vivisunoriginal said...
I have a blog request for you - you obviously have a love of Spain, something more than just taking holidays there - why, when did it start, tell us the story
Well, Viv et al (whoever Al is, hello) here goes.
The story of my love of Spain starts in China, and it has nothing to do with Spain. But more of that later.
When I was growing up, at the start of the 80s, Spain was The Place To Go for your summer holidays. Not us. My Mum was a Hellenophile, so from the day of Chas 'n' Di's wedding we did the annual trip to somewhere different in Greece.
My first holiday away from the Wrinklies, the Europeless Inter-rail tour avoided Spain as we didn't want to double back on ourselves.
So after college I'd found myself in Australia thinking how to get home. I had no ticket and I had a vague idea of making it home for my birthday at the end of November, when I started hearing about a mythical route, the Trans Siberian train. I could get a flight from Darwin to Flores in Indonesia, then overland through South East Asia, pick up a Chinese visa and a ticket (mafia controlled, it would seem, another story) in (at that time British owned) Hong Kong, a Polish visa in Ghuanzhou and a Russian visa in Bejing. I was sold.
Finally I arrived in Beijing, paperwork in hand and dumped my bags in my hostel room. The only other person in there was Simon, from Plymouth. Still no Spain. Patience. He'd been doing the same as me, only he'd met a girl called Carolina, from Valencia (ahhh, finally) and they were heading back to Valencia. My train was a few days before theirs. My route was Chinese train, Moscow then hopefully St Petersburg, Berlin (still divided at that time), Hook of Holland and home. Theirs was Moscow, Prague, then down to Spain.
So that was the start. The three of us (and a couple of others) broke into the Forbidden City (otherwise known as the Forbidden Planet) by going up the back way. We toured the whole of Beijing, went out to the Great Wall and spent a day walking. At the end of the week we exchanged addresses and I got on my train. and headed off into Siberia.
I'm not sure exactly how it happened. We stayed in touch. Simon went to Spain and never left. I'm sure I must have visited them during the year. Then I got invited to be his best man. That was a surprise. Didn't speak a word of Spanish really. Then again all I had to do was get him drunk the night before (never a hard job, the hard job was making sure I didn't get that drunk that I couldn't get him anywhere) and get him to the Cathedral on time the next day. The wedding was quiet really. Not really much to tell.
Then I got an invite for Fallas the next year. A 5 day bacchanal of fireworks, streetparties and the maddest sculptures you've ever seen, all topped off with a pitched battle between the firemen and the locals. All in good humour. So that became my annual "end of Winter" holiday, being from 15-20 March. I wasn't the first to start but by the last time I went, there could be a core of 15 people and up to 50 of us. Utter madness but huge fun.
Aside from that we all took a trip up to Barcelona one year where one of Carolina's sisters now live. So I got to learn the hotspots. Then my Fallas started with a flight to Barcelona, day in Barcelona, train to Valencia for Fallas and then return.
On top of that with Simon and Carolina I've had many other trips to orange groves, to the summer beach houses where all good Valencianos go in August, down the coast and many other places.
It was Simon and Carolina that introduced me to carajillo, Can Paixano, arroz al horno, tejinas, patatas bravas, agua de Valencia and many other things.
It's their fault I'm currently listening to dodgy Spanish pop. Not exclusively. You know who you are with your Loquillo and Andy y Luca... but a lot of music was picked up because of Fallas. They dispair of me of course, but they humour me.
But my love of Spain starts with my love of two fantastic people. As it should.
Monday 20 December 2010
Friday 10 December 2010
How to survive New Year's Eve and come up smelling of Roses.
Let's get this straight, I may PRETEND to be a curmudgeon, but really I'm not.
I'm not, though a fan of "organised fun" and I'm not a fan of New Year's Eve. There's a reason. I do find it hard to enjoy a night out "because it's New Year's Eve, and therefore it's FUN." No it's not.
So, it's New Year's Eve. It's Winter. Just. It's cold and it's wet (usually). If you plan on going there you have to cycle (not a problem) or stay over as there's no public transport and if you want a taxi you need to book decades ahead, give them your firstborn and, if they don't turn up at the right time, there's no Plan B.
Before Millennium night, there was the opportunity of a pub. Yes, there was a door charge, tickets in advance. Then Millennium came and the pubs got greedy. "£50 a ticket with a free glass of champagne", to which people rightly said "No, no thanks. We're not stupid" and so now the pubs in Cambridge stay resolutely closed in a fit of pique.
Millennium night, Cambridge had fireworks and a fair and other bits and pieces on Parker's Piece. I'm not sure if they will again, but even so, it's like Bonfire Night. If it's cold and wet, forget it. I'd rather be inside in the warmth. Summer In The City that's a whole new idea. I'm up if it's warm and dry.
So, that's what I won't do. What will I do? If the past has anything to go by, I'll be tuning into TVE (Television Espana), with my plate of twelve grapes. At 23h I'll eat my grapes, one for each bong, and I may have a glass or two of something fizzy. After which I'll watch a bit of their New Year tv (which goes on to 5am) which far exceeds anything we can muster, turn my phone onto silent and have an early night to wake up the next morning refreshed, smelling of roses. Well, maybe not roses, but at least refreshed.
Don't knock it until you try it.
I'm not, though a fan of "organised fun" and I'm not a fan of New Year's Eve. There's a reason. I do find it hard to enjoy a night out "because it's New Year's Eve, and therefore it's FUN." No it's not.
So, it's New Year's Eve. It's Winter. Just. It's cold and it's wet (usually). If you plan on going there you have to cycle (not a problem) or stay over as there's no public transport and if you want a taxi you need to book decades ahead, give them your firstborn and, if they don't turn up at the right time, there's no Plan B.
Before Millennium night, there was the opportunity of a pub. Yes, there was a door charge, tickets in advance. Then Millennium came and the pubs got greedy. "£50 a ticket with a free glass of champagne", to which people rightly said "No, no thanks. We're not stupid" and so now the pubs in Cambridge stay resolutely closed in a fit of pique.
Millennium night, Cambridge had fireworks and a fair and other bits and pieces on Parker's Piece. I'm not sure if they will again, but even so, it's like Bonfire Night. If it's cold and wet, forget it. I'd rather be inside in the warmth. Summer In The City that's a whole new idea. I'm up if it's warm and dry.
So, that's what I won't do. What will I do? If the past has anything to go by, I'll be tuning into TVE (Television Espana), with my plate of twelve grapes. At 23h I'll eat my grapes, one for each bong, and I may have a glass or two of something fizzy. After which I'll watch a bit of their New Year tv (which goes on to 5am) which far exceeds anything we can muster, turn my phone onto silent and have an early night to wake up the next morning refreshed, smelling of roses. Well, maybe not roses, but at least refreshed.
Don't knock it until you try it.
Sunday 10 October 2010
Mad About The Boy
Seven years ago this weekend my best friend died. This is not aboy how or why he died. This is about how he lived.
I first met him at school. He was from north Yorkshire and a boarder. I lived locally so went home.
He was clever but not overly, small, dark, with NHS glasses. Harry Potter looks a bit like him. Like me, in the top set for everything. Except, surprisingly, maths. Fitted in with the crowd but wasnt one Very bookish and quiet, loved watching rugby (and had a seat at the Scotland ground) but physical activity was an anathema. I have a badminton raquet with his name on it. He may have played squash too. I'm not sure!. The quiet ones are the worst. And here's how
At the age of 14 he was brewing wine in his study. Everyone knew. No one did anything. He could drink prodigious amounts, far more than me even though I was 6" taller. Never seemed to suffer.
One term he stole every stick of chalk in every physics class. Every class the teacher couldn't find them. Part time through the term he lined up the chalk very carefully on the back of the rotating blackboard. The teacher pulled the board down with gusto and.... Yes. We laughed. At the end of term every stick was returned to him carefully wrapped and labelled as an Xmas present.
One lesson he swapped seats with every other pupil in the class. The teacher only noticed when he was sitting in the teacher's seat. How can you punish that?
Another class he moved the clock forward to delay the start of lesson and back at the end. A 40 minute lesson in 30 minutes.
One lesson he got caught for something minor. When the teacher asked what he was doing he replied "nothing". He was given an an essay as punishment: write two sides of A4 about nothing. The teacher was so impressed with the essay he read it out in class. Even being naughty he was clever and funny.
We always had fun with music. He had lots of tapes I used to borrow. Tapes others had done for him. Starting with his 70s Rock Dinosaurs (he was a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan; he always said he was born 20 years too late) right up to modern folk.
He ran an enterprise. From the age of 15 every Wednesday and Saturday he'd walk the mile or so into town and come back, pockets stuffed and clinking, to sell off sweets, pop, porn, half bottles of whisky at hugely inflated prices. Not to be an entrepreneur but because he shouldn't, and he was quietly bucking the system. Stick it to the man. Despite all this he was top 5 in every subject.
During the holidays he often came to visit and I went up to North Yorkshire. I'd call him and for some reason it was always echoey. He always seemed to be having a poo when I called. It speaks volumes. My mum loved having him. Her second son. I enjoyed him too. Trips to his favourite local for Theakston's Old Peculier or trips into Sheffield for 'roger and out' at the Frog and Parrot.
At the end of school I went to Newcastle and he to St Andrews to do medicine. Deeply private I never knew what he was up to. On the few trips i made up there I did meet a lot of his friends. They of course knew what he was like and loved him deeply. I still hear from them now. I wouldn't hear from him for 3 months but it didn't matter. When I did call him or he me we just picked up.
Sartorial elegance was never his thing. There was a spate of tie cutting. Every now and again someone cut a half inch swatch off his tie. 5 years later it was the only tie he wore. I bet it was the same blazer too that fitted where it touched.
