy" I replied, he didn't laugh.

Being tattooed has a well deserved reputation as being painful. Its not a huge pain, more a winching stingy sensation ranking somewhere between stubbing a toe and a light scalding on the ouchometer, or more acurately like being pricked thousands of times by a tiny needle for hours on end. The good news is you kinda get used to it.

It took three visits for my (our) tree to be completed, in total five and a half hours and nearly $1000. An aside - I was recently in a beer garden with my much younger half-brothers and sisters. Theo who is 15 asked my sister's friend to show him the tattoo on his right arm 'Oh, that's shit!' my brother announced. 'Theo,' I said, 'you can't tell someone their tattoo is shit, it's not like he can return it now can he?'. Putting aside the fact that Theo was right, I stand by my point so those of you who feel my new bit of me is rubbish - keep it to yourself okay? On the other hand if you think its the bees bollocks don't be shy let me know!. Am I happy with it? Well, I better get used it.

Sun rises and sun sets - did you notice?

2009-07-10T04:50:00.000-07:00

There is a dome in that field. I'm sure I'm not mistaken there is definately a dome like structure in that corn field. British farming is not waiting for tomorrow but has adopted the future today. Or perhaps not, surely this is evidence of the replacement of the old primary industries with the new national economic engine of... celebrity oddity. The dome that has just glided past my train's window may in fact be Madona's latest kabbala centre, the new lifestyle fad of the known knowns.

I thought I'd wait until I'd left San Sebastian before posting a post script, I hadn't bargained on such rural incongruities to distract me but like my train I will trundle on.

It all began with a sunrise. That is the begining of the end began with the ending of spring and the beginning of summer. Keep up! The solstice, the longest day of the year the traditional first day of summer marked the start of my final week in San Sebastian and my final week of teaching.

Bob Summers is an unlikely Druid. Mind you what do I know about druids? Perhaps all the ancient druids had tatoos of suspender clad voluptuous beauties posing on their forearms. Perhaps they all raced motorcycles and shaved their legs. Perhaps, like the leader of the four sun worshipers who ventured out to meet the dawn this solstice, they always remembered to bring a flask of whiskey to warm their cockles on a brisk midsummer's dawn. Either way Bob said I should get up to watch the dawn so despite his lack of long white robe - I did.

Bob, Emma, Karl and Laura have been my best buddies during my time in San Sebastian so it was entirely appropriate that we should share this mystical moment. We congregated on the promenade after three or four hours sleep and wondered where was east. Would the sunrise be hidden behind the mountains? Would the magic be lost amid a parade of early morning drunks and delivery vans? A few slugs of whiskey eased my concern (those clever druids!)and finally the clouds on the horizon blushed a pink lining and a sunset in reverse spread just beyond the headland away to our right.

No pagan rituals were performed but a moment was shared - and, you know, it was just nice.

The final week left me little space for reflection full as it was with goodbyes (to students and colleagues) and hellos (to family visitors). My twin bro Dave arrived on the Wednesday quickly followed by my half sister Clem(pictured below with her boyfriend Owen). That was a family injection that deserves it's own post but on the last Saturday night (Laura's last night in town) a few of us went to the beach to watch the sunset and say goodbye.

Sunset was a Basque free experience, which was appropriate since the whole year had been about as Basque (ie local people) free as it could be which all of us recognised as a pity but a reality that's hard to avoid when work is so ex-pat focused and the locals are about as friendly as your average British person.

Nonetheless the sunset was marvelous and the night was warm and the memories good.

P.P.S. I can't close the San Sebastian chapter without mentioning football. On the final Sunday I played football with the usual set of athletes (as pictured) and hungover, hot, and well, old though most of us were it still put the F in my UN and performed mental health miracles you can't find in a blister pack.

So it's goodbye to San Sebastian and hello to UK, NYC, and Argentina... watch this space - or don't if you have something better to do.

Nothing Toulouse

2009-05-25T13:47:00.001-07:00

Wouldn't it be clever if the title tied into the content of this post...

But I had plenty to lose. Amongst the top of the list were my life, my sanity, and my liver. If you have read last year's post about my last encounter with Richard and Friends you'd know that once again all three were in danger when I arrived in Toulouse for Richard's birthday celebrations on the 1st of May.

Toulouse is an historic city, warmed by the bold sun of the southern plains of France. It boasts beautiful churches, majestic squares and magical river walks - or so I'm told. I am more familiar with it's late night turkish delicacy purveyors and car surfing opera singers.

It all started so genteely.

I had taken the train which winds through the Pyrenees from the Atlantic coast inland to Toulouse. A general strike had turned Friday into Sunday and kept a compartment free for me. I sat happily alone in this seating arrangement from a different age and watched the Basque towns give way to Catholic mecca of Lourdes. A suitably grim looking place that day, its phoney wonders contrasted starkly with the towering natural beauty of the surrounding mountains who frowned on the faithful. Finally, putting piety behind us we rolled without urgency into Toulouse station.

Ten minutes later Richard and I were enjoying a crisp French beer in the seedy cafe opposite the station. I love these places, always harbouring a collection of weary alcholics on the move, shady mustachioed coffee worriers, low rent hookers and highly medicated solo conversationalists. Richard did not share my romantic perspective 'This is shite! Lets go' he announced and so we went.

Now, Richard is a charmer, built slightly less powerfully than a rhino, his yorkshire accent is warm, confident and strangely compelling. Ok not so hard to be compelling when your picture might sit under the definition of 'robust' in the Oxford English Dictionary, but nevertheless a charmer he remains and I was in no mood to disagree.

