A place like no other that I’ve visited, although that’s not saying a whole lot, Bondi Beach is something of a phenomenon in the UK- billed as one of the world’s premiere beach’s. It was weird then to spend nearly a month living in Bondi, ‘hitting’ the beach most days and enjoying the buzz and the atmosphere that is impossible to ignore in the town itself. Without doubt this is the most beautiful place that I have ever been. I don’t use the word beautiful to describe the scenery, the setting or the sights, rather the people who inhabit the town and grace the beach with their presence. Everyone in this place is tanned, toned and pre-requisitely good looking. There is something about the women that makes you want to stop and stare, not least because they are in bikinis, although Jonny and myself have resigned to a muffled cry of ‘cuuu-weeeee’ as wondrous blondes and stunning brunettes flash past us. You may be surprised to know that this particular pick up technique has not been 100% successful, but I will keep you updated. The place is so image conscious that you yourself become image-conscious. I am not in the shape of my life and every day on the beach is a constant reminder of that as aspiring lifeguards, surfers and bodybuilders walk, run and strut their way along the sand. There is even a small ‘muscle-beach’ gym at the North end, in an attempt to recreate the infamous Muscle Beach in Miami, I haven’t yet pumped any iron down their, but it’s a matter of days before I do. I hope that I am not painting a terrible picture of the place; moreover a place such as Bondi has its ups and its downs, highlights and lowlights. Many of the locals prefer quieter beaches, where you are less likely to have you’re time in the sun marred by UK tourists kicking a football (and mountains of sand) towards your towel, or be badgered for photos by the evergreen Japanese visitors. Surfers are quick to point out that the ‘surf’ isn’t even that great at Bondi. But as I have mentioned it does have a lot going for it, and just yesterday Jonny and I were swarmed upon by a bevy of blonde beauties as we launched into a game of Frisbee on the waterfront. I use the term ‘swarmed upon’ loosely. In reality they were a good thirty meters up the beach, but I sure they were watching and to shy to come over and tell us what good Frisbee throwers we were, something like that anyway.
There is one character that I have seen everyday at the beach without fail. Jonny and I know him only as ‘bat and ball man’. He is possibly European, but very well tanned (and toned obviously) and without fail he is always at the beach playing the famous beach game of bat and ball. He will play with anyone he can find; male, female, young, old, it does not matter to him, he just wants to find a worthy adversary. I don’t think he’ll find one, probably because he’s absolutely amazing at the game. Lets be honest it is not a game which many people a.)Practice and b.) Play solidly for, lets say, 20 years (he’s quite old), thus, this would suggest he is possibly one of the best bat and ball players in the world, possibly the best ever, he’s a 'hall of famer'! Still he is there every day, bat in hand, elbow support firmly strapped on and a bandana protecting his eyes from his long hair. Neither Jonny nor I have challenged him to a game yet; it would be nice to take on the best in the world though.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
LA Airport
After eleven relatively peaceful and stress-free hours on Quantas flight F25, I am in LA, America. The flight was made all the easier by the three pocket sized bottles of red wine I consumed before, during and after my meal of braised beef, slightly soggy potatoes and assorted vegetables. Despite checking in over three hours before boarding, I was in neither an aisle nor a window seat. Instead I was sandwiched between a mild mannered American and a brash, complaining, unrelenting Aussie who moaned about the woman behind him, grumbled about the man in front of him, before letting me know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the presence of my elbow ‘anywhere near his ribs’. Amused by his seeming inability to master the in-flight entertainment controls- he twice mistakenly exited a film half-way through much to his displeasure; what is more I take great pride in considering myself a bit of an expert with such technology-I watched him dominate bottle after bottle of the ‘Shaaardonnaaaay’ until thankfully the drink took him to a much needed sleep.
LA Airport has been exactly what I expected it to be. Big, busy and bustling, it has a real America feel to it; a feel that is hard to describe, but one that I am fully aware of. Everything is bigger, super-sized if you will, nothing is done by halves here; it is like Heathrow on speed. The security guards are tougher, the air hostess’s prettier, Fast Food more prominent and the people full of self assurance. Perhaps it’s the huge American flag that dangles freely from the high ceiling or the extensive upstairs food-court, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the place is evidently American. The place is full of uniforms, ID badges, name tags; officials everywhere. Police swarm the airport; patrolling check-in desks, restaurants and magazine kiosks. At the far end of the terminal, three burly security guards impose themselves on the public, armed with very large and very visible machine guns; they can’t help but be imposing. John Rambo would be proud of the huge weapons they carry and although they look a little plastic and dare I say it, a little fake, I am more than a little scared as I stroll nervously to the ‘restrooms’.
Although I have kept my eyes peeled, I have yet to see David Beckham or bump into Lauren Conrad from the MTV show The Hills. Surely a celebrity encounter is not too much to ask for during a six hour wait in transit, I board in a few hours, time is running out. On a serious note, LA is a town populated by celebrities and it is a shame that my stay confines me to the Departures lounge of Tom Bradley (not Tom Brady the New England Patriots quarterback, as I mistakenly said to an angry baggage attendant) International Airport.
Just to be a cliché I have decided to dine out on a proper American meal, a McDonalds. I had to do it; I’ve always wanted a proper, big, American McDonalds. I know. Big dreams!
So, off to Gate 105, via a brief encounter with Beckham I’d imagine. The next time I put pen to paper I will hopefully be back in England. I am massively hoping my Mum and Dad are waiting for me at the airport, I have missed them, I love them, and I can’t wait to give them a hug.
LA Airport has been exactly what I expected it to be. Big, busy and bustling, it has a real America feel to it; a feel that is hard to describe, but one that I am fully aware of. Everything is bigger, super-sized if you will, nothing is done by halves here; it is like Heathrow on speed. The security guards are tougher, the air hostess’s prettier, Fast Food more prominent and the people full of self assurance. Perhaps it’s the huge American flag that dangles freely from the high ceiling or the extensive upstairs food-court, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the place is evidently American. The place is full of uniforms, ID badges, name tags; officials everywhere. Police swarm the airport; patrolling check-in desks, restaurants and magazine kiosks. At the far end of the terminal, three burly security guards impose themselves on the public, armed with very large and very visible machine guns; they can’t help but be imposing. John Rambo would be proud of the huge weapons they carry and although they look a little plastic and dare I say it, a little fake, I am more than a little scared as I stroll nervously to the ‘restrooms’.
Although I have kept my eyes peeled, I have yet to see David Beckham or bump into Lauren Conrad from the MTV show The Hills. Surely a celebrity encounter is not too much to ask for during a six hour wait in transit, I board in a few hours, time is running out. On a serious note, LA is a town populated by celebrities and it is a shame that my stay confines me to the Departures lounge of Tom Bradley (not Tom Brady the New England Patriots quarterback, as I mistakenly said to an angry baggage attendant) International Airport.
Just to be a cliché I have decided to dine out on a proper American meal, a McDonalds. I had to do it; I’ve always wanted a proper, big, American McDonalds. I know. Big dreams!
So, off to Gate 105, via a brief encounter with Beckham I’d imagine. The next time I put pen to paper I will hopefully be back in England. I am massively hoping my Mum and Dad are waiting for me at the airport, I have missed them, I love them, and I can’t wait to give them a hug.
Auckland
So, my last day away, the final hours of my trip. Once again I’m sat in Starbucks-still in Auckland but a different Starbucks- watching the world go by. This is actually quite easy to do in Auckland as everything and everyone, including the girl making my Tall Hot Chocolate, moves at snails pace. There is no hustle and very little bustle; the traffic flows calmly and without significant delay, the people walk without the purpose of a Londoner or the swagger of a Sydney-sider and what is more, nobody is dressed for ‘work’. There is a distinct lack of young professionals usually synonymous with major cities; instead the streets are populated by weary travellers (weary from negotiating the country’s steep gradients), a large oriental population and a worryingly significant number of ‘dodgy types’. Too be less vague, by this I mean the homeless, the drunks, vagabonds and general troublemakers. Of course I shouldn’t be passing judgement on the homeless and their plight but you can’t help but notice the slightly dingy and down-trodden atmosphere.