At the end of the first year, he and I and two other school friends headed off interrailing for four weeks, a clockwise trip through Belgium Holland Germany Austria, down into Greece, across to Italy and France. We called it Europless. And how we were. Finally we worked his look. One of us (I hasten to add wasn't me) gave him a makeover. From having comb forward hair we brushed it back: piercing blue eyes, dark hair, a young Clint Eastwood. But what a dark horse. We always joked that his dad was a ringer for "the murderer John Christie" and that he'd be bald by the time he was 24. We were very wrong. Had he wanted to be he could have been a ladykiller. The women he attracted just wanted to mother him. He probably needed it.
We spent many a long night travelling across Europe. We had a running game of cheat. If you don't know, the deck is dealt and the first person puts down cards of a number (3 kings etc). The next person has to follow with either kings, aces or queens. What you put down and what you say don't have to match. If you question you say "cheat". If you're right they get the deck. If they didn't, you get the deck. He could put down half a dozen cards, say anything and be utterly believable.
At 7 stone wet through he was the original fatboy.he's the reason I too am a fatboy. I'm proud to bear the nickname he gave me. Lardiness isn't a physical thing, it's a state of mind. His beer intake was matched only by his hollow legs. If he wasn't being fatboy he was tin ribs. I've seen him put away 7 pizzas (the all you can eat places must have hated him) and complain he couldn't fit a beer on top.
After uni, he moved to Manchester to complete his medicine. I stayed with him as I worked in a cardboard factory in Timperley (Frank Sidebottom, genius) to earn money to go to Oz. I knew he wasn't happy. But couldn't get at him. The medicine wasn't working. He was in it for family tradition but it wasn't him. He was a gentle soul and couldn't face hurting people even to fix them We had fun eating cheese and drinking beer. Pretty much it. Then I went to Oz for a year.
Of all my so called friends he was the only one who wrote back. When you're away from home for so long (pre internet, pe mobile phone its all Poste Restante) it meant a lot. Not only did he write, he sent me a tshirt. I still have it. You can't imagine how much it meant to me. Other than mum and dad, I may be on the trip of a lifetime but to hear from real people made such a difference. Thank you.
On my return I got a job in North Wales.He ws in Manchester, I was in Llandudno, about 90 mins apart. We spent many a happy weekend up mountains or in castles. We did go to the vast majority. He was a huge history fan he had his heritage card and loved a trip round a castle or a walk up a mountain. Another activity invented was dogging. Not the modern version but Death Or Glory: 4 people in a Citroën AX diesel. On corners the appropriate side would open the door and lean out (safety belts attached) in a vain effort to stop the car rolling. Apparently we went faster. A sif it mattered in an AX.
Modus Operandi was I got a call saying "what are you doing tonight?" "nothing" "good 'cos I'm at the bottom of your road". There's lucky.
About this time I got an invite to go with him and his friends to the Cambridge Folk Festival. I joined an old tradition which continued for about 10 years. Happy times: 3 days of beer and music. We drank beer, ate EBRs (egg bacon rolls) for breakfast, sang silly songs and danced badly to zydeco and other stuff you'd be lucky to hear if you weren't Andy Kershaw's neighbour. During the day we'd queue up outside the Salisbury Arms, buy beer at the real ale off licence, then punting.
It was increasinly clear he and medicine weren't friends. It was a matter of getting a decent exit strategy. His friends petitioned the Dean of Medicine and a deal was struck Eventually he graduated and I got a job in Cambridge so we both moved down and he stayed with me. With contacts he started working in real ale pubs. He was a hit. Everyone loved him. He moved out and into the pub. He got to know a lot of the people in the Cambridge beer trade and was highly respected.
Then I got a call. "It's non Hodgekins Leukemia". There was only one thing for it. He came back to live with me. I lived a mile from Addrnbrooke's and he had to go twice a week. A proper brave soldier, twice a week he'd go in for treatment, and by that night he barely left his room. He would be off his food and barely left his room until he started feeling human again. That was the morning of his next treatment.
He kept this up for 3 months, barely eating. I left food for him and we had some time together. But it wasn't much. We had a ceremonial hair shaving before it fell out. The stuff they were giving him was so fierce I had to change the bathroom carpet.
But finally we got the good news he was in remission. Physically and mentally he wasn't the same. Yes at first glance he was but he was withdrawn. Strange oblique comments, at first glance innocuous but then. Less so. He became a licencee and landlord. I hoped it would be a new start, a new challenge. I only saw him once in his new venture. Within three months he was dead.
At his funeral, arranged by his beer trade friends I insisted I said something. I knew not one of them would do him justice. I doubted I would but I gave it a stab. So I gave "the Best Man's Speech I Never Got To Give". Afterwards, "the Murderer John Christie" said the cancer he had survived would have taken him before he was 40.
Epilogue
Last March I went to a wedding. It ws dthe first meetup for a lot of us since the wedding. One consultant surgeon had had a nervous breakdown. A lot couldn't understand. What is there to understand? What is there to understand? Just accept. There were tears and tantrums from 1 to 6am? It was a long long night. I hope for their sakes they cope.
For me I don't have to understand. It doesn't matter I can't hope him back. My Grandma Smith said "you can hope in one hand and shit in the other; see which grows faster". I have his picture in my family photos. I hear a song or a joke and think "I'll just call.... Oh".
I can't call him. I can't speak to him. But he will always be here.
I first met him at school. He was from north Yorkshire and a boarder. I lived locally so went home.
He was clever but not overly, small, dark, with NHS glasses. Harry Potter looks a bit like him. Like me, in the top set for everything. Except, surprisingly, maths. Fitted in with the crowd but wasnt one Very bookish and quiet, loved watching rugby (and had a seat at the Scotland ground) but physical activity was an anathema. I have a badminton raquet with his name on it. He may have played squash too. I'm not sure!. The quiet ones are the worst. And here's how
At the age of 14 he was brewing wine in his study. Everyone knew. No one did anything. He could drink prodigious amounts, far more than me even though I was 6" taller. Never seemed to suffer.
One term he stole every stick of chalk in every physics class. Every class the teacher couldn't find them. Part time through the term he lined up the chalk very carefully on the back of the rotating blackboard. The teacher pulled the board down with gusto and.... Yes. We laughed. At the end of term every stick was returned to him carefully wrapped and labelled as an Xmas present.
One lesson he swapped seats with every other pupil in the class. The teacher only noticed when he was sitting in the teacher's seat. How can you punish that?
Another class he moved the clock forward to delay the start of lesson and back at the end. A 40 minute lesson in 30 minutes.
One lesson he got caught for something minor. When the teacher asked what he was doing he replied "nothing". He was given an an essay as punishment: write two sides of A4 about nothing. The teacher was so impressed with the essay he read it out in class. Even being naughty he was clever and funny.
We always had fun with music. He had lots of tapes I used to borrow. Tapes others had done for him. Starting with his 70s Rock Dinosaurs (he was a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan; he always said he was born 20 years too late) right up to modern folk.
He ran an enterprise. From the age of 15 every Wednesday and Saturday he'd walk the mile or so into town and come back, pockets stuffed and clinking, to sell off sweets, pop, porn, half bottles of whisky at hugely inflated prices. Not to be an entrepreneur but because he shouldn't, and he was quietly bucking the system. Stick it to the man. Despite all this he was top 5 in every subject.
During the holidays he often came to visit and I went up to North Yorkshire. I'd call him and for some reason it was always echoey. He always seemed to be having a poo when I called. It speaks volumes. My mum loved having him. Her second son. I enjoyed him too. Trips to his favourite local for Theakston's Old Peculier or trips into Sheffield for 'roger and out' at the Frog and Parrot.
At the end of school I went to Newcastle and he to St Andrews to do medicine. Deeply private I never knew what he was up to. On the few trips i made up there I did meet a lot of his friends. They of course knew what he was like and loved him deeply. I still hear from them now. I wouldn't hear from him for 3 months but it didn't matter. When I did call him or he me we just picked up.
Sartorial elegance was never his thing. There was a spate of tie cutting. Every now and again someone cut a half inch swatch off his tie. 5 years later it was the only tie he wore. I bet it was the same blazer too that fitted where it touched.
At the end of the first year, he and I and two other school friends headed off interrailing for four weeks, a clockwise trip through Belgium Holland Germany Austria, down into Greece, across to Italy and France. We called it Europless. And how we were. Finally we worked his look. One of us (I hasten to add wasn't me) gave him a makeover. From having comb forward hair we brushed it back: piercing blue eyes, dark hair, a young Clint Eastwood. But what a dark horse. We always joked that his dad was a ringer for "the murderer John Christie" and that he'd be bald by the time he was 24. We were very wrong. Had he wanted to be he could have been a ladykiller. The women he attracted just wanted to mother him. He probably needed it.
We spent many a long night travelling across Europe. We had a running game of cheat. If you don't know, the deck is dealt and the first person puts down cards of a number (3 kings etc). The next person has to follow with either kings, aces or queens. What you put down and what you say don't have to match. If you question you say "cheat". If you're right they get the deck. If they didn't, you get the deck. He could put down half a dozen cards, say anything and be utterly believable.
At 7 stone wet through he was the original fatboy.he's the reason I too am a fatboy. I'm proud to bear the nickname he gave me. Lardiness isn't a physical thing, it's a state of mind. His beer intake was matched only by his hollow legs. If he wasn't being fatboy he was tin ribs. I've seen him put away 7 pizzas (the all you can eat places must have hated him) and complain he couldn't fit a beer on top.
After uni, he moved to Manchester to complete his medicine. I stayed with him as I worked in a cardboard factory in Timperley (Frank Sidebottom, genius) to earn money to go to Oz. I knew he wasn't happy. But couldn't get at him. The medicine wasn't working. He was in it for family tradition but it wasn't him. He was a gentle soul and couldn't face hurting people even to fix them We had fun eating cheese and drinking beer. Pretty much it. Then I went to Oz for a year.