We swung back by the station to pick up Paul who was coming in from Bordeaux. Whatever Paul may lack in hair he makes up for in tattoos. A 'hardcore' following lifeguard of North African decent who speaks English excellently Paul reluctantly joined us for another quick drink in the stale plastic surrounds of the Station bar. One beer later we were all faintly relieved to be going.

Let's skip to the night. There - done.

Now I don't intend to bore you with a tedious recollection of large scale beer drinking, lets take that as read. This was after all the birthday party of an ex-professional rugby league player and his gentlemen friends of similar stature. The added element was of course that they were French.

Having their arse kicked in every military engagement since Napoleon forgot his earmuffs outside Moscow has had a queer effect on the French - to wit - they're mad. But bloody hell they're good at it! The last time I touched on this subject I described the debauchery of the Tiempo Latino festival in Vic Fesensac . There were no bikinis this time but a semi naked stage dive and some car surfing replaced ill-advised cross dressing as the entertainment.

The stage dive was notable not so much for the fact that Richard was not wearing anything above the waist nor that his plunge from a rickety table in the middle of the bar took place relatively early at about 9pm (whilst some patrons were still finishing their dinners) but rather the refreshingly laissez faire attitude of the bar staff.

The sight of a 100ish Kilo man stripping to the waist and climbing onto a table shouting 'stage dive!' is one of the things security staff in the Anglo Saxon world tend to take a dim view of. The French appear aloof of such prudish concern. A bar man collecting glasses sneeked a anxious peek as he passed but the leap was completed unmolested.

A small lake of beer later and I was in the street. Everyone else was in the street too - what could have happened? I don't know. What I do know is that Laurent had arrived. Laurent is called Lorenzo - again, I don't know why - and he likes to sing. A small man with rugby player's muscles he sings operatic compositions without the impediment of having to know any words and instead opts for word like sounds and volume to create the effect. An effect he apparently believes is mesmorising to young ladies - although there was scant evidence of this on this night.

When, excitingly, we found ourselves in another street Lorenzo turned his siren song away from the confusingly resistant women folk to passing cars. Only this one wasn't passing because Lorenzo was singing at it. The young men inside were clearly not music lovers and edged their standard issue drug-dealer BMW towards Lorenzo who responded by climbing on the bonnet. That's it I thought, these guys are going to get out and get angry, but no, instead the BMW sped off.

I'm not sure if Lorenzo kept singing but I like to imagine that he did - he certainly hung on to the windscreen wipers pretty well because he was still enjoying the ride when the car hit the first corner. Luckily for this story the BMW had to stop for the traffic allowing our friend to dismount injury free. I looked around at the faces of the rest of our group whose expressions clealy identified this phenomenon as 'normal'.

The rest of the night is a wee bit hazy. The rest of the weekend was far more wholesome. I pushed Annemae's pram though the Sunday market in Rabastans with Richard, Natalie and Paul, sat in the square and drank red wine, and relaxed in the spring sunshine.

On the train home my ipod ran out of juice, when the music stopped I could hear what sounded like opera, I just couldn't quite make out the words....

Back on the blogging horse - AUSTRALIA

2009-04-10T07:13:00.000-07:00

Three months , that's 90 odd days, a quarter of a year, 1/280th of a lifetime (perhaps). So why no blogs?? Well, laziness, business, a sprained inspiration muscle... all possible. But lets not point the finger, or dwell on the past. Let us go forward into the bright sunlight of the now and enjoy the blog of today!

It's raining. It's Good Friday and its raining. (See view from my flat- left) Most people that I know have left for their Easter break and its raining. I am waiting to start my own adventure with a trip to Granada on Sunday, but in the meantime I am having a cup of tea and listening to the rain. It seems like a good time to fill you in on what's been happening.

One month ago I was in Australia. No really, I was. Thirteen days off work to travel to the other side of the planet, see my friends Brett and Liv get married and spend some lovely moments with the rest of my good friends back in the Lucky Country.

The first thing that strikes you (well me really) upon landing in Australia is the quality of the light. The sun splits the sky with such gusto you feel it surely must run out. Nature meets the onslaught with its own defiant display of colour and sharp edges that pains the eye of the novice viewer fresh from the softer landscapes of a European winter.

The next thing that strikes you is the size of the coffees.

The coffee culture of Australia is very highly evolved. The sophisticates of Southern Europe imagine Australia to be an inferior location for the gastronomic arts but the reality is quite different. Most Spanish cafes serve just two or three varieties of coffee (con leche, cortado, solo - with milk, with a dash of milk, black)whereas even the most humble cafe in suburban Sydney will offer a flat white, latte, machiatto, long black, short black or even a mocha soy latte(okay I don't know what that last one is..). All of these come in generous portions with enough active ingredient to disqualify a cycling team.

Brisbane airport is no different and half way through my first flat white I began to twitch. I wresteled with the ethics of discarding half a cup of take away coffee in a rubbish bin. It was possible that I would be cursed by the cleaner who would retrive the soggy bin bag but finally my delayed last leg to Sydney was due to leave and I had to act (sorry rubbish collecter person!).

One of my favourite things to do in the whole wide world is to have a boozy lunch with good friends. So it is perhaps fitting that I travelled across that wide world to enjoy such a lunch. And it was worth it. If they thought that booking a lunch at a beautiful harbourside restaurant on a glorious summer's day would steel my resolve to return to Australia then ha ha! - they were very right. I'll let the photos speak for themselves!