This being said, in many respects Auckland is a developed, metropolitan and thriving business district with a high and in places impressive skyline. The view of the city one gets when 142m up the Sky City tower is fantastic and although the city is not particularly big it is certainly impressive on the eye. Likewise the Waterfront is a beautiful and seemingly classy area, filled with sea-front seafood restaurants and trendy bars overflowing with contented Kiwis. It is a shame then, that with such beautiful surrounding suburbs as the volcanic Island of Devonport, that Auckland itself is not as habitable. Just the other night I was witness to what appeared to be ‘gang-based violence’, from my observations gang culture is very much in existence in New Zealand, while several taxi drivers have warned me of the dangers of walking the streets surrounding my hostel after dark. As I glance outside, I notice it has started to rain; the end of summer over here in the southern hemisphere, the start of summer back in England, so, back home to more rain
This being said, in many respects Auckland is a developed, metropolitan and thriving business district with a high and in places impressive skyline. The view of the city one gets when 142m up the Sky City tower is fantastic and although the city is not particularly big it is certainly impressive on the eye. Likewise the Waterfront is a beautiful and seemingly classy area, filled with sea-front seafood restaurants and trendy bars overflowing with contented Kiwis. It is a shame then, that with such beautiful surrounding suburbs as the volcanic Island of Devonport, that Auckland itself is not as habitable. Just the other night I was witness to what appeared to be ‘gang-based violence’, from my observations gang culture is very much in existence in New Zealand, while several taxi drivers have warned me of the dangers of walking the streets surrounding my hostel after dark. As I glance outside, I notice it has started to rain; the end of summer over here in the southern hemisphere, the start of summer back in England, so, back home to more rain
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Sydney Synopsis
Sydney:
With Sydney behind me, it is time to try and sum up my feelings, memories and experiences of the place that I called home for the past four months or so. My prevailing memories are good ones indeed; I had a fantastic time, a brilliant and totally worthwhile experience, something that I am truly glad that I did.
The people were great, in particular the lads that put me up for the majority of my time in Australia and were good friends to me throughout, but also Kaye and Alex, Jonny while he was there, ever single person who I met from Easts, Dan Bell, Michael Stevens, Craig and towards the end of the trip, Ashley. The place itself, wonderfully diverse; in many ways not overly dissimilar to London or other major world cities, although the proximity of Bondi Beach not to mention the number of delightful coves and bays that surround the city, set Sydney apart.
The cricket was also good; enjoyable, worthwhile and at times challenging. On the one hand I had hoped to play a slightly higher standard, to be truly challenged by and exposed to hard hitting, quick bowling, tough Australian cricketers – a stereoptype that truly truly exists from my observations of First Grade cricket; on the other hand I can be proud of myself for seeking out a good ‘grade’ club with a good reputation and terrific facilities, impressing at training and being immediately selected for Saturday cricket and rising rapidly through the grades, culminating in a century n my penultimate game for the club – something to remember me by.
Good piss in Sydney? I hear you ask. I had some big, some bad and some memorable nights out in Sydney. The concept of the schooner is one I failed to fully understand, but one I fully embraced, while it seems that Sambucca is a language spoken all over the world. The Fun Boat trip on Christmas Eve, Scu Bar nearly every Monday and a few good Saturday nights in the Argyle are particularly memorable, as is the rather disconcerting Sydney Mardi Gras parade and the night out that followed.
Any good sorts in Sydney? The answer would be yes. At Bondi the standard of girls was fantastic, full of beautiful, friendly, tanned, toned girls, more often than not the girls were so good looking it was intimidating, although that did not stop Jonny’s regular shouts of “cooo-weeee” at passing girls. Of the girls that I got to know a little better , few stick out in the memory. The American girl Kelly who introduced me as ‘Larry’ to all of her friends amused me, as did ‘Leatherhands’- so named because of her heavily tanned skin and her deceptive handshake which convinced Rupert that she had just handed him a briefcase. The ‘Swede’, Theresa was a constant thron in our side, appearing wherever we went, lingering awkwardly on the outskirts of our group, by the end of the trip she became less of an annoyance and more of a source of amusement; after Mark, the object of her affections, started seeing Michelle, Theresa would introduce a new man to us each time she saw us with the familiar line ‘this is my guy’.
Towards the end of my time away Mark met Michelle- quite possibly his ‘soul mate’, Tom met a slightly plump, slightly obsessive Canadian traveller named Ryla and I met Ashley. I don’t know whether to look on my time with Ashley as a missed opportunity, bad timing if you will, or that it was a nice ‘holiday romance’, fun while it lasted and all that. Nonetheless she was a great girl who genuinely made me laugh and I will keep in touch and am sad to leave her behind.
And so to New Zealand, when they finally allowed me to fly that is. A great country, it seems to be a blend of England and North America. Green and with a distinctly English climate it is sparse, remote and its cities few and far between. I am glad that I extended my trip via New Zealand, it would have been silly not to see this place, it is truly beautiful, even from the wrong side of an Intercity Coach window. As I write I’m sat in a Starbucks in Auckland, sipping a hot chocolate. These companies truly are multi-national; you can’t travel two miles without seeing a McDonalds or a Sunbway, even Woolworths are everywhere. In a strange way though, it is comforting, it reminds me of home a little. Home, I will be there soon. But not yet.
With Sydney behind me, it is time to try and sum up my feelings, memories and experiences of the place that I called home for the past four months or so. My prevailing memories are good ones indeed; I had a fantastic time, a brilliant and totally worthwhile experience, something that I am truly glad that I did.
The people were great, in particular the lads that put me up for the majority of my time in Australia and were good friends to me throughout, but also Kaye and Alex, Jonny while he was there, ever single person who I met from Easts, Dan Bell, Michael Stevens, Craig and towards the end of the trip, Ashley. The place itself, wonderfully diverse; in many ways not overly dissimilar to London or other major world cities, although the proximity of Bondi Beach not to mention the number of delightful coves and bays that surround the city, set Sydney apart.
The cricket was also good; enjoyable, worthwhile and at times challenging. On the one hand I had hoped to play a slightly higher standard, to be truly challenged by and exposed to hard hitting, quick bowling, tough Australian cricketers – a stereoptype that truly truly exists from my observations of First Grade cricket; on the other hand I can be proud of myself for seeking out a good ‘grade’ club with a good reputation and terrific facilities, impressing at training and being immediately selected for Saturday cricket and rising rapidly through the grades, culminating in a century n my penultimate game for the club – something to remember me by.
Good piss in Sydney? I hear you ask. I had some big, some bad and some memorable nights out in Sydney. The concept of the schooner is one I failed to fully understand, but one I fully embraced, while it seems that Sambucca is a language spoken all over the world. The Fun Boat trip on Christmas Eve, Scu Bar nearly every Monday and a few good Saturday nights in the Argyle are particularly memorable, as is the rather disconcerting Sydney Mardi Gras parade and the night out that followed.
Any good sorts in Sydney? The answer would be yes. At Bondi the standard of girls was fantastic, full of beautiful, friendly, tanned, toned girls, more often than not the girls were so good looking it was intimidating, although that did not stop Jonny’s regular shouts of “cooo-weeee” at passing girls. Of the girls that I got to know a little better , few stick out in the memory. The American girl Kelly who introduced me as ‘Larry’ to all of her friends amused me, as did ‘Leatherhands’- so named because of her heavily tanned skin and her deceptive handshake which convinced Rupert that she had just handed him a briefcase. The ‘Swede’, Theresa was a constant thron in our side, appearing wherever we went, lingering awkwardly on the outskirts of our group, by the end of the trip she became less of an annoyance and more of a source of amusement; after Mark, the object of her affections, started seeing Michelle, Theresa would introduce a new man to us each time she saw us with the familiar line ‘this is my guy’.
Towards the end of my time away Mark met Michelle- quite possibly his ‘soul mate’, Tom met a slightly plump, slightly obsessive Canadian traveller named Ryla and I met Ashley. I don’t know whether to look on my time with Ashley as a missed opportunity, bad timing if you will, or that it was a nice ‘holiday romance’, fun while it lasted and all that. Nonetheless she was a great girl who genuinely made me laugh and I will keep in touch and am sad to leave her behind.
And so to New Zealand, when they finally allowed me to fly that is. A great country, it seems to be a blend of England and North America. Green and with a distinctly English climate it is sparse, remote and its cities few and far between. I am glad that I extended my trip via New Zealand, it would have been silly not to see this place, it is truly beautiful, even from the wrong side of an Intercity Coach window. As I write I’m sat in a Starbucks in Auckland, sipping a hot chocolate. These companies truly are multi-national; you can’t travel two miles without seeing a McDonalds or a Sunbway, even Woolworths are everywhere. In a strange way though, it is comforting, it reminds me of home a little. Home, I will be there soon. But not yet.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Its really hard to sum up how I m feeling right now. I find myself in a downstairs dungeon of an Internet cafe in Auckland. Yes, that's right, Auckland, New Zealand. It is months since I have written this blog, but that does not mean that I haven't had things to write about, because I have. So, I am in Auckland , alone, but not lonely. Well, maybe a little, I do miss home and in four days I am returning home after five months away in the southern hemisphere.