Of all my so called friends he was the only one who wrote back. When you're away from home for so long (pre internet, pe mobile phone its all Poste Restante) it meant a lot. Not only did he write, he sent me a tshirt. I still have it. You can't imagine how much it meant to me. Other than mum and dad, I may be on the trip of a lifetime but to hear from real people made such a difference. Thank you.
On my return I got a job in North Wales.He ws in Manchester, I was in Llandudno, about 90 mins apart. We spent many a happy weekend up mountains or in castles. We did go to the vast majority. He was a huge history fan he had his heritage card and loved a trip round a castle or a walk up a mountain. Another activity invented was dogging. Not the modern version but Death Or Glory: 4 people in a Citroën AX diesel. On corners the appropriate side would open the door and lean out (safety belts attached) in a vain effort to stop the car rolling. Apparently we went faster. A sif it mattered in an AX.
Modus Operandi was I got a call saying "what are you doing tonight?" "nothing" "good 'cos I'm at the bottom of your road". There's lucky.
About this time I got an invite to go with him and his friends to the Cambridge Folk Festival. I joined an old tradition which continued for about 10 years. Happy times: 3 days of beer and music. We drank beer, ate EBRs (egg bacon rolls) for breakfast, sang silly songs and danced badly to zydeco and other stuff you'd be lucky to hear if you weren't Andy Kershaw's neighbour. During the day we'd queue up outside the Salisbury Arms, buy beer at the real ale off licence, then punting.
It was increasinly clear he and medicine weren't friends. It was a matter of getting a decent exit strategy. His friends petitioned the Dean of Medicine and a deal was struck Eventually he graduated and I got a job in Cambridge so we both moved down and he stayed with me. With contacts he started working in real ale pubs. He was a hit. Everyone loved him. He moved out and into the pub. He got to know a lot of the people in the Cambridge beer trade and was highly respected.
Then I got a call. "It's non Hodgekins Leukemia". There was only one thing for it. He came back to live with me. I lived a mile from Addrnbrooke's and he had to go twice a week. A proper brave soldier, twice a week he'd go in for treatment, and by that night he barely left his room. He would be off his food and barely left his room until he started feeling human again. That was the morning of his next treatment.
He kept this up for 3 months, barely eating. I left food for him and we had some time together. But it wasn't much. We had a ceremonial hair shaving before it fell out. The stuff they were giving him was so fierce I had to change the bathroom carpet.
But finally we got the good news he was in remission. Physically and mentally he wasn't the same. Yes at first glance he was but he was withdrawn. Strange oblique comments, at first glance innocuous but then. Less so. He became a licencee and landlord. I hoped it would be a new start, a new challenge. I only saw him once in his new venture. Within three months he was dead.
At his funeral, arranged by his beer trade friends I insisted I said something. I knew not one of them would do him justice. I doubted I would but I gave it a stab. So I gave "the Best Man's Speech I Never Got To Give". Afterwards, "the Murderer John Christie" said the cancer he had survived would have taken him before he was 40.
Epilogue
Last March I went to a wedding. It ws dthe first meetup for a lot of us since the wedding. One consultant surgeon had had a nervous breakdown. A lot couldn't understand. What is there to understand? What is there to understand? Just accept. There were tears and tantrums from 1 to 6am? It was a long long night. I hope for their sakes they cope.
For me I don't have to understand. It doesn't matter I can't hope him back. My Grandma Smith said "you can hope in one hand and shit in the other; see which grows faster". I have his picture in my family photos. I hear a song or a joke and think "I'll just call.... Oh".
I can't call him. I can't speak to him. But he will always be here.
Friday 17 September 2010
The Joy of Wool
Yesterday I acquired a "Merino cycling jersey" from Aldi, as worn by someone far more attractive than me (taken from Spazzetta's website. Props where it's due). I was hoping for an Autumn jersey, somewhere between a short sleeved jersey with arm-warmers and a short sleeved jersey with undershirt.
The Unboxing
The jersey's made by Crane. Not sure who they are but the name crops up at Aldi. I've had their shorts, gloves and shoes in the past (and currently) and they are serviceable, if not special. But then it's Aldi. Functional and yet inexpensive.
The first thing I noticed was the styling. Being the fashion icon that I am, I quite like the white panel. Quite retro looking against the black. the collar is classically cycling, with a plastic fastener but no back pockets. That's not a good start. It does have the Cane logoed grippers on the back at the bottom, which is a nice touch. The jersey is only 25% merino/polyester. I'd have expected 50% on a decent Shutt Velo Rapide jersey.
As I put it on it felt a little itchier than I'd hoped. I'm not a fan of manmade fibres off the bike. The fit is also a little loose. I'm a 42" and the large, market 42" to 44" is a little generous.
The next thing I noticed was that the weave is quite open. Much more so than aforementioned Shutt Velo Rapide's "Sport Wool". I could see this was going to be an issue.
The Test DriveThis morning I teamed up the jersey with Decathlon bib shorts, Crane gloves and shoes. Nothing but Tier One labels for me and headed out into the teeth of a 20knot Westerly headwind for my 10 mile commute.
Normally, I only keep a tissue in my back pocket. You can keep your tissueless exhausting, than you. Without pockets on this jersey I resorted to the 15 year old girl "tissue up the sleeve", which wasn't too bad. I cycle a bumbag (get over it, I just don't care!)
For the warmup 15 minutes I wasn't that warm. The wind cut in through my arms and torso. Without the bib shorts my tummy would have have got quite chilly. As I warmed up, my arms weren't as warm as I had been in armwarmers previously and my torso was just slightly uncomfortably cold. Without the wind I'm sure it wouldn't have been so bad. Getting into work I'm not sweating as much as in my Shutt Velo Velocast jersey, probably a little more than my Giant Velocity jersey with armwarmers, and with a little tummy chill
 |
| Giant Velocity |
Pros
- Inexpensive (at £15 it's a win)
- It's Merino wool
- It's not Rapha
Cons
- No pockets
- Open weave
- Not enough Merino wool
- A little loose fitting
This jersey falls between two stools. I can imagine wearing it out more than I'd wear it as a strictly cycling top. The joy of soft merino wool is to wear it next to the skin (does that make me a pervert?) but it's a little itchy (may go with washing) so I'd probably wear some undervest.
Rapha have marketed themselves in the same way as Stella Artois' "reassuringly expensive" used to (before being the cheapest beer in Tesco and universally known as "wifebeater"). Rapha now says "worn by cocks". This is a decent jersey and your friends won't think you're a ringpiece as you wear it for gentle pottering down a towpath to a pub in the late spring or early winter. And for that it's a win.
On the basis of this, if you want to send me free shit to review, let me know.
Thursday 16 September 2010
Look who I saw on the way to work!?
I was riding to work this morning, about here:
View Larger Map
When I saw
and this (driven by a VERY dour man)
And now, the money shot
Tuesday 14 September 2010
An Unoriginal Blog, or my Granddad Smith
This blog was inspired by Viv's moving tribute to her Granddad.
My Dad's parents lived in Wales. It was a 6 hour trip by car or train and that deserves its own story. But that was a holiday. Grandma and Granddad Smith was every day life. This is my story of them, but mostly him
Grandparents aren't supposed to have favourites. But my Grandma Smith (my Mum's Mum) chose me from her five Grandchildren from her three children. I was number 3, the only child of her only daughter. When number 5 came along, he was my Granddad's favourite.
If you looked at Grandma and Granddad, they're a bit like the saucy postcards, he was small and wiry, she was very matronly, and utterly devoted. Grandma kept a perfect house and Granddad did the man jobs, like the coal, the garden, the food and the fire. He was your archetypal dour Yorkshireman. Never raised his voice. Never had to. He had PRESENCE.
My Granddad started in the pits aged 14, but I don't remember him working. I'm told my Granddad used to take me out in the pram. This was quite unusual in those days, not a manly thing to do. My mum's eldest brother got wind of it and suddenly cousin number four (his first two hadn't been that involved with Grandma and Granddad) got deposited and he and Mr Bland, who lived opposite, took me and number four out in the prams and literally walked the wheels off it. That must have been a sight. I'm sure no one said a thing. Because they were both brilliant.
After I was born, Mum went back to work after three months and I spent my time at Grandma and Granddads, where Grandma and I made cakes: pastry bases, jam splodge, sponge top; a kind of Bakewell. And we got to lick the whisks. They had a big Grundig stereogram, a bit like this which I used to listen to all the odd SW stations from all over the world.
After I went to school, they were still my wrap around child service right up to when I was 16.
She made clothes for my Panda and teddies and she was wonderful. I don't know if I remember her face or I've put her face on her from photos. If anything she's more of a Mammy figure, like the housekeeper from Tom and Jerry.
Then, after 18 months of stomach cancer she died on Jubilee Day. I was 6.5. My Granddad was devastated.
Every morning, every night, every meal he would kiss three pictures of her around the lounge and thank her for his food. His food? He'd never had to cook in his life. So when Grandma knew she was dying, she wrote down instructions for his food so he could follow them. Even down to the Bakewell cakes, which, as you will now understand, I didn't name. Poor Grandma, in my family they're now known as Granddad Buns. I wish I could get my hands on that book.
So I spent many days still with Granddad Smith. We used to go across the road to see Mr Bland, who'd put on a record of Val Doonican singing Paddy McGinty's Goat
and Rafferty's Motor Car.
Even now these songs mean a lot to me.
Most of the time he was to be found in his deckchair outside the garage, or shovelling coal in. Or we had a pair of walking sticks he'd cut down and we turned them upstairs and played golf, trying to get a golfball into the airbrick outside the house. Sometimes we'd go to the rec and play pitch and put. But none of this happened until he'd made the morning trip to the cemetary and back.