One of my other favourite things to do (okay 'in the whole wide world' too), is play football with my football team 'The Hurlers'. A more exquisite bunch of gentlemen you couldn't possible hope to meet (well, you could probably do better picking names randomnly from the phone book) and a more skilled set of footballers have rarely graced the lumpy pitches of suburban Sydney (again not really 100% true...). Nevertheless, they are my footballing brothers and it was just downright ace to squeeze in a game before I returned to Spain. I missed a penalty, we lost 1-0 but we all loved it (maybe they didn't all love the part where I missed the penalty hmmm).

The wedding itself was a wonderful success, the sun shone, the booze flowed, the food was delicious and the speeches touching. The ceremony was on Shark Island (across the bay from the restaurant we ate at a few days earlier) and the harbour put on a show. Sunlight winked at us as the breeze ruffled the water filling the sails of the hundreds of yachts chasing glory in their weekend races. As our ferry took the guests back to town I was awed anew at the beauty of the Sydney skyline as it deferentially provided the backdrop for the huge white sails of the Opera House - itself straining to launch onto the harbour and try its luck in the Saturday regatta.

The rest of the week was a social whirl of catching up and hanging out. It was lovely to see Rach all the way from Adelaide, and great to stay with KB and Jen and Jodie and Andrew. All in all just wonderful to be on holiday but at home - you should try it one day.

I flew back to Europe express. I did not pass go nor collect $200. Less than 12 hours after landing I was back at work. But hey not working too hard so please do not ever be tempted to feel sorry for me.

Back in Spain and life rolls on. My Spanish improves at what feels like a glacial pace but improve it does. I try and keep out of trouble and almost succeed. Next week I'm on holiday again (oh the pain!) heading south to the Spain of the postcards, Andalucia. You be good y'hear!

Bikie Gang

2009-01-09T05:10:00.000-08:00

When I sit on the bus thinking about it all I invariably find myself yearning for the next opportunity to be 'out there', in the uneven world, the rough places with no handrails and steep drops, heart pumping lungs bursting and eyes straining to grasp the beauty of it all. Then there's the lycra....

Never owned a sleeping bag let alone a mountain bike / I lied about being the outdoor type.*

Actually I didn't. I am and always will be the outdoor type. I didn't become an outdoor type to get the girls (as in the song) mostly because when I was a lad (a period of time increasingly quaint in its prehistoric qualities) outdoorsy types were more home knitted bobble hats and Kendal Mint Cake than Xtreme Lycra and re-hydration formulas. But I did and still do find a bit of extra-urban activity a great way to improve your social life even if it does mean falling over a bit.

It all started when I bought myself a mountain bike. This event was the culmination of a lengthy process of due diligence, throughout which the highest standards of fiscal rectitude, and consumer prudence were adhered to - a) Pub conversation, b) Internet search c) 'Ooh! That looks pretty!' d) CLICK.

One week later the large brown cardboard box arrived carrying my passport to a new life of vertiginous tongue swallowing adventure and all I needed was an Allen Key. Bugger.

Early tool related frustrations were soon forgotten when the following weekend I joined three colleagues on my first Basque biking expedition. We left the train after only 15 minutes and yet the town was far behind us as the first of the mountains which crowd around San Sebastian shouldered past us – we were surrounded. The only thing to do was climb! - actually a lovely latte and biscuity thing would be nice first.... BUT then we climbed!

It's wet in the Basque Country ( I think I've covered that before ) and with wetness comes mud, and mud makes cycling up hill as ...well lets just say it's hard. If you doubt that, get one hamster, put it in its wheel pour two parts runny clay one part cow pat over the rungs and watch it struggle on, paying close attention to its poor little hamster expression...not too happy I think we can all agree.

The hill went on, and on. Then in a turn of events that shocked no one it went on some more. I was fast running out of credible reasons to stop (sticky gears, call of nature, stone in shoe) and was in danger of regurgitating my lovely biscuity thing all over my new shorts. Breathing raggedly I stuck to the wheel of Bob 'King of the Mountains' Bob (who was clearly doing his best to refrain from whistling a happy tune as he glided upward) and hoped to avoid disgrace. Thankfully just as I could go on no further, we went on no further.

Going up seems so unpleasant – until you start to go down.

James our leader for the day “I am rubbish at directions – no honestly. Follow me!” gave myself and fellow greenhorn Karl some pertinent advice before the descent. “Just be careful of your brakes. The last bloke I brought up here broke his arm. Follow meeeee!” ...and he was off. There was nothing for it but to be off too.

This must be the steep bit I thought, before getting to the steep bit. I felt that the gradient, uneven terrain and my lack of an exoskeleton warranted at least a cursory investigation of the breaking options, despite what James has said. I pulled on a lever and found that rolling head long down a mountain was not quite as scary as SKIDDING headlong down one so I released the brake and held on tight.

If I told you that I had not several times during that first descent wished that I was elsewhere doing that cool safe and completely non-life-threatening elsewhere stuff I would be telling a half truth. I actually tried to wish this repeatedly but only got as far as “I wi..” before all brain power was again diverted to avoided bone crunching disaster. Then I fell.

Nothing heroic, no airtime, no cartwheeling just mud and pain. I slipped in a particularly aggressive swathe of muddiness lost the front end and gave my already twisted ankle a nasty bang. I didn't cry but it did make my leg jiggle uncontrollably which could have been mistaken by the casual observer as fear I knew better of course it was pain – oh, and fear.