In an attempt to get away from my lazy and monotonous job-hunt that had plagued me through September and October, I upped and left; packing my bags and booking a flight to Sydney, Australia on the 19th November. Sydney was full of adventures and fun-times, a memorable and worthwhile trip of nearly 5 months before returning home via ten days in New Zealand.
I kept a diary rather than an online blog during my time away and in the posts that follow this I will document that life and times of an Englishman in Sydney!
In an attempt to get away from my lazy and monotonous job-hunt that had plagued me through September and October, I upped and left; packing my bags and booking a flight to Sydney, Australia on the 19th November. Sydney was full of adventures and fun-times, a memorable and worthwhile trip of nearly 5 months before returning home via ten days in New Zealand.
I kept a diary rather than an online blog during my time away and in the posts that follow this I will document that life and times of an Englishman in Sydney!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
A job offer of sorts...
A job offer of sorts
I was speaking to Dan online, when my phone rang. Since I finished at Uni, my phone has been largely unloved, so when it was a bit of a surprise to me when it rung. It was Richard Horner, my cricket coach from Leeds. Rich is a good coach and a brilliant man; selfless, generous and kind-hearted. The only problem being that he is getting old, perhaps too old to be a serious coach anymore. He hasn’t totally lost his marbles or anything, but he doesn’t talk as much sense as he used to. He told me how he’d been injured through the back end of the season, after a young bowler, ironically someone who he had been coaching, bowled a ball that hit him straight in the chest, causing him to suffer two broken ribs. Of course he had already told me this story twice already during the summer, but I let that pass, and tried not to laugh as he recounted the anecdote.
He was ringing to tell me about a job advert which he had been sent, which he thought I might be interested in, I told you he was kind-hearted. He has been sent a letter from a cricket club near me, asking if he knew of any young cricketer who would be interested in becoming the ‘club professional’. This role would include playing, coaching and overseeing much of the junior cricket played at the club. The letter was probably about 500 words long, and I listened patiently (for about ten minutes!) as he proceeded to read the whole thing across the phone to me. Nonetheless, this sounded like a good opportunity, and one that I would be well paid for, especially as the post included the chance to teach at various local schools. This being said, I have always had a strong allegiance to Sunbury, my home club, and I would be reluctant to leave. Rich suggested that he would reply to them via e-mail to encourage them to get in contact with me, then at least I could chat things over with them.
Moreover I could possibly use this ‘offer’ as a bargaining tool to earn some money playing for Sunbury, but I’m probably getting carried away, lets be honest the Eve Surrey Championship is hardly the Premiership, we still have female umpires for crying out loud. I know, that was a cheap shot, sorry ladies. If nothing else, this offer confirmed my assertion that I could get a job just by playing on my Xbox and waiting for my phone to ring.
My thus far ill-fated search for a job has led me to become increasingly obsessed with checking my e-mails. I don’t even know what I’m expecting, maybe to receive an e mail saying
“We’ve seen your CV, it looks brilliant, we really want to hire someone with not much experience in industry but who describes themselves as a ‘computer games expert’. We don’t even need to phone or interview you, see you on Monday”.
I know you may think that scenario unlikely, but I am still holding out hope. More likely I might receive an email from the ‘University of Phoenix’ or ‘This is Money’. However many times you delete these kinds of junk mails, they always keep coming back; like a terrible boy band they just will not go away, coming back again and again even though each time there material gets worse. Although on the plus side, I rarely receive penis enlargement e-mails, probably because I’ve got a massive wang. So I find myself checking my emails at least six or seven times a day. Rarely do I receive anything of any use or any value. Facebook now use email to notify you of any wall posts you might have received, or any groups that you have been invited to. This makes my email checking habit all the more frustrating. I will almost celebrate on the spot when I see that I have two new mails, only to be disappointed that I have been invited to the group ‘John’s lost his phone…again, he needs your numbers’, twice. I am embarrassed to say that I am, although increasingly less so, slightly addicted to Facebook. Perhaps it is the harmless yet provocative ‘poking’ application, or maybe it is the opportunity to waste a significant amount of time, but I find myself logging in far too often. Listen to myself; I really need to get a job. I’m sure nobody else is as excited by emails and Facebook as I am. The phrase ‘get a life’ has never been more appropriate. So on that note, I’m off to play golf. Right after I’ve checked my emails.
I was speaking to Dan online, when my phone rang. Since I finished at Uni, my phone has been largely unloved, so when it was a bit of a surprise to me when it rung. It was Richard Horner, my cricket coach from Leeds. Rich is a good coach and a brilliant man; selfless, generous and kind-hearted. The only problem being that he is getting old, perhaps too old to be a serious coach anymore. He hasn’t totally lost his marbles or anything, but he doesn’t talk as much sense as he used to. He told me how he’d been injured through the back end of the season, after a young bowler, ironically someone who he had been coaching, bowled a ball that hit him straight in the chest, causing him to suffer two broken ribs. Of course he had already told me this story twice already during the summer, but I let that pass, and tried not to laugh as he recounted the anecdote.
He was ringing to tell me about a job advert which he had been sent, which he thought I might be interested in, I told you he was kind-hearted. He has been sent a letter from a cricket club near me, asking if he knew of any young cricketer who would be interested in becoming the ‘club professional’. This role would include playing, coaching and overseeing much of the junior cricket played at the club. The letter was probably about 500 words long, and I listened patiently (for about ten minutes!) as he proceeded to read the whole thing across the phone to me. Nonetheless, this sounded like a good opportunity, and one that I would be well paid for, especially as the post included the chance to teach at various local schools. This being said, I have always had a strong allegiance to Sunbury, my home club, and I would be reluctant to leave. Rich suggested that he would reply to them via e-mail to encourage them to get in contact with me, then at least I could chat things over with them.
Moreover I could possibly use this ‘offer’ as a bargaining tool to earn some money playing for Sunbury, but I’m probably getting carried away, lets be honest the Eve Surrey Championship is hardly the Premiership, we still have female umpires for crying out loud. I know, that was a cheap shot, sorry ladies. If nothing else, this offer confirmed my assertion that I could get a job just by playing on my Xbox and waiting for my phone to ring.
My thus far ill-fated search for a job has led me to become increasingly obsessed with checking my e-mails. I don’t even know what I’m expecting, maybe to receive an e mail saying
“We’ve seen your CV, it looks brilliant, we really want to hire someone with not much experience in industry but who describes themselves as a ‘computer games expert’. We don’t even need to phone or interview you, see you on Monday”.
I know you may think that scenario unlikely, but I am still holding out hope. More likely I might receive an email from the ‘University of Phoenix’ or ‘This is Money’. However many times you delete these kinds of junk mails, they always keep coming back; like a terrible boy band they just will not go away, coming back again and again even though each time there material gets worse. Although on the plus side, I rarely receive penis enlargement e-mails, probably because I’ve got a massive wang. So I find myself checking my emails at least six or seven times a day. Rarely do I receive anything of any use or any value. Facebook now use email to notify you of any wall posts you might have received, or any groups that you have been invited to. This makes my email checking habit all the more frustrating. I will almost celebrate on the spot when I see that I have two new mails, only to be disappointed that I have been invited to the group ‘John’s lost his phone…again, he needs your numbers’, twice. I am embarrassed to say that I am, although increasingly less so, slightly addicted to Facebook. Perhaps it is the harmless yet provocative ‘poking’ application, or maybe it is the opportunity to waste a significant amount of time, but I find myself logging in far too often. Listen to myself; I really need to get a job. I’m sure nobody else is as excited by emails and Facebook as I am. The phrase ‘get a life’ has never been more appropriate. So on that note, I’m off to play golf. Right after I’ve checked my emails.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
All sorts to look forward to..
Golf Day
I have mixed emotions about the upcoming weekend. Friday is the Sunbury Cricket Club Golf Day, followed by the Player’s Supper in the evening. This is always a great day, the golf is played in good spirits, unless of course you are paired with Mickey ‘O, a crazy, big moustached, very grumpy 3rd XI player. The Player’s Supper is usually drunken, indeed I can remember getting drunk for the first time there as a fourteen year old, before being sick all over Adam’s lounge carpet. Looking back, that wasn’t my finest hour. So of course I’m looking forward to Friday, a chance to show my putting skills in the day, before smartening demonstrating that I can now hold my bacardi breezers.