Quite often we went to where Granddad worked an acre of land, belonging to Grandma Bland. From this he fed his children with potatoes, carrots, broad and runner beans, before my time he had pigs on it, and my personal favourite, peas, which in season I'd "help" him pick by eating as many as I could fresh from the pod. When the weather turned we'd sit on old car seats in the pig shed and he'd take his old penknife and peel an apple in one and hand me slices. In his garden, he grew dahlias not for show, but just because he liked them.
I think I can count the number of times I went upstairs in that house on the fingers of my hands. Upstairs was for best and for bed. There was a downstairs toilet, in which, instead of toilet paper, was the opened paper bags that the meat had come in from the butcher's. Proper John Wayne. Made Izal look positively absorbent.
Dinner time was ALWAYS 12. When I was asked what I wanted, I always wanted scallops: thin sliced deep fried potato, cooked in a small blackened milk pan. Often served with cold mutton from the shops at The Pond. No telly except for at 12 til 12.30, children's tv. Then off.
Irrespective of the weather, the fire wasn't lit until 6pm. He had a proper old coal fire I wasn't allowed to play with.
Christmas Day he used to come to our house. He'd have to be picked up from six miles away and sat in front of his food by noon. He never said anything. It's just how it was.
Speaking of Christmas, for birthday and Christmas you got £5 each until you got a proper job. I was only the second to go to college. His favourite just never applied himself. He was going to be a sportsman, but wasn't good enough. By the time he realised... well, another story.
So, when it came to my birthday and Christmas and I was back from college he'd take one look at my long hair and say "when are you going to get a haircut and a proper job?". His hair was one of those wartime short back and sides where the sides are skinned. A proper MAN's haircut.
So after college I decided I didn't want a real job JUST yet and left for Australia in the November. One day, sitting in Sydney in the April sunshine I went to the Post Restante and got a letter from Mum and Dad. My Granddad had had a stroke at the age of 85 and died. They deliberately didn't tell me until it was too late to come home so I didn't have to make that decision.
So, this dour man, what did I find out when I got home? Every week he'd given my mum £5 "for when he gets back".
When the will was read out, the only thing that was specifically left to anyone was that stereogram. I have it still of course.
Unfortunately I never got to say goodbye or thank you, and he never did find out I'd got myself a proper job and haircut. I hope you're proud of me now.
My Dad's parents lived in Wales. It was a 6 hour trip by car or train and that deserves its own story. But that was a holiday. Grandma and Granddad Smith was every day life. This is my story of them, but mostly him
Grandparents aren't supposed to have favourites. But my Grandma Smith (my Mum's Mum) chose me from her five Grandchildren from her three children. I was number 3, the only child of her only daughter. When number 5 came along, he was my Granddad's favourite.
If you looked at Grandma and Granddad, they're a bit like the saucy postcards, he was small and wiry, she was very matronly, and utterly devoted. Grandma kept a perfect house and Granddad did the man jobs, like the coal, the garden, the food and the fire. He was your archetypal dour Yorkshireman. Never raised his voice. Never had to. He had PRESENCE.
My Granddad started in the pits aged 14, but I don't remember him working. I'm told my Granddad used to take me out in the pram. This was quite unusual in those days, not a manly thing to do. My mum's eldest brother got wind of it and suddenly cousin number four (his first two hadn't been that involved with Grandma and Granddad) got deposited and he and Mr Bland, who lived opposite, took me and number four out in the prams and literally walked the wheels off it. That must have been a sight. I'm sure no one said a thing. Because they were both brilliant.
After I was born, Mum went back to work after three months and I spent my time at Grandma and Granddads, where Grandma and I made cakes: pastry bases, jam splodge, sponge top; a kind of Bakewell. And we got to lick the whisks. They had a big Grundig stereogram, a bit like this which I used to listen to all the odd SW stations from all over the world.
After I went to school, they were still my wrap around child service right up to when I was 16.
She made clothes for my Panda and teddies and she was wonderful. I don't know if I remember her face or I've put her face on her from photos. If anything she's more of a Mammy figure, like the housekeeper from Tom and Jerry.
 |
| Mammy from Tom and Jerry |
Every morning, every night, every meal he would kiss three pictures of her around the lounge and thank her for his food. His food? He'd never had to cook in his life. So when Grandma knew she was dying, she wrote down instructions for his food so he could follow them. Even down to the Bakewell cakes, which, as you will now understand, I didn't name. Poor Grandma, in my family they're now known as Granddad Buns. I wish I could get my hands on that book.
So I spent many days still with Granddad Smith. We used to go across the road to see Mr Bland, who'd put on a record of Val Doonican singing Paddy McGinty's Goat
and Rafferty's Motor Car.
Even now these songs mean a lot to me.
Most of the time he was to be found in his deckchair outside the garage, or shovelling coal in. Or we had a pair of walking sticks he'd cut down and we turned them upstairs and played golf, trying to get a golfball into the airbrick outside the house. Sometimes we'd go to the rec and play pitch and put. But none of this happened until he'd made the morning trip to the cemetary and back.
Quite often we went to where Granddad worked an acre of land, belonging to Grandma Bland. From this he fed his children with potatoes, carrots, broad and runner beans, before my time he had pigs on it, and my personal favourite, peas, which in season I'd "help" him pick by eating as many as I could fresh from the pod. When the weather turned we'd sit on old car seats in the pig shed and he'd take his old penknife and peel an apple in one and hand me slices. In his garden, he grew dahlias not for show, but just because he liked them.
I think I can count the number of times I went upstairs in that house on the fingers of my hands. Upstairs was for best and for bed. There was a downstairs toilet, in which, instead of toilet paper, was the opened paper bags that the meat had come in from the butcher's. Proper John Wayne. Made Izal look positively absorbent.
Dinner time was ALWAYS 12. When I was asked what I wanted, I always wanted scallops: thin sliced deep fried potato, cooked in a small blackened milk pan. Often served with cold mutton from the shops at The Pond. No telly except for at 12 til 12.30, children's tv. Then off.
Irrespective of the weather, the fire wasn't lit until 6pm. He had a proper old coal fire I wasn't allowed to play with.
Christmas Day he used to come to our house. He'd have to be picked up from six miles away and sat in front of his food by noon. He never said anything. It's just how it was.
Speaking of Christmas, for birthday and Christmas you got £5 each until you got a proper job. I was only the second to go to college. His favourite just never applied himself. He was going to be a sportsman, but wasn't good enough. By the time he realised... well, another story.
So, when it came to my birthday and Christmas and I was back from college he'd take one look at my long hair and say "when are you going to get a haircut and a proper job?". His hair was one of those wartime short back and sides where the sides are skinned. A proper MAN's haircut.
So after college I decided I didn't want a real job JUST yet and left for Australia in the November. One day, sitting in Sydney in the April sunshine I went to the Post Restante and got a letter from Mum and Dad. My Granddad had had a stroke at the age of 85 and died. They deliberately didn't tell me until it was too late to come home so I didn't have to make that decision.
So, this dour man, what did I find out when I got home? Every week he'd given my mum £5 "for when he gets back".
When the will was read out, the only thing that was specifically left to anyone was that stereogram. I have it still of course.
Unfortunately I never got to say goodbye or thank you, and he never did find out I'd got myself a proper job and haircut. I hope you're proud of me now.
Monday 13 September 2010
Today's WOTD
The other week I got a "spy camera", one of these:
and for a bit of fun I fastened it to my helmet with the universal fixers: Postie's red laggy bands.
So I thought I'd have a punt at seeing my ride in. A bicycle homage to this and The Night Train.
Ignore the date, it was taken today. Apparently you CAN set the date on this thing, but as yet I've been unsuccessful.
Why does he get the coveted WOTD? Look how much space he gives me, even though the road is clear for a good half mile visibility.
View Larger Map
Because he's a wanker. That's why.
So I thought I'd have a punt at seeing my ride in. A bicycle homage to this and The Night Train.
Ignore the date, it was taken today. Apparently you CAN set the date on this thing, but as yet I've been unsuccessful.
View Larger Map
Because he's a wanker. That's why.
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Chinese Roundabout fun
This video was shot by a cow orker from a hotel window in Shenzen. Can you spot ALL the differences?
Sunday 5 September 2010
What? My name is...
This is as a result of the quite eloquent Viv's blog which she insists on having me comment on. It's the LAW.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away (ok Rotherham), a baby was born. Because his father was evil or welsh, the baby was registered as Gareth Mark.
Gareth is a welsh name meaning "wise man". Mark, apparently means warlike. Possibly for these reason or one which has never been explained to me I was known as Mark. Neither seem appropriate.
Then one fateful day when I was about 11, I was interviewed for a new school. The headmaster asked me my name and I gave it. "So Gareth," he said. I was too shy to say anything to him. So anyone who knows me from that watershed moment calls me Mark, anyone after calls me Gareth. Except my Mum who appears to have switched allegiances.
Of course it all gets confusing when post and pre watershed people meet.
One of the biggest issues is Gareth appears to be hard to spell garath, Garrath, Garreth, Garrett ive had them all
How do I feel? I don't like Gareth. It's been too long now that I don't think I could handle new people calling me Mark. It's more of a family name now.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away (ok Rotherham), a baby was born. Because his father was evil or welsh, the baby was registered as Gareth Mark.
Gareth is a welsh name meaning "wise man". Mark, apparently means warlike. Possibly for these reason or one which has never been explained to me I was known as Mark. Neither seem appropriate.
Then one fateful day when I was about 11, I was interviewed for a new school. The headmaster asked me my name and I gave it. "So Gareth," he said. I was too shy to say anything to him. So anyone who knows me from that watershed moment calls me Mark, anyone after calls me Gareth. Except my Mum who appears to have switched allegiances.
Of course it all gets confusing when post and pre watershed people meet.
One of the biggest issues is Gareth appears to be hard to spell garath, Garrath, Garreth, Garrett ive had them all
How do I feel? I don't like Gareth. It's been too long now that I don't think I could handle new people calling me Mark. It's more of a family name now.
Friday 3 September 2010
Why Don't You....