It was at this point that I started to enjoy myself. The gradient eased the mud retreated and I swept down the mountain with increasing confidence. The relief high was beautiful, mixed with the sense of achievement it made for an addictive cocktail. All too soon we were back on tarmac and moments later plonked our mud splattered bodies in the local plaza for a well earned beer. I was already thinking of the next trip.

Since that first outing I have been up and down four more local hilly spots and in the sterling company of Bob, James, Karl and Paul** I look forward to nearly dieing in the great outdoors as often as I can manage.

* The Lemon Heads - For those who have never heard it listen here.

** All from Northern England. Coincidence? I don't think so..

Chalky

2008-12-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

That's right I finally have a proper job, a trade if you will, I'm a chalky.

Sadly, chalk is a thing of the past so past we should be called whiteboard marker-'ies' but for obvious reasons we aren't.

Yep, I'm a teacher. Ok, I don't work in a proper school and the kids don't call me sir but I still teach, kids still sulk, I give reports, take registers, do marking, and moan about 'the youth', so for all intents and purposes I am a bloody teacher.

The idea of teaching teenage children has previously ranked alongside no. 892 Removing my own spleen with needle-nose pliers in my all time list of 'must dos', but so far the experience has been almost fun. It's true that 12yr old Javier, whilst failing to master the future simple tense, has trained his facial features to spell out 'you are the most uncool boring twat in the world I wish you would die so I could go home and be all cool 'n' stuff'', and its also true that I have been belittled by 13 yr old girls whose boots are more expensive than my wardrobe in a language I will never understand, but what has surprised me is how little effect these slights have had, and that I still like it when they get the answers right!

Luckily its not all hormone war-zones. When not empowering the youth of Donostia to better understand 50cent lyrics I am one of four new members of staff at Real Sociedad. La Real (as they are known locally) whilst having slipped temporarily into the second division of Spanish football are still a famous club who command a big following. Their training ground (where I teach) is a big stadium as it is. The trophy cabinet (which I pass on the way to my classroom) is brimming with odd shaped silverware and as I sit at my desk an almost life size photo of Xavi Alonso (ex-la Real now at Liverpool) watches over me.

Since my English school got the contract La Real have not lost a game. I can't help wondering whether the new found ability of the centre back Mikel Gonzalez to use the past continuous to describe the scene in a story or the relative ease with which striker Immanol uses the past simple to identify completed events or individual actions has got any thing to do with this success – it surely must.

Finally a note on the weather. If there is a wetter place on earth than San Sebastian its mayor has gills and the post is laminated. I was told yesterday that it has rained here everyday since October 19th, and I'm not talking drizzle, it's wet rain, the kind that seeks out your underwear soggying your smalls just to show off. Luckily the local luminaries have thoughtfully tiled ninety per cent of the city's pavements with polished white bathroom tiles to ensure minimum traction for all bipeds – genius!

Still you can see snow on top of the mountains so its not all bad eh?

2008-10-30T08:09:00.000-07:00

I've been to London to see the Queen! Only part of that sentence is true.

I don't own a Underground Logo T-Shirt, plastic policeman's helmet or double decker bus snow-globe but I have come back from London a better man than when I left.

Regular readers (are there any other kind?) will remember that in my last post / thinly-disguised-therapy-session i was a bit 'down in the dumps' so what better to put the zest back in one's citrus fruit of choice than a visit to the mother country?

In an act of wanton environmental vandalism I hopped a plane from Biarritz to London. In fact the door to door journey was only a couple of hours more than if I'd taken the train but about $8.4 billion less expensive (compounding my sin of climatic GBH with honest to goodness greed) so I succumbed.

Not seconds after descending into the drizzle of Hertfordshire I felt my spirits lift On emerging into the sleet from Archway tube I felt a warm glow as the damp crowds bustled past, pinched faces peering from glistening coat hoods. I was home.

Well not really home. I have never been to Archway before. Usually when in London I can be found in Kentish Town availing myself of the not insignificant hospitality of my longtime friend and associate (ok, just friend but sounded grand didn't it? ) Mr Dan Leon. This time however I pitched my swag (one for the Aussie readers) with my new friend and none-associate Mairi Mclachlan. That regular reader will remember Mairi as the third intrepid explorer (along with Andrew Portors and I) who documented the pioneering of the Umbrella as a hiking accessory and provided tents for the expedition. well not content with such an impressive demonstration of Scottish hospitality she also put me up for the last few days, made porridge and the nicest fruit salad I have ever tasted.

In London almost everyone speaks English, an attraction that had hitherto eluded me, and not only that they understand me when I speak it! Oh the simple joys of uncomplicated communication! If it were only this relaxing bath in the English language that I gained it would still have been worth it. Luckily though there were other treats in store.

Last week Kerry and Dan had a baby (I haven't seen the video but I think Kerry took care of the 'having' bit). So i was lucky enough to be there to see her (Daisy Hazel Leon) on her first couple of days at home, give her a cuddle and marvel at the mesmerising effect a cute wickle baybee has on all around.

The day before I was in Rochester the national capital of useless porcelain figurines. I had come to the home of the ceramically challenged to catch up with Pete Sayonas, one time bar man at the University of Liverpool, and all time friend. I hadn't seen Pete in four years and It was great. Having examined the town's ornamental fetish we sipped a few pints complemented one another heartily and laughed about the world from the safety of a beer garden. So content was i on departing that I promptly fell asleep on the train back, awaking to the station announcer at London Victoria, worrying about dribble.

The highlight though was the Sunday. One thing the Spanish are unapologetically pathetic at is breakfasts. Having presumably joined the rest of the western world in accepting the scientific truth of the health benefits of a good morning meal the Spanish seem to have collectively shrugged lit a cigarette and ordered another coffee, breakfast!