It seems that while I do very little in the week, my weekends are always busy, maybe that’s because everyone else works in the week. In fact, that is definitely why. As usual, I have football in the afternoon, although this week I fear we will be away from home. Then, to the big event. 8pm. Rugby World Cup Final. England vs South Africa. I cannot wait. The William Web Ellis trophy at stake. I have always liked that name, it is a good name for a cup, it sounds very important, so much so that I m going to find out who William Web Ellis was. Ah, he is credited as the inventor of Rugby, thanks very much Wikipedia, I should have known he wasn’t a great Nordic ice-skating champion. Whether England win or lose, Maz is having a party in the evening, he is turning 24. To me that sounds old and I will certainly let him know that. So, as I mentioned, it is a busy weekend. But back to those mixed emotions, this weekend marks a year since I broke up with Holly. No I am not a sad-case who counts the weeks; I just remember that we broke up the same weekend as the Player’s Supper, this time last year. To be honest I still look back on this with some regret, but at the moment, I m not quite ready to talk to you about it. Maybe a few more glasses of Red wine and I’ll open up. Anyway, it seems that that ship has well and truly sailed, and as such I need to stop mentioning it. Even so, I know that I’ll be thinking about it this weekend. OK, I know, I won’t mention it again. Nevertheless I am looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I think I might pay a cheeky visit to the driving range, just to brush up on my approach play! More likely I need to hit a few balls, in order to avoid scuffing my first Tee shot either into the trees, the river, or missing it altogether. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes, I’ m sure you literally cannot wait.
I have mixed emotions about the upcoming weekend. Friday is the Sunbury Cricket Club Golf Day, followed by the Player’s Supper in the evening. This is always a great day, the golf is played in good spirits, unless of course you are paired with Mickey ‘O, a crazy, big moustached, very grumpy 3rd XI player. The Player’s Supper is usually drunken, indeed I can remember getting drunk for the first time there as a fourteen year old, before being sick all over Adam’s lounge carpet. Looking back, that wasn’t my finest hour. So of course I’m looking forward to Friday, a chance to show my putting skills in the day, before smartening demonstrating that I can now hold my bacardi breezers.
It seems that while I do very little in the week, my weekends are always busy, maybe that’s because everyone else works in the week. In fact, that is definitely why. As usual, I have football in the afternoon, although this week I fear we will be away from home. Then, to the big event. 8pm. Rugby World Cup Final. England vs South Africa. I cannot wait. The William Web Ellis trophy at stake. I have always liked that name, it is a good name for a cup, it sounds very important, so much so that I m going to find out who William Web Ellis was. Ah, he is credited as the inventor of Rugby, thanks very much Wikipedia, I should have known he wasn’t a great Nordic ice-skating champion. Whether England win or lose, Maz is having a party in the evening, he is turning 24. To me that sounds old and I will certainly let him know that. So, as I mentioned, it is a busy weekend. But back to those mixed emotions, this weekend marks a year since I broke up with Holly. No I am not a sad-case who counts the weeks; I just remember that we broke up the same weekend as the Player’s Supper, this time last year. To be honest I still look back on this with some regret, but at the moment, I m not quite ready to talk to you about it. Maybe a few more glasses of Red wine and I’ll open up. Anyway, it seems that that ship has well and truly sailed, and as such I need to stop mentioning it. Even so, I know that I’ll be thinking about it this weekend. OK, I know, I won’t mention it again. Nevertheless I am looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I think I might pay a cheeky visit to the driving range, just to brush up on my approach play! More likely I need to hit a few balls, in order to avoid scuffing my first Tee shot either into the trees, the river, or missing it altogether. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes, I’ m sure you literally cannot wait.
Rave it up!
And so after the excitement of the rugby we headed off to the sports rave. Now, as I have previously mentioned, I don’t know much about raves, but I know enough to realise that 10.30pm is too early to get to a rave. Not that I was interested in being fashionably late, but I did not want to be one of the only bloody people in the place. Of course on our arrival we were laughed away by the bouncers, although maybe they were mocking our pathetic outfits. To paint a picture; I was dressed in knee length surfer-style Billabong shorts, a bright yellow T-shirt with a red vest over the top and various sweat bands. To add to this jumbled ensemble I styled my hair with some fluorescent yellow UV gel. Ridiculous. This being said, Pete was sporting a very tight ladies T-shirt which carried the logo ‘love life’, while Liam looked like he was auditioning for a part in an American teen college basketball player, albeit a ‘baller’ in sunglasses. Frankly the less said about Rob’s red hot pants the better, suffice to say they left little to the imagination. Guiche’s outfit was non too dissimilar to my own and as such it was equally pitiful. We looked nothing like ravers and not at all like sportsmen. But there is something about dressing up that puts you in a mood to have fun. And we did have fun. Guiche couldn’t believe his luck as within five minutes he was being chatted up by the barmaid. No really, he was. She actually seemed quite interested in him, even coming over to ‘clear glasses’ right by where we were stood. Yeh, she wanted him. But all this natural chemistry was undone by one rather unnatural incident. One lad, who himself was in fancy dress and is at Law College with Pete and his housemates, had obviously had one shandy too many. Nonetheless that does not excuse the fact that he threw a pint glass, yes, a fucking pint glass, at Guiche and his new romantic interest. Bare in mind this was totally unprovoked; we had not even met the guy, let alone done anything to antagonise him. I cannot understand why people do these kind of things. It is bizarre to even think that someone might just throw a glass at someone, its not big and its nothing like clever. Anyway, we were sports ravers and we would take on whatever was thrown at us, literally, and after a few cheeky Sambuca’s we made our way into the melting pot.
It was dark and gloomy inside, also noticeable was how empty it felt. It wasn’t packed by any stretch of the imagination but there were plenty of people around. There was such a distant feeling in the air that seemed to separate people from each other lost in their own little worlds. The ‘sports’ was represented by a series of rather pathetic sports accessories strewn about the place. Shuttlecocks and badminton rackets were thrown across the floor, while a large volleyball net swept across the main room, serving absolutely no purpose. The small trampoline situated by the bar was more fit for friendly 11 year olds than hardcore ravers, and it was no surprise when it broke after one particularly large lad bounced once too often, and no, it wasn’t me. All-in-all the rave was a disappointment. It was not the kind of hardcore, pill-popping, glow-stick-waving, sweat-fest that I feared it had be, it was a very average club night, in a run down venue. This did not stop Guiche from getting lost in one of the rooms downstairs for 20 minutes, or Pete being sick at the side of the bar, choking on his own medicine after buying everyone a round of vile shots. The highlight of the night, you may not be surprised to hear, was a well deserved kebab; good meat, good chips, nice amount of lettuce and mayonnaise to finish, culinary perfection I’m sure Gordon Ramsay would agree. Even on Monday morning I was still trying to rid the last streaks of UV paint from my hair, although, thankfully, I carry no lasting scars from my raving experience.
It was dark and gloomy inside, also noticeable was how empty it felt. It wasn’t packed by any stretch of the imagination but there were plenty of people around. There was such a distant feeling in the air that seemed to separate people from each other lost in their own little worlds. The ‘sports’ was represented by a series of rather pathetic sports accessories strewn about the place. Shuttlecocks and badminton rackets were thrown across the floor, while a large volleyball net swept across the main room, serving absolutely no purpose. The small trampoline situated by the bar was more fit for friendly 11 year olds than hardcore ravers, and it was no surprise when it broke after one particularly large lad bounced once too often, and no, it wasn’t me. All-in-all the rave was a disappointment. It was not the kind of hardcore, pill-popping, glow-stick-waving, sweat-fest that I feared it had be, it was a very average club night, in a run down venue. This did not stop Guiche from getting lost in one of the rooms downstairs for 20 minutes, or Pete being sick at the side of the bar, choking on his own medicine after buying everyone a round of vile shots. The highlight of the night, you may not be surprised to hear, was a well deserved kebab; good meat, good chips, nice amount of lettuce and mayonnaise to finish, culinary perfection I’m sure Gordon Ramsay would agree. Even on Monday morning I was still trying to rid the last streaks of UV paint from my hair, although, thankfully, I carry no lasting scars from my raving experience.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Live for the weekend.
Live for the Weekend.
Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.
Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.
Friday, October 12, 2007
dreams
In order to keep the sports-writing dream alive, I have started my own sports blog. An online portfolio if you will, a compilation of the reports I have written on various sporting events which I have seen. At present, the blog only consists of six articles, not an amount to be proud of, but it’s a start and I intend to continue adding match reports and previews as and when I write them. The thing about blogging is, especially in this context, is that it is difficult to make the public aware of it. It would be nice if potential employees might stumble across my collection of match reports, but that will never happen. Therefore I decided to increase public awareness of my blog, by entering several reputable online sporting forums and spreading the word about my journalistic haven. The BBC’s 606 forum site is, in my opinion, a very worthwhile and complete website. Members are encouraged to comment, create and debate the sporting issues of the day, offering opinions and challenging articles written by contributors. The perfect place for me to sell my blog then. I posted a message on the forum stating that I was an aspiring journalist and as such I had created an online blog, including various match reports and sporting comment. Almost immediately I received a several responses to my post.