Back in the day before Jeremy Kyle and breakfast tv there were three tv channels, Sky was where the clouds lived and morning tv came in two flavours; during term time a series of "for schools and colleges" which was like the OU for Children; and holiday tv, which was less worthy but better.
Duriring my childhood I spent a lot of my holidays at my Grandparents' house in Goodwick. It's a bit quiet there.
Being always an early waker I'd be in the lounge reading, waiting for the telly to start. BBC2 would have been OU films with men in brown suits, wide ties and big hair.
ITV started at a whoppingly early 8.30am with Sesame St. Never a big fan other than The Count and the cartoon pinball machine
At 8.50 BBC 1 would start, typically with The Wombles. I was a bit fan, especially of Orinoco. After the "Rugby Incident" alluded to earlier I was nicknamed Orinoco, because he's a Womble (one ball, geddit? Technically inaccurate but at 16 who let accuracy get in the way of a good ribbing?)
What came between that and Why Don't You I don't recall. After Why Don't You was a dubbed weekly eastern European dubbed children's series. But the subject of today's tale is Why Don't You?
Here is the Title Sequence
Why Don't You was a 20 minute programme presented by regional theatre brats, some of whom have gone on to be part of Ant and Dec or Pauline Quirke.
The rest of the programme was short films of people with "interesting hobbies" such as Scottish Country Dancing, BMX, the typical stuff the BBC thought would be good. The BBC continues this tradition with Take A Bow.
In between these were activities and things to do on wet summer holidays. Things to do with paper and card, making kites, often suggested by readers (aka The Researchers)
One thing that caught my eye was a robot with flashing eyes. It was electronics, and it looked quite funky.
Robot turned out to be a bistable multivribrator. Calm down. It's just one of these
Every week there was a fact sheet, which you could get by sending an SAE and a nominal postal order. My Dad helped me get the PO and I waited for the leaflet.
Within 28 days a leaflet arrived, full of crap (along with the rules of Tower of Hanoi) but with the name of a book on Electronics. Again I dragged my Dad out to get me the book, which then meant I needed some stuff.
There was a white board full of holes which you could plug stuff in and a bunch of resistors, diodes and LEDs. So we went down the local hobby shop and got a bag of bits.
Having built the robot, and a crystal radio and all sorts of entertaining stuff, it kept me busy when I wasn't swimming, cycling or playing music.
And then I realised I could make money doing silly shit with wires and stuff. And that is why I write software.
Thursday 2 September 2010
Wednesday 1 September 2010
The week I stopped drinking for five days
No, not another "On the Waggon tale". This tale took place some years ago, but it's worth telling again.Well I think so. I hope you do. If only for the added yuck value such illnesses have. Having already survived Testicular torsion at the age of 15 due to some too tight shorts and a very unpleasant scrum collapse (ask me for the gruesome details, I may divulge later) this yuck factor may be high.. Strap on your belts, here we go.
If you've never heard of Quinzies, click here
Thursday nights are typically going out nights.in Britain. It all stems from the working class being paid weekly on a Thursday, blowing what they can before handing the remainder over to the wife who might allow you some cash for Friday night with the boys. Saturday was always Ladies' Night. But I digress.
Day 1: Friday
So it comes to Friday morning and I feel rough. I haven't had a drink the night before, but I got into work on Friday morning and the comments were about my heavy night. Got to lunchtime and I'd had enough. It was getting past "you look hungover" to "have you got man-flu" and my boss, Andy, sent me home. That was Friday lunch time.That was the last time liquid passsed my lips.
Man-flu, the worst thing you can get. Sore throat, sweats, shivers, can't get warm at all, headache, and suddenly I can't swallow. I don't mean "I can't have a drink" I mean "I can't swallow". At all.
As with all man-flu attacks I spent the rest of the day in bed. Salivating. It's a bit of a hassle. So I return to the settee, duvet in hand, with two pint pots. The first full of water with which I swill out my mouth, the second empty for the residue.Next time you're bored, count how often you're swallowing just saliva. It's not an inconsiderable amount.
Well, that was a sleepless night. Night 1
Day 2: Saturday
Day 2 dawned, Springlike. ie early, I'm still up, I'm still watching tv. I'm almost incapable of speech.24 hour man-flu gets like this. Normally, after a day or so I cough up a plug of phlegm, bit of blood and we're good to go. Not today. I'm still on the swill and spit routine, I'm absolutely thirsty. Get through the day but just can't move. Still with the high fever. Can't get comfortable, can't lie down, can't sit up. Every minute I'm having to spit into that damn cup. The spit is getting whiter and thicker and generally more unpleasant. It gets to "bed time" and I'm going nowhere. I've stopped weeing by now. There's nothing to come out, so there's no need to go upstairs.
As night fell, the problems began. I'd had the tv on most of this time. Banal background stuff. Mostly Discovery, probably Home and Leisure. I do like a bit of the old "This Old House" and Bob Vila. But by the middle of the night I wasn't coping. Couldn't focus, couldn't watch, couldn't anything. So my go to programme when ill is Radio 4. At this time of night it's World Service. It's like having a very nice man whisper gently in your ear.As you spit into a pint pot half full of saliva.
Day 3: Sunday
I'm going nowhere. This isn't shifting. If anything else, it's getting worse.I'm not walking, I'm crawling to the kitchen to rinse out my drinks. The day is a blur. I've no idea what happened, but that night, well, I've never taken hallucinogens and I now never want to. Voices, lights, colours, shadows. By now I have a craving for yellow melon. Galia, honeydew, I don't care. I JUST WANT MELON and I WANT IT NOW. I had no idea what was real and what wasn't. SOMEHOW I had a phone call with my mum and managed to convince her it was man-flu. I don't think she bought it but I got away with it. Promising I'd go to the doctors the next morning.
Day 4: Monday
Woke early, sent an SMS to my boss saying I wasn't going to be in. Couldn't talk at all. Got on my bike to ride the mile to my doctor. Emergency appointment. I couldn't talk so I didn't try to ring. Just turned up. Half way there I stopped. Sweating profusely yet freezing cold. I barely had the strength to make it.
The Doc agreed to see me. I must have looked like a drug fuelled crazy. Sweating, shivering, 3 nights without sleep, not washed. She took a look at me and prescribed me antibiotics for what she told me was Quinzies. No google in those days.
So a vague ride home and we're back under the duvet with two pint pots and some drugs.All very well, the only problem was, the swallowing. Put them in my mouth. No go. Nothing. Utterly futile. It's like the joke about the tablets that make you stronger. I'd take them if only I could get the lid off.
Another crazy night of no sleep and hallucinations. I pinched the skin. on the back of my hand. It just stayed in a little pinch. Dehydrated beyond question now. The melon craving is really kicking in
Day 5: Tuesday
This time, walked to the doctor. A VERY long mile. With sign language and a bit of writing on paper (I'm not making this up, I really could not speak) and she rang the ENT of Addenbrookes'. Managed to get an SMS to my then girlfriend to pick me up and drive me the 2 miles to the appointment.
It's heading into mid afternoon now. I don't know where the time went. Time was flexible. Jam Karet as the Indonesians say. Rubber time.
So, the cure, or relief for Quinzies for me was a large 2cm diameter syringe. The doctor pierced the abcess and began draining into the syringe. A good syringe full came out. I then sat there as my mouth filled up with warm acrid pus. Several times I had to rush to the toilet to spit out the vile mess. But instantly I felt better. Not well, but better. The sweats calmed, the fever abated. I was then told I had 24 hours to drink or they wanted me into hospital on a drip. The clock was ticking. But I could talk. How hard could that be.
VERY.
No. Really. Swallow now. Easy isn't it? Really very easy. Second nature almost. But after 5 days I'd completely forgotten how. I put water in my mouth, I tried to work my tongue to swallow, and the water just squirted out of my mouth.
Mum rang again in the evening. I hadn't drunk still. At least I could talk. So she said she was arriving the following morning at 8am. My then girlfriend also turned up. It sounds bad. I don't know where she'd been. I just don't know. I do know I'd been alone and it was for the best. Maybe we weren't really very girlfriend / boyfriend yet. It's not her fault, it's mine.
Day 6: Wednesday
D Day. Mum's there. The girlfriend's there. I walk across to my corner shop. I buy a melon (yay) and a tin of pears. I figure if I can't drink water because I can't get my tongue round it, something more SOLID might help.And when I've got something warm and juicy in me I can lay into the melon.
Mum warmed the pears, I cut up the melon into 1cm square chunks. She breaks my tablets into quarters and finally I get some pear down my throat. It's an epiphany. I feel like a champion. Within 30 minutes I'm back in the saddle. I've licked this swallowing business. Pear, melon, the tablets, and finally liquids. The rest is just drinking and eating. Cold, wet juicy things. All the things you crave when you've not had a drink in 5 days.
If you've never heard of Quinzies, click here
Thursday nights are typically going out nights.in Britain. It all stems from the working class being paid weekly on a Thursday, blowing what they can before handing the remainder over to the wife who might allow you some cash for Friday night with the boys. Saturday was always Ladies' Night. But I digress.
Day 1: Friday
So it comes to Friday morning and I feel rough. I haven't had a drink the night before, but I got into work on Friday morning and the comments were about my heavy night. Got to lunchtime and I'd had enough. It was getting past "you look hungover" to "have you got man-flu" and my boss, Andy, sent me home. That was Friday lunch time.That was the last time liquid passsed my lips.
Man-flu, the worst thing you can get. Sore throat, sweats, shivers, can't get warm at all, headache, and suddenly I can't swallow. I don't mean "I can't have a drink" I mean "I can't swallow". At all.
As with all man-flu attacks I spent the rest of the day in bed. Salivating. It's a bit of a hassle. So I return to the settee, duvet in hand, with two pint pots. The first full of water with which I swill out my mouth, the second empty for the residue.Next time you're bored, count how often you're swallowing just saliva. It's not an inconsiderable amount.