Last Sunday I was able to enjoy the joys of toast, tea, porridge, The Observer, BBC radio, lovely company and a life changing fruit salad. Not only that but Liverpool beat Chelsea, and not only that but lunch (Served in an impossible snug pub in Highgate) was the kind that comes with Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce. On the relax-ometer its right up there with smoking half an ounce of opium in a flotation tank listening to Whales discuss cuddles.

All this followed a Saturday night 'early birthday drink' with old friends and new in my old stomping ground of groovy Hoxton. My hope of becoming cooler through geographic osmosis is yet to show any results but fun was had nonetheless despite having to deal with a barman who considered serving drinks to be beneath him – too much concentration required being cool.

Now i am returned and enjoying my first day at work... but more on that later.

Thanks to all who made my London stay such fun, especially Mairi who has now overtaken Kenny Dalgleish as my favourite Scot!

Oh, and its my birthday today which makes me happy too (happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...)

The Doldrums

2008-10-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

This blog would not be the searingly honest account of one man's struggle to find a decent cup of tea that it most certainly isn't, if I were not to share with you some of the more challenging moments of my escapology act. That is to say the shit bits.

Having successfully navigated the tempest of festivals, fiestas and fun that was my first 6 weeks 'in country', I have, of late, found myself becalmed. I have drifted into the social doldrums and my ship of state bobs listlessly as the party streamers on the pool deck of August fade in the cool autumnal sun.

Such is the lot of the solo traveler and indeed one would hope that having gone to the quite elaborate and not inexpensive effort of having left family, job, and friends to move to a place where I know absolutely no one and have only a tenuous grasp of the language that there would be moments of quietude such as this.

Nonetheless, steps have to be taken, there can be no excuses for sulking. But what steps are these?

The main enemy of any would-be social sailor is Shyness who, with his cunning accomplice Pride, conspires to limit the plucky adventure's opportunities to meet new people to invitations received and parties already know. The enemy of your enemies Shyness and Pride, and so your friend is of course Booze, or alternatively 'Just bloody growing up and sorting it out', but in the absence of such psychological gumption booze will do just fine.

So I have embarked on a series of nocturnal sorties with, for the lack of a better label, 'acquaintances' on the hunt for a social scene that can fill the sail and stir the lank waters of my lassitude. This has led me to drinks with English teachers, birthday parties with strangers, Spanish pop/folk gigs and American pub rock bands. So far the fruits of these efforts have not been bountiful but one cannot expect success overnight, “Life,” as Malcolm Fraser once remarked from the luxury of his Melbourne town house, “was not meant to be easy!”

So you find me on a Sunday afternoon sizing up the prospects of another evening of slightly drunken semi-awkward social maneuvering otherwise known as night life. Tonight its the American pub band venue again with a mustachioed man called Eneko (a friend of a friend of a friend) and colleagues unknown.

Step two is to move house. Its important to know when something has failed – a point lost on most Republicans – and my short stay with Morgan my Togoan flat mate has not been a success. Problems with a dank room lack of writing desk, and high rent gave weight to the decision but like most failed partnerships ours floundered on the rocks of mis-communication. The separation has been set (Oct 29th) and it should be a clean break, I don't expect to see my corkscrew again and Morgan will retain custody of the cleaning products he loves so dearly.

I will leave the description of my new abode to when I have moved in, suffice it to say that it has central heating, WiFi Internet and two Spanish flat mates.

Step three – get a job. Tick! Clearly the most successful means devised by humans to find someone to share a beer with has been the office. Offices have been ruthlessly efficient booze buddy factories since the invention of all day drinking and so its a shame that I won't be working in one. But I will be working in a school which owing to the proximity of annoying teenagers does just as well.

Meanwhile, slack waters slap at the sides and its time for another cup of tea....

A festivus for the rest of us

2008-09-23T07:25:00.000-07:00

Who cares if one successful professional at an industry event tells another successful professional that they think that they're great and then that successful professional returns the compliment (very likely adding that they think they love them) and that, like everyone else who has spoken that night, they are thrilled even honoured to be there? Not many you'd think, certainly not the stuff of TV spectaculars right? Wrong! Such was the content of the oh so self congratulatory opening 'gala' of the San Sebastian International Film Festival (which I watched the other night – on TV, no cocktails and chit chat with botox brigade for me.).

Now I love cinema, I like a movie – some of them make a difference some of them make a profit I can like both -but a 1.5 hour TV show dedicated to watching rich, famous and successful people congratulating similarly rich, famous and successful people was a big ask. I sat through this rectum twisting tedium in the hope of learning something about the films to be shown at the Festival which runs for ten days attracting some pretty good talent, however the most I learnt was that Woody Allen thinks that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor (no shit Woody is that why you cast him as the lead in your latest movie?) and that his co-star can't speak a word of Spanish and isn't about to learn any.

Despite this entertainment crime of an opening night there are some excellent films being shown at the festival and I am looking forward to seeing a couple this week. On Wednesday night I'm off to see 'Tiro en la Cabeza' about a seemingly ordinary guy who kills two cops, then to round off the hilarity I'm hoping to get a ticket for 'The boy in the striped pajamas' about the holocaust. Ben Stiller is here but I don't think he's in either of them. I'll let you know the winner of the Juanathan prize at the end of the week and of course I'm simply thrilled and actually quite honoured to be here – I love all thank you, thank you, thank you...

MADrid

2008-09-13T06:30:00.000-07:00

It wasn't really MAD although it was rad.