Faddythehero commented that “soon as i seen the cricket I came off the page”. Oh, Ok. Asides from wondering how ‘faddy’ had achieved hero status, I could not help but notice the poor use of grammar that he had demonstrated, ‘soon as I seen the cricket’!, how old was this person, did they do English at school? Anyway, I took this criticism with a portion rather than a pinch of salt and quickly looked at the next comment. In response to a cricket match report which I had posted Terrypayne had replied “Can we not stop this kind of school essay nonsense? Bores a go-go”, I was quite taken back, insulted, but everyman must have his critics if he is to have supporters. In a more positive light, Shoottherunner suggested that the blog had little chance of succeeding, adding ‘while there is little wrong with it, why would people leave the BBC’, before suggesting ‘I think you need a stand out style or feature to get a bit more interest’. I totally agreed. And that is what I am going to concentrate my efforts on. I want to produce a website that rivals the BBC and SkySports as the leading, independent, provider of sports news. This idea is, at present nothing more than a pipe dream, but I can tell you now, I am excited by it. I would love to make this happen.
Faddythehero commented that “soon as i seen the cricket I came off the page”. Oh, Ok. Asides from wondering how ‘faddy’ had achieved hero status, I could not help but notice the poor use of grammar that he had demonstrated, ‘soon as I seen the cricket’!, how old was this person, did they do English at school? Anyway, I took this criticism with a portion rather than a pinch of salt and quickly looked at the next comment. In response to a cricket match report which I had posted Terrypayne had replied “Can we not stop this kind of school essay nonsense? Bores a go-go”, I was quite taken back, insulted, but everyman must have his critics if he is to have supporters. In a more positive light, Shoottherunner suggested that the blog had little chance of succeeding, adding ‘while there is little wrong with it, why would people leave the BBC’, before suggesting ‘I think you need a stand out style or feature to get a bit more interest’. I totally agreed. And that is what I am going to concentrate my efforts on. I want to produce a website that rivals the BBC and SkySports as the leading, independent, provider of sports news. This idea is, at present nothing more than a pipe dream, but I can tell you now, I am excited by it. I would love to make this happen.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
jobless
11th october
It has gotten to the point where I have all but given up on getting a job. I seem to have convinced myself that sports journalism is not for me. I even got a text earlier asking me if I was available to cover a game on Saturday, don’t they know that I’ve got a big fixture of my own. Home to Old Lyonians II’s may not sound like a glamour tie, but let me assure you, it could be huge. Following that, frankly massive fixture, England are on TV, football that is, an appetiser before a main course of rugby later on in the evening. And as if the day of sport needed an aperitif, the ‘sports rave’ in Shoreditch looms large and will run late into the night. In all honesty I enjoy writing about sport, but while I am still active and energetic enough to take part in it, that is what I would rather do. Thus my ambition of becoming a sports-writer is somewhat flawed, but for the moment I am content, proud to be pulling on the jersey for the Old Sutts 3rd XI on a Saturday afternoon in the winter months, before donning the whites for my beloved Sunbury Cricket Club throughout an inevitably rain affected summer.
I have been applying for various jobs for getting on for a month now, to the extent where it is getting depressing. Am I that unemployable? Do potential employees take one look at my CV before sliding it to the bottom of the pile, or worse still throwing it, crumpled and discarded, into the bin? I hold that image in my mind, imaging these suited types laughing at my CV; chuckling at my stint as Headboy of my junior school or joking about my 2 years as a ‘food and beverage assistant’ at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships. What do they know? Anyway the joke’s on them, I’ve still got my ‘headboy’ badge. But my lack of job is clearly not a laughing matter. Although I don’t have many expenses; I still live at home, with my parents, rent-free, I don’t have a car, although I do pay insurance on my Mum’s ‘motor’, and I am lucky enough to have a full fridge of food at my disposal, I have virtually no income. Moreover, I do enjoy the odd night out, and clubbing is becoming increasingly expensive; student nights in Leeds are far cheaper than London on the weekend. Thus my bank balance is steadily decreasing. For the past weekend I’ve been living in the dreamland that dictated that online poker would provide me with a steady income. But that dream has been cruelly snatched away from me. I have had no sudden epiphany, but it has come to light that I am more inclined to lose than win, not a great statistic for any sportsman, but particularly bad for a poker player. So for the odd night of success, that I am more than likely to document and brag about, there are many more nights (and days) which are not so fruitful, i.e. you lose money. So that is a career in poker down the drain. What a waste I hear you sigh, I know, I agree.
I have done the odd bit of work for Tim’s mum. Now that is nowhere near as seedy or inappropriate as it sounds. I have known Tim for years, and he is one of my best friends, but more on that later. I have also known his mum for a while (again, nothing dodgy) and she runs her own market-research company. She calls on me from time-to-time to work for her as a host. Quite literally hosting an afternoon of research, greeting the clients, offering them tea, coffee, a foot massage, or whatever it is they may need, before showing them to the interview room. All fairly easy really, and to be honest something that I would like to do more often. But this work is infrequent and ad hoc, and can hardly be classed as a regular source of income.
It is not as though I am not trying to get a job. Well maybe there is part of me that enjoys spending the day at home, getting up late, and spending an inordinate amount of time on my Xbox 360 and my laptop. Of course there is. But, there is another part of me that is greatly unfulfilled by this life of relative luxury. No, seriously. I would love nothing more to be in a job, meeting new people, learning new skills and having a routine, a structure to my week. Then I could justify living for the weekend. As it is the days drag by and weeks feel like an eternity. Paradoxically I feel like time is passing me by. It is suddenly October and I have done nothing of note since I handed my dissertation in at the start of September, over a month ago. It is no wonder I don’t have a greatest achievement, unless you class winning the World Cup with Wales on Pro Evo 6 on the Xbox an achievement (it is quite hard and Wales are not that good a team, so I was quite proud).
So what now? I ask myself. My honest answer is that I don’t know, not right now anyway. I suppose I am still holding out hope that one day soon, my phone will ring or I will receive an e-mail begging me to start work immediately. That, as my dad continues to remind me, will not happen. Thus I will keep filling out the application forms, visiting the websites, chasing up leads, in the hope that I may find my calling, I’ll let you know how it goes.
It has gotten to the point where I have all but given up on getting a job. I seem to have convinced myself that sports journalism is not for me. I even got a text earlier asking me if I was available to cover a game on Saturday, don’t they know that I’ve got a big fixture of my own. Home to Old Lyonians II’s may not sound like a glamour tie, but let me assure you, it could be huge. Following that, frankly massive fixture, England are on TV, football that is, an appetiser before a main course of rugby later on in the evening. And as if the day of sport needed an aperitif, the ‘sports rave’ in Shoreditch looms large and will run late into the night. In all honesty I enjoy writing about sport, but while I am still active and energetic enough to take part in it, that is what I would rather do. Thus my ambition of becoming a sports-writer is somewhat flawed, but for the moment I am content, proud to be pulling on the jersey for the Old Sutts 3rd XI on a Saturday afternoon in the winter months, before donning the whites for my beloved Sunbury Cricket Club throughout an inevitably rain affected summer.
I have been applying for various jobs for getting on for a month now, to the extent where it is getting depressing. Am I that unemployable? Do potential employees take one look at my CV before sliding it to the bottom of the pile, or worse still throwing it, crumpled and discarded, into the bin? I hold that image in my mind, imaging these suited types laughing at my CV; chuckling at my stint as Headboy of my junior school or joking about my 2 years as a ‘food and beverage assistant’ at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships. What do they know? Anyway the joke’s on them, I’ve still got my ‘headboy’ badge. But my lack of job is clearly not a laughing matter. Although I don’t have many expenses; I still live at home, with my parents, rent-free, I don’t have a car, although I do pay insurance on my Mum’s ‘motor’, and I am lucky enough to have a full fridge of food at my disposal, I have virtually no income. Moreover, I do enjoy the odd night out, and clubbing is becoming increasingly expensive; student nights in Leeds are far cheaper than London on the weekend. Thus my bank balance is steadily decreasing. For the past weekend I’ve been living in the dreamland that dictated that online poker would provide me with a steady income. But that dream has been cruelly snatched away from me. I have had no sudden epiphany, but it has come to light that I am more inclined to lose than win, not a great statistic for any sportsman, but particularly bad for a poker player. So for the odd night of success, that I am more than likely to document and brag about, there are many more nights (and days) which are not so fruitful, i.e. you lose money. So that is a career in poker down the drain. What a waste I hear you sigh, I know, I agree.