Well, that was a sleepless night. Night 1
Day 2: Saturday
Day 2 dawned, Springlike. ie early, I'm still up, I'm still watching tv. I'm almost incapable of speech.24 hour man-flu gets like this. Normally, after a day or so I cough up a plug of phlegm, bit of blood and we're good to go. Not today. I'm still on the swill and spit routine, I'm absolutely thirsty. Get through the day but just can't move. Still with the high fever. Can't get comfortable, can't lie down, can't sit up. Every minute I'm having to spit into that damn cup. The spit is getting whiter and thicker and generally more unpleasant. It gets to "bed time" and I'm going nowhere. I've stopped weeing by now. There's nothing to come out, so there's no need to go upstairs.
As night fell, the problems began. I'd had the tv on most of this time. Banal background stuff. Mostly Discovery, probably Home and Leisure. I do like a bit of the old "This Old House" and Bob Vila. But by the middle of the night I wasn't coping. Couldn't focus, couldn't watch, couldn't anything. So my go to programme when ill is Radio 4. At this time of night it's World Service. It's like having a very nice man whisper gently in your ear.As you spit into a pint pot half full of saliva.
Day 3: Sunday
I'm going nowhere. This isn't shifting. If anything else, it's getting worse.I'm not walking, I'm crawling to the kitchen to rinse out my drinks. The day is a blur. I've no idea what happened, but that night, well, I've never taken hallucinogens and I now never want to. Voices, lights, colours, shadows. By now I have a craving for yellow melon. Galia, honeydew, I don't care. I JUST WANT MELON and I WANT IT NOW. I had no idea what was real and what wasn't. SOMEHOW I had a phone call with my mum and managed to convince her it was man-flu. I don't think she bought it but I got away with it. Promising I'd go to the doctors the next morning.
Day 4: Monday
Woke early, sent an SMS to my boss saying I wasn't going to be in. Couldn't talk at all. Got on my bike to ride the mile to my doctor. Emergency appointment. I couldn't talk so I didn't try to ring. Just turned up. Half way there I stopped. Sweating profusely yet freezing cold. I barely had the strength to make it.
The Doc agreed to see me. I must have looked like a drug fuelled crazy. Sweating, shivering, 3 nights without sleep, not washed. She took a look at me and prescribed me antibiotics for what she told me was Quinzies. No google in those days.
So a vague ride home and we're back under the duvet with two pint pots and some drugs.All very well, the only problem was, the swallowing. Put them in my mouth. No go. Nothing. Utterly futile. It's like the joke about the tablets that make you stronger. I'd take them if only I could get the lid off.
Another crazy night of no sleep and hallucinations. I pinched the skin. on the back of my hand. It just stayed in a little pinch. Dehydrated beyond question now. The melon craving is really kicking in
Day 5: Tuesday
This time, walked to the doctor. A VERY long mile. With sign language and a bit of writing on paper (I'm not making this up, I really could not speak) and she rang the ENT of Addenbrookes'. Managed to get an SMS to my then girlfriend to pick me up and drive me the 2 miles to the appointment.
It's heading into mid afternoon now. I don't know where the time went. Time was flexible. Jam Karet as the Indonesians say. Rubber time.
VERY.
No. Really. Swallow now. Easy isn't it? Really very easy. Second nature almost. But after 5 days I'd completely forgotten how. I put water in my mouth, I tried to work my tongue to swallow, and the water just squirted out of my mouth.
Mum rang again in the evening. I hadn't drunk still. At least I could talk. So she said she was arriving the following morning at 8am. My then girlfriend also turned up. It sounds bad. I don't know where she'd been. I just don't know. I do know I'd been alone and it was for the best. Maybe we weren't really very girlfriend / boyfriend yet. It's not her fault, it's mine.
Day 6: Wednesday
D Day. Mum's there. The girlfriend's there. I walk across to my corner shop. I buy a melon (yay) and a tin of pears. I figure if I can't drink water because I can't get my tongue round it, something more SOLID might help.And when I've got something warm and juicy in me I can lay into the melon.
Mum warmed the pears, I cut up the melon into 1cm square chunks. She breaks my tablets into quarters and finally I get some pear down my throat. It's an epiphany. I feel like a champion. Within 30 minutes I'm back in the saddle. I've licked this swallowing business. Pear, melon, the tablets, and finally liquids. The rest is just drinking and eating. Cold, wet juicy things. All the things you crave when you've not had a drink in 5 days.
Friday 20 August 2010
(Health and) Efficiency
I once had a boss. A PhD from Oxford. You might have guessed from meeting him.
He knew (I didn't ask, you just don't with people like this) that the engine of a car is most efficient at 75% of load.
So, his driving style was
a) get into fifth gear as soon as possible, even if it knocked
b) on a motorway thrash it to 95mph, drop the clutch, put it in underdrive (neutral) then let it slow to 50mph. Repeat. After 300 miles this gets to be REALLY tiresome.
He knew (I didn't ask, you just don't with people like this) that the engine of a car is most efficient at 75% of load.
So, his driving style was
a) get into fifth gear as soon as possible, even if it knocked
b) on a motorway thrash it to 95mph, drop the clutch, put it in underdrive (neutral) then let it slow to 50mph. Repeat. After 300 miles this gets to be REALLY tiresome.
Vertigo
Vertigo: The fear of heights.
I have it. I have it bad. But it's not just heights, it's far more animal than that.
I can stand on a ladder and muck about with upstairs windows.
I can lean out of 4th floor windows.
I cannot paint the eves of a bungalow.
But the thing that gets me most is a non solid barrier.I can stand at the window of a 40 storey hotel so long as the solid bit comes up to at LEAST waist height.
The Grosvenor Place Hotel, Sydney. Once I had to deliver a package to the 40th floor. The walls are entirely glass. I couldn't stand within 6' of it.
Golden Gate Bridge has only railings. and between the road and the footpath is a gap with NO railings. So I could walk only a very narrow path between the two. No amount of coaxing made that crossing a happy one.
I took this from the top of St Peter's in the Vatican. The railings were stylishly Italian. I've seen thicker wire. So I was spreadeagled against the dome not being able to take another step further forward.
A few years ago I went to Taipei 101. As the name suggests, the one-time tallest building in the world at 101 floors. That's 500m of tallness. the observation platform is 89 floors up. It only takes 45 seconds to get up in the express lift.
However once there, the window ledge is only 6" high. The glass is thick and it's VERY VERY VERY safe. Cue me on my hands and knees crawling to the window from 6' away to get close enough to take photos.
I have it. I have it bad. But it's not just heights, it's far more animal than that.
I can stand on a ladder and muck about with upstairs windows.
I can lean out of 4th floor windows.
I cannot paint the eves of a bungalow.
But the thing that gets me most is a non solid barrier.I can stand at the window of a 40 storey hotel so long as the solid bit comes up to at LEAST waist height.
The Grosvenor Place Hotel, Sydney. Once I had to deliver a package to the 40th floor. The walls are entirely glass. I couldn't stand within 6' of it.
Golden Gate Bridge has only railings. and between the road and the footpath is a gap with NO railings. So I could walk only a very narrow path between the two. No amount of coaxing made that crossing a happy one.
I took this from the top of St Peter's in the Vatican. The railings were stylishly Italian. I've seen thicker wire. So I was spreadeagled against the dome not being able to take another step further forward.
A few years ago I went to Taipei 101. As the name suggests, the one-time tallest building in the world at 101 floors. That's 500m of tallness. the observation platform is 89 floors up. It only takes 45 seconds to get up in the express lift.
However once there, the window ledge is only 6" high. The glass is thick and it's VERY VERY VERY safe. Cue me on my hands and knees crawling to the window from 6' away to get close enough to take photos.
Tuesday 17 August 2010
More windmills
Monday 16 August 2010
It's a small world. Beware
Cambridge's high tech world is a mirror of the wider area: incestuous. The degrees of separation must be at worst 3; everyone knows one common person at work.
So as I started a new job in July 2006 I told my Thurday night DeanyB group who I was working with. I mentioned a name, let's call him "Pete". It's not his name. Why will become apparent later.
Anyway I'm in a local curry house, i mention a name and the table goes silent. There are stolen glances. No one speaks. It's like the Omertà. Over the next few weeks I try and raise it again. Nothing. I know when I'm beaten.
After a period of three months I have another go. "Pete" has worked in a lot of places, contractors do. But he's an arrogant objectionable little man. It's not just me. He gets the job done but he doesn't make friends.
Gradually as this comes out over Thursdays, stories start coming out of how in previous places, people have gone to huge lengths to avoid socialising with him. I've hit a deep full seam of dislike. The stories come thick and fast. Going back over 10 years, stopping about 4 years ago.
Then someone leans in. The Omertà is about to be lifted. I am inducted into the inner sanctum. The words are spoken "search for him in the local paper".
Well, went to bed that night, thought little of it. The next morning at work I hit up the local rag. It's split into Huntingdon and Cambridge. The search pages are awkward. I know it's in there.
Then, it's there. Two reports. Some comment about fraud whilst in minor local government. But the biggie. He spent three years at Her Majesty's pleasure for "leaving his DNA on a four year old" in a playground whilst his child played inside in the recreation hall.
So what to do about Paedo Pete? Yes it's not original. Of course it all came out. The Omertà was because my friends wanted me to form my own opinion before giving me this. It had happened after he'd left the last place but news travels fast.
Fortunately before I knew of his moment of weakness I'd worked it out for myself that he was an unpleasant little man. For that I thsnk my friends.
So as I started a new job in July 2006 I told my Thurday night DeanyB group who I was working with. I mentioned a name, let's call him "Pete". It's not his name. Why will become apparent later.
Anyway I'm in a local curry house, i mention a name and the table goes silent. There are stolen glances. No one speaks. It's like the Omertà. Over the next few weeks I try and raise it again. Nothing. I know when I'm beaten.