With Andrew visiting San Sebastian wasn't big enough for the both of us, so the both of us went somewhere bigger – Madrid.

I would be lying if I said Madrid wasn't awash with beautiful women, so I won't. Also Madrid in summer is well supplied with alfresco dining and drinking options all the better for the beautiful women of Madrid to catch a glimpse of me as I sip stylishly at my espresso – or so I imagine. If that wasn't enough entertainment for one lifetime there is also more high quality art than you can possibly eat and food that should be hung in the Louvre (or Prado in this case). There are also palaces, and fine shops, and more bars, then some restaurants, odd lifts and some more bars – suffice it to say that we had a good time.

The stand out however had to be the Sherry bar that one late night we stumbled into demanding Armenac.

It is an odd bar that wont allow you to take photos but they would not. The till was a hand cranker from the 30s, the sherry was served from the barrel into anonymous brown bottles then chilled in an ice bucket at the bar. The ancient staff marked your tab in chalk on the bar in front of you as you drank and whole place had the sepia tint from the exhalations of a hundred years of smokers.

Andrew and I became connoisseurs of differently aged sherry whilst admiring the faded posters advertising the world sherry festivals of the fifties and sixties. The din of a busy Madrid evening was inaudible replaced by the murmurings of the gaggle of local sherry lovers clustered around the end of the bar. A quite magical experience but on leaving you were left with the nagging suspicion that if you ever attempted to return you would not be able to find that bar again, and no one in the street would ever have heard of it....

A revolution in hiking comfort

2008-09-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

I think its safe to say that more people would have conquered Everest had they thought to bring an umbrella. If, like me, you have taken time out from your drug infused orgy-fest of a lifestyle to nose around the odd camping/outdoor fun shop you'd know that the umbrella (or para-agua as they delightfully call it in Spanish) is not a common sight. Things are about to change. Thanks to the willingness of one Andrew Portors to shrug off convention and innovate the umbrella will soon be seen proudly deployed by the many Gortex fetishists that festoon our crags and dales – who, to a man, will be smiling with quiet astonishment at the comfort that the umbrella can bring to an otherwise soggy hike, wondering no doubt 'why the f**k didn't i think of that?'

The site of the umbrella revelation was “The Picos de Europa” a quite breathtaking mountain range that leaps from sea level to 2500m in just 15 kilometers making for plenty of vertical landscape with precipitous drops and soaring skylines. For the day walker as were Andrew, myself and our provider of tents Mairi, there is a great walk through the Picos along the Cares gorge. This walk has been made possible by the construction early in the last century of a small aqueduct that, for reasons I haven't been able to grasp' was cut into the side of the gorge half way up massive cliffs along with an access path in an engineering feat of mind-boggling awkwardness for benefits of dubious quality – that was our route.

The Spanish have a very adult approach to heath and safety issues in the mountains which boils down to one sign waring that stick figures can fall off ledges. They then invite you to walk 12kms on a sometimes very narrow path cut into the mountainside with drops of dizzying depth beckoning just centimeters away – no rails, no fenced off areas, if you go up to the tall places and fall off 'em that's your problem – all very refreshing.

I can't remember a more staggering walk – more Lord of the Rings than Lord of the Rings – if you are ever in Northern Spain with a pair of sturdy shoes you could find no better place to put them through their paces. Oh and there were goats too. Ok not in itself an amazing highlight after all they were not bears (and there are bears in those mountains) but nonetheless an unexpected encounter with a frisky mountain goat two foot from a swallowing chasm can be invigorating.

When is a man on holiday but not on holiday?

2008-08-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

When is a man on holiday but not on holiday?

Who cares! Pass me another vino tinto! Such is life here in the holiday town at the holiday school with the holiday people. Life is condensed into disposable packages of two or three weeks. Once opened it must be consumed quickly and it is. Relationships form blossom and decay to be replaced by others. Perspectives transform from innocence to experience as the wine bottle is drained giving weeks the feeling of years and fortnights lifetimes. Already I have experienced the passing of old friends and the birth of new ones. I am as an immortal amongst the mayflies – but can immortals keep pace with the doomed?

The first chapter of my Spanish experience is about to come to a close – not such a bad thing for my liver at least. I have spent the last month being fiesta'd (its something that happens to you rather than by you) in a shared flat with other students, socialising with other students and their tourist friends, amongst a sea of tourists from all over the world. By Monday I will be in a new flat, living with locals, two weeks after that all the friends I have so far made (and one I made earlier) will have left and all that now is will no longer be. It's anything but boring.

Before the end of the beginning begins the start of the now. No I haven't been smoking weed (although you can here in the street and in the bars – and yet its not endemic and the sky hasn't fallen in....) but I am looking forward to three weeks off school and to do some exploring with Andrew (who is visiting from Oz). We will see wild places and places that are wild. No doubt there will be picture and so I will share them with you all, also tales, and some of those too will find their way to these pages. But just now I am contemplating tonight's coming adventures and wondering who I will be tomorrow, and with whom....

Running of the cows

2008-08-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

I saw the running of the cows last week. Some of you may be familiar with the more famous and, some would say more impressive but what do they know, Running of the Bulls during the San Fermin festival in Pamplona. Well i was not in Pamplona but in Laguardia a tiny pueblo in the foothills of the Pyrenees. I was not there to see the running of the cows but rather to taste some wine because Lagaurdia is wine country (actually most of Spain is wine country which is why its cheaper than water here). Nevertheless, it happened and I saw it.