I have done the odd bit of work for Tim’s mum. Now that is nowhere near as seedy or inappropriate as it sounds. I have known Tim for years, and he is one of my best friends, but more on that later. I have also known his mum for a while (again, nothing dodgy) and she runs her own market-research company. She calls on me from time-to-time to work for her as a host. Quite literally hosting an afternoon of research, greeting the clients, offering them tea, coffee, a foot massage, or whatever it is they may need, before showing them to the interview room. All fairly easy really, and to be honest something that I would like to do more often. But this work is infrequent and ad hoc, and can hardly be classed as a regular source of income.
It is not as though I am not trying to get a job. Well maybe there is part of me that enjoys spending the day at home, getting up late, and spending an inordinate amount of time on my Xbox 360 and my laptop. Of course there is. But, there is another part of me that is greatly unfulfilled by this life of relative luxury. No, seriously. I would love nothing more to be in a job, meeting new people, learning new skills and having a routine, a structure to my week. Then I could justify living for the weekend. As it is the days drag by and weeks feel like an eternity. Paradoxically I feel like time is passing me by. It is suddenly October and I have done nothing of note since I handed my dissertation in at the start of September, over a month ago. It is no wonder I don’t have a greatest achievement, unless you class winning the World Cup with Wales on Pro Evo 6 on the Xbox an achievement (it is quite hard and Wales are not that good a team, so I was quite proud).
So what now? I ask myself. My honest answer is that I don’t know, not right now anyway. I suppose I am still holding out hope that one day soon, my phone will ring or I will receive an e-mail begging me to start work immediately. That, as my dad continues to remind me, will not happen. Thus I will keep filling out the application forms, visiting the websites, chasing up leads, in the hope that I may find my calling, I’ll let you know how it goes.
building continues
The building work continues. Perhaps I should invent a drill silencer. You know how James Bond always has a silencer which he screws, with some finesse and consumate ease onto the end of his PP7. Well, surely the same principle could apply to a big noisy drill. There doubtless would be a market for such a stealth power tool. I will look into it. Nonetheless, the builders are loud, the drill being the principle culprit. Thus I have had to leave the lounge, move upstairs, not into my room, because that is polluted by the drill, but into my sisters room. And that is what they do, they force you out.
I have a ridiculous spot on the side of my nose. It is no longer a spot though, it is now a feature of my face, like a nose or an eye. It stands proud, though rather than being red in colour it has adapted a distictly purpley black tinge, as if to make it unique and cool. Well at least if your going to have a spot, better it be cool than a loser spot. As I write, the builders across the road are recieveing a pep talk from their boss. Arm waving, nodding, the odd laugh, hands on hips and then smiles all round. And I realised they are smiling because they have been dismissed for the day, it is only 16:47, very lazy if you ask me. They collect their things and power walk to their car. I say power walk because they are clearly very keen to get out of here and go home. But do not want to appear as if they are so keen to get away that they are running. Thus suffice to say they are moving as fast as is humanly possible without actually running. The kind of walking that you use when your trying to get to the front of the school dinner queue. 'No running' warns the teacher. But you ve developed a walk thats nearly as fast as a run, fast enough to get you to the front of the queue, but with such an acquired tecnique that you don't get hauled up by the teacher for running. Anyway. Thats what these builders were doing. But they've gone now. They will certainly be back tomorrow, maybe I'll have the chance to propose my drill silencer idea.
I have a ridiculous spot on the side of my nose. It is no longer a spot though, it is now a feature of my face, like a nose or an eye. It stands proud, though rather than being red in colour it has adapted a distictly purpley black tinge, as if to make it unique and cool. Well at least if your going to have a spot, better it be cool than a loser spot. As I write, the builders across the road are recieveing a pep talk from their boss. Arm waving, nodding, the odd laugh, hands on hips and then smiles all round. And I realised they are smiling because they have been dismissed for the day, it is only 16:47, very lazy if you ask me. They collect their things and power walk to their car. I say power walk because they are clearly very keen to get out of here and go home. But do not want to appear as if they are so keen to get away that they are running. Thus suffice to say they are moving as fast as is humanly possible without actually running. The kind of walking that you use when your trying to get to the front of the school dinner queue. 'No running' warns the teacher. But you ve developed a walk thats nearly as fast as a run, fast enough to get you to the front of the queue, but with such an acquired tecnique that you don't get hauled up by the teacher for running. Anyway. Thats what these builders were doing. But they've gone now. They will certainly be back tomorrow, maybe I'll have the chance to propose my drill silencer idea.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Big bang theory
Our next door neighbours are having some building work done. Brilliant, just brilliant. They are knocking down their garage, which happens to be adjacent to my bedroom, and then rebuilding it, bascially because it is a shitheap. Thus, each morning for the past week I have woken to the familiar sounds of drilling, blocks falling and of course the dulcit tones of the builders themselves. This morning I could have sworn that they were camping out in my wardrobe, trying to drill their way out, an upheaval of noise, crashing and banging. If I sound a little bitter, I am. I don't like being woken up, not this early, not when I m having trouble sleeping as it is.
What makes me even more sceptical about these builders dates back to an incident last week. It was only the second day that the builders had been on site. In a botched attempt to knock down a wall separating our house from our neighbour's, the construction workers committed slightly more than a social faux-pas. The wall came down OK, but due to some grave miscalculation the wall crashed down, as if toppled by weapon of war, and with some force, crashed into the side of our house, most notably smashing through a conservatory window. I, the only one in the house at the time, was quite happy sat on my laptop, when I heard the crash. I dismissed immediate thoughts of an earthquake in Sunbury-On-Thames as ludicrous, there is no fault line in the borough of Spelthorne to my knowledge, and went to investigate the damage. The conservatory was covered in glass, one window, which is about four foot in height I might add, was totally smashed, the last shards of glass trying to wriggle free of the frame. The path outside was a mess of red brickwork and debris, I won't get carried away and say it was a bombsite, but it was certainly a terrible mess. 'What happened here then?', I asked a stocky lad, who was shovelling the debris into his wheelbarrow. 'Sorry' he said, with an Eastern European accent, Polish I thought. 'You have a nice window...well not anymore' he said with a smile. The cheeky little...I didn't know what to say really. I couldn't help but think he'd be brave to say as much to my mum when she returned to this mess, very brave. To be fair, and I do like to be fair, the glass in the house was quickly cleared, and the path was restored to being a path, rather than a collapsed wall. Indeed when my mum did come home, she was reasonably calm. I think she suspected more damage from the way I had clamoured at her to come on the phone over an hour earlier. Since then, a crack has been discovered, running right the way across the conservatory, a direct result of where the wall hit our house. An independent builder came to inspect the damage. His advice was just a jumble of words to me, phrases like 'two inch cavity', 'rendered' and 'breeze block', went straight over my head. But it doesn't seem as though the house is about to collapse. One piece of advice I took to heart, was to photograph the damage. Digital camera in hand, I set about my work, even making a small Tarrantino-esque feature on the crack in the wall, although I doubt it will be released to the viewing public just yet. The head-builder has been more than apologetic, offering to repair any damage caused and even offering to do any other work on the house that needs doing, free of charge. My room needs tidying, so I imagine that will be high on his priority list in the coming days!
What makes me even more sceptical about these builders dates back to an incident last week. It was only the second day that the builders had been on site. In a botched attempt to knock down a wall separating our house from our neighbour's, the construction workers committed slightly more than a social faux-pas. The wall came down OK, but due to some grave miscalculation the wall crashed down, as if toppled by weapon of war, and with some force, crashed into the side of our house, most notably smashing through a conservatory window. I, the only one in the house at the time, was quite happy sat on my laptop, when I heard the crash. I dismissed immediate thoughts of an earthquake in Sunbury-On-Thames as ludicrous, there is no fault line in the borough of Spelthorne to my knowledge, and went to investigate the damage. The conservatory was covered in glass, one window, which is about four foot in height I might add, was totally smashed, the last shards of glass trying to wriggle free of the frame. The path outside was a mess of red brickwork and debris, I won't get carried away and say it was a bombsite, but it was certainly a terrible mess. 'What happened here then?', I asked a stocky lad, who was shovelling the debris into his wheelbarrow. 'Sorry' he said, with an Eastern European accent, Polish I thought. 'You have a nice window...well not anymore' he said with a smile. The cheeky little...I didn't know what to say really. I couldn't help but think he'd be brave to say as much to my mum when she returned to this mess, very brave. To be fair, and I do like to be fair, the glass in the house was quickly cleared, and the path was restored to being a path, rather than a collapsed wall. Indeed when my mum did come home, she was reasonably calm. I think she suspected more damage from the way I had clamoured at her to come on the phone over an hour earlier. Since then, a crack has been discovered, running right the way across the conservatory, a direct result of where the wall hit our house. An independent builder came to inspect the damage. His advice was just a jumble of words to me, phrases like 'two inch cavity', 'rendered' and 'breeze block', went straight over my head. But it doesn't seem as though the house is about to collapse. One piece of advice I took to heart, was to photograph the damage. Digital camera in hand, I set about my work, even making a small Tarrantino-esque feature on the crack in the wall, although I doubt it will be released to the viewing public just yet. The head-builder has been more than apologetic, offering to repair any damage caused and even offering to do any other work on the house that needs doing, free of charge. My room needs tidying, so I imagine that will be high on his priority list in the coming days!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
I am supposed to be going to a sports rave on Saturday. I am, as I am sure you can imagine, not sure what to expect. I dont't like raves. But I do like sport, a lot. I hope that my love of sport will outweight my dislike for raves, raving and ravers and make it fun! I cannot see how this will be the case, but nonetheless I am looking forward to it. What to wear? I sound like my friend Neil. But seriously what do you wear to a sports rave. In fact what do you wear to a normal rave?! I for one, don't know. At present I am considering wearing either my full cricket whites, with or without all the protective padding, or my junior school PE kit. I am leaning towards my PE kit, as plimsols are 'in' at the moment, not sure about the 11-12 white shorts though.