After a period of three months I have another go. "Pete" has worked in a lot of places, contractors do. But he's an arrogant objectionable little man. It's not just me. He gets the job done but he doesn't make friends.
Gradually as this comes out over Thursdays, stories start coming out of how in previous places, people have gone to huge lengths to avoid socialising with him. I've hit a deep full seam of dislike. The stories come thick and fast. Going back over 10 years, stopping about 4 years ago.
Then someone leans in. The Omertà is about to be lifted. I am inducted into the inner sanctum. The words are spoken "search for him in the local paper".
Well, went to bed that night, thought little of it. The next morning at work I hit up the local rag. It's split into Huntingdon and Cambridge. The search pages are awkward. I know it's in there.
Then, it's there. Two reports. Some comment about fraud whilst in minor local government. But the biggie. He spent three years at Her Majesty's pleasure for "leaving his DNA on a four year old" in a playground whilst his child played inside in the recreation hall.
So what to do about Paedo Pete? Yes it's not original. Of course it all came out. The Omertà was because my friends wanted me to form my own opinion before giving me this. It had happened after he'd left the last place but news travels fast.
Fortunately before I knew of his moment of weakness I'd worked it out for myself that he was an unpleasant little man. For that I thsnk my friends.
Saturday 19 June 2010
How to create courses for your Garmin
This is more of an aid-memoire for me, but if it helps you....
Purely Web based OS Agnostic method
If you want software to download to help
As an addendum, I've also used the following, if you're on a Windows machine, this replaces 4 above
The advantages are that you can set the average speed (the Google Maps average speed for walking isn't much use for cycling if you want to do comparative routing. If you use the driving option then you'll be sadly lagging behind!)
I've used gmaptogpx. There's now gmap2tcx available here
http://code.google.com/p/gmap2tcx/
As yet untested but it should avoid the gpx to .crs conversion in gpsies above.
If GMapToGpx doesn't work it may suggest downloading as a KML file and converting using http://www.gpsvisualizer.com/
Editing kml/gpx
if you want to edit your kml/gpx, you can't. What you can do is use http://www.gpsvisualizer.com/ to convert to a text file. Then a bit of python to generate a file in the format
From, <(less than 25 *to,>
This can be pasted into the google maps search window and a basic route can now be edited.
Caveat: I'm not a python expert. Here's something I bodged in an hour
# Format of data is
#T:
#Output format is
#From:,to:,>
#Keep first and last lines, delete 1 in n lines, where n programmable, should leave around 25 entries.
import sys, optparse
def write (where, what):
print what
where.write (what)
def main (options, args):
image = open(options.image, "r").readlines()
print "len %d name %s" % (len(image), options.image)
name = "output_" + options.image
output = open (name, "w")
image.pop(0)
start = (image.pop(0)).split('\t')
write (output, "from:%s,%s " % (start[1], start[2]))
end = (image.pop()).split('\t')
count = 0
modulus = 1 + len(image) / 22
#print "Modulus: ", modulus
for a in image:
a = a.rstrip ()
#print "len %d string %s" % (len(image), a)
b = a.split('\t')
#print b
if not (count % modulus):
#print "Count %d mod %d res %d " % (count, modulus, count % modulus)
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (b[1], b[2]))
count += 1
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (end[1], end[2]))
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (start[1], start[2]))
if __name__ == '__main__':
option_parser = optparse.OptionParser()
option_parser.add_option('-n', '--num', dest='num', help='skip n', default=10, type="int")
option_parser.add_option('-i', '--image', dest='image', help=' image', default='./file.txt')
options, args = option_parser.parse_args(sys.argv[1:])
main (options, args)
A little bit of python can convert a KML or GPX fi
Purely Web based OS Agnostic method
- Go to gmaptogpx and follow the instructions to create a bookmark.
- Draw your route in Google Maps. Other mapping software exists.I find using the walking option gives more sensible routes for cycling.
- Click on the gmaptogpx as installed above. This will show you a gpx file. Copy this into a file called
.gpx - Now go to gpsies. Select the .gpx file created above, and select as an output a .crs file. Save the .crs
- Connect your Garmin device to the computer and copy the .crs file into the directory "New Files"
- Safely remove the device and restart it. The Garmin will import the course ready for use.
If you want software to download to help
As an addendum, I've also used the following, if you're on a Windows machine, this replaces 4 above
The advantages are that you can set the average speed (the Google Maps average speed for walking isn't much use for cycling if you want to do comparative routing. If you use the driving option then you'll be sadly lagging behind!)
- Create your GPX file (see 1-3 above)
- Download Gpx2Crs as a zipfile
- Unzip
- Select the "Convert GPX to Course" tab
- Select the average speed you wish to do your route at
- Fiddle with the other buttons if you want
- Go to 5-6 above
I've used gmaptogpx. There's now gmap2tcx available here
http://code.google.com/p/gmap2tcx/
As yet untested but it should avoid the gpx to .crs conversion in gpsies above.
If GMapToGpx doesn't work it may suggest downloading as a KML file and converting using http://www.gpsvisualizer.com/
Editing kml/gpx
if you want to edit your kml/gpx, you can't. What you can do is use http://www.gpsvisualizer.com/ to convert to a text file. Then a bit of python to generate a file in the format
From
This can be pasted into the google maps search window and a basic route can now be edited.
Caveat: I'm not a python expert. Here's something I bodged in an hour
# Format of data is
#T:
#Output format is
#From:
#Keep first and last lines, delete 1 in n lines, where n programmable, should leave around 25 entries.
import sys, optparse
def write (where, what):
print what
where.write (what)
def main (options, args):
image = open(options.image, "r").readlines()
print "len %d name %s" % (len(image), options.image)
name = "output_" + options.image
output = open (name, "w")
image.pop(0)
start = (image.pop(0)).split('\t')
write (output, "from:%s,%s " % (start[1], start[2]))
end = (image.pop()).split('\t')
count = 0
modulus = 1 + len(image) / 22
#print "Modulus: ", modulus
for a in image:
a = a.rstrip ()
#print "len %d string %s" % (len(image), a)
b = a.split('\t')
#print b
if not (count % modulus):
#print "Count %d mod %d res %d " % (count, modulus, count % modulus)
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (b[1], b[2]))
count += 1
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (end[1], end[2]))
write (output, "to:%s,%s " % (start[1], start[2]))
if __name__ == '__main__':
option_parser = optparse.OptionParser()
option_parser.add_option('-n', '--num', dest='num', help='skip n', default=10, type="int")
option_parser.add_option('-i', '--image', dest='image', help=' image', default='./file.txt')
options, args = option_parser.parse_args(sys.argv[1:])
main (options, args)
A little bit of python can convert a KML or GPX fi
Friday 7 May 2010
Watch the sun
I thought this was a brilliant idea. I just have two streetlights in the way
Sun traces
Sun traces
In the Windmills of your mind
The first Windmill I pass is Impington Mill , which can be found here.
Impington Mill is a Smock Windmill, in which the base is stone, the "smock" is wooden, and the cap rotates into the wind
Another regular is Madingley Madingley is the oldest type of Windmill. A "post" windmill is one in which the whole budy rotates into the wind. This has no wind rotor that I can see so I'm assuming this must be manually turned into the wind. I could be wrong. It can be found here
Thursday 29 April 2010
Mr Piano Man
Last week I agreed to buy my neighbour's piano. This will force me to relearn. Something I've been meaning to do for more years than I can hope.
I have also been asked to teach a former cow-orker. So in the spirit of adventure I'll try to write honestly about it. Here. When I've got over lifting a really heavy piano all of 50 feet.
I have also been asked to teach a former cow-orker. So in the spirit of adventure I'll try to write honestly about it. Here. When I've got over lifting a really heavy piano all of 50 feet.
Throw Off These Mortal Chains
Or "A Sunday in Hell with a chain splitter"
So, a few weeks ago I decided my Genesis Skyline, my commuter bike chain was too slack. It seemed to flap around a bit, and at >30mph down Madingley rise I was worried it would jump off, and jam the back wheel. It's fixed wheel, so that could have been ugly.
Sunday dawned bright and early, and by 10am I was ready to start. I had the bike in the bike stand in the back garden and I was good to go.
Plan A: Take up the slack
Well, that was never a goer. I tried taking the slack up in the track end but alas the chain had worn too much.
Plan B: remove a link from the chain
If you've never done it, DON'T. OK so splitting a chain is easy. You get a tool which looks like a thumb screw and you push the little rivet but WHATEVER you do, don't let the rivet fall out.
So, the rivet fell out. And I lost two in the lawn.
And it took me an hour with glasses, a pair of tweezers, a chain splitter and a lot of swearing to push the rivet back in. That was a start. Finally got the chain linked and on the bike. Put the rear wheel back in and.....
The chain's too tight. I couldn't get the chain over the sprockets. Not by a little, but by a long way.
Plan C: Put the link back in and suck it up. That involves splitting the chain, adding the section I'd removed and fastening two rivets. Well, that was more fun. Didn't, fortunately lose any more rivets but it wasn't going well. Looking at the butchering I'd done with the rivet I decided to go for Plan C. Doesn't time fly when you're having fun? It's now 4 hours in, 14.00 so it's time to put the dinner on, get into town, get a new chain from Halfords.
Plan D: A new chain. Bought a chain. Went to Halfords, they didn't have the chain I wanted, they said. So I got sent to Station Cycles, at the other end of town, who sold me a chain . It's not going well so far is it? Well, here's where it gets even more fun. I got sold the wrong chain. Even though I'd told them the bike they gave me a 3/32" width 8 speed chain, when what I need is a 1/16" track chain. So, back I go to Halfords to buy the chain I needed which they didn't have. It's now 16.00, my hands are filthy and I'm switching between cleaning hands, making a full roast dinner and trying to get the damn chain on.