It may not have been the highlight of my first two weeks indeed I doubt it was anyones highlight of anything but it was a first for me. Let me paint the picture for you. I emerge into the sunlight, along with a bus load of other spanish language students, from the cellar tour of a local winery. The tour had left 90% of the students none the wiser about the niceties of the wine making process of the Basque Country as most of them are beginners and our guide was incapable or simply unwilling to dumb his lifes work down to one clause sentences in the present tense, but it had left them with a raging thirst and so we headed to the local bars.

The first sign that something was UP was the installation of crash barriers along the narrow streets and the local crowd eagerly peering at an empty street. Wine in hand we decided to wait and see what was to happen and before long, much to my bemusement, some of the least impressive heffers i've ever seen scurried up the street to screams of excitement (that the heffers met with streams of excrement). No sign of drunken youths running from their dubious threat nor matadors waiting to dispatch them, in tight pants - just cows and poo. You couldn't help but be enchanted.

I now sit on my balcony waiting to go out and see off the first of my fellow students to leave. Within three weeks almost everyone I have befriended here will have gone home, holidays over leaving me with some happy memories of the first hectic three weeks and a mission to make friends with the none-too-friendly locals...I like a challenge. Ad

Pillow talk

2008-08-03T10:11:00.000-07:00

I was going a bit stir crazy last night waiting for my flatmates to arrive (actually one just arrived now as I type this - she seems sane, phew) and so I made this crap video to show you my flat - hmm gotta work on those camera skills..

I blame the pillow too for my inability to get a good nights rest yet and maybe that too has added to the weirdness of the last few days...

I am in a three bedroom flat that is totally occupied by students at the Spanish school I am enrolled at. That means there is a lot of turn over in people and I have already (in six days) met eight students who either were leaving or have just arrived.

Oh dear - my last flatemates have arrived and would you know it - young enough to be my daughters! Oh well they are only two weeks then maybe I'll get someone who can talk about something other than their A-Levels (they're English). The guys who just left were surfers from Holland (shurfers froom de Nederlandsch) they were Schooper cool ya..

Right - anyway San Sebastian. It's right nice. You should all come here - actually you can't cos its full. Its August and the entirety of southern Europe thinks its a great idea to have holidays at the same time, and that time is now. Today being a weekend day by the afternoon it was hard to see the beach for flesh and these Europeans like to show as much flesh are humanly possible (was that a leathery speedo clad man with his mouth open trying to get a tongue tan?).

Full though it may be it still contrives to be lovely - like Goldilocks preferred sleeping arrangements (or was it breakfasting options?) its not too big, not to small, and not too hot and not too cold - I wonder when the bears are coming home?

Here are some photos for your edification... And then I must go and talk to the children....

Left - Old town

Right - not so old big building which I haven't been brave enough to enter lest i be transported to the mother ship and assimilated....

Those Gauls are crazy!!!

2008-07-30T04:56:00.000-07:00

I like a party as much as the next man - unless that man's name is Yassin. I met Yass for the first time about 15 years ago, I met him again this weekend and I think he has been partying ever since our first encounter. meet yass

Yassin is a crazy Gaul. I just spent the last weekend with about 15 crazy Gauls and Richard my yorkshireman friend who lives in France and, to quote same, we 'made ourselves 'ave it!' It was not weekend for the faint hearted or the amateur party animal Only those with a blithe disregard for their own safety and sanity were welcome - I passed - just.The man in the picture (msr Frou Frou) passed easily.

I wont go into the seedier details suffice it to say that it was the Tempo Latino festival in Vic Fezensac a small rural town which annually plays host to this orgy or drinking and merriment thinly disguised as a latin music festival. There was latin music - but there was also Pernod for breakfast 6 hours sleep over two nights and men in binkinis at the public swimmng pool (the sane patrons saw the funny side and actually applauded when we arrived).

Lunch on day two was something - well quite something actually - perhaps assisted by my party muddled brain and the fact that I don't speak very good French it was like having lunch in an Hieronimous Bosch (sorry about spelling but you know who I mean) painting. Luckily my fellow demons were friendly and the bull stew was delicious washed down with neat Almanac!

Well after lunch we went to the pool with the orchestrator of the whole debauchery (who n fact is a serving French Policewoman!) and so it went on. A fabulous weekend of revelry French style, lets see how the Basques shape up

Caravans Dogs and Mini Golf

2008-07-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

What links caravans, large dogs, and Mini-Golf? This blog dummy! Actually, I would have accepted incompatibility with a rainy climate - but hey if every rain-shy activity were off limits to the British we'd be left with drinking and darts and we've all seen what that can lead to....

So lets not dwell on the weather (just see the pic of the day for a taste) let me invite you to share the view of British summer I have had this week via the prism of my familial visitations.

Mother likes caravans. Don't ask me why (its something to do with the ingenious storage solutions I think) so much so she has two．　Ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｗｅｅｋ　ｓｈｅ　ｓｈｏｗｅｄ　ｍｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｍａｌｌｅｒ　ｏｎｅ　ｗｈｉｃｈ　Ｉ　ｆａｌｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｐｈｏｔｏｇｒａｐｈ　－　ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　Ｉ was too busy trying to avoid hyperthermia in the windy caravan parking area in North Wales by shivering and jigging up and down like some kind of caravaning ice addict. Suffice it to say that caravans have come on a lot in the 30 years since I last spent a week in a tinfoil chariot sheltering from the summer in a cow field in Cornwall - they even have satelite TV in case you get bored with the sunshine outside - ahem.