Before the 'raving' begins, there is the small matter of a huge rugby match. The old enemy, France, in the World Cup semi-final. 'The old enemy' is, as a history student I l have you know, quite the appropriate exprsssion. Only 200 years ago, England v France would have been a contest on the battlefield rather than in the rugby stadium. French Cavalry rather than blind side forwards would have been charging towards the English troops, although in both scenarios the French were wearing berrets and had a fresh baguette in each hand, making it difficult to a)carry a gun or b) catch an egg-shaped ball. Anyway the English team wil have to put such images out of their minds as they attempt to defend thier Rugby World Cup Crown, although it would be quite strange if France were to try to claim the crown, considring they have managed without a monarch since the revolution of 1785, but enough with the history. It would be a phenomenal effort if England were to reach the final of the World Cup. The media, had cruelly but possibly with justification, quite literally written off their chances, after their poor display in their opening group match against South Africa. Against all odds, another old enemy, Australia, athough I don't know the history, beyond sporting rivalry, were defeated in a fierce contest by the narrowest of margins. Lets be honest, you have to be brave to play rugby. It really looks like it hurts, a lot. I am not a whimp neither am I of slim build, as some friends often remind me, but I dont think I would have any time for scrummaging, tackling, rucking or mauling. Far safer to watch events unfold on the TV and remark from the comfort of your sofa, that while of course it looks painful, it is also very gay. Full grown men tackling each other, spending most of the game, wrestling/fiddling with each other on the floor, while the commentator rattles on about their tackle ratio's and conversion rates. Very gay. Not that I'd say so myself, at least not to ther faces, I' m not manly enough for that. But I am looking forward to the match, and I would love them (not like that) to beat France and reach the final.
Before the 'raving' begins, there is the small matter of a huge rugby match. The old enemy, France, in the World Cup semi-final. 'The old enemy' is, as a history student I l have you know, quite the appropriate exprsssion. Only 200 years ago, England v France would have been a contest on the battlefield rather than in the rugby stadium. French Cavalry rather than blind side forwards would have been charging towards the English troops, although in both scenarios the French were wearing berrets and had a fresh baguette in each hand, making it difficult to a)carry a gun or b) catch an egg-shaped ball. Anyway the English team wil have to put such images out of their minds as they attempt to defend thier Rugby World Cup Crown, although it would be quite strange if France were to try to claim the crown, considring they have managed without a monarch since the revolution of 1785, but enough with the history. It would be a phenomenal effort if England were to reach the final of the World Cup. The media, had cruelly but possibly with justification, quite literally written off their chances, after their poor display in their opening group match against South Africa. Against all odds, another old enemy, Australia, athough I don't know the history, beyond sporting rivalry, were defeated in a fierce contest by the narrowest of margins. Lets be honest, you have to be brave to play rugby. It really looks like it hurts, a lot. I am not a whimp neither am I of slim build, as some friends often remind me, but I dont think I would have any time for scrummaging, tackling, rucking or mauling. Far safer to watch events unfold on the TV and remark from the comfort of your sofa, that while of course it looks painful, it is also very gay. Full grown men tackling each other, spending most of the game, wrestling/fiddling with each other on the floor, while the commentator rattles on about their tackle ratio's and conversion rates. Very gay. Not that I'd say so myself, at least not to ther faces, I' m not manly enough for that. But I am looking forward to the match, and I would love them (not like that) to beat France and reach the final.
What is your greatest achievement
I m still without a job, and as such I am still looking for a job. My efforts are based mainly online; making my CV as accesible as possible (AAAP if you will), applying to posts advertised on various yet creditable job websites and filling in online application. One particularly notable motoring company included the following question in the application for its graduate scheme: what is your greatest achievement to date? I moved to answer the question, but my fingers could only hover rather pathetically above the keyboard, awaiting instruction and inspiration. For the most part I enjoy a good ramble, and have become increasingly accustomed to telling my laptop experiences I have had in working in a team, or a time when I ve needed to persuade others. But this question left me, not speechless, because that is the wrong word, as I do not, usually, speak when I am typing, but I was certainly all out of ideas. Has I achieved anything of real value? Has anyone who hasn't found a cure for disease, or invented something, like the clock, really achieved anything. I ve passed some exams, even managed to bad mysef a degree, and a Masters as the cherry on top, but is that an achievement that I am truly proud of, or that is great? I hoped that I had achieved something better. Racking my brains, I rememebered once having finished a puzzle, which mapped the world, that was pretty secial. Similarly I considered not being sick after doing a shot of tequila as a reasonable achievement, surely that would impress them, wouldn't it? I ve played some sport in my time, taken a few catches, scored a few goals, missed a few puts, but I' m no professional, my sporting achievements are not great in the grand scheme of things. I began to realise that I was either a difficult person to please, or I had achieved little of any grand value. I suppose to make things a little confusing, I could say that a great achievement would be to convince myself that any achievement that I had achieved is great. I don't think they would buy that for a minute. In the end I moved on, from that question, to return to at a later date. I did, however feel like writing, this question, has provided me with much food for thought, but on reflection, I have not achieved anything that I can consider to be great. But instead, I went to the kitchen and made mysef a sandwich, some real food for thought, chicken and bacon. Often such online application forms require you to recall a time 'when you worked well with others', or when 'you worked as a team to set targets'. Strangely, I have yet to be asked, 'tell us about a time when you have had to talk yourself out of a bad situation because you have unintentionally insulted a girl, whilst making a remark that apparently was 'not funny'. But if and when the time comes, I shall be ready.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Oceay Bananas
Friday night was the night, obviously, Oceana was the venue, again obviously, and Guiche was my partner in crime, you get the gist, obviously. Sure, cynics would suggest that I was going to meet Jodie, although, I maintain that I am a big Oceana fan, and if Jodie was going to be there, then, well, the more the merrier. If you believe that, then you'l believe most things, but I digress. As it happened, Jodie's appearance was brief, fleeting rather than flirting, and she was gone by half one, whisked away by a Scottish stranger. And for a stranger he seemed alarmingly threatened by me, questioning my sexuality amongst other things, I m glad he didn't ask me if I had a job, talk about giving the guy ammo. To reiterate, I dont have a job! No one will employ me, rejections aplenty, Oceana was supposed to lighten the mood.
The dance floor was then taken by storm by two strapping young lads, dressed to impress and with a license to thrill, believe it or not it was not Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but myself and Guiche. More accurately, we were wearing the same shirts we always wear, and our dancing was perhaps even clumsier than normal, although the signature move, one arm raised, one finger in the air, was still ever present. A young lady, pretty in pink, was seemingly drawn to me, like a moth to a flame, so I m telling people. In reality, i think her 'fancy dressed' friends probably dared her to pull the guy in the white shirt with man-boobs', but I think thats harsh, I 'd say they're 'pecs'. Perhaps suprised that she was relatively attractive, I could not think of a way to ask for her number. Strangely she was quick to leave when I asked for her full name, 'cos i want to look you up on facebook', i thought it was a great line, actually it was her cue to leave, a terrible coincidence, I curse my luck. All the while Guiche was making friends, at the danger of being slightly un PC, rough girls love to be your friend in a club. 'Oh look at your friend with her' , they'l say. And your just thinking, 'why are you talking to me?!', but then, without warning, drums, drums again, and yes, I think so, we're all friends here, Baywatch is on. Like prop forwards at the Rugby World Cup, we belt out the words to our anthem, 'I l be there/ready/very'...who knows , but I will be one of them. Great scenes.