Did I mention that when I put the cooker on timer, it didn't start? Oh, I didn't? So I've got a broken cooker trying to make a roast dinner. So I'm trying to use some JML cooker that my mum gave me. It cooks with Halogen light. It's not important. When mum gave it me I had NO clue why. But in this case I'm glad she did. I just didn't want to try it out like this cooking in anger. No matter. So that was going off too.
Turns out the cooker ISN'T broken, but on that day it just refused to start. It was one of those days.
This time with all the lessons I'd learned and all the fun I'd had, the final track chain I measured link by link against the old one THREE times before finally splitting, being ueber careful I didn't pop the rivet, and FINALLY got the chain on, fitted and working. Yes, I've got seven bikes in the garage, all of which are technically rideable to work, but the Genesis, that's my commuting ride, and I needed it fixed. 17.00 and it's all done.
Phew.
What's it like?
Sweeeeeeeeeet.
So, a few weeks ago I decided my Genesis Skyline, my commuter bike chain was too slack. It seemed to flap around a bit, and at >30mph down Madingley rise I was worried it would jump off, and jam the back wheel. It's fixed wheel, so that could have been ugly.
Sunday dawned bright and early, and by 10am I was ready to start. I had the bike in the bike stand in the back garden and I was good to go.
Plan A: Take up the slack
Well, that was never a goer. I tried taking the slack up in the track end but alas the chain had worn too much.
Plan B: remove a link from the chain
If you've never done it, DON'T. OK so splitting a chain is easy. You get a tool which looks like a thumb screw and you push the little rivet but WHATEVER you do, don't let the rivet fall out.
So, the rivet fell out. And I lost two in the lawn.
And it took me an hour with glasses, a pair of tweezers, a chain splitter and a lot of swearing to push the rivet back in. That was a start. Finally got the chain linked and on the bike. Put the rear wheel back in and.....
The chain's too tight. I couldn't get the chain over the sprockets. Not by a little, but by a long way.
Plan C: Put the link back in and suck it up. That involves splitting the chain, adding the section I'd removed and fastening two rivets. Well, that was more fun. Didn't, fortunately lose any more rivets but it wasn't going well. Looking at the butchering I'd done with the rivet I decided to go for Plan C. Doesn't time fly when you're having fun? It's now 4 hours in, 14.00 so it's time to put the dinner on, get into town, get a new chain from Halfords.
Plan D: A new chain. Bought a chain. Went to Halfords, they didn't have the chain I wanted, they said. So I got sent to Station Cycles, at the other end of town, who sold me a chain . It's not going well so far is it? Well, here's where it gets even more fun. I got sold the wrong chain. Even though I'd told them the bike they gave me a 3/32" width 8 speed chain, when what I need is a 1/16" track chain. So, back I go to Halfords to buy the chain I needed which they didn't have. It's now 16.00, my hands are filthy and I'm switching between cleaning hands, making a full roast dinner and trying to get the damn chain on.
Did I mention that when I put the cooker on timer, it didn't start? Oh, I didn't? So I've got a broken cooker trying to make a roast dinner. So I'm trying to use some JML cooker that my mum gave me. It cooks with Halogen light. It's not important. When mum gave it me I had NO clue why. But in this case I'm glad she did. I just didn't want to try it out like this cooking in anger. No matter. So that was going off too.
Turns out the cooker ISN'T broken, but on that day it just refused to start. It was one of those days.
This time with all the lessons I'd learned and all the fun I'd had, the final track chain I measured link by link against the old one THREE times before finally splitting, being ueber careful I didn't pop the rivet, and FINALLY got the chain on, fitted and working. Yes, I've got seven bikes in the garage, all of which are technically rideable to work, but the Genesis, that's my commuting ride, and I needed it fixed. 17.00 and it's all done.
Phew.
What's it like?
Sweeeeeeeeeet.
Monday 19 April 2010
I fibbed
So I said I wasn't going to write entirely about bike stuff.
Well here I go again. Since Garmin's RSS feed isn't working, here's some rides
Well here I go again. Since Garmin's RSS feed isn't working, here's some rides
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Just quickly
My "workhorse" is a
Genesis Bikes Skyline
It's a lovely thing, bought in 2008 by the looks of things. So, in that time, in order,
1) Both front and rear Continental Ultra Race Folding 700x 25c tyres blew. Exploded. The front at 25mph, tearing an inch long hole in the inner tube. Not comforting. Both within 250 miles of having the bike. I now have Spesh Armadillos. Almost bombproof
2) Rear wheel. Winter 2008/2009 I hit a pothole, broke a spoke on the rear wheel. Seems the (unused) freehub was mounted cross-threaded, so that got fixed on warrantee (but the rebuild cost me £25.
3) Rear mudguard is held together with duck tape after the rivets came out
4) finally (I hope) the saddle clamp failed.
Let's hope the rest of it stays in one piece.
Genesis Bikes Skyline
It's a lovely thing, bought in 2008 by the looks of things. So, in that time, in order,
1) Both front and rear Continental Ultra Race Folding 700x 25c tyres blew. Exploded. The front at 25mph, tearing an inch long hole in the inner tube. Not comforting. Both within 250 miles of having the bike. I now have Spesh Armadillos. Almost bombproof
2) Rear wheel. Winter 2008/2009 I hit a pothole, broke a spoke on the rear wheel. Seems the (unused) freehub was mounted cross-threaded, so that got fixed on warrantee (but the rebuild cost me £25.
3) Rear mudguard is held together with duck tape after the rivets came out
4) finally (I hope) the saddle clamp failed.
Let's hope the rest of it stays in one piece.
Yes I know I promised....
But yes, it's another bike post. In the deep midwinter, I was riding home and suddenly my saddle disappeared. No, really, just like that. It was dark and one minute it was there, the next, gone.
With the aid of a VERY bright headlight I found the bits, saddle, clamp, nut and half the bolt. Ahh. The problem. Now I know, I'm a bit heavy and the roads are REALLY bad around here but still, to snap a bolt? My bike has had issues. More later. Maybe. Remind me. So that night I ended up riding home 5 miles sans saddle. Try it. Thighs on fire. It was that or being impaled on a seatpost. Not my thing really.
So Thursday the saddle flopped. Didn't fall off, just went floppy. Stopped and looked. Couldn't see anything wrong so tightened it up and rode gingerly home.
Bank Holiday Monday and I found 3 open bike shops, none of which gave any useful suggestions, so I went to get a nut to fit on the slipping bolt. Removing the bolt I noticed that a new bolt wouldn't be much use.
Fortunately the replacement is more robust and I found the problem before it became a major issue on a ride.
Saturday 20 March 2010
Geekwatch
if you don't know, the Mobile Conference is a huge mobile phone trade show held every February in Barcelona.
In 2006 I was working for a small company hoping to sell their hardware into a mobile phone platorm. We weren't a major player so we weren't with the Nokias in the main hall, but somewhat out of the way up the hill with what might be best described ad "content providers". This means games, service providers (music transfers) and "adult services".
On the first day as we set up we noticed th stand perpendicular to us was some form of content. We either were too shy or too busy to surf the site.
However on the penultimate day, the talent arrived. A petite pneumatic Italian American in hipster jeans and a crop top. Ironically in the main stand at the same time, Logica had employed 2 girls to walk around wearing only their logo in black and yellow body paint.
From where we were we could see and hear her signing autographs for people who clearly knew who she was.
Then a video cameraman appeared. She launched into a series of heavy pouting routines advertising her wares.
Suddenly from out of left field comes a man. Running. People looking. She, startled. Bracing. Fanboy runs straight past the talent and says "what sort of camera is that?"
Sometimes geeks prefer technology.
In 2006 I was working for a small company hoping to sell their hardware into a mobile phone platorm. We weren't a major player so we weren't with the Nokias in the main hall, but somewhat out of the way up the hill with what might be best described ad "content providers". This means games, service providers (music transfers) and "adult services".
On the first day as we set up we noticed th stand perpendicular to us was some form of content. We either were too shy or too busy to surf the site.
However on the penultimate day, the talent arrived. A petite pneumatic Italian American in hipster jeans and a crop top. Ironically in the main stand at the same time, Logica had employed 2 girls to walk around wearing only their logo in black and yellow body paint.
From where we were we could see and hear her signing autographs for people who clearly knew who she was.
Then a video cameraman appeared. She launched into a series of heavy pouting routines advertising her wares.
Suddenly from out of left field comes a man. Running. People looking. She, startled. Bracing. Fanboy runs straight past the talent and says "what sort of camera is that?"
Sometimes geeks prefer technology.
Friday 19 March 2010
More bikey stuff
Yes, it is,
There's more to me than that, but hey, let's roll with it.
http://thefixedfactor.wordpress.com/2010/02/22/the-ten-commandments-of-cycling/
There's more to me than that, but hey, let's roll with it.
http://thefixedfactor.wordpress.com/2010/02/22/the-ten-commandments-of-cycling/
Wednesday 17 March 2010
Garmin Connect - Activity Details for Untitled
Garmin Connect - Activity Details for Untitled
This was a zoomy ride. Not even a particulary good tail wind.
It's just Spring. Warmer, faster, and with a silly grin on my face.
Best part, other cyclists acknowledging my "hello".
Oh and watching a tandem go in the opposite direction. I can only imagine they're commuting. What a way to "car pool"
This was a zoomy ride. Not even a particulary good tail wind.
It's just Spring. Warmer, faster, and with a silly grin on my face.
Best part, other cyclists acknowledging my "hello".
Oh and watching a tandem go in the opposite direction. I can only imagine they're commuting. What a way to "car pool"
Monday 1 March 2010
We are on the brink of a new era. If only....
The quote comes from the Beiderbeck affair. It sums up, well stuff.
No idea what I'm going to put here, but save to say it'll be something. Occasionally. Eclectic
No idea what I'm going to put here, but save to say it'll be something. Occasionally. Eclectic
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