Father likes big dogs. Deerhounds actually which have the benefit of being almost impossible to walk, massively hairy and partial to the odd sheep. Ideal you might think for breeding in Wales - well spotted because that's exactly what he's done．　Ｈｅｙ　Ｉ　ｌｉｋｅ　ａ　ｂｉｇ　ｓｈａｇｇｙ　ｄｏｇ　ａｓ　ｍｕｃｈ　ａｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｎｅｘｔ　ｃｒｕｆｔｓ　ｎｕｔ　ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｅｓｅ　ｂａｂｉｅｓ　ａｒｅ　ｅｎｏｒｍｏｕｓ．．

Ａｌｓｏ　ｅｎｏｒｍｏｕｓ　－　ｍｙ　ｂｒｏｔｈｅｒｓ　ａｎｄ　ｓｉｓｔｅｒｓ　ｉｎ　Ｅａｓｔｂｏｕｒｎｅ　－　ｗｈｏｍ　Ｉ　ｈａｖｅｎ’ｔ　ｓｅｅｎ　ｉｎ　ｙｅａｒｓ．　Ｗｏｗ　ｈａｖｅｎ’ｔ　ｔｈｅｙ　ｇｒｏｗｎ，　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｈｅａｒ　ｙｏｕ　ｓａｙ，　ｗｅｌｌ　ｙｅｓ　ｔｈｅｙ　ｈａｖｅ　ａｎｄ　Ｉ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｉｔｓ　ａ　ｌｏｔ　ａｎｄ　ｉｔｓ　ｍｙ　ｂｌｏｇ　ｓｏ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｔａｋｅ　ｍｙ　ｗｏｒｄ　ｆｏｒ　ｉｔ．Ｉｎ　ｏｔｈｅｒ　ｎｅｗｓ　Ｉ　ｌｏｖｅ　ｅｍ　ａｎｄ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｕｎ　ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ　ｃａｍｅ　ｏｕｔ．

2008-07-15T02:28:00.000-07:00

My brother has an Alpha Romeo Spider. Not so much a boast as a fact that explains this video...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dY8MTU_gNM

As you can see the weather - ahem - lovely. Unfortunately you can't really hear the sound of the engine in that video but take it from me it is a fast car and since my brother had just completed a day of racing driving instruction at a local race track he was driving pretty fast. Which is of course really not very sensible - but may have been a little fun too.

I now find myself in the heart of Southern Englishness where there are no poor people, everyone is white and the houses are thatched - its all a bit surreal. Later today I am taking a train to the North where reality will resume its grip and the accents will be less silly.

Oh - and just in case anyone was in any doubt as to how much fun you can have in the West Country here's a pic of me at the biggest Tank Museum in the world! (I know you're jealous Andrew and KB)

Juanathan

Cured!

2008-07-11T02:47:00.000-07:00

When does one consider oneself cured of an affliction? Is pure absence of symptoms enough? Can we say that the epileptic, asthmatic, or liberal voter is cured simply because they haven't experienced their defining characteristics for a while? I don't know, but what I do know is that I just spent over 24 hours in the air without the slightest twitch, shake or stifled gasp of weak kneedness - CURED!

In fact, I really enjoyed it! I enjoyed the fact that I had two seats to myself from Syd to Tokyo. I enjoyed the faux Japanese food. I loved the Britishy types working on the BA flight, I loved it that the films on offer included All the Presidents Men and The Candidate (surely one of the best political campaign movies ever made - or only...) and I loved the space age beauty of the environmentally destructive Terminal 5 - phew

But I'm getting ahead of myself lets start at the start. I didn't leave Sydney on Tuesday night. Yes I was dropped at the Airport by Mr Bolwell stiffling our tears in manly fashion I waved adieu and strode through the doors to my new life - six hours later I joined 150 other grumpy passengers for an unscheduled night at the Novotel Brighton (nice beds) due to maintenance problems. I was less than chuffed as you can see here ...

As you can see I remained positive and in fact it was only 5 hours before we were all back on the bus heading for the airport and were processed in record time and were soon airborne.

Having missed my connection in Tokyo I got the treat of a night in Narita Nikko Airport hotel the highlight of which was my first experience of wearing a nightshirt..

I now find myself 24 hours later typing this entry watching the clouds trundle low over the slate roofs of North London whilst the dulcet tones of Test Match Special describe the 'action' at Lords as 'splendid' and 'quite marvelous' - and I am happy.

Tonight I go to Brighton to meet old friends and maybe have a pint or two - marvelous!

Freedom is ...

2008-06-30T21:56:00.001-07:00

After six long years of employment by the taxpayers of Australia I have finally emerged blinking into the light of the post parliamentary life - and the sun feels good.

Whilst its probably an exaggeration to compare my time as a parliamentary staffer to being captive in an Austrian basement by a deranged incestuous mustache wearer, the sensation of liberation is nonetheless real.

Now that the pesky employment thing is out of the way I am able to concentrate on the real business of not working. I will of course try and apply myself to this most important of human activities with all the British gumption I can muster - stay glued to see how I go...

Welcome to your new lifestyle accessory

2008-06-11T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hellooooo Sydney!!! (or wherever you are) LETS ROCK!! (or something)

I know you're excited. We all are.

The Jonjuan blog is THE lifestyle accessory of the moment. The exploits, the insights, the heady emotional journey that promises AND delivers.... 'n' stuff.

At the very least they'll be pictures of me and videos of...well me...and whimsical entries of the kind that only a man of lesuire could have time or inclincation to compose.

Be part of it and post your comments - it's sooo 2.0!

Jonjuan