The night is not complete without a Dirty Dallas, chicken fried in human fat and and car oil, tastes suprisingly good, after umpteen VK's and sambuca's, likewise a Subway goes down a treat, and that is my preferred option, Subway melt to be precise, in case you were wondering.
What is it about the eighties music, expensive entry and ageing DJ that draw us back time and again. I don't know, maybe that's the way aha aha I like it....
The dance floor was then taken by storm by two strapping young lads, dressed to impress and with a license to thrill, believe it or not it was not Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but myself and Guiche. More accurately, we were wearing the same shirts we always wear, and our dancing was perhaps even clumsier than normal, although the signature move, one arm raised, one finger in the air, was still ever present. A young lady, pretty in pink, was seemingly drawn to me, like a moth to a flame, so I m telling people. In reality, i think her 'fancy dressed' friends probably dared her to pull the guy in the white shirt with man-boobs', but I think thats harsh, I 'd say they're 'pecs'. Perhaps suprised that she was relatively attractive, I could not think of a way to ask for her number. Strangely she was quick to leave when I asked for her full name, 'cos i want to look you up on facebook', i thought it was a great line, actually it was her cue to leave, a terrible coincidence, I curse my luck. All the while Guiche was making friends, at the danger of being slightly un PC, rough girls love to be your friend in a club. 'Oh look at your friend with her' , they'l say. And your just thinking, 'why are you talking to me?!', but then, without warning, drums, drums again, and yes, I think so, we're all friends here, Baywatch is on. Like prop forwards at the Rugby World Cup, we belt out the words to our anthem, 'I l be there/ready/very'...who knows , but I will be one of them. Great scenes.
The night is not complete without a Dirty Dallas, chicken fried in human fat and and car oil, tastes suprisingly good, after umpteen VK's and sambuca's, likewise a Subway goes down a treat, and that is my preferred option, Subway melt to be precise, in case you were wondering.
What is it about the eighties music, expensive entry and ageing DJ that draw us back time and again. I don't know, maybe that's the way aha aha I like it....
Another game of tennis with Ben today. As he gets better, I get worse. And he is getting better, and as previously implied, I am getting worse, thus the gap in quality widens. I lost again. Badly. 6-1, 6-4. I'm no Tim Henman; even for all his moronic critics crying 'he never won anything' and always bottled it at Wimbledon', I like Tim Henman and part of me wants to be like him, at least when I ve just fluffed a limp forehand into the net on the rain-soaked gravel courts at Egham Leisure centre. In the pub afterwards, Rich asked, I think jokingly, 'so did you serve and volley then Rat', before I could answer, Ben just laughed, not a giggle or a chortle , a solid laugh. Maybe I need a tactic, I certainly don't have a tennis 'weapon'. My forehand is better than my backhand because my backhand is non-existent, I am one of those terrible tennis players, who runs round the ball to get it on the forehand side. This is not a good thing for several reasons; 1. my forehand is shit. 2. I m a very slow runner. 3. It opens up the whole court, and thus even if I successfully hit the ball back to my opponent, he slams it into the areas of the court made vacant by my unelegant navigation of the ball. My serve isn't up to much these days either. I have often spent more energy eating a buffet (pizza hut) than on my second serve . A token gesture, no u11 girl woul dbe proud of, it is simply ballooned over the net, much to Ben's credit he keeps a straight face, although less admirably, he inevitably hits a winner. I asked my Dad for his tennis advice, whilst explaining my limitations, 'my serve is poor, I dont have a backhand, and my forehand is not all its cracked up to be!'. 'Hit more winners than losers' was his response. Cheers Federer, I thought, I hit about 2 winners per match on a good day, and with regards to losers, there is no bigger loser than me on the tennis court. Though I have the look of a pro, with my sparkling white wristband, washed by Mum, my excuse for a racket is the first indicator that I am what John McEnroe would undoubtedly call, 'shit'.
Of late, it has normally been dark when Ben and I have played, the floodlights, whilst perfect for the 5 a side football pitches, are a real dissapointment on the tennis courts, in that they dont work. Today, it was wet, and a bit dark, I'm not having a go, you can only control the controllables(!), all I'm saying is that I ve played in better conditions. So I got beat, again. The BBC's statistician is doubtless aware that Raven has now beaten R-Jones in all of their previous 5 encounters, all of which have been on, gravel. Personally I think I'm more of a grass player, a bit like Henman you might say, though I imagine he'd be less than flattered by the comparison.
Of late, it has normally been dark when Ben and I have played, the floodlights, whilst perfect for the 5 a side football pitches, are a real dissapointment on the tennis courts, in that they dont work. Today, it was wet, and a bit dark, I'm not having a go, you can only control the controllables(!), all I'm saying is that I ve played in better conditions. So I got beat, again. The BBC's statistician is doubtless aware that Raven has now beaten R-Jones in all of their previous 5 encounters, all of which have been on, gravel. Personally I think I'm more of a grass player, a bit like Henman you might say, though I imagine he'd be less than flattered by the comparison.
swings and roundabouts
I have recently got back into the swing of playing online poker. A mugs game my mum tells me. She may be right, but I maintain I am decent, decent enough to win some money. I felt fully justified then when I placed 2/200 in a $1o tournament to pocket $310. The same evening, buoyed by that success and Spurs' late equaliser, I entered a $30 80 man tournament. Finding myself at the final table I negotiated my way to the final 6, with the top 5 being paid out, 129 through to about $540. I busted out in 6th trying to force a play with A8, and was gutted when the Big Blind called my all-in, turning over A9. Today, it seemed logical, or like there was nothing better to do, to enter more tournaments. I reached the last 18/80 in the $20 dollar before my AK was cruelly beaten by AQ all in pre-flop. That was just the beginning of my misfortune. Determined to place in the money (in hindsight my downfall), I entered the $30 dollar multi tourny, the limit of my bank roll really. Once again, I cruised to the final 20 of the eighty man field, despite being alarmingly card short. It seemed that, as so often happens on Pro Evo, or Football Manager, the computer wanted me to lose. It was my PKR destiny to be unlucky and lose. Time and again I was defeated with the odds strongly in my favour, with the river card often dealing the fatal blow. I finished in 15th, as my opponent hit a stray King on the river, bastard. Meanwhile, I was also playing in a $10 tourny, I know, I know, I m not addicted though, just going through a phase! Carelessly I called an all-in, still reeling from my previous dissapointments, and, miraculously I myself recieved a little help from the PKR gods. And again. And after hitting some nice cards, I found myself as chip leader, ruling the table with an iron fist, if I may write my own reviews! It wasn't t to last however. Lady luck dealt me a cruel blow, my KJ looked good on a board of K74, indeed it looked even better when I called an all-in for my opponent to show 33 in the hand. Devestatingly, perhaps inevitably, the river was a 3. Not nice. Not fun. At least I took it in good spirits. Fucking typical, I bashed into the table chat. Thats poker mate, came the reply from Barry653, cheers mate, fucking profound, idiot. But anyway, win some you lose some! Maybe mum is right, I am a mug!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
jobhunt
I ve been looking for a job for about three weeks now. Since I finished my dissertation at the beginning of September I have been without work, except for a day of writing at Nonleaguetoday. Following on from my Masters, I would like to be a sports journalist. Without question writing about sport of the highest level on a daily basis would be fantastic; fun, interesting and rewarding. Sports journalism however, is not the pursuit of the sporting. Weekends are when the big action happens, Football, Rugby, Cup finals etc. Weekends are also when I play sport, exclusively cricket in the summer and increasingly football in the winter. As a freelance sports writer you cannot afford to pick and chose, you cannot afford not to be flexible, and you cannot afford to be unavailable at weekends. I don't wish to quit at the first hurdle, but liekwise I dont want to waste my time and efforts. I am not short of contacts; friends have been kind enough to provide me with some fantastic network opportunities, and as such I have a small advantage over must budding reporters. A uni friend, who is as good a writer as I could hope to be, experienced a similar problem this time last year. Working on the student newspaper he could write about what whatever he liked, although mostly he chose a specialist subject, music. As a young writer, options are limited, and you are restricted to the things that matter least, the stories which are small enough even for you to handle. As such I feel that I am best advised to seek more stable employment , at least for the time being. On top of job satisfaction, I still aim to be independent and self sufficient. Thus, I need a regular income, one that journalism, with my level of experience and skill, is unliklely to provide. I have become more general in my job applications, applying for teaching positions, sales, graduate schemes and sports coaching work. Now, after several weeks of unsuccesful applications, mainly for positions involving journalism or more general media, partiuclarly at sky and the beeb, I have become increasingly keen just to start work. Finally. Students. Tax dodgers , cut your hair and get a job!